Hi there,
I see your brown eyes that dare
I see their happiness,
and unpredictable mischievousness,
Warm with crinkles on the edges and all
Promising me an irresistible fall

you there
They said, your brown eyes that dare
Telling me to be brave
and pursue these things I dare crave
Swearing to be there by my side and be
The best of friends with me

hi there
I say to your brown eyes that dare
I see your happiness,
and blatant lightheartedness,
But I see behind those madness and all
That your heart and soul are ready to fall

I'll be here
I wish your brown eyes could hear
I'm now telling you, be brave
Just let go of the darkness you crave
I swear to be by your side and be
Ready for you to lean on me

I know this girl from Texas
Who rustles up smiles for free
Feels like home on the range
With lasso in hand
Pretty as you please

Warm and comfortable as a campfire
Wild as a coyotes howl
God was right in his choice
Giving her an angels voice
Mixed in with a Southern draw

There's a mischievousness to her roundup
Like that of a rouge rodeo
Playing life's full hand
From sunrise to sunset
This girl from Texas that I know

_____


another mourning morning, usual signs of warning,
wanted to wash away the distress signs of no sleep,
turned on the tap, out came only troubled waters,
my only friend, the voice from the mirror, pretending
to be coming from me, speaking: Oh Lord, Oh Lord!

is there no surcease for me, somewhere, can I find,
little bites, small plates, pieces of peace, the kind
of kindness that eases, repairs the dividers of mind,
the country stone fences that been growing wilder,
when, troubled child of 10, window breaking, beyond
youthful mischievousness, evil streaked, so deemed

Give me a boat, give me a bridge, give me a road, a home,
one of those things poets, songwriters about, wax lyrical,
Oh Lord, give me time, 45 seconds, even two or three,
Being strong, being confident, am I not entitled to that,
a boat, sturdy mast, cause sailing from storm to storm,
just glimpsing dry land, is that too much, a pale beyond?

love, nah, a bridge too far, not even on the menu, not blinded,
I am off key, not well enough, between the peaks between,
I am out of sync, bubbling discombobulated, a **** besided, behind,
lend  me a finger, not even a hand, a kernel, not even a cob,
a string, forget a rope, a washcloth to bathe and dry,
lay me down, lay me down, to live, even just not dying.

Give thanks if someone
Smiles to see you!

Give thanks if your parents
Scoff at your mischievousness!

Give thanks if your friend
Takes you to a mosque!

Give thanks if an elderly
Holds you in esteem!

Give thanks to those
Who consider your goodness

In a time of self centered life
And none is trusted to be yours!

Give thanks for it's our heritage
And thank God for its existence

As Giving thanks is a sharing of love
That is need of mankind!

Moments of happiness
Laughters and joy
Whispers of mischievousness
Life all the way...

Then....

Anguish and pain
Sentiments of despair
Cries amidst relentless rain
Promises scattered in air

The story ends and such a sudden good bye
Sweetest Love! I wish I could die...

We opened a book that started with the name
of our country.
The right side was numbered corruptions  and the other side was numbered greed & bad leaders.
We burnt the stride of our bodies into aches and dreams waving away fire and foliage of silence.
Women learnt to carry portrait of bodies of their dead children on their shoulders, beautiful corpse.
It reminded us of the civil war in front of our Father's betrayed house.
It reminded us of lyrics written on the walls of our Hut with a framed keys of memories.
Love that taught us to look back into our heart and draw current of men in their ignorance in search
of a better home than those bridges we burnt.
Things like the pains in the eyes of a boy,
Things like the tale on the lips of a girl,
Things like sadness in the soul of a mother painting the images of her lost children in prayers.
Those strange tears stranded between chapters of the smoke as they travelled to the lonely cloud,
With the echoes of our forefathers last libation
Like the voices trailing from a boy's name for the lost of his prestige.
There are things that we may not know that leave our footprints to our heart through the opening in our nostrils and ears.
In our land was where a boy once stood on the face of the sun, his shadow reflected on a mirror.
He saw his future carted away by his fears.
Lost girls found in his assaulted plights
Trying to find home in a shark's mouth.
They hold water from the oceans together basking their hope on the traffic of women holding their bodies and leaving their dead for survival.
We do not live in the moon!
We do not whisper to the wind of the song we
heard him sing every day!
Of things that come in white and black are
like our straying country weeping with the
images of the masses.
Like those corpses brought back to BENUE.
Those images are the images of darkness projected by a big screen of the sky to our eyes.
Our names burnt into different rivers holding different tribes that seek for freedom.
We wrecked our testimonies to bleed blood with flames to suffocating cities surrounded with pity.
Those things on white are  the way we were built but the black demons corrupted us all leaving memories to sneak our hearts into dark places where mischievousness can take over us.


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustrations.

/it's not that other people are hell... it's that drinking with other people always brings me down to their level of intelligence, one tier above wonton, and one tier below a Piccadilly promenade... alcoholics like leeches... I could never stomach drinking with other people... which is probably a mishandling of a quote by Diogenes... res extensa as proof that res cogitans has been conquered: mxim compediums... people quacking and barking ancient maxims and proverbs for proverbial structures to make, things apparent in the context of: being fashionably attired, to suit the gimmick clock of, choking on regurgitating the same sayings a posteriori, namely,  without a priori foundations... I agree, most maxims are written in an a priori vein... no I don't have the stomach to lie to women, i'd rather cling to celibacy and take to *** with a *******, once every 2 years... what's the problem when otherwise surrogate ******* takes 9 months? i can't imagine other people being hell, other than hell being: drinking with other people... brother Rotgier, "son" of Zygfryd... no wonder my second name is Conrad... such is my sympathy for the western neighbours... somewhere between a msgpie's cackle, and a suffocation from drowning in a droplet of Pomeranian Baltic.

n England I'd be prone to writing
"poems" / bookmarks
while listening to music,
but here, death speaks like
a deafening orchestra
in a drum & bass crescendo
blitz continuum,
tomorrow, another year,
and a decade to boot,
can pass me by,
       and still the remnant statue
beneath the waterfall
winking and giving a sly smile
in the satanic, pagan furor
of mischievousness...
                   long lost this spirit,
withdrawn into blue,
a leisure of humour,
in tact of crows in hadean trenchcoats  
at a funeral itching lessons
in flight and Tom Petty karaoke..
the service quality of penguins,
otherwise in the shadow of my mind,
and impromptu jazzy crisp whips
worthy of deep fried crisp tatties
on the snare...
    and the popsicle before
the scythe harvest...
shame...
     come to think of think of it...
revision:
   HAMMER & THE SCYTHE....
       because let me tell you...
as much difference between
a hammer and a nail,
as there is between a scythe
and a sickle...
   the diffrence in the contort...
throwing a ***** into an Arabian
harem, ensuring the "prophets"
be propped, properly
           "dressed" in ****** trim...
******* hanging off
a guillotine's tailor scoop
to masquerade for a once,
proud, and rummaging
   in fervent heart, odious stag
when staged, counter,
man, cockroach...
                  nature came crushing,
benevolent king in a wheelchair;
******, wielding an atom bomb...
     ßpeschial!
oh well... too bad satanic poetry
had to come across as the sole
mythos of a plagiarism of writing time...
+×÷=...
           cross-eyed...
pointed left, i walked right...
pointed north, i walked south...
i believe in a woman's rights...
hell...
            i believe that women
have the right to decide over their own
bodies, as man had the right
to not pay alimony...
               pro abortion anti alimony...
what?
           because playing Mr. Bean
was going to be easier than playing
Black Adder?
                    
answer is: I don't want to know...
in the ultimatum
I was told to prepare for death,
and surely,  nothing of
the living is ever translated
to wager with the dead...
        a **** every 2 years with
a *******, is still frowned upon,
compared to Elton John
using third party cocktail
surrogates...
                
  because was it ever a party?
    once every 2 years...
     too much ape **** admiration
to translate it back into
an ***** spine swindle,
   plus musical with a vjolin.