"vernon" poems
Sundays are my favourite days,
Beirut mornings to coax a smile
Get drunk and dressed with
Mr. Vernon; light a cigarette
And laugh at the irony
This Sunday though,
I am in a sundaze;
with no full moon to look upon
And only a mournful quarter
rotted with black cloud
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
Some say, we don't need black history month.
When in truth we do.
Would the contribution of African American be taught truthfully.
If we had to depend on you know who?
Obviously, they very unaware of several successful black that contributed to America's greatness.
We, very well aware they edited down facts to be turn into fiction.
Like that president that chopped down that cherry tree.
Many doesn't know the plight of Washington, Dubois, Carver.
Let alone know their first name.
It's hardly taught, if it's about us.
George Franklin, Grant-dentist
Ernest Everett, Just.-Scientist
Josh Gibson, one of the greatest baseball player.
We know very well about George, Thomas and James and John Q.
Some say, we all Americans
And in truth, they completely right.
But for reasons very well known.
We are not all equal in sights of others.
When needed, they call upon us to join in.
Some still, say-why do Black history month exist?
But all cultures knows none was eliminated through times.
Than those captured to come here and renamed after their masters.
And facts be told, this cultures lives to embrace into their children's if nothing is ever mention by certain teachers about their cultures.
Than they will keep it before them.
Matthew Alexander, Henson-Explorer
Billie Holiday-singer
Duke Ellington and Count Basie and Cab Calloway.
Greatness, we can't let fade.
Vernon Jordan
Shirley Chilsom
And hosts of present days teachers that push the issues to educate.
Those that say, we don't need Black History months.
Be crying , if we try to eliminate theirs.
Cause that's all they ever known.
Howard University.
Tennessee State and Fisk and various others came to be because of discrimination.
And has turned out some brilliant African Americans.
So our history is needed.
Cause it's about us.
Like Latin History and various others is about other cultures.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC
Cool, gentle air
glides across my face.
Strains of hydrangeas
mingle with THC
and sweet, cheap, fermented
grain alcohol.
The stillness
knocks the breath from
My lungs.
Wafts of voices drift
across the swaying trees
mingling
with the steady chirp of
crickets and a lone car puttering
in the distance.
A gentle whistle
Like the start of piano concerto
No. 15
crescendes
to the roar
Of a thousand bullfrogs
Straining to hit a high note.
Trees bow
To the iron god,
Voices melt into the grating
Metal monster
Declaring their
Subservience.
The air rushes and then
Disappears
Just as suddenly
And the voices return
and the crickets hum their
chorus
and the stillness
whispers
crescendos
screams.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
[Justin Vernon - Bon Iver: Sample From "Woods"]
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
I‘m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
[Hook 1 x2]
I’m lost in the world, I’m down on my mind
I’m new in the city, and I’m down for the night
Down for the night
Said she’s down for the night
[Kanye West - Verse 1]
You're my devil, you're my angel
You're my heaven, you're my hell
You're my now, you're my forever
You're my freedom, you're my jail
You're my lies, you're my truth
You're my war, you're my truce
You're my questions, you're my proof
You're my stress and you're my masseuse
Mamasaymamasamamakusa
Lost in this plastic life
Let's break out of this fake *** party
Turn this in to a classic night
If we die in each others arms we still get laid in our afterlife
If we die in each others arms we still get laid, yeah
[Hook 2]
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
(Run from the lights, run from the night)
I’m building a still to slow down the time
(Run for your life, Down for the night...)
I’m lost in the world, I’m down on my mind
I’m new in the city, and I’m down for the night
Down for the night
Said she’s down for the night
(Run from the lights, run from the night)
[Bridge]
Who will survive in America
Who will survive in America
Who will survive in America
[Hook]
[Gil-Scott Heron]
Us living as we do upside down. And the new word to have is revolution
People don’t even want to hear the preacher spill or spiel
Because God’s whole card has been thoroughly piqued
And America is now blood and tears Instead of milk and honey
The youngsters who were programmed To continue ******* up
Woke up one night digging Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys
America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes
The signs of Truth were tattooed across our often entered ******
We learned to our amazement untold tale of scandal. Two long centuries buried In the musty vault, hosed down daily with a gagging perfume
America was a ******* the illegitimate daughter of the mother country
Whose legs were then spread around the world and a ****** known as freedom, free doom. Democracy, liberty, and justice
Were revolutionary code names that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling in the mother country’s crotch
What does Webster say about soul?
All I want is a good home and a wife
And a children and some food to feed them every night
After all is said and done build a new route to China if they’ll have you
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
I've been told that change is good;
It keeps you on your toes
So I guess I will try to write a poem about something else
............................................................about someone....else
Until next time,
Mine truly
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 11:45 PM UTC
Do not plague me ego mind,
with your jargon
of judgements and fear.
For I do cast them to the wind
and move in precious light.
Do not emit your shadow to block
my sun of spirits wisdom.
For I do move in heart
celebrating the gift of life
inside moments magic.
Do not attack me when least expected,
spreading your vernon lies
that torch my cells.
For I shall merge with heart
and choose to sing with sacred song
and dance with grace.
Yes I do choose to move on freedoms highway.
A place where miracles sprout
in garden divine.
And YOU your weeds of voice,
they be needed no more.
YES NO MORE.
For now I greet my spirits voice
to sing with grace.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
I told myself I would never do it again
as my body sank into my best friend's bed
"are you okay?"
"yeah, you?"
"yep."
the trip home was silent
and the sedan suddenly turned into an eighteen wheeler,
the rear view mirrors sticking out like Dumbo's ears.
we are in a cartoon.
I am convinced we are in a cartoon
and we are flying
Dumbo could fly, too.
through euclid, and vernon, and lund
we are mute
and we are
happy
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
103rd Street / Watts Towers
Suicide help lines posted
on signs above the train tracks
make her wonder where the
stars went make her wonder
what she’d do if
someone near her jumped
Decided she ain’t tryna
save a life, she just tryna
stay alive
Vernon
Little girl with big bright eyes,
do your troubles have a name?
Little girl your kicks are sticking
to the pavement. Do you ever watch
the planes at night?
They’ll try to tell you otherwise but
you don’t gotta unstick yourself.
In the City of Angels someone’s bound
to get caught in the smog layer.
7th Street / Metro Center
She looks for you in piss-soaked
alleys, on rusted fire escapes, behind
buildings flashing neon green crosses,
a sort of salvation — together you’re
the most perfect covenant.
Does she tell you that enough?
Pershing Square
There’s no such thing as dreaming
here, and you get used to that.
You get used to everything.
When you’re flying over Angel’s Knoll
it’s easy to forget how far you are
from Hollywood, same city same jungle,
the only place with hundreds of stars
on the sidewalk but hardly any
in the sky.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
Justin Vernon had his cabin in the woods
A place where he found peace on Earth
Temporarily freed from the plagues of living
Blessed with the tranquility of a spiritual rebirth
Lost in the world I searched for my own meaning
A place I could call my home
Searching desperately for the illusion of safety
Praying that I wouldn't have to spend this life alone
But a million lost souls told a million sad tales
With words far more beautiful than mine
So when my journey became too much for you to handle
I understand why you walked away, for the final time
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
*Better to write for yourself,
& have no public
Then to write for the public,
& have no self*
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
Sandt Amaro and Karl Spooner on the old Brooklyn Dodgers.
My 2 all-time favorite players of my favorite team the Yankees are
an putfielder acquired in a transaction Vernon Webb
and the Rookie of the Year for, I believe, 1957
an outfielder first baseman Norm Cisbern.
My 2 favorite all-time Illinois basketball players were sixth men Ed Perez and Joseph Bertrand.
My 2 favorite all-time Detroit Lions are Bobby Cayne and Pork Walker with Ces Bingaman a nice third.
My favorite all-time Cleveland Browns are Otto Graham and Frank Gatsby.
My all-time 2 favorite Chicago Bulls are Michael Jordan and Dave Corzine.
Mordern-day-wise, I like Parig of the LA Dodgers, Steven Aren who last I saw was with the Washington Nationals, and in modern Illini football I loved Monty Wilson. He hit so hard and the sound of a prize recruit who never got in on a game. D'Angelo McGary and I liked the sound of the name. Duane Brantley who was a large for the time offensive lineman out of Chicago wo dropped out before he had a chance to play.
This is just scratching the surface, I guess, since I'm not into the star system per se.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
If it is a race, then the pace of one set of clouds out does the ones that float above lazily. Smokey dragons cut across Odin’s one good godly eye. The night pursues its cold cool wind muse,
and I cannot lose, because I use this muse so well. I walk the building corner to brick corner unwilling to enter the unyielding nightmare hallways. I do not wish to walk in the white hollow echo chambers, alone and uninspired while the night spirals in lunar delight. I postpone it as long as I can, walking the yellow concrete corners like they are tight high wire. I swerve and struggle to maintain my perfect position, for fear of falling into the black top lava pit. The inside world waits for me like a ravenous beast. Please oh please do not force me to leave the light breeze that brushes my skin gently. Glass and metal doors see me swallowed whole. I did not want to go but now I know this white washed world will be my graveyard fantasy. The red buds on the tree beckon me, but I cannot go back out. The musical clank of metal clips that hang the flags summons me beyond the security doors with their dangerous whipping movements, but I am not allow to explore such freedom. The strangers of varying degrees, shapes, weights, skin tints, hair, and teeth beckons me to question their history. I cannot go out there to the fantastic. No that is a lie. I could if I tried, but I chose to hide in a secure hourly wage paid life. I could leave and let my wanderlust take me where it will. I could go back to Pleasantville, Champaign, Williamsville, Pontiac, Mt. Vernon, and Danville, then go see places I have never been. I could give in to the seductive siren call of landscapes unseen, sounds unheard, and strangers not yet met. Instead I sign my time sheet, walk and repeat, securing nothing. I drive home tired and come back and repeat that as well. I accept the mundane. It is a part of the price I pay for a slice of peace.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 11:16 PM UTC
It is the season of summer
which means my face will be all roses
before noon.
Which means I am celebrating the happenings
of those I wish had wanted me back
and those I will never want in return.
The air is thick with fog
like an open mouth filled with smoke
consistent with melancholy regret
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 4:32 PM UTC
Once upon a time;
There was but a girl of sorrow that did not know love
she kept trying to wipe away moisture from her eyes
as she looked for guidance from above:
A feeling of unkept told
her heart knew she had to be strong
but the bricks were building up
more walls to climb she knew not what ...
The muscles of life harden hard
no light or darkness would be charred
the comfort of hers would not be won
as she searched for the truth be done ...
As the next sun, come with one arms
the dark tower he shall climb to no harm
his heart be pure, his words carried no vernon to come
his eyes shall never look towards another, will always one will become ...
For the man she dreams about, walk through the narrow door
handsome and strong, loving belong, like never before
on the gathering water she will find the gift that she longed
love for her in the light of the dawn ...
She finally wiped away the moisture from her eyes:
Debbie Brooks 2014
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
I love them all in the most platonic possible way
and I know they love me too.
If only we could sit together always,
just telling each other stories,
I’d listen to their blues and help them with the words.
The music keeps us all close I feel like.
I’ve secured this little army of boys that would **** for me and I, for them.
But the years have done damage on us all and our journeys have led us down different roads.
Once a flock,
us birds fly our own way now.
Some of us heading north for the winter and others seek shelter elsewhere.
But there was a time that we found each other and this time will come again.
And when we do,
we’ll cozy up by the fire once more and go for drives like we always have,
Justin Vernon sometimes and
“Through the fields, somewhere there’s blue” will soundtrack our misfirings at the universe and youthful adventures with the desert, our canvas.
Arizona, our home base.
Thanks for teaching me how to love, boys. Until next time.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
Politics is broken
Something is missing
Politics is polarized
Opinions are divided
Clearly we are at extreme odds
Perhaps Vernon Jordan*
Had his finger on the pulse
Of this confounding
Movement years ago
The panel was distinguished
Vernon Jordan spoke
“In Washington, there is no longer civility”
Elected officials representing opposing camps
Engage in animus and grudges
Without social civility
Without civility
There is no healing
Nor is there compromise
Sep 3, 2020
Sep 3, 2020 at 11:32 AM UTC
three wonders
as a family. we took a trip to washington dc in the year 1968. the year it burned. the year i turned 9.
i carry memory fragments of that trip. washington monument. lincoln memorial. mount vernon. the smithsonian. national guard troops stationed about.
most importantly our solemn visit to Arlington National Cemetery. a hallowed land far removed from the chaos engulfing an outside world.
from that day i carry memory bits of three wonders.
endless white headstones in neat rows.
the grave and the eternal flame of President John F. Kennedy. it would be seven years later while in dallas we would stand where he was assassinated.
watching The Changing of the Guard at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
all witnessing stood silent and still. any sounds came from the guards. giving orders. acknowledging orders. presenting firearms.
once completed the crowd slowly went their ways to other parts of Arlington.
i have wondered what my father was thinking. how he felt silently standing there. it had only been 23 years since his service had ended with world war two’s conclusion.
probably of the guys he knew that never made it back now buried at Arlington. the ones that had made it home but are also buried there. that he could have known the pacific theater Unknown. thoughts of the world he had helped save. how much it had changed since his childhood. how much it had changed since the war’s end.
he never said. i never asked.
i was 9 years and a tourist. unable to understand or know the importance or magnitude of all that i saw that day.
i am in awe knowing the painstaking work continues of identifying our fallen heroes. those lost during service to their country. relentlessly searched for. finding and identifying. for they have not been forgotten.
one of them being the Unknown from the vietnam war. a family was given the ability to gain some sense of closure.
that is progress.
major progress will be achieved once sons and daughters no longer have to fight. leaving terrified mothers, fathers, wives, and husbands behind to wonder.
no more wars. no more Unknowns.
for freedom they fought
in Arlington they now rest
known to god above
Nov 10, 2021
Nov 10, 2021 at 9:32 PM UTC
todas las palomas de la tarde perseguían a vernon vries y era maravilloso
verlo huir de tanta crueldad o blancor
peor él creía hacer esfuerzos para volar con ellas
y en realidad hacía esfuerzos para volar con ellas pobrecitas
"¡oh vernon! verdadero de arriba verdadero de abajo poco hay en el mundo"
decía al escapar o volar y sus ojos manchados por la dura contemplación
no vivían en paz perpetuamente hechos y deshechos
vivían mal o tristes o encontrando pobreza
se supo que los ojos de vernon vries vivían así:
adorando pájaros ríos cataratas el océano extenso
las lluvias los calores las amadas que giran por el aire
esos ojos se encerraban a veces en el baño para llorar
"ah" decían "si árboles fuéramos"
peor eso se supo después
las palomas reventaron los ojos de vernon vries una tarde
y vieron las raíces que bajaban a tierra
y también las comieron gozosas por todo lo que vuela
hay palomas que brillan al sol
cuando piensan en vernon vries como hojitas les salen del pico
peor a él se lo llevaron los tábanos
y estaba como rojo de miel
fue de ver los aplausos que hubieron
cuando los ojos de vernon vries se alejaron
como fuegos sin ruido apagándose
en fantástico vuelo orbital
376
I have yet to face the mirror
And ask to grow old
So, how should I begin?
Begin wilting into a vintage skin:
Gaunt, creased and thin
Like the last sinking snow
Of a hushed winter.
And what of my hair?
Whiskers that once
Gathered as a forest:
Wild, viscous
And well-nourished
But now snipped
To the skin,
So, should I now begin?
Shall I face the staring mirror
And sing in a whisper;
“Can I yet grow old? Oh,
Let me shrink into the earth
As I exhaust and go bald,
And let me age into a smile
That no longer holds mirth.”,
So, should I offer
My permission?
And throw my voice
Into the reflection
And patiently listen.
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 7:00 PM UTC
.
there is a Higher Love waiting for you
What will you give up in exchange for this Higher Love ?
What you have to sacrifice is everything
That is lower than
This Higher Love
::::
There are hundreds , thousands of ways
In which you
Act and react
Think and plan
that you can
( With strong work )
Detect as obstacles to you
Possessing the higher state of love
Which is the same thing
As the state of authentic
And lasting happiness
:://::
What will you give up ? ---- that's the
Question
And I have given you some of the answers
And I will tell you rather specifically
What you will have to abandon
In order to find the Life of Higher Love
::::::::
Which is our obsession and addiction
To all the forms of Lower Love
.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 4:58 PM UTC
(
•
)
^^^
Our real Escape begins
The Moment we no longer evade
The fact
That we do not know Ourselves
//
VERNON HOWARD
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
Comet Vernon never stays.
the specialty is a fly by
in the dark of night;
zooming long away
then drifting close,
kissing your stratosphere-
just not enough
to melt it’s core.
~~the razzle dazzle show~~
would end for us all
if Vernon was ruled
by gravity
<--more than velocity.-->
cover your eyes
if comets aren’t your thing.
best not burn yourself
by it's luster.
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 11:06 PM UTC