Poems by Roy Johnson
| Art It is your face which reflect who you are outside. It is your eyes which depict what you are inside; It is the image of your soul, the masterpiece of art. Balance I am fear and I am love. I am neither fear nor love. I am everything and I am nothing. Without me there can be no sides. With me there is all sides. I am in the middle yet without end. |
The Activist We won, we won; Now no man can eat such meats, yet I tremble beneath this culprit. It was I who charged the guns to satisfy the hungered herbivores. Chop chop chop, down they go, one by one. I feast before my enemies: it’s natures finest herbal delights. My son, a Botanist cries out against my madness. “Dad, you are a shame to the living, those plants have feelings!” I mock his insanity. To him, my living is hypocrisy: the juices from this flower oozes down my rosy cheek, for the blood of this nightshade is just too sweet! The Blood of Shuruk Ra It is more than I can imagine, thus a moment is lost in time, a monster she was, her famine to whist a darling drool, fools- play, no one wins this trick. Medusa is not her sister, the rumors still ring my ears. Who could escape such fangs, for her lips are so tempting, her touch so soft, the warmest of hearths is the deed of done majesty, for even kings have desired such silk, but the black Knight has fallen her round tablets of deception, and her words are smoother than honey: it is the fruit of ones' ears filled. What brave entity is willing to beset her? For the devils and gods have under sieged her bewilderment with the hope of lots and casting of perils, for I smell its stench, and it is their remains which decorate her garden. The fire of her belly, the water of her will, the earth of her hair, and the wind of her voice. No magic or balms, psalms or palms can away such misery: A champion is not needed here. There is no armor, nor brass horns, no witches brew or lucky charms. My sword I lay down, naked I lay down, upon her bed with my head upon her breast, for a suckling is jealous. A gift from they who ever a voice did heed a solemn call: The whisper of the dearest with their pains, for I cease not to remember. Before me, they await revenge. In my cunning, upon her morning, her fire is still. Only a fool would mock her Prowess, yet a fool I am not because her death is not my plot. With my teeth I bit her precious and thereafter her blood seeped my tongue, a pleasure it gave. You dare say that I have escaped by the mere skin of my teeth, and it was my smile which drew her madness to cease. Beyond imagination awaits not a victory, but a mere touch. Time refused to score that day when the impossible gave way to that moment when Shuruk Ra bled. |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |