"greenhorn" poems
The rain-Gods should
Give this greenhorn a reason
To why pain could
Appear this green-corn season,
Which baboon will make a sound
If the rich moon cannot be found?
Sometimes we play all day
Making sure that the clay
Does not decay,
But now our rock had bend
And who will lock and mend,
Ah, send the Gods a plea,
And it will end the cods a sea,
For the fear of might is oppression
Whiles the tear of night of derision
But nothing inside will look so strong
If something outside looks so wrong
Is this ice of life so conscious?
Maybe the price of life is so precious,
Men of Kush!
Have a pen for push
And never harm the Gods arm,
For their charm grows your farm,
The debtors have broken the palm-vine
Causing the ancestors to drink the palmwine
Indeed, what life sees as pain,
Must be given to death to explain.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:26 AM UTC
Welcome the new day
As night lifted her screen
The sun had brought its palette
Boasting of colours never before I've seen
Rays like paintbrushes
As they dove into the water
Light explosively burst into emeralds
Ripple and eddies would sparkle and shimmer
Bolts from the orange orb
Speared the tops of trees and sprawling ground
Tinting their leaves with green of olives
And grass with freshness abound
Its wand touched the tip of the distant lighthouse
Turning it the brightest green
It brought life back to my surrounding
Layered my eyes with the greenest of sheens
Such beauty laid bare
The difference was literally night and day
But my heart is also green
To readily accept what my mind has to say
As if a child
Or yet still a greenhorn
I should ignore the stains of yellow
And enjoy this new day that had just been born
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
In ruck and quibble of courtfolk
This giant hulked, I tell you, on her scene
With hands like derricks,
Looks fierce and black as rooks;
Why, all the windows broke when he stalked in.
Her dainty acres he ramped through
And used her gentle doves with manners rude;
I do not know
What fury urged him slay
Her antelope who meant him naught but good.
She spoke most chiding in his ear
Till he some pity took upon her crying;
Of rich attire
He made her shoulders bare
And solaced her, but quit her at cock's crowing.
A hundred heralds she sent out
To summon in her slight all doughty men
Whose force might fit
Shape of her sleep, her thought-
None of that greenhorn lot matched her bright crown.
So she is come to this rare pass
Whereby she treks in blood through sun and squall
And sings you thus :
'How sad, alas, it is
To see my people shrunk so small, so small.'
7k
These eyes have felt
their fair share of tears that burn
Forgive my eyes for they are yet so green
They have seen much but still they do not learn
These lungs have breathed
The air both fresh and acrid
Forgive them for they are yet so green
They only do what they must when all runs turbid
These ears they've heard
Hurtful promises and whispers that have stung
Forgive my ears for they are yet so green
They're know not to ignore the language of forked tongues
These lips have served
The most callous of opinions
Forgive them for they are yet so green
They can't seem to curb pent up notions
These hands have grown tired
From shielding my tear-stricken face
Forgive these hands for they are yet so green
They're still so afraid to welcome the gift of future days
These legs are sore
For they have travelled far
Forgive them for they are yet so green
They knew better than to enter through doors left slightly ajar
This mind is weary
From thinking of a life meant only for dreamers
Forgive my mind for it is yet so green
They know not of the inexistence of greener pastures
This heart... My heart
Pounding each beat that betrays
Beats with an anvil in tow
Forgive it for it is yet so green
It's having more trouble than it cares to show
This face I wear
A weathered mask I'm unready to shed
Forgive it for it is yet so green
There's still life in it...
For there's yet much to be said
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
In dead earnest,
she tries to raise hell,
put on an act
as best as she can,
forgetting altogether
she still is a greenhorn
in such matters, though
graduated to be his bride
from a lover for so long
underprivileged all the while,
grabbing the very first chance
after the new found privilege.
He watches her goof up
inexperience in evidence,
out of the corner of his eye
does nothing but conceals his smile;
caught in the act, her perplexity
gives her up, that was the best part
of the act: the bride's belligerence.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
im walking along
hardly breathin cause it might disturb
im steppin in the shadows of great men
with one eye on the popularity of what im sayin
but i dont think anybody sees me anyway
cept her and its real hard to tell what shes thinkin
dressed to the nines and she lickable head to toe
hard body honey half my age
came here to pick a fight with the powers that be
dont stand a chance but thats beside the point
cant you feel the storm brewin
been there since it became hip to be an activist
tempest in a tea ***
but what a blast its been
a struggle of the masses not to drink another latte
a demand for justice for the **** who ate the last bearclaw
he trims that fashion beard
combs out the rough phrase from his latest trending poem
and some cat in london stamps his seal of approval
sold out for a pat on the back
just remember kiddo that your a greenhorn
and i got one beady little eye on ya
meanwhile in chechnya they are swaping pens for rifles
feel little like hemingway
wanna throw it all away in a blaze of glory
for the ideal of the revolt with some
things still worth fightin for
hand me that pen
got a ruckus to make
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
When you come away from home you can be one of many things:
A ****
A partyanimal
A geek
A talker
A listener
A doer
A drinker
A social recluse
An alcohol abuser
A hustler
A bustler
A fanatic
A panicker
A best friend waiting to be discovered
A great lover in the cupboard
The list goes on
But we are all one thing:
A fresher
A newbie
A greenhorn
Streetfighters
Run up quarterbacks
Soldiers of Fortune.
And I realise it can be hard
With everything going on
Trying everything new
Trying to make friends
We can sometimes get caught up
And lose our field of vision.
If I could give one piece of advice
It would be:
Be who you are.
Standup for what you believe in –
People always come round to respecting that
If you don’t do shots
Drink beer
If you don’t like ****
Pass on it in a dignified manner.
I once knew a guy who lost his field of vision:
He ended up firing a rifle out of a second-storey window
Trying to hit the centre of the O’s on roadsigns.
It might have been the exuberant amount of alcohol
He had consumed that night.
I just don’t know.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 3:47 PM UTC
This is the avenging of my mediocrity
Altering into virginal happiness
My ventilated train of thoughts
assist the obsoleteness
of the impression i had
of love.
my reverie of hope
a simple consideration to hold
something i've never come to grips with
for i cant hold on
to what the other has let go of
my knowledge grows
my hand's been raised
for quite some time
an indifference for beings
saturated in ignorance
for they're just caught up
in the years that have passed
my soft feelings
have turned to rock
by the beast himself
i held such languish
but now i toss it all to the killer
i'm walking across the line
of bitterness and betrayal
and grabbing what i missed:
a chance
for things to be
new again.
Oct 22, 2009
Oct 22, 2009 at 1:04 PM UTC
So, on the morning of his sixteenth birthday, Doby Greenhorn prepared to leave. He packed some provisions; a compass, a large box of matches, some rope, a leather bottle full of water, a little money, a sturdy walking stick and some other odds and ends his mother threw at him. And, as the poem goes…
“As I set out, in early morn, the whole world for to see,
These are the things my blessed mother, came and said to me.”
“Beware the fettered Giant, In the valley down below! Restrained by iron ringlets, near the well where lovers go…
Beware the flaxen Ferry, if you see him down the lane, he’ll offer you the world and more, but only bring you pain…
Be not dismayed by goblins if they’re out during the day, just teach them a new riddle and they’ll let you on your way.
A blackened cat upon the road will bring bad luck it’s said, unless you chase it down at once, and beat it till it’s dead!
But most important, is that song, which lures all men near… The sound like golden honey being spooned into your ear! A song which sparks that deepest longing, a sense of warmth and cheer!
The song of evil Sirens is the thing which most I fear…
So put thy hand across thy breast and make a solemn pledge, to never follow lilting tunes up to the waters edge!
And if you do, and see a maiden bathing in the sun, more beautiful then any queen that ever had been won! With eyes as green as sun bleached moss and face pleasant and fun, Who’s magic makes it quite impossible for you to run!
Then draw thy dagger from thy waist and place it to thy beating heart, and plunge that steel with all thy strength, to lay thy noble breast apart!
Far better be, to take thy life and keep thy soul embowered, then ever kiss those bitter lips and have thy flesh devoured!
For Sirens never eat the dead, and though thy blood runs ruby red, thy honor rests upon thy head, and follows thee to life after…”
”I made the pledge, and kissed her face, and off I went my path to chase! With dagger hanging from my waist… That dagger dangling at my waist… “
Aug 11, 2019
Aug 11, 2019 at 10:09 AM UTC
Downriver...crystalline ventricles
gurgling, bedded stones believe
rest--greenhorn's hymnal.
Land kept at your sides, passed
and passing, love's dicast.
Gushed alter of the wayfarer,
perfect turn of phrase--spurred onward
gravity's lane.
A commingling smoke of candle and
incense--bird's parallel, lucid Coming...
divined gauge.
Euphoric to be had of earth,
overflow at rain's touch.
Errant yonder, solvent sketch...
at-long-last's monotone declarative.
Soul's minutiae in plain, downriver...
downriver...downriver.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
Subtle twists and turns
Make my thoughts tangle
Unsure of what hail Mary affirmation will redeem
What little intellect inferior artists contain
I am not being cruel
Or even over judgemental
Just honest. Truthful.
Prescreened, pre-cleaned
You did not pass muster
Left on the stoop to await another bus
Perhaps one more tolerant of shabby verse
Hopefully a few extra seats will be open to house your assumptions
Leaving ample space for your empty, arrogant rantings
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 9:53 PM UTC
those beautiful eyelids of yours
darkened by days of weariness
when our eyes met
sparks flew out of control
as the anguish beneath us
reconstructed
pages of adventures followed
the scribbles
the interlocks of legs and fingers
clinging onto me
afraid yet secure
12 days, XII
rapid pace, as i wheeze and heave
you smiled
assuring everything is fine
lips on lips
we will make through this
path of memories and chatters
relishing our experiences
coffee, tea, soup
underdogs of social circles
pondering upon
our similar circumstances
guitar and piano
greenhorn, beginner
rollercoaster melodies
limits as high they were
couldn’t salvage us
12 days, XII
12 divide by 3
that’s how long we lasted
staring into the streetlights
trying to touch you
6 strings, soaked
as i write this in the time of XII
keys and strings
they never go well
sober is my name
i’m madly drunk in love
with you, yet
we were not meant to be.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
x
Do you remember
the last time
you said the words
"I
Love
you"
?
+ + +
I don't
I don't remember
I don't remember
the last time
that I said
"I
Love
you"
I don't remember
when I said it
or to whom
or why
And now I can't escape this
rotting feeling
that this isn't a memory
we should ever out-grow
That this isn't a memory
we should ever out-live
That this isn't a memory
we should ever get
too far away from
Now that I realize it's gone
I feel adrift and lost without it
like a greenhorn just realizing
he's lost sight of shore
for the first time
The sudden realization
that I couldn't remember
that I've lost this memory
that it must've been so long
since I last said it
to anyone
for any reason
that I've lost it completely
sits so alien and unreal in me
That I could've ever lost something
so important
something
that has always just
been there
before
something
that should just be a backdrop
to the rest of my life
now gone
and I didn't even notice it
didn't miss it at all
until now
It's as if I suddenly realized
one wall of my house was missing
exposing us
letting in the whether
and I can't even remember
when it happened
And this is all only preamble
just the lead-in
to the real question
Why?
Why can't I remember?
Why have I forgotten?
Why has it been so long since I last said it?
Why haven't I said it?
Why did I ever stop?
What am I waiting for?
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
Bill sat in the lounge,
stroking his cat Caesar,
and smoking
his French cigarette,
musing on the JFK fiasco
in 63, and the Agency's
possible role somewhere
down the line;
he was young then,
a greenhorn,
thought there was
a right and wrong,
just after
the Bay of Pigs thing;
his father on about
the good old American way,
just wars, hitting back
at the Mafia, unaware
they were bedfellows
at some point
on joint issues;
his mother, sweet dame,
bless her Southern
mind and kisses,
dead now,
like his old man,
thin-lipped,
cold of stare,
imagining Reds
under the bed
and everywhere;
and that young guy
he bedded in Berlin
before doing him in.
The cat purred;
smoke rose
from the cigarette;
somethings
you never forget.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 8:39 AM UTC
Who decides what historical events adorn
textbooks students read,
hence a starry notion born
grew up while
this lumpenproletariat day dreaming,
Asian aw shucks husky
husbandry furrowed brow gritty farmer
barnstorming across
expansive fields of baby
(barely) barley corn
crib bed crop 'pon harvest time,
(an maize zing genre), especially
when enriched with humus
laden loamy muck cob bra,
then aye delightfully
trumpet from dehorn
of good 'n plenti kernel Sanders gave me
saluting rank and file fool's capped
fecund fashioned earthborn
dunce sing tassels,
versus growing seasons gone by,
when draught of ideas forlorn
despite futilely blowing on my flugelhorn
high and dry reap peat head paltry yield,
asper when this strapping chap
a sweaty backed greenhorn
pondering why agrarian laborious life of toil
omitted as part and parcel of "newsworthy"
posterity sagas deeming
shenanigans of highborn
and/or "FAKE" headlines crowd inborn
noble folks,
who grease palms of industrialists,
whose quaking self importance
thwarts aside rural cosseted
krummhorn grounded bumpkin mor'n
how kapellmeister coaches bourgeoisie
helping determine
zero absolute value of newborn
fated to slave away
till body electric outworn,
yet paradigm shift of
(butter late then ever)
jiffy popcorn version
sown by seeds of Jethro Tull,
whose bonhomie with brio didst reborn
agricultural revolution took root,
whence before long some did scorn
and lamented machinations
ordered simple existence ripped and torn,
where antithetical views suppressed
and unto revolutionaries
became legion and well-worn.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown,
A daredevil chance at advancement and progress.
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.
Being in the belly of the beast’s sickening to the bone,
Discomfiting and a tad demeaning, fraught with distress
Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown.
One might wonder how much one can condone.
Being caught in the crosshairs is the best moment to assess.
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.
A stiff upper lip to mask a frown
Will keep the peace so as not to appear under duress
Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown.
It’s fairly hard to be attuned to adversity, everyone’s a greenhorn
Nevertheless, it should spur us to be hot on the heels of success
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.
Superstition takes one’s eyes off the prize, hence likely to bemoan
Fallibility rather than take the bull by its horns; a caricatured mess
Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown,
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.
Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 1:13 AM UTC
An apple lying two small divots
from the base of a tree,
I inherit inertia.
The son of a son of a son of a son of a farmer -
harvest, market,
settle up, rest.
Success is an even account.
Await the herald of spring.
Repeat.
In youth
I ran to knowledge
like a sponge at a spill.
Everything I wanted
was in the course
not at the goal.
After thirteen years of
trying to make Her happy,
my cup was long past empty.
A vacuum ******* in dregs
discarded on a back room floor.
After twenty years of
trying to make Him happy,
I float on a buoyancy
that stymies the sunrise
by flirting with sunset.
Now past greenhorn salad days,
a compass flutters.
The poles deconstructed,
magnets refute desire.
Comrades say their differences
make them Beautiful.
I am Beautiful because I survived.
If I am different,
that requires an entirely new stanza.
I rest this pole on my shoulder.
Tied in an orange bandana :
an apple, a sponge,
a compass,
a vacuum, a jar of buoyant air.
I am Weary Willie
setting course
on open path.
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 9:07 AM UTC