Reprinted Poems

Thoughts of a Banana Farmer

Now I

want to be a banana 
plant, swinging in the wind,
free from the knots of debt.

The shards of dreams won’t wound
me again. Ever. I’ll never be hunted
by the loan sharks with serrated teeth. The 
weevil thought cannot perforate the corm of my peace.

Away from the waves of suicide, I’ll live–listening to the
Asian koel. I can decipher that song. Someone may drop 

nutritious love into my heart; my roots will be wet 
with kindness. My cigar leaf can grow straight
into the light. The blossoming of

altruism will come out, opening my 
skull– budding. My end is made 
serene- calm, by the cogitation

of my fruitful

e
x
i
s
t
e
n
c
e.


*First published in Native Skin.
*Reprinted in The Literary Hatchet.
*Poetry Nook Weekly Contest Winner.

A Parody of Fiddler on the Roof

If I were a famous poet
Ya ba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dum
All day long, I'd write a biddy biddy bum
If I were a famous man!
I wouldn't have to rhyme hard
Ya ba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dum
If I were a biddy biddy famous yidle-diddle-didle-didle poet
I'd write an excellent epic full of great adventures that thrill the world,
And see the book reprinted several times
Some would be hard-bound and some just plain and cheap.
And sure I'd be famous and rich.
And I'll be a wealthy poet.
But the best part is that I'll win an Oscar
Ya ba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dum
That's my greatest wish of all.

Alas…I’m not a poet at all.

Not to be sung :)

Those Women

They were vibrant women, 
whose voices vibrated in the vicinity. 
Their squabbles were X-rated. 
Profanity pirouetted nude in their expressions. 
They fought for the rights, 
though with obscene tongues. 
Their ways were bitter 
but beneficial like neem. 
Even their glances could burn away 
some virulent teen trends. 
They were spunky, 
kept snakehead-vigil on their surroundings.

For livelihood, 
they gathered black oysters resembling them.

There were precious harvest songs
in their mind-albums. 

As the sea, 
they too had a serene face. 

Their romance wasn’t a red rose blooming,
but a buffalo ploughing the field,
leaving behind clods of ecstasy.

They caned and scolded their children,
who grew strong in mind and body.

Now noxious things thrive 
in the silence left by them.


First published in Native Skin, and then reprinted in The Literary Hatchet

Living for the Future

Though curved like a question mark, 
she walks without a Zimmer frame. 
Will she ever veer from 
the narrow, 
nonsensical 
dirt road? 

She earns,
mopping, scrubbing, laundering, and currying. 
She’s often gifted with 
rice, tea powder, jaggery, sari, soap, 
and so on. 
Thanks to the munificence 
of her mistress. 
She saves and stores, 
living in parsimonious penury. 
She loses her delicious delights 
in spending tension. 
A schlock existence –
everything safely decays in her store. 

There’s certainly a spark of work 
(even at the dog-end) 
of her life. 
But when will she live on the earth?


First published in Native Skin, and then reprinted in The Literary Hatchet

Blm Reveals How the Democrats Selected Joe Biden

The Party played 'Pin the Tale on the Donkey'
    That's how they came up with a senile honkey


         Reprinted with permission from 
        'Ten Greatest Political Poems Ever'

Rave Notice

Dark fingers rained a thousand captured chords
Ranging like restless fireflies under glass
Gathered notes in freakish trilling hordes
Offering the Danse Macabre pass.
Sensuous and delicate on the keys
Before the great unmoving cause
So arranged to haunt the sad demise
The pallor over pasted triplets falls.
Restive sighs are pierced by plunging swords
Of dissonance, the soul cannot appease
His thunderous triumph, ovation soon affords
The master well-deserved, if outlandish, fees.


["Rave Notice" first appeared in The Hoosier Challenger, 1968; written c. 1967, it was reprinted in The Lady in the Pink Hat, Candor Press, 1969.]

FIRST PLACE WINNER
Brian Strand's "All Yours" Contest
Poetry Soup - April 9, 2021

How Prunes Are Made

When taking a bath in the tub
The first thing you'll notice, if you stay in too long,
Is how your fingertips shrivel.
Then, as you rub and scrub,
You might see bits of skin coming off your legs and arms
And you begin to grow little.

Some children pay no attention
To the warning signs I mention;
They stay in the bathtub all afternoon,
Until they start to dissolve.
They get smaller and smaller and smaller
Until they're far too small to holler;
They get wrinklier and wrinklier and pretty soon
They've shrunk so much there's nothing left
Except a ball of wrinkled skin
Where once a healthy kid had been.

This wrinkled skin is dyed blue
And sold in the store as a prune.




"How Prunes are Made" was in Nomo the Zine, November 1991, and was reprinted in The Ratty's Gazette  8, 1995. It is a poem in the ongoing series "Lucifera's Questionable Daycare Poems and Stories."

Mary Haggis

Mary Haggis, little clown
With beak like blighted crows
And scary hair all lit aflame
Is where the woodbine grows.








"Mary Haggis" is reprinted here from 
PETS GIVEN IN EVIDENCE OF OLD ENGLISH WITCHCRAFT
AND OTHER BEWITCHED BEINGS 
(Minneapolis: Sidecar Preservation Society, 2016).

The Voyeur

Lured by the light in the bathroom,
he comes, prowling through 
the layers of darkness.
Seeing the two paws clinging on the 
window bars, and a pair of blue eyes
burning through the holes of lust,
a village virgin whoops, when 
the voyeur slinks away.

As the hot sun rays warm the canal,
he hides in the bushy banks, throwing
his blue eyes into the distant nudity. 
Sometimes, he is seen being chased
by the rustics with bamboo sticks.
But quick oblivion is bliss;
he gets duty bound again.

Hiding is a risk,
but peeping is a pleasure.
Through the twigs and bars, he stares
at the other side of pleasure.

First printed in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope (published by Punkswritepoemspress, US),and then reprinted in The Literary Hatchet

A Granite Sculptor

Midday sun burns. 
An iron chisel plays
sad tunes on a stone.
He enjoys prolonged
                   chiseling.
The granite conceives
from his tool-point, 
giving birth to a god, 
who will be plagued 
in a prayer hall, with
endless demands, by
someone as his spouse. 
Though no narcissistic
            admiration, his 
sculptures are marvelous.
Creativity is the sperm
of beauty, growing in 
            mind’s womb. 

He lights a candle at night.	
While warming his palms
over the flame, red hue 
reminds him of an old 
bloodshed over his god. 
A sculptor is never a culprit
behind a communal clash, yet 
musing moths swarm his mind.

First published in The Literary Hatchet, then reprinted in Barking Sycamore, US.

Headlines of Our Society

“Titanic Sinks” then “The Great War Ends”, 
Followed by the “Biggest Stock Crash of all Time”, 
Then “World War two” and a “Nuclear Bomb”, and 
“Hillary goes for a Climb”.
Then things got worse with “J.F.K. Killed” and
“I Have a Dream has Died”.
But then a good moment of “Man Walks on the Moon”,
Best headline reprinted World Wide.

This was quickly followed by “The Beatles Break Up”, and 
“John Lennon is Shot in the Back”.
And music became a middle page chart with:  
“My Sharona” performed by The Knack.
The internet headline took over our news with 
“President Mandela is Free at Last”
Followed by “9/11 Terror Plane Strikes”,
And to the world these strikes were broadcast.

Skip a few years and this has all lead
To the scariest headline in ink.
And that is the vain, egotistical “Trump,
Taking us all to the brink”.
Our headlines tell a story from defeat to triumph,
From paper to TV to a phone.
And they’ve all told us, every day of our life, 
How society, through time, hasn’t grown.

Mango

Mango

It’d a bitter childhood like a girl
in penury.
It could defend itself against the molestation
by pests. 
It didn’t succumb to the 
hot rays. 

Now it’s ripe, and its chubby cheeks
are so charming.
It’s a forbidden fruit, but Chami’s impulse
is vehement
as the monsoon waves leaping over 
the breakwater.

His teeth wound its soft skin. He sucks its 
sweet syrup
from its soul, and rises up to the heaven. 
Slowly he
falls down into the hell of fatigue 
and drowsiness. 

Again, he repents of disobeying his 
diabetologist’s advice.  



First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Canada, and then reprinted in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope, by PunksWritePoemsPress,US.

Dear Tapan

Dear Tapan.... 

I find myself hoping that you'll stay a friend
In whatever venue you happen to end
Though demons get high marks in your repertoire
The one who serves God Sir is really the star

The thrill of Saint's insight to me is a blast
And high jinks of demons a boring repast
Success is not virtue but reward of Grace
The goal of my life is a smile on God's face.

For tearing down things is a walk in the park, 
The coddling of evil a big question mark
To understand God is the Saint's only 'biz, '
Rejecting man's pride to give praise to what IS!

Brian Johnston
August 9,2014

Poet's Notes:
A poetic response to a letter from Dr. Tapan Kumar Pradham on Poemhunter.com. See original unexerpted letters on Poemhunter's web site at PH: Writing Poetry: Open Letter #B. This exerpt of Tapan's letter is reprinted with permission.

Three Sisters

Three Sisters

Three sisters sitting on a stoop 
Like Autumn Summer and Spring
Reflective Introspective and Serene
Contemplating the past present and beyond
Givers of life from the womb to the tomb your love is eternal
You nurture children into women and men  
Mothers of the Earth life's sweet nectar is chilled for all that you do
Salud 

Three Sisters by Allen Hackett/ Inspired by Ruby Jackson,Nancy Serels and Woodie Lattimore.
Excerpted from: "The Other Side" by Allen Hackett. Copyright © 1989
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Check out our library of thrilling e-books @ amazon.com in the kindle store, or visit:www.booktango.com
authors website:apluszips.com

Thanks and pass it forward!

Breakfast of Champions

my anonymity is stalking the streets 
like a preoccupation. mornings, slowly I creep
into august daylight, filling beat boroughs.
passing the time: digging fake burrows: 
motel rabbitrooms don't come with sheets: 
boxes gloomy in the dinge; dead-end streets.

dark corners; alleys; clean and replete.
rowers; faces; kept random, entreat
to be shadowed and cut - copied and reprinted:
E. de Silhouette: silk-screen and tinted.
marionette hands are fire-flies nigh night
like acariasis-itchy eyes: broken from sight

watching the downpour: 
downbeat and worn 			
like tire-worm whitewalls: 
peeling and torn.

the blanched, arched faces 
(trampled like elephant’s acacia)
are garnets staring blankly at me
between the tiny gaps of a wintertime fleece
a paisley studded blanket, wrapped knee-high round niece. 

running tubes from great maple: palsied cold saps
berry's blood ulcer pours like paint with no cap
from a bucket it spills: unravels, unwraps.
It splashes my feet then runs red and abrupt;
silvery and smooth, sanguis from a cup.

• Short Reprinted Poems
• Famous Reprinted Poems
• Best Reprinted Poems
• Read Reprinted Poems
• Long Reprinted Poems
• Reprinted Quotes