Barrage Balloons, by Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37)
The airborne ships tethered tips Unmanned shields floating above Deliberate obstructions put in place Used to slowdown the Nazi’s pace
Dive bombers it gave fits Steal cables attached to it Razor blades to enemy wings Wrapped around crashing things
Now the Nazis live again Though they hide in different name Attacking minorities is their game LGBTQ and drag queens too
Lets be their barrage balloons The bully MAGAS cannot win When their allies protect them Make the bigots history again. (end)
If you ever watch WW2 footage of the landing of D-DAY, and you notice blimps floating above the ships. Those were used to discourage dive bombing and force enemy fighter aircraft to attack from higher altitude making them less effective.
This poem is basically a call to LGBTQ and drag queen allies to raise our voices.
I cannot know how it is to be a target of hate that LGBTQ go through and especially not transgender. But I just saw an MSNBC/NBC story that gives me hope, that most of America does not agree with the MAGA right, once again, on yet another issue.
While this isn’t an NBC poll, this Forbs article does reflect the average same numbers. 80% of American SUPPORT protections for LGBTQ in regards to things like jobs and housing. “Including 66% of Republicans”, according to this article.
Just like firearms, the MAGA right are behind most of the rest of the nation. MAGA Trump republicans love to shout about how much they love freedom, and bitch about “cancel culture” but are doing everything they can to deny the human dignity to LGBTQ minorities.
This Round Is On Me, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)
I was in a run In a frenzied scurry Trying to avoid bears That could potentially eat me
I ended up on rice Translucent as jellyfish Salmon swimming upstream This round is on me
I could be in the Meadowlands Rooting for the Giants or Jets And maybe at a baseball game City Field rooting on the Mets
I could be at an office party Everyone smiling and jolly While they sit on the copying machine Bet you think that is funny
I could be at a beach resort Surrounded by tiki torches Hula dancers shaking hips This round is on me
One evening my friend and I Ended up at Bennigans We ordered our usual drinks And this is what happened
Two more drinks Landed at our table We were a bit confused Because these we didn’t order
The waiter pointed across the bar To a man sitting alone “These are on him”, the waiter said He had bought us another round
We smiled and waved But I couldn’t let it go I went over to his table To thank him for the round
I invited him to sit with us After what he did for us “Come over to our table” I didn’t sense his trouble
He collected his jacket His keys, his glass Redirected the waiter To the new table, his order
Initial common banter “What is your name What do you do? Nice to meet you”
His balloon became barren Our shot glasses like goldfish Went down with our gulping The next round was on us
His wit withered slowly His smile he had initially Slithered out of our booth Though his body never left
Swirling his near empty glass Raised his hand like a kid in class To get the waiter’s attention He wanted it filled again
What was he filling it with Where did the other guy go His shoulders now slumped His head bowed in sorrow
“What is wrong?” Our voiced of concern Hesitant he said “I don’t want to talk about it”
But we couldn’t help it We wanted to know How he could go from 80mph To dead stop zero
It turned out to be his father Retired cop turned investor Made tons of money He lavished on his son
“You have everything” We said, “You should be happy” I patted him on the back But that didn’t seem to help
“You don’t get it”, he responded His eyes swelled with tears “I could be standing right next to him But a million miles a way it feels”
I could be in a stadium I could be at a party I could be with dozens of people And still feel isolated and lonely
The rivulets Spidered down his face Dried up over his red flush face He wiped his tears, took a deep breath
Sighed and resigned At almost closing time Last call had arrived, he said “This round is on me”. (end)
This is about a real encounter with a guy at a bar back in the 90s who bought a round for everyone at the bar. We invited him to our table, and at first he was cheery but that slowly melted away and it came out that he was depressed that he couldn’t have a close relationship with his father the way he wanted. His father’s idea of love was giving money and material things to him, but this guy wanted a deeper relationship with his dad, one with sensitivity and listening and understanding and companionship.
The first two stanzas are me feeling my own want of escape away from work and stress and wanting to escape the rat race like a salmon wanting not to be sushi or be caught in the bear jaws of life.
The rest of the stanzas are about him, but also having that feeling of isolation even in big crowds like at sporting events are backyard parties. I wrote this poem originally a few years ago.
“His balloon became barren” , “balloon” is a type of bar glass that you would put say a brandy or wine in.
Children’s Bible, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)
The MAGA wing scared of rainbows And beer cans and Target’s cloths Have no problem with Hooters And Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders
And when you go to the doctors office There’s always a children’s bible somewhere With cute stories about Noah saving his family And saving two of all other cute species
Spurious it would seem to me, to call the Bible “The Good Book”, funny how they leave out The graphic parts, like Lot and his daughters Or David and Philistine foreskins, as a dowery
They are worried about rainbows When on both coasts at the beach We see skin all the time, and nobody Thinks kids seeing that is sexualizing anything
Moms, I am quite sure, go into the Walmart With their little boys, into the women’s underwear To shop for themselves, I’ve seen the packaging Passing by to the men’s section
Lacy and some thin and some boosting And I am sure dads take their little girls Down the men’s isle where they see Men in boxer’s and briefs on the packaging
But these same MAGA republicans Are worried about a rainbow? This isn’t about a rainbow This is about buying into fear
Buying into bigotry, being insecure. Let me clue you in MAGA You cannot be magically turned gay You cannot be magically turned lesbian
And there is no Junk slicing Of kids Unless you are Catholic or Jewish.
For Your Consideration, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)
One may ask What is the reason The poet puts pen to paper The response is your reaction The thoughts invoked in the action Of our putting pen to paper It is our adventure One for you to discover Words for you to devour Fill your mind with wonder Fill your mind with horror Feel the flames of a lover Give you a place to wander Something for you to consider.
Oh What A Louse, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)
Cymothoa exigua, eats L. Lingua G. Glossa Cut your tongue out, the cat’s already got it You’ve been told before, bite and hold it But these skeptical fishes don’t buy it
If you are a sucker, and swallow it It won’t give you a Columbian neck tie But it will, speak and eat for you, tell every little lie Indoctrinated at birth, less likely to ask why
A parasite’s paradise, unwanted French kiss The man of the cloth from the pulpit His ancient predecessors stole the obelisk In St Peter’s square is now where it sits
He’s the middle man, insight he insists Your palate is cleaned, symbolic cannibalism Unleavened wafer, he sticks in your mouth Morality, morality, he pontificates about
It is too late, he’s dictated your meal Council of Nicaea, cemented the deal The three headed figure, is now your trident Ventriloquist pews in which you sit
Cymothoa exigua, dines in your jaws Recites in dead language, ancient King James laws Let us offer a sign of good reasoning , better skepticism Is a great seasoning. (end)
(DISCLAIMER) I am an ex Catholic. Now yes, this poem is extremely blasphemous. But it is strictly about bad logic, and early childhood indoctrination into any religion. I just happened to write about my former religion in this poem. It is not advocating violence towards Catholics, or anyone at all. It is arguing that religion in general does make moral claims about the nature of reality, with no evidence whatsoever that that a particular sect has a patent on morality.
The other point of this poem is that it is ok to think for yourself and to consider that you do not need a holy person to figure out right or wrong. The Pope has no more power over anyone than the person is allowing the Pope to have over them.
I do believe outside my skepticism, that if someone is in need of help, say they’ve been in a car accident, everyone would agree, the labels go out the window, the debate goes out the window, and you stop and help that injured person in distress. Humans always deserve the dignity of care in distress.
This poem is strictly about bad use of logic and where our species morality really comes from.
“Cymothoa exigua” is a parasite that invades the mouth of a fish, whom accidentally mistakes it for food. The parasite will cling to it’s tongue eating it, and living in the fish’s mouth eating the food that should go to the fish. In many cases, this does not kill the host fish.
“L. Lingua G. Glossa” is the scientific name for the tongue.
An “Obelisk” is a type of shape, like that of the Washington Monument in D.C. There is an Egyptian Obelisk in the middle of St. Peter’s square that was originally stolen from Egypt by the Emperor Caligula and placed on a nearby hilltop. Eventually the early church took it down off that hilltop and made it a monument in the middle of St. Peter’s square.
I am arguing for people to speak for themselves instead of letting someone speak for them.
With the help of @Zaylen99 who runs the Okay Atheists show on the Discord app. And special reading by Zaylen99 and @derickijohnson. This recording is available to listen to on Youtube at the following link. Special shout out to Creative Chick and Luminous.
Pavlov Unwritten, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)
An odd title you’d query surely And I have to respond quite sadly This is print now is a result of The original poem getting lost
Oh what the cost, the madding frustration Of this confounded contraption locking up On me, when I hit the last stanza, finally I thought I had copied and pasted it, properly
When I refreshed the page, when I went to press Submit, it all went away, to keep oblivion company Instead it gave me, the prior poem I had written My tongue I had bitten, oh but I was certain
I had saved it. It was to be, “Pavlov Almighty” A metaphor, an allegory, that the guy from the pulpit Rang, ding dong, they all followed along And filled the pews, and paid 10% dues
The labs hear the bell, come running to hell They have puppies, Pavlov’s church bowl guppies Feeds them fiction, puts them on barracks restriction The horse doesn’t know it’s not tied to the hitching post
Ring that bell, Pavlov’s empty dish Sell that fictional eternity, vacuous wish Promises that can never be kept Still in that fervor all get swept
The poem a ghost, and this is it’s shell The prior version went on an excursion Shouts of frustration, and words I cant tell Pounding the table my fists are not well (end)
This is not the first time I lost a poem after writing it. What you were just reading was a second poem in response to losing the original “Pavlov Almighty”.
Fie Fo Bottle Some , By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)
Self proclaimed matriarch of The cotton covering capsules Eight varying pharmaceuticals You boast of it being a practice Constantly taking that trip
“Innocuous” you call this job My observance far past your death Perplexes me tremendously For it was in a closed garage, you took your last breath
I had my own sport too My own pickleball court Swimming in peanut butter whisky A bottle a day won’t keep the doctor way
Black and white wool bearer Adorned the bottle I adored A gentle fist bump tap into a shot glass My kitchen island my alter, my daily ritual
They rapidly bred, like the industrial boom Bottles rose like skyscrapers, in a city skyline The occupant of each consumed in quick time Angel falls down my throat, thimbles full
Would I call it “kindred”, our commonality In that we were both addicts, a club of escapism Our respective substances, quite different The chemicals accosted us, holding us hostage
Where is this Englishman’s blood? Jack was not Daniels, but nimble as jiffy King Lear made you a queen Pink and orange, white and green
Fie fo bottle some, I was also numb A shark in the ocean when it smells chum The pleasure center of my brain Said drink more or I’ll cause you pain. (end)
Another ode poem, this time to Anne Sexton’s poem “The Addict”.
(DISCLAIMER) The following link I have no association with or employment at, nor am I receiving any compensation for posting the link. I am simply posting the link as an educational source so those reading my poem can get a context as to the inspiration for it.
It’s Alive, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)
My little black panther Sits in confusion Looking at that strange thing With it’s black square tongue
Sticking out wondering “What that thing is all about Why does it, does it, go in and out Taunting me, teasing me, what is it?”
He walks up waiting to pounce But the black tongue retreats Back into it’s thin shell My black panther cannot tell
That black tongue I feed Holds round plastic things That entertain me With Tv shows and movies
But my black panther Doesn’t know that Daddy is just a stinker DVD remote joker. (end)
Anneplath thinks my DVD player is alive when I open and shut the drawer. So I’ve admittedly been screwing with him watching him puzzled by the drawer going in and out.
Brian37 AKA Brian James Rational Poet...... My Poetry 