Let us smile one last time
As the end of us comes through.
I remained in my world,
And you in yours
Because for you
We are not equal.
Never can be.
It may take centuries to understand
That our minds carry equal weight,
Equal strength.
“My life is beneath yours.”
No, not at all.
“Your thinking is superior to mine.”
No, not at all.
I think as independently as water
Restless, shaping stone.
Why are we trapped
In this artificial world of dependency?
Weariness entered my life.
Wrinkles carved into my muscles.
My thoughts grew tired
This togetherness
That kept taxing my mind
Day after day.
One day I became sand,
Moving from dune to dune
Yet dependent on the wind
To carry me.
Isn’t that so?
Where is my space?
A free will like an asteroid
Yet still pulled
By some unseen gravity
Somewhere.
Life paused at this juncture.
So I disappeared
Or ran for a hundred years
Seeking an equal soul.
Searching the smoking ruins
of Notre-Dame cathedral,
on the Paris Île de la Cité,
one of the finest examples medieval
of French Gothic architecture,
with flying buttresses, rib vault, immense bells,
enormous colourful rose windows
all of which went through hell
during the fearful fire of 2019,
and the No Bell Prize winner was seen to have been
mangled through the proverbial wringer
as, when looking for Quasimodo,
they found a dead ringer.
The quivering quitters, quaking and quacking
In quite a quizzing quagmire, quietly
Quash their qualms. The ***** quest they have acquired,
Is a quandry of quantum quantity.
self to expound,
whereby scrawling how painful
eye experience,
where 21st century
urban jungle doth abound
to exacerbate anxiety and panic,
aye noticed round
about puberty, and plugged up ears
to dull the nerve wrack
king Breitbart cacophony
even family pet
dogs (part Border
Collie and Hell Hound)
barked with shrill torturous yap,
which reverberation did
assault and pound
delicate constituent
audiological organ of mine
impossible to avoid unwillingly
being part of loud culture club
emanations impossible to dub,
thus helplessly bombarded, exposed,
and subjected to discordant
damaging noise found
me to flub
attendant tasks, especially grub
bing to earn chump change
to avoid mingling at social hub
rather remain hermetically
sealed, where nub
body cant see me, hence
that concludes thine literary rub.
contrast God with man -
evolution? who God is,
man? God’s finger writes...
snow melt fantasy -
a rose fully realized
with evergreen soul
Brian Johnston
March 22, 2016
powerless poet -
for death is apparition,
ghost like Donald Drumpfs
contrast God with man -
evolution, who God is,
man? God’s finger writes...
Brian Johnston
March 19, 2016
accolade revealed -
Spring unrolls wildflower carpet
children welcomed home
Brian Johnston
March 15, 2016
feral cat crossing
dark cloud glides across grass sky
frozen mouse watches
Brian Johnston
January 25, 2016
mental spice taboo
salt and pepper images
written haiku rules
Brian Johnston
December 6, 2015
Poet's notes:
This is meant to be a joke poem about the traditional haiku definition. Please note the season reference in line 2 and the lament that while real spices might be part of a concrete image, apparently mental spice does not qualify! Ha!
Into this quiet realm oft do we tread
this quiet place where nought is ever said.
To wax and wain within the mindless air
which fills the clogs and clicks we find in
there. Why then we bump into that thing
again. That thing we can’t describe which
causes pain. We swear to never think of it
again. But as before it always will come
back, to bring this awful cyberspace attack.
We pop a pill and soon the hurt is gone. It
goes to who knows where , I do not care. I’m
fine so long as it leaves me alone. The lesson
here it can be said, don’t dwell ! Strange
things emerge as thoughts inside your head
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