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Posts tagged ‘Poem’

Dont fall in love! (poem)

Don’t fall in love with the people pleaser

Don’t make eyes at the romance teaser

Avoid the boy who is hot, but bad

Don’t give your heart, not even a tad


Don’t go for the guy with too many friends

His time diluted, you know how that ends

Don’t fall in love with the “told you so” speaker

And avoid with gust the attention seeker


Don’t take a chance, because life is long

This you may have heard in a song

Don’t write long letters, you’re wasting your time

Don’t give your heart, and don’t call them “mine”

Don’t fall in love with the confused young poet

Headstrong, idealistic and free

Don’t believe the words of a crafty wordsmith

But definitely don’t take it from me


You see, it’s a risk, an old school concept

One that you cannot predict for shit

One without reason and sometimes no rhyme

Like the weather you feel in every storm


But most of all

Don’t listen to bloggers, looking for love

Their sarcasm you might not perceive

They are simply trying to get your attention

To the lessons do not be a sieve


So remember

Don’t forget to jump off the edge

Especially when you’ve been teetering, alone on a ledge

Don’t forget to jump in on the deep side

For those who don’t, will forever you chide.


Don’t pay attention to the haters and love losers

Their time will come

Remember that nothing is what it seems for a reason

Confusion will only last, as long as a season

Don’t forget to love with acceptance

Don’t forget that it is patient and kind

Don’t fall for rules about love

Or never will you find

Don’t forget that its always worth the shot,

So most of all don’t do not.


Don’t believe the thoughts in your mind

Remember that love is amazing

Don’t forget that sometimes words fail

Remember while your heart may be fazing


If you could not see through this faux-cynical rant,

then definitely don’t fall in love

But the greatest love lesson to everyone else, unquestionably is, to

certainly don’t not fall in love.

<p>Author <a href=”https://plus.google.com/102128103971030481396” target=”blank” rel=”author”>Jerome Cornelius</a></p>



When we were free (poem)

So this is dancing?
Unbridled and free, abandoned and wild.
My feet swivel as I watch
hands cross over their chests
eyes closed, across the room,
in a circle or together, but still alone,
solo not lonely, only here to
move. Only here to have a good time. The rest get
bumped knocked apologise for stepping
on our toes. But we don’t care. We shrug it off
we’re dancing. We jump; our ankles touch the backs of our knees –
no reason to, but we touch the roof anyway.
We are in synch, we are free
with one another. We’re out of beat, and in time.
Pain not an option
in this sacred space we
created. I open my eyes –
sweat beading, knees bending, intakes of breath chest
heaving to the words of
“this is my song”. Yes it is – my song, your song,
struggle song and songs of freedom
hearts palpitating, fingers snapping.
This, this is dancing.

Author Jerome Cornelius

Found? (poem)

Out for a walk, I go looking for a muse,

in everything and everyone.


A tie, tied to a pole, at the Waterfront.

“Where are you, young lady?” I look

and wonder out loud.

Did a wave come and carry you here

and tie this keepsake to the pole

for us?


Where are you now as this blue

and white polyester watches over

the foreshore and the passersby?


Shoe, baby shoe, outside the factory.

Single, red with buttons a-stitched.

Was this a cast-off,

from the baby rejects?


Did the others make it out alive?

In my mind I see

babies on a conveyer belt,

engineers assembling them.

The smack on the bum the final

quality test.


This one didn’t make it.

Probably just cast-offs from

the trolley people,

looking for scrap.


Always dropping some jewel on the road.

But to me, this was a reject baby,

that made it out, to see

another day.


And there she was,

approaching me as I walk on.


No, never mind. She took a left,

I mean a right,

at the path I wish never formed.


The woman was not important it seems,

at least to herself and those around her,

but her story will be.


What could I have done to dissuade her,

on this day?

I freeze, I stop,

this moment, this time.


I stop thinking about my own heart,

my broken, defeated.

I should have seen her fight.


She wore a black track top,

standard fitted, bit too high

blue jeans. Dark glasses.

Keeping up appearances.

Hair was blown, shoulder length,

by the wind.

It stood still in the photo

I took with my eyes.

It was auburn red,

came from a box.

Not the kind of box she now lay in.


I saw the headline. Not that big:

“Woman Found Dead Behind Traffic Department”

I saw no name.

Not that it didn’t appear.

I just couldn’t go on.

Who was I to moan,

when she couldn’t go on at all?

I couldn’t even read on.


I close the paper as I

close my eyes;

wishing that walking backwards

meant going backwards.

I scroll back and say,

goeie môre Mevrou” wishing her a good morning

and help her find her way back.

Author Jerome Cornelius

Hands (poem)

Hands come out of nowhere

as I lie in the dark,

the safety of my bed

shattered as they scratch

at my hair, neck and face.

The hands come out from behind my

pillow, out of the drawers,

hands and arms without bodies

grabbing blindly, feeling for life,

coming for me.




A glow in the moonlight – a hand, white,

respite from being held down by strength unexplained.

A hand reaching out to me,

pale and beckoning

I reach out to the white, despite

an impend, the end.


Grace on the horizon as they claw at my skin

Redemption as they dig into me




I reach out for the hand,

my moonlit saviour.

I touch it; it is cold.

Author Jerome Cornelius


On my chest (poem)

He let me kiss his head
a simple act, one he had no part in,
but one that meant so much.

He didn’t pull away
head on my chest,
watching the film,
he is unaware of
the gift he’s bestowed on me.

His head talking to my heart
my heartbeat talking back,
like a shell whispering
words from the sea.

There was no talk
of getting too attached,
no words, so no lies.

Before there was fighting,
before there was distrust.
Now there is simplicity
Now there is this.

Author Jerome Cornelius


At the coffee machine (poem)

There’s always a line at the coffee machine
No Styrofoam cups anymore, but coffee is free
All of us on our mini-breaks, hiding from the grind
Filling up, we are cars waiting for our fix
Our petroleum is black; our tanks porcelain
talkingtalkingtalking you hear complaints about bosses
and gossip about others as we inch our way forward
The sun is amber now, how long we have been here
while the water cooler stands empty
we are getting close
seasons change and people leave but,
there is always a line at the coffee machine
this you will come to see.

Author Jerome Cornelius

A Poem for Nelson Mandela

A bird cries

A perfect morning of blue skies it

must have heard the death announcement too.

The sadness transcends borders and time zones.

Before the fear takes over and before rhetoric reigns.

Before cynicism steals in and

before the battle for legacy…

There is only him.

The birds gossip loudly to each other. They know

that he is no longer with us –

Our Purveyor of Forgiveness,

the reason for the tears in the eyes of

a rainbow of faces.

Our messianic non-saint,

with a hand in the air,

clenched or open, may Freedom always reign high.

Our Promoter of Peace, may you rest as you have lived.


<p>Author <a href=”https://plus.google.com/102128103971030481396” target=”blank” rel=”author”>Jerome Cornelius</a></p>

In the flap (poem)

I find the flap in the back

by chance.

It was there, all along.

The notebook, you gave to me;

the letter, hiding, words to me.

Nestled in the hard back cover,

the flap was raised, it had

a gift – a little baby of paper.

It folds open, I barely see,

the letters making up the words,

filling up the page you gave

to me.

So I read:

“Dear” why dear, I was your dear,

I was your’s, your ‘mine’, the gold

you retrieved you left

“I” yes you, it starts with you.

It always did, it always does

“Miss” the point? The mark?

The chance? The life?

“You” me? Us? Really (now)?

I’ve read enough.

I tuck the letter back

in its paper womb.

I leave it there, let it incubate.

I store away, a life untold,

I leave that baby be.


<p>Author <a href=”https://plus.google.com/102128103971030481396” target=”blank” rel=”author”>Jerome Cornelius</a></p>

The Dancer

She comes down

and lands on the cold,

hard, floor. The double doors let the light in.

It steals in, as she comes down and

raises the dust.

The smooth concrete,

made of little raised buildings of sand

that trap the dust that can’t be seen until

trampled on.

In the distance is the school.

Right below, the courtyard.

In the hall, the dancer. The grey and white move

as they co-exist on one body. The work in sync and

they bring her down.

Previously unseen, hidden in

the rafters. The high ceiling, trapping

the cold and the noise within.

Hiding from the others below who chase the dust away.

Chairs and tables line the sides, a new event coming.

Floors to be swept.

She lands in the light and takes a step

as the cloud swallows her.

It is not the type of cloud she is used to.

She goes up, but not far;

and down again.  She steps to the windows;

the panes smudged, smeared

and sometimes smashed.

Today they can’t hide the warm sun.

She steps up to the sun,

she flies away.


<p>Author <a href=”https://plus.google.com/102128103971030481396” target=”blank” rel=”author”>Jerome Cornelius</a></p>

“I hate my penis” (poem)

It’s the reason why you think I’m strong,
and why you think I’m never wrong.
And sometimes I’m the enemy,
for what was simply given to me.

I hate my penis cause it makes me one of them –
Assholes mysogi-anti-fem

whipping topping where and when.

Their insinuating masturbating,

is making it hard

for the rest of us. But still,
I hate my penis.

Too small, and sometimes supposedly just right.
Apparently average, big to some,
hard to hold, wild to control.
A weapon, a sword, a loaded gun
To many, just a reason for fun.

But to me it’s more, than what it’s for.

It’s my tool to change, to enlight the ignorant mind,

the thoughts embed too hard to find


I know that you will disagree with me.
But I still hate my penis.

It’s not my pride, just a part of me.

You might think me silly but it’s become a point

(and no, I don’t mean literal)

Just a thing to make of what you will,
but to my position, resolved I’ll remain,

I hate my penis, my refrain.

You might not like this penis poem,

but is it cause I’ve made you see,

it’s just a tiny piece of you and me.
And maybe if you open up, you will hate your penis too.

And not because it has to do with anything you’ve done,
but I hate it anyway, because of what may come my way.
I hate its smell and for the mess. But mostly for what it represents.
The hate ingrained within the veins and the way it calls my manly name.
But I know for sure it will change in time.
Until then I will still hate mine,
my penis, and this penis rhyme.
I’ll hate my penis for all of time,

until it changes, for all, in time.


<p>Author <a href=”https://plus.google.com/102128103971030481396” target=”blank” rel=”author”>Jerome Cornelius</a></p>

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