Friday, December 31, 2010

I Walk With the Zebra : a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

Why can’t life be seen as the way we see the zebra?

Black and white and you know what you have in front of you; it’s not a horse and you already know that.

It does not lie to you and it does not try to be what it is not; between the black lines are white lines and between the white lines are black lines.

There they are in front of you; it looks like a horse, it runs like a horse and it lives in herds like a horse.

Yet it is not a horse; it does not lie to you, you see the truth it’s there in front of you it does not hide facts.

Here I am in front of you; you see my white lies and you see the black of my demise.

I do not travel in herds; I can do all my miss leadings on my own.

So as you can see there are fine lines to read between just the printings on the wall to tell you that it is all over.

Like tattooed zebras we slurry our lies on our skin and strut as no one knows nothing about them.

But deep in the heart of even a beast we know our faults and our wrongs; going to the grave with them locked up in our chest like a festering soul bound for the darkness of burning eternity.

Blessed are the zebras who show you who they are and hide nothing at all.

By John McKinley Pride Jr

Simpleton Majesty: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

I'm just a simpleton, with a simple way of life.

I live in a simple house, with a simple spouse.

Simple as I may be, simple is all I can see,
I'm just a simpleton watching monkeys fly
from a blue moon and the curling top hat
from a snowman’s head feeling the pupil of
my eye with buttermilk dreams and fantasy schemes.

Just a simpleton with a simple way a life,
simple as I may be all I can see is simple
this and simple that.

It's a simple little tragedy to be the
simpleton majesty.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

So you’re a poet: a thought By John McKinley Pride Jr

Posted on poet Dec 29, 2010

So you’re a poet you say to all those around and they look at you and say well lets hear something then Mr. Poe. I am of course just kidding that never seems to happen to me for some reason after I tell some one that I have had poetry published or that I am a poet they always loose interest and just walk away with out a word to say; see I told you I was a poet. Anyhow it seems that in the resent years past there are more people becoming authors and poets more than ever before “why is this do you think?” well not to be a Debbie Downer but I really think that now more then ever before people are looking for the easy way out; hoping to make millions off the knowledge or wisdom they can bestow upon us in a leather bound book of hope to get on Oprah. I heard once in a movie “if she just farts on a book it makes millions” sorry for the potty humor but that’s what they said……… honest they said that.

So you might be asking well what the heck is his point; well my point is this you can’t just become an author or poet over night not every one can do this; I really think it takes a certain person. Number one someone that is not bland and boring or just trying to get shock value out of the system; I think that we, us and you as authors and poets have to have some kind of wit of course but I think the one thing that will separate the authors and poets from those who are just pleading for some type of attention to there egos is the solid fact that if we have a deep imagination and how we use it in our works. Now I am no one special I have no right to judge any ones work at all innless asked to of course is what I truly believe with all my heart.

I truly believe that if you eat some humble pie from time to time you will start to learn how to use your resources that are around you and look deeper into what you are trying to accomplish in your works. From music, Art and other authors we get our inspiration; how ever…when it comes to our imagination it is entirely up to us to hurdle all the road blocks ahead that await us so to hurdle those road blocks we need to be fast and ready to go the distance.

Willy Wonka - “We are the music makers... and we are the dreamers of dreams”

One of the best ways to describe an artist I think in what ever field of art you are in. So we need to stay real to our selves in our work be it a hobby or a life long passion to change the world. If you love it keep doing it, if it makes you happy keep doing it but if it becomes about greed and just trying to stay afloat then move on it was not for you. Poetry is like a woman she loves the fact that you surprise her with words that sway and move her, she loves it when your charm pours out and caresses her curves and all the lines that swerve towards curiosity of what will happen next.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

A Moment Lost But Not Forgotten: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"A Moment Lost But Not Forgotten"

There are silent words that pass from each glance back and forth;
a second look, a third to see if it is real and not just a mistaking graze upon the very tips of your hormones.

Right there, right then and there you realize it is not a mistake; that the very thing you hoped for was true and there been not just a glance but like windows open for a peeping tom you stare into each other seeing a second, seeing a moment and seeing an infinitesimally of lust.

Then some where in the back ground a glass drops to the floor crashing, breaking the strong hold upon the eyes.

The moment lost, never talked about, never shared and never acted out again; just a glance that never leaves the memory.

Just an amazing moment that is frozen in time wondering the outskirts of the mind and never leaving the dreams that now destroy your sleep.

You think to your self if I could just get one more chance to gaze; just a glance, just one final innocent moment to not forget.

By John M. Pride Jr

The Comfort of Orange Lights: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"The Comfort of Orange Lights"

The orange lights, they must have some meaning, life is there and life seems to be every where.

These lights they shine like stars in a savior’s sky bright like fire flies bringing tears to my eyes.

I remember this place, when I was young and out of place among the walking; it was not such a grand sight then to me as it is now.

When I see them now it is like glory and a piece of my heart is put back in its place where it belongs.

The fissure that once shadowed my very being is open and over spilling with happiness of wanting to be no where but there in its midst.

Home, I miss you so and I hope to come back to live with you again amongst your glorious orange lights that bring me comfort again and again.

By John McKinley Pride Jr

Monday, December 27, 2010

Two Halves: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

Word count: 48
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What a love I have found in my son; what a love I found in my wife

The two add up to me, two halves of a heart that I have never possessed inside this old tomb known as me.

By John McKinley Pride Jr

Saturday, December 25, 2010

My Addiction to Conviction: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"My Addiction to Conviction"

Conviction has become my addiction and my addiction has become me; I can not lie or steal.

Feel this love inside of me is it ok?

What have we learned so far and how have we gone from here?

Must I think of these things and is it ok?

Where does the heart fall and how big of a hole is left if it is taking from us?

If we fall how deep is it from here where it seems like hell has frozen over; would you spit in my face?

I guess we will find out; push your hand towards mine and I will see the look upon your face.

Be it ice or fire I will love you without end; I will always be here for you but I can not lie for you forever.

Oh what to do?

When you have some type of pain everyday in your mind; a constant tragic life were magic becomes your night.

To have and hold a solid foundation just to let it fall into a puzzle of problems on your desk of questions not yet answered it never seems to put it’s self together.

You are always missing a piece and if you look down at the riddle you have created your self; you miss the truth every time and you put your thumb down on the pieces that make your life; never seeing the picture in the end because of so many empty spaces never to be filled.

By John McKinley Pride Jr

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Desert Sands: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"Desert Sands"

I see the truth in your eyes
I see the truth and so I despise
Take me away and turn me blue
Uncovered is the deceit that lies with in you.

A flicker of hope did arise upon sight of your out stretched hands
Yet the smile has faded blown away like desert sands.

Your eyes turn red and you can see through me
The truth turns into a lie, the smile to disgust
I wonder who you are

Just blow me a kiss goodbye and do not miss, I know you will try to

You will turn away again
You will walk away again
And I will be left standing there again
In wonder of what is between to warm bodies
Knowing there is no chance for me
No love to receive but so much to give.

I have seen the truth in your eyes
I have seen something that despises me
I have become indigo in the uncovering of your deceit and the flicker of hope I once saw in your out stretched hands has been blown away by the desert sands.

By John M. Pride Jr.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Honest John (Bio Style): a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"Honest John" (Bio Style)

Yes I some times speak the truth even though no one wants to hear it.
Some people say look there goes honest John;
I hope he keeps walking on.

Some say there is a young helpful chap he will help me in a snap; he’s not good with a map but he will keep you out of a trap.

Some clap there hands in joy after I speak, while others there hands turn in to fists and I wish I would not have said a peep.

Honest John I am, that’s the way I am; no sham, no scam and you get the real me for who I am.

My words short or long, sharp or sweet, rimed or disorganized, it’s all discreet I assure you of that a pat on the shoulder a tip of the cap is all I ask for like a treat.

Yes I some times speak out of turn but that’s because I know I am right; it some times gets others wanting to fight.

So lets agree to disagree and we can leave it at that and I can give you a charming wink of the eye a snap of the fingers with a cheesy smile and say see that’s how I handle that.

The last or the first word it truly is all the same to me I will get all of them beginning or end you will see.

I am who I am and that’s all that I am; I am honest John just talk to me and you will see you will want to hang me by the nearest tree.

But what’s the big deal when you can get all your answers for free directly from me.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Ant - Archy: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"Ant - Archy"

(I wrote this on a whim, a girlfriend of mine at the time bet me I could not make a poem about ants up off the top of my head over the phone to her so I got a pen and pad and this is what I came up with not that brilliant but just fun which is what poetry is about enjoying your self.)

They came in to my house six legs and all; taking over my yard they are rude is what my friends say coming over every day.

They carried my dog away, they carried my car away and my parents too I call this Ant-Archy you would too if it happened to you.

Why don’t they just leave me be, just go away ill even pay; I step on them but they just multiply.

There in my refrigerator, there in my closet I’ve just about lost it; my girl came over to help but they just carried her away too.

I’ve been attacked by Ant-Archy; I woke in the morning and in my cereal there they stood everywhere.

What can I do and were can I go?

Here I am surrounded by Ant-Archy; why can’t they just leave?

What in the world do they want with me?

I talked to the Queen trying to make peace; but they just picked me up and carried me away.

All the media acts like they don’t know where I went and the FBI sure knows what happened to me but they won’t believe a word of the herd of witnesses that saw the whole thing unfold.

Now off in a straightjacket I go to a soft padded room of white; why can’t they just believe me I was attacked by Ant-Archy.

By John McKinely Pride Jr.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

My Son, Here I Stand from a Far and Watch you: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"My Son, Here I Stand from a Far and Watch you"

I see something through my son I never ever saw through my own eyes before.

I see a beauty
I see a trust
I see a love
I see an interest in the things I never did.

I see ethics and morals, I see hard work and pride in the home I once left as a childe.

My kin loving him so as they did me when I was in his shoes; we only have one chance to grab it; only one chance to love those around us before they leave us in this world.

By John M. Pride Jr

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

The Moon on the Pier: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"The Moon on the Pier"

My eyes begin to burn while I look at the sun; why am I so intrigued?

Soon to go blind; how can something so beautiful burn so bad?

I would ask my father; again he is intrigued by the moon on the pier.

My eyes have been open for all the years of my youth and there is no sight of a tear that did not fall more than once; there is a sharp pain the size of a black hole buried with in me; my father put it there engulfing my soul.

He was always some one to fear; sitting under these trees that grow rotted fruits of distrust; I would stand there waiting for them to fall in my basket of blame.

I could wait forever for that though; he will just leave me out to freeze with a cold shoulder to my childlike mind.

I have the sun to keep me company; he gives me all the love I need.

My father only yelled back at me; you will die on your own; you came here alone you will leave here alone.

I yelled back in a fury I have the sun and I need nothing more; with a simper on his face he said, what do you need love for?

As he tore my heart out and through it in to his furious sea of antagonism; yelling let me be! Let me be! Or come with me, to watch the moon on the pier fallow me to the slow boat I call my own the one I take when I know I need to flee, to run away from my troubles and never look back.

So, come with me if you wish, this is the last time you will see me and never will I speak to you again.

Don’t you understand you are one of the problems I want to forget, one of the problems that will not let me forget who I have become.

So, what is it you choose to do?

Drown here in this pity you call your self or come with me to run away again?

I will stay here alone because I came here alone, I will find love here alone because I found it on my own.

I will leave here with a remembrance of the love I found and know I will not die alone.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.

Monday, December 6, 2010

The Nothing: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"The Nothing"

The clouds have covered up my dead sun; the blue has gone away, but lingers some how within me.

Shaking, pacing waiting for the nothing to take what I can’t hide; inside sheep-like it wonders.

A cowered of what I could be, some how these clouds hide all of that and what could be me; all that I see is some how beyond the nothing that is trying to protrude it’s self with in the walls of my heart.

Looking with in its self it is quickly starting to die; finding my purpose I no longer hide from the nothing.

My sun comes alive with in me, bursts in to prism cutting diamonds; you have found me what will you do with me?

The nothing does not respond, standing up tall above the shadow which it hides and the nothing challenges me to give it my life.

The challenge is not there; this one time I will see it my way and this one time I will take back what is mine.

This one time I will fight to the death and this one time you will flee back to your darkness from which you came.

The nothing shows it’s self to me, the nothing shows his teeth, the nothing shows his claws.

Its blackness could over shadow the universe; but like a lone star in the night sky I burst in to radiance, in to a glow, in to a flame, in to a firestorm of courage.

This one time, this one lonely moment I will stand against you; when others have feared you; I will stand, I will stand my ground you will not shiver nor will you be moved but I will die no cowered of you.

Suicide, madness, cancer, and disease you will no longer bring me to my knees with my face soaked with tears deep with in my hands.

You have brought me to my end but I will bring you with me and I will descend again into the light with in me.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

The Ice Melts Away: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"The Ice Melts Away"

I didn’t know better, for what it was worth and the time it was worth more than your smile; that half a leer that you thought fooled a thousand did not fool the one in the crowed that believed your lies.

I assemble myself here I know your game the one you play to get your fame, the violin that sounds so sweet while its playing for the ones who love you so.

These ears hear nothing when you say the slightest thing; it’s so easy to break the ear drums of those who fallow you in to the dark.

The darkness hides nothing from the ones who carry a light in there heart; a light so big it burns a hole through the silky covered sky; ripples the clouds away and dries up the rain, the light comes through and picks me up, lifts me like a sun flower reaching for the warmth of the radiant sun.

Today your whispers of deviant disarray will fall upon deaf ears; they fall short from your cold lips in to the very air you breathe.

The words you used hang upon the fist that bloodies your face; there on the snowy ground were you lay, were I will leave you reaching out thinking you can fool me again.

No longer am I willing to walk on the thin ice you stumble upon dragging others behind you to there death.

No longer will I follow.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

These Imperfections: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"These Imperfections"

Damn, these imperfections; I cannot stand them they make me stutter
They make me fall, they make me misspell and that is not all.

When I’m down they kick me around; I wish I could sound proof my mind to keep them quiet but they just won’t go away.

Damn these imperfections clinging to my back like a tick on an old broken dog, waiting for my legs to give away.

So many imperfections in my days; the snaps of whips
the smiling faces and the laughter of hate.

The echoing voices of smite that scream out loudly; irate and unbalanced to my heart.

I drowned in this and I’ve awakened in this; they have hardened my heart these imperfections in me.

They help me see the perfections in you and it shines true in you.

By John McKinley Pride Jr

Friday, December 3, 2010

No Longer the Victim: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr

"No Longer the Victim"

What shale I do when it all falls apart and I loose what I have won; dose my back turn yellow and I just walk away?

A hanging head is the sure sign of defeat and I have never seen the floor so close up before.

The lines in the carpet resemble some kind of thought that creeps in to my mind like a fog over grassy noels.

Creeping my way towards this real tragic love affair, what shale I do tuck my tail and hold on to you?

I am not the aggressive one nor am I the motivator of destruction and if I seem like the cowered in this situation please do not let your guard down for you will never see me coming.

You will wish you would have never underestimated me, this elution tricks many and brings many to there knees.

Oh, like an angle of light I appear to some but too many who know me I am the son of no one you have known in your life time.

Fall backwards with all your trust into my arms of loathing despair and see the angle of death face to face for the first time.

By John M. Pride Jr.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Puzzled: a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr


I look into this corner blind folded with my hands tide behind my back.

Pieces of my soul like boulders in my hands; with my head and thoughts up against the wall.

It is so hard to choose rite from wrong; when there’s so much more wrong than rite and there is too much time wasted playing games with life and counting how many tears have hit the floor.

So I send pieces of my self up to you hopping you know what to do with it; hopping you could put it back together; hopping that the pieces of my self can come back together again.

Pieces of my soul gathered up and thrown into the sky plucked from out of the clouds by angles.

Put back together by truth never to descend again what once was a puzzle now is a new life.

By John McKinley Pride Jr.