Poems by Roy Johnson

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.


I am fear 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; The blood of this nightshade, is just too

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, even kings have desired such
silk, The black Knight has fallen her round tablets of
deception; her words are smoother than honey, The fruit
of ones' ears, filled.

What brave entity is willing to beset her?  For The devils
and gods have under sieged her bewilderment, The hope
of lots, The cast of perils, I smell its stench,  their remains
decorate her garden.

The fire of her belly, The water of her will, The earth of her
hair, The wind of her voice. No magic or balms, psalms or
palms can away such misery. A champion is not needed

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, my head upon her breast, a suckling is

A gift from they who ever a voice did heed a solemn call;
The whisper of  dearest, their pain 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, 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, 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, that moment when Shuruk Ra bled.
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