Brian Johnston Poems

Most days it's so peaceful when Kimmy leaves home,
And the dust settles briefly, felled leaves never roam
On the floor where they mold now (till she's home again)
If not crunched in my passing, for some there's a win.
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Does sharing shit with others make one's poems poetry:
Blank verse or rhyme with meter win if metaphors disguise
The fact that truth is absent: is there love in bigotry,
A plethora of nuance monkey typists might devise?
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If you're 'friend' reading verse, who leaves comments at times,
Please don't think you're not valued if I don't respond
Right away (you're a poet)with praise for your rhymes,
Or at all, though you're dear, even here in this pond
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Mind Games

1.
God, how I hate (when I can't go to sleep) ,
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(Song of Noah's Ransomed Son)

It's after the flood; the ground's moist but quite firm,
It is all over now; we're still here I can say,
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Each new poem has flesh, a stout frame, and a soul,
As you're giving them birth, who can visualize whole?
But the flesh that you hang on its skeleton shows,
Hidden curves the creator can't hide under clothes,
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I hate it that the morning sun
For you brings thoughts of future pain,
That joyful days something you feel
Will never ever come again,
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An Echo Poem by Neethu Panicker and Brian Johnston


WHY DOES IT HURT?
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The absence of pain,
Is that what you wish for?
Perhaps you should think more
On plan to abstain?
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