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John Michaels Poem
Penned like cattle, as if chattel,
cages rattle, sounds of brattle,
no more tattle, keen for battle.
Be free, my brothers!
The cause is great, our rights innate,
not fuelled by hate, we’ll change our fate,
we won’t be freight, not long to wait.
Be free, my brothers!
Marched out on deck, end of the trek,
each one they check, from toes to neck,
the merest speck, is cause for heck.
Be free, my brothers!
As we make land, I rub my brand,
the time’s at hand, to make a stand,
with me my band, just as we planned.
Be free, my brothers!
No longer sane, we share the strain,
endure the pain, it’s not in vain,
it’s all to gain, I break the chain.
Be free, my brothers!
Accursed whip, my clothes do rip,
he splits my lip, I smash his hip,
he’s lost his grip, knocked off the ship.
Be free, my brothers!
We're in the dirt, the words are curt,
I wield the quirt, then shred his shirt,
his blood does spurt, he's badly hurt.
Be free, my brothers!
The dock we shun, just feel that sun,
we’re on the run, but not yet won,
all said and done, it’s just begun.
Be free, my brothers!
Free of the snare, the wear and tear,
the vacant stare, the matted hair,
because we dare, to breathe the air.
Be free, my brothers!
So they give chase, don’t see the face,
our fall from grace, because of race,
their motives base, traded for lace.
Be free, my brothers!
More men appear, they mock and jeer,
the end draws near, that much is clear,
we hold life dear, so fight your fear.
Be free, my brothers!
At last we’re caught, not been for nought,
got what we sought, for what we fought,
to them we’ve taught, will not be bought.
Be free, my brothers!
Out in the field, wounds far from healed,
blood not congealed, our fates are sealed,
their guns they wield, we will not yield.
Die free, my brothers!
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Originally composed in 2013, this is one of my longer poems. I was unsure about letting it see the light of day due to the sensitive nature of the subject, but this was my take on a particularly dark part of man's history.
Submitted to the "Go Ahead... I Dare Ya!!" contest sponsored by John Lawless.
(1st Place)
Poem of the Day: 10 April 2017
Copyright © John Michaels | Year Posted 2017
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John Michaels Poem
Cookie
Warm, golden
Gazing, longing, tempting
Diet, restrained, guilt, resignation
Biting, chewing, swallowing
Moist, delicious
Cookie
Copyright © John Michaels | Year Posted 2014
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John Michaels Poem
You must be in so much pain to be considering this.
The hurt, the misery, the anguish, the agony;
you can feel it burrowing its way deep inside,
gnawing voraciously at the very core of your being
and you would do anything - anything - just to make it stop.
I know you're scared; but that's okay - the World can be a scary place,
but can this last, desperate, act that you're deliberating,
really, truly, genuinely be what you are seeking...?
Dispel fanciful notions of sliding into Death's warm embrace;
there is no gentle kiss, no sweet release and off to sleep.
You will simply... no longer be; and that is just too dreadful to contemplate.
It might not feel like it now, but things *will* get better.
The future is laden with hope and ripe with potential,
however, the complex rivulets of life are often turbulent
and we must ride them out if we are to reach the next bend.
But if you take this final, irrevocable, step... you will never know what awaits.
And therein lies the real tragedy.
So please, I implore you, reach out to a friend or a loved one;
talk to them, share your burdens and, maybe, even shed a few tears.
The future will look brighter tomorrow and I want you there to see it.
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15 September 2017
Written for Suicide Prevention Month.
My thoughts go out to all those affected by the tragedy of losing a loved one in this way and, especially, to those struggling with their own thoughts of suicide. Please... speak to somebody.
Copyright © John Michaels | Year Posted 2017
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John Michaels Poem
Oceans rise and fall
to the rhythmic breaths of our
luminescent orb
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(C) John C Michaels, 2014
Written for the contest, "Picture This #1"
Sponsored by SKAT A
Third Place
Copyright © John Michaels | Year Posted 2014
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John Michaels Poem
Porcelain shroud slowly falls;
hapless Mother trapped inside.
For the next twelve weeks at least,
her time she’ll be forced to bide.
Returning from his exile,
Uncle Jack’s come out to play.
Across our world, it’s been said:
free to have his wicked way.
Undeterred, life struggles on;
endangered mammals slumber.
Safe, secure and snuggled down,
climate does not encumber.
Signs of season everywhere;
glassy ice and icy glass.
Crisp, consoling cracks ring out;
the crunch of frost-crusted grass.
Deep within the forest’s womb,
hidden seeds of life gestate.
Once this weather does improve,
eager to embrace their fate.
Newborn shoots raise sleepy heads;
late frost strikes a grievous blow.
Others will soon take their place,
bursting from the soil below.
Wisps of freezing fog linger;
this last vestige Jack did grasp.
But ‘tis futile, this foray;
Winter’s final, feeble, gasp.
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(C) John C Michaels, 5th March 2017
Submitted to Rob Carmick's "Screwed XVII" contest (judged 6th May 2017)
(3rd Place)
Originally submitted to the "Open Poetry Competition" sponsored by Charlotte Jade Puddifoot (5th March 2017)
Copyright © John Michaels | Year Posted 2017
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John Michaels Poem
Mei-Ling was known to kiss and tell
Got worse when she wed Me Hung Well
With the power of thought
Set to give what he ought
And spent all night ringing her bell.
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5 November 2018
Inspired by Jan Allison's limerick, "His gift it needed a lift".
Copyright © John Michaels | Year Posted 2018
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John Michaels Poem
Mute
but immutable.
Unmoving, unmoveable;
timeless, yet tireless.
Solitary stalwart sentinel
surveils undulating horizon.
Aberrant, achromatic clouds
pock-mark the skies, as distant
rumblings herald his adversary's
latest gambit in their age-old conflict.
The wrath of a thousand crashing,
clashing, thrashing fists batter
against the beleaguered sentry.
Ceaselessly, remorselessly,
the maelstrom assails him.
But the foundations are firm and
noble gatekeeper stands steadfast.
Single-minded of purpose, placid
custodian morphs into combatant as
his luminous, voluminous blade carves
luminescent arcs through chthonic cloak.
Tenebrous tendrils wither and dissipate,
impotent under intense lambent onslaught.
His victory is only fleeting, as vanquished
foes are summarily supplanted by more of
their ilk in a seemingly continual surge.
Again and again, over and over, tormentor
presses the attack, exploiting any weakness.
Over and over, again and again, valiant warden
repels the barrage and despatches his enemies.
And so the pattern repeats endlessly, unabated,
as these eternal opponents jostle for position
in a perpetual cycle of aggression and defence.
Until eventually, finally, ultimately, the stale-mate
is broken; when Tempest's tantrum is tamed and
Blizzard's battalions have been banished, all is calm.
Tranquillity is able to reassert herself and order has
finally been restored; at least for the foreseeable future.
Obligations fulfilled, the triumphant Guardian can now rest.
Until the need arises again, until he's called upon once more,
he will wait patiently, watch diligently, in unflagging vigilance.
Forever resolute, a beacon of sanctuary, a symbol of hope, his is a
thankless task, but the Protector of Mariners will always be needed.
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(C) John C Michaels, 27 July 2017
For Eve Roper's "Lighthouse" Contest.
(1st Place)
Copyright © John Michaels | Year Posted 2017
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John Michaels Poem
Famished and flagging footsoldiers;
formerly fitters and farmers.
Facing fatigue, fitful fever,
faeces and foul, foetid fungi.
Fostering feelings, frustrated,
for this faraway, foreign field.
Forsaking fissures and furrows,
forced forwards with fleetness of foot.
Firearms flash and fragments fly far,
feigning the firmament aflame.
Fighting so fierce and ferocious,
fratricide set free on this field.
Fuelled by freedom, nay, falsehood;
for their fellows and friends, foremost.
Forays so fraught with fine failure,
fatally fettered from the first.
Forged by such fatuous fawners,
focus firmly fixed on this field.
Forfeiting furtive and fiendish,
fulfilment was falsely forecast.
Fate flexes her fickle fingers,
future’s foretold and foreshadowed.
Faustian favours forthcoming,
for folly to feud for a field.
Families of fine forefathers,
fought fiercely, for fear we’d forget.
Forthright and filial feelings,
forgo fun and frivolity.
Familiar flora forms focus,
for the fallen in Flanders Field.
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8 syallables on every line (www.howmanysyllables.com)
November 2018
(This is my original / extended version)
I wanted to do something special - and a bit different - to mark the centenary of the end of The Great War (11 November 1918). This poem is dedicated to all the brave souls lost defending freedom during that terrible conflict (and all conflicts since).
Copyright © John Michaels | Year Posted 2018
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John Michaels Poem
a purveyor of pretend promises
duplicitous diatribe
fountains of false forecasts
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April 22nd 2017
Copyright © John Michaels | Year Posted 2017
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John Michaels Poem
Catwalks
Crowd gawks
Wont style
Forced smile
Strike pose
Fake nose
Weird strut
Flat butt
Scant curves
Unnerves
Small-hipped
Lunch skipped
Stick-thin
Chagrin
Faux tan
Pecan
Plucked brow
Used plough?
Long lash
Bleached 'tache
Plump lips
Veiled nips
Waxed mound
Astound
Forebear
Despair
Sweet girls
Morph churls
Sly pout
Grim trout
Taut thighs
All lies
Make hot
Post-shot
Airbrushed
Not hushed
Mere gaud
Defraud
Model?
Twaddle!
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25 November 2017
For the "Footle Form - Sequenced or Stand-Alone" contest, sponsored by Brian Strand.
Copyright © John Michaels | Year Posted 2017
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