He took an oath beneath the chandelier palace,
tongue lapping at furtive moth wings.
A crown of collectible bottle caps
balanced on his warty brow.
Lilith bowed as he passed,
her petals muttering oaths.
Tadpoles formed a scepter’s ascendency,
guiding his webbed ascent.
In the court of cattails and reeds,
he declared dominion over ripples.
Bullfrogs drummed a royal cadence,
while dragonflies danced in tribute.
But power is an annoying fly,
buzzing just beyond reach.
A heron’s aperture loomed large,
eyes shined with hunger.
Final words stung in the chasm:
“Long live the king.”
Then muted,
as the throne sank beneath the reeds.
(Dzachuka Tibet, summer of 2017)
The Madness of the Crowd and Other Popular Delusions
The crowd is always prone to madness
Since reaction as a herd in danger
Demands conformity without reason.
The fact we live in a time of madness
Is nothing new or unusual,
Relative Reality after all being
Merely a conspiracy of relatives.
But sometimes it seems it’s all now extra crazy
As traditional boundaries break down
And everyone is free to think and say
And increasingly do whatever they want.
The ascendency of gender dysphoria
And acceptance, even celebration
Of child mutilation
Being a case in point.
But the fact is, we live in a world of illusion
Which the madness and delusions of the crowd
Is merely attempting to adapt to,
As all our perceptions and thoughts filter through
A mind which can do no other than interpret and distort.
These are the tools we are given,
A mind and body hardwired to survive
In a world of illusion, thus adapted
To the point of expertise with spinning illusions.
It’s not our fault, but instead our destiny
To find a way through
Out of the Cave of Unknowing
Into the Space
Of a land before time.
(12/6/24)
It is worn, patched, and tattered, frayed about the edges. It has at times offered me adrenal ascendency, scared me out of my wits, challenged me to act, or to be still. Its warmth has often failed me. Its compass deviated from true north or at times just ignored. I was told to “wear it as a loose garment”, yet it often felt too restraining or cumbersome. Still it is my choice to slip into it each morning, share a quiet moment, a sip of coffee, a laugh about a patch or stain.
It is more frail now, more likely to require re-stitching of old wounds and faded patches. And yet it serves me well. Its distant colors chuckle as we recall a hot sauce stain, that bar in Angelo, the too often sewed pocket still holds its own. Several of the “original” buttons remain to taunt the newer ones. None are sure where the others went, or why.
And so we sip coffee and recall the tears and joys of birthday cakes, of babies snuggled in its flannel fierceness, and carry on.
loosely worn garments
a history of flannel
frayed edges of life
2/25/2023
It Means A Lot To Me Poetry Contest
Knocked down a pervasive glass ceiling
And left the racist bigots reeling,
Meteoric rise to Vice-Presidency
And the praise for her ascendency
Lets little girls know the sky is the limit
And, in America, that is the prevailing spirit.
A shadow runs across a meadow
a hawk above me on a cloudless day.
A high prescience
for a moment
overhanging a far heaven.
It is not stooping or diving,
not reaching or snatching,
it is not bent to the wind like an arrow,
nor hunting.
When Goshawks hunt
they trace small circles,
seeking a rustle and bustle,
tell-tale signs of scurry.
For now it is not compelled or held
by any thought or sight,
lithely it sails,
nonchalantly counting coup,
jousting with the sun on lancing wings.
A raptor cleaving its authority.
Swift winged conqueror!
An ascendency unmatched
by anything else this day.
. for public domain
I fear each Winter's ascendency.
I loathe its long and formidable reign.
I yearn for Spring and Summer showers,
Autumn's chilling wind and brutal rain.
Winter's doom, long on once fertile ground,
entombs a broken stem and decaying limb,
mutes leaves of grass without a sound,
hovers our land like a deadly hymn.
Each preceding Season's history,
embalmed by each Winter's dreadful sound
says, "Endure well your austerity.
Words worth hearing shall be once more found."
The morons have no heart,
they are heartless.
In the left side of their brain,
nothing is right.
In the right side of their brain,
nothing is left.
That's why they use their
stony heart to break heads
as Palm kernel nuts.
Oozing out of their mouths
are crafty cunning words.
A perverted truth.
With humiliation as their brush,
they painted and
disgraced our youths publicly,
the very backbone of their
ascendency to glory and power,
the very ones who sleeplessly
and tirelessly sweated day and night,
to make sure of their tomorrow,
the only heirs to our future.
You dashed their hope in the mud.
You paid them with your spit on their faces.
How can we not see it.
With illusion of magic
they confuse the minds
of gullible people.
Their lies stinks.
I weep for those who believe them.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme.All Rights Reserved.
Fighting, facing from the world
Women are the slave of the world
They know the meaning of sacrifice
What haven't they sacrificed
Women are the need of the men
Then why they are being killed by the men?
Why don't a men understand,
How strong a women can stand?
Women fights for you till her end
Why men is the reason for her end?
Women is the one u need
Then why they are in deed?
Why they think a girl is a burden?
Is this the reason for her aversion
They are the gift of the god
Only a few of them have got
Women are auxiliary with men
They are superior then to the men
Respect women till your life end
Both sex will have happy end.
They ring in ears for years to come
As chords of stunning hurt they strum
And resonate on mental strings:
All those spoken, hurtful things.
Those who spoke the hurtful words
Which roll like balls of billiards
Inside our heads eternally
Care not of damage they don’t see
But all the pain, their words have caused
Which haunts us every time we’ve paused
Will form our lives; impact our fate
And of our lives will educate
And of those words we can’t forget
No longer do we care or fret
For there are higher planes we see
Of justified ascendency
For ones who spoke: We've moved on,
And know your words won't be withdrawn.
Forgiveness we may one day let, but …
Your hurtful words we can’t forget.
Involute ascendency of an omniscient detriment encased a
crystalline fragility fragmenting. Yearning a periphery absolved
stains the insidious chronicle red. A fading feeling of self
treason is absolute utopia asunder. Subtly i digress yet
paramount is this polarity diverse within me. Caged withing a
translucent spirit my voracious depths untold stagnate abound.
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