Everything is useless in terms of awareness
Of the inevitable transience of what was us
No valuable compensation for this mess
But just illusions with naivety of trust
They are so easy to be thoroughly despised
That maybe it’s a hint at something more
Which cannot be revealed or fully realized
As if we lived before and afterwards it blurred
So maybe we should care about illusions
They’re here for a reason, to remind
That we could take much simpler the intrusions
Of the transitional removal left behind.
winter's
ending;
spring is
pending.
cool and
pleasing
but so
fleeting.
sun beams
greeting
cool breeze
soothing
spring hue
winning
flowers
springing
sweet birds
singing.
all those
waiting,
for spring's
coming,
will be
humming.
_________
April.3.2023
~ Placed Second~
Brian Strand Premiere. No 1205 Poetry Contest
a youth that sees a being
of height to be an idol,
too innocent to realise
the turbulence to come.
with rebellion a foe is found,
at heads over trivial things,
spoken speech cannot be refunded,
a phase it's claimed,
but a reflection reminds,
traits of disagreement to familiar to say,
a memory of a life before lessons
breeds fear in the knowing,
sometimes guidance feels harsh
even when intentions are pure,
time eases tension as relations mature,
a semblance of peace on common ground,
love is transitional sometimes,
almost like the sun and the clouds -
the bond between a parent and a child,
littered with misunderstandings,
feelings exchanged so intimate,
few words could ever grant understanding.
What gets possibly gained from poetic encounters?
A friendship sets sail though mast’s shadows can’t merge
more than sheets in the wind that two sailors might set in defiance
of oceans, whose trembling waves surf on their opposite shores?
Is it likely ship’s rhythm survives breeze filled waters,
a leaning, you recognize, says what to purge?
You still trust in a star group long past, hope to save an alliance,
you first learned to steer by at night (who trusts sea semaphores)?
Does a ship dare (becalmed) think a storm’s not in offing
or trust if one comes she might make up lost ground?
Winds that rhyme (fill day’s mainsail) may find night time’s whale songs good omen
while night skies can frustrate all reason when stars don’t appear.
A day’s poem’s safe harbor does not lead to scoffing,
in each one’s fond glance, a glad memory found.
A fair hint you admire how it says what it says makes you yeoman,
at least, free or slave, kith or kin. My strong arm holds you dear!
Brian Johnston
28th of December in 2020
the seasons always treated him with all kinds of rain shine and storms
but he was never the fall guy and enjoyed deviating from dogma and norms
with fresh springs in his step he rebelled as if there was no future tomorrow
which brought him satisfaction and joy but also fierce rejection and sorrow
summer brought heated adjustment to society’s wishes and compromise
he sold out for a while became calmer but was still rather foolishly unwise
now he is in the autumn years of his life and calls for reflection and balance
but harmony still eludes his equilibrium and sometimes he drifts into trance
the rational mind fights with the emotional counterpart for solutions in vain
does not always resolve differences and contradictions and leaves him in pain
but while his branches get brittle the roots shaky and leaves turn into fine dust
of winter composure with longer shadows he knows that all seasons need trust
12th September
Transitional Tears
A r d u o u s day, both sunny and gloomy.
the payment sought — a trundle of great worth.
My tender eyes in t r a n s i t i o n a l tears —
the dew of pink and blue as I give b i r t h.
6/7/2018
Who do we invite this me to be today,
here and now planning for our next arising era
toward death's patient resolution,
graceful resonance?
Is there some supermagical meaning
in more recent unfortunate events
capable of reading mystical tea leaves?
the web of palms rooted in life's soul of Time?
in some way that would tip us toward discarding
deeply etched memories of subsistence economies,
shortages of empowering value,
insufficient wealth of beauty
and health
to transform some newly planned space/time into nirvana,
a WinWin home for all
with sensory challenges,
systemic suffering,
political marginalization,
economic poverty,
over-
and under-
invested degeneration.
What is distinct about your fully embodied vocation,
embedded in our co-operating
polypathic
mindful mission?
vital impulse
and I climb into my grey Ford
I hold the steering wheel
not to hit the car
instinctively I twist
on the left
on the right
should not I die
because I want to get off
After your breasts ...
after I hear Bach!
The house does not hide
Crying out in different ways
Shards fly with wings of their own
I see the world outside
At the end of the dimly lit corridor
There are 10 doors to my left
10 doors to my right
They command me to enter
Lights flicker animatedly
My eyes move furtively
The soles grow watery
Mad wind in my hair
Nerves in the opaque mind
The distance is far and narrow
Banshees in the cobwebs scream
The feet move… gathering pace
The doors become giants
Strangling the body slowly
The mind is with the soul
Freedom grows bigger
The distance has narrowed
Transforming into ether
Escaping through the corners
Then the plunge into the wave
Dissolving of extremities
The loss … therefore, the peace
No reason to think anymore
The lifting up of arms
And the soaring of spirit
Till the end of freedom
The end… It never shall come…
Pathways have no boundaries,
thinker was without a thought.
Hostile mind refuses to believe
truth was missing from life.
From depth to depth measurement had failed.
God does not know his creation now.
Foolish flesh now burns in thudding bangs
of dry butter. I want you to touch the
opaque eyes of eternity. In captivity of
sighs and groans. You ought to understand
who was original. There had been free
invitation to become unfaithful.
There were masks, gene shifts and longevity.
This evening a drama will be enacted in sky
by unburnt bras and a black hole. There will
be thrill. It was easy to bury the skulls among
floating names. The wreath will be placed
on the transitional edge of sweetness.
Which never was.
SATISH VERMA
Amongst the fractured,not yet broken
I move amidst the homeless,tokens
our countries hidden and forgotten
circumstance, of a life they're fightin'
Backpack and sleeping bag in tow
I go,to know,this growing show
cardboard cover's,plastic liner's
discarded mattress make's it finer
there is no breakfast,lunch or dinner
any meal,makes you feel,like a winner
dinner roll's,vienna sausage
gourmet treat for those held hostage
by their account,misfortune happen's
but,what in our country are we lackin'
is it money,do we lack the resource's
or is it that we lack compassion ?
A growing trend,that just get's worse
shopping cart's rattle,as a walking hearse
transitional lifestyle has compounded
until solution's can be founded
middle america,is being pressured
fear of loss,to what we treasure
there aren't that many too far away
of possibly facing,such a grim day
Not all are addict's,drunkard's,or loser's
most are embarrased,being called an abuser
fate has dealt them a bad hand of card's
a helping hand and smile,can help mend the shard's.....
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