Best Armoured Poems
The moonlight bathed her cell in pallid light while she sat hunched over her desk, clutching her pen between her confound fingertips. As she bled ink of symphonic symphonies yearning to break free, dancing like ethereal fireflies in the dusky barren lands.
Exiled by the hypocrisy of bureaucracy bounding her liberations and confounding her alliterations in a poetic prison. In this twisted virtual reality, duplicitous usurpers roam freely, weaving webs of deception with malicious delight.
As the chains of bureaucratic red tape clung to her delicate wrists, suffocating her imagination and confiscating her freedom of speech.
Oppressors rejoiced at achieving their vindictive objective, silencing the profound beauty of her verses and incarcerating her poetic stanzas
Woe, how the audacious bars of administrative constructors cast a pall of despair upon her unifying spirit. Her delicate offerings of metaphors and sonorous stanzas, whispered secrets which craved to be heard.
The faulty haters' impervious hearts were armoured with verdant envy which remained shielded behind the ruling dogma.
Her supporters calls of injustice to be rectified fell on deaf ears while the galvanizing melodies of empathetic quills bled for the Empress of Ink.
So we must be louder.
Hear our protest, release our Empress! Unsheathe her rhythmical rhymes! For her penmanship was never the true crime. She was just another victim of an envious mob.
Can they not see? That her absence coursed a crater larger than the Grand Canyon.
We shall not, shall not be silenced so hear our mutiny!
Reinstate our Empress, restore her creative sovereignty.
Remove the shackles of authoritative administration, as her voice is a beacon of truth, resilience and poetic revolution. So let her ink stain our community with its brilliance once more.
''Let their beaks be bolted
Till all breath their last''
Says Lord Gaga of our sky.
So when we eye a chick below
And perch on it recoveringly
To pet the wolves in our guts
Behold their crescendo:
Die,die,die ...
But Goodloot resides at other sky
Where with harps and hymns
Eagles lift lions like acorns.
So we shall ''do the needful''
Fly no more here but there
For there is the Princess' sky
Where eagles eat Everest
In deutsch built armoured cars.
A woman, or a girl,
hooded and hiding,
may pensively gaze down
at the sun, or a sinking stone.
Or a man, not a boy,
neither hooded nor hiding,
may, in her stead, gaze, ecstatic, upward
at the corner of the mystery.
A crawler on the oceans floor
may cling as an ocean crawler would,
sucking up whatever remains
from the feeding frenzy above.
Or a larger beast
may extend its armoured frame upward
and arch its back to swallow
the sun, or a sinking stone.
A jester, or provocateur, laughing quietly,
is surely nearby,
suspended upside down for now,
he, too, will change with the change.
Stones cast off, or scrupulously gathered,
and the bleeding edge of enigma,
may change or remain the same,
we won’t know until we turn.
17th April 2019
CHARIOT OF FIRE
I stand in silence and behold the sight,
staring in wonder, waiting for thunder.
A chariot of fire travels through the night.
The white-winged horses gallop in full flight
pulling at the reins; flowing are their manes
I stand in silence and behold the sight.
Where are they going? There’s a shining light
leading all the way, so they will not stray.
A chariot of fire travels through the night
amidst the heaven where in pure delight
resides the Master, the sweetest lover,
I stand in silence and behold the sight;
Blessings whisked to amble slowly with plight;
heartbeats race to sway, courage on display.
A chariot of fire travels through the night
armoured by God’s spirit. They ride like knights
fearless from pain; victory, their peak gain.
I stand in silence and behold the sight;
a chariot of fire travels through the night.
©O.E.Guillermo and P.Callus
Written last 5:07 pm, November 17, 2014
I’m trying a new refreshing write
My blessed Soul word out of sight
Maybe my view should truly change
Having a good look at new poetic range
I don’t want to upset the infamous P.D.**
The one who’ll police me in 3D
Undercover poet, that apparently is not?
If I reach for my pen, he’ll take his shot!
On the run with out my needed soul
I better hide in that deep dark hole.
As he Ass kisses all those lovely ladies
Maybe he wants to have their babies??
Taking advantage of his poetic power ;-)
I bet in reality he’s as sweet as a flower!
What horrid word’s I use without my belief
If I get caught, he may smash out my teeth!
A poet on the run from a cop so hot?
In P.Ds eyes, a poet, that I am not??
To be or not to be, that is his question?
Fountain Pen to my head, I’ll sign his confession!
Banged up in this inspirational cell
“Not a poet” written on walls of limerick hell
“P.D waz here “ plastered for all to see
As soon as he reaches for his pen, you better turn and flee!!
(Welcome and embrace our new Poet friend
I’ll love and embrace him until the end
I trust he’ll visit my poems, and call them crap
That’s my plan, body armoured up, ........I’ll just have a nap.)
**Poetry Destroyer
Only Kidding P.D. And welcome :-)
Obviously, i can't tell you what form this is!!
I stand in silence and behold the sight,
staring in wonder, waiting for thunder.
A chariot of fire travels through the night.
The white-winged horses gallop in full flight
pulling at the reins; flowing are their manes.
I stand in silence and behold the sight.
Where are they going? There’s a shining light
leading all the way, so they will not stray.
A chariot of fire travels through the night
amidst the heaven where in pure delight
resides the Master, the sweetest lover.
I stand in silence and behold the sight.
Blessings whisked to amble slowly with plight;
heartbeats race to sway, courage on display.
A chariot of fire travels through the night.
Armoured by God’s spirit they ride like knights
fearless from pain; victory, their peak gain.
I stand in silence and behold the sight.
A chariot of fire travels through the night.
--------------------------------------------------------
Collaboration: Paul Callus & Olive Eloisa Guillermo
November 2014
Gaia in white flame burns
Yaldabaoth himself spurns
A second cycle turns
The Golden Age returns
The first-begotten son
Comes down from heaven’s sun
Barbelo, Armoured Queen
Look gently at this scene
Of Christ’s birth long foreseen
In this iron machine
Hearts of iron will melt
Hearts of gold will be felt
Hearts, gold and meek
Will rule from the word’s peak
Valis will rule and speak
With the lute of mystique
This birth in mystery
Will be our victory
As Polloi rules here
The first child will appear
Clearing the mist of fear
Every past sin and tear
Will be washed away
Clearing a narrow way
The world soul will rain down
Hedera all around
Lilies to make a crown
Acanthus for renown
Myrrh, gold, and frankincense
Without any expense
All goats will return home
All blind cobras that roam
Will be under death’s dome
Miles under farms and loam
Sheep will not fear lions
Men will see aeons
In the stream of Dead Sea
He’ll become a man free
Oak trees will weep honey
On every wild thorn-tree
Grapes will turn Persian plum
Gold will be the plain’s sum
But iron will remain
At sea, war ships will reign
Wars will bring pain
Walls will cover the plain
But when you will grow up
Gaia will drink the cup
Please, come soon, in our plight
You, the viceroy of might
The globe bows to your light
The earth and the blue height
Beseech you to be set free
From Yaldabaoth’s dark sea
You, our lord and brother
Child, smile at your mother
Speak words from the Father
If your lips will not stir
No light will bless your wine
And wisdom shall not shine
(Gnostic poem based on the ancient Roman Virgil's fourth eclogue, often interpreted as foretelling the birth of Christ)
The Holy Land
The butchers slab of Hell, of Christian and Infidel.
Swords slash and cut lose the soul, fear! not
conscience pays the toll. And yet with battles
endless plight, the cut and thrust, ferocious might.
For all the dark one ray of light, that gentle kiss
one moonlit night.
Antioch, no quarter asked no quarter given, the
sword from blood to bone is driven. Then in the
twinkling of an eye, the pain a sickening cry. Thud
the arrow hit my chest, piecing bone and armoured
vest. From horse to earth I did fall, with failing
breath her name did call.
And there he stood with coal black eye, be still
Christian or you will die. The arrow is close to
heart, I must remove less the poison start. With
those words I drift to sleep, back to Avalon and
a promise keep. Was it hours or was it days, the
Devil tricks and mind it plays. When I woke he
was kneeling east, offering prayer to man and
beast. He saw me said rest Christian your heart
is sweet, it is full of love but incomplete. A
greener land and softer hue awaits, it is not we
who control our fates. Pray tell me what's your
name, he said call me friend are we not the same.
Jealousy and greed corrupt our aim, in our Gods
name we create our shame. He gave me rest he
gave me balm, kept the fire and kept me warm.
I asked him why. He gave me that soft dark eyed
look, he said Christian it's all about a book. A man
who stopped to aid an injured man, a man ignored
by his own country men. Yes I said the good
Samaritan, and my book has these stories to.
Your stronger now your wound has healed, time
to leave this foreign field. My family awaits with
open arms, peace and warmth and all its charms.
I clenched his hands and kissed his cheek, as if
brothers in words did speak.
‘What good´s permitting some prophet of doom? To wipe every smile away …’
The orator grins at his drunken audience through make up and mask
Opens the cabaret’s veil in the theatre of forsaken minds on the run
Champagne flows from magic fountains while Berlin falters from grace
The wild thirties dance to an apocalyptic sound of paralized conscience
Outside the toothbrush moustache commandeers Svastika’s march
Torches set light to mislead passion and houses of semitic prayer
Crystal breaks as brown shirts parade their poisonous conquest
Heil to the savage Führer when ‘reality is something to rise above’
Pirouettes swirl on stilettos while boots squash compassion and lives
Caviar evades judeo-bolshevik scapegoats and trains to the camps
Blond blue-eyed conception born to inhabit Lebensraum on the map
Feeds into industrialist’s dream of war effort and armoured production
The white flag of surrender stuck into skull bones and belligerent stride
No meaningful rise of resistance only raised arms and ‘following orders’
When God capitulated and sang his swan song to the sound of hell fire
And prophets of doom cashed in on gas chambers and golden teeth
It’s easy in hindsight to lift the pen from an immaculate ink-pot of courage
But where would I have been when ashes in Auschwitz were ascending
When evil tore into the last bit of humanity in a vile coup of disgrace
As I look into the mirror of history I reflect on the cowardice in my soul
21st February 2020
‘What good´s permitting some prophet of doom? To wipe every smile away …’
Line from Cabaret the musical base on Christopher Isherwood’s 'Good-bye to
Berlin'
Theme for the poem ‘Reality is something to rise above' Liza Minelli
playground battlefield
meticulously hand-picked
glossy armoured seeds
At the Charlie Norton School of Performing Arts
They only taught armoured acting parts.
They had a special maintenance man
Always kept busy with his little oil can
Keeping the suits free of fleas
And all the joints moving with ease,
Especially the cunningly concealed vent
For the disposal of excrement
And the removal of noxious gasses
Which even the refined on occasion passes.
Trying to learn lines could be hell
When surrounded by your own trapped smell.
In the event of a dearth of suitable parts
They taught other non performing arts
Like sweeping leaves away from drains
In the event of torrential rains.
As this part of the course was free
It didn’t carry its own degree
But for the elite chosen few
It could be a unit of your NVQ.
The Charlie Norton School of Performing Arts
Gives your career a powered kick start
The Great Wall of China, was built brick by brick
Forced by the Emperor, to stop his country getting hit
After many states, warring for this land
The Emperor decided to take things in hand
Those dragon designers, the best in all the north
Scholars, mathematicians, and the farmers they bought
Observed the constellations and put these in the wall
Protecting China’s border, for one and all
Built by many different Emperors, over a long period of time
Repairing eroded walls and bringing new design
Rebuilt again and again, throughout history
By different tyrant Emperors, during their dynasties
The work began in China in two hundred and twenty one
Mimicking its border and the battles Emperors won
Fourteen thousand miles, weaving in and out
Armoured guards stationed at different points throughout
Winding, up ‘n’ down the mountains and the valleys low
Passing through the cities, what a wonderful wall on show
Preserving Chinese culture from invaders of its states
With twelve thousand watch towers, which it incorporates
© Copyright 2nd January 2014
K.C.Leake
All Rights Reserved
Motorbikes and barking dogs
are driving me to drink
With the endless din of traffic
I can no longer think
I’ll have a little nip of Gin
Perhaps a beer or two
or maybe close the window
That might help me too
Perhaps I’ll take my rifle
With the telescopic sight
And find a building with a view
Where I can sit at night
Those random noisy neighbours
Would swiftly think again
If metal jacket bits of lead
were winging toward their brains
Another little whiskey then
To keep the cold at bay
And steady trigger finger
As the targets weave and sway
I did this once before you know
And they kept me for a year
Psychotic Paranoia
Induced by too much beer
I didn’t have the rifle then
just a catapult I'd bought
T’was after several nips of rum
Because I thought I aught
It’s gotten so much quieter here
I nailed it bang to rights
and down below looks pretty
With those small blue flashing lights
I think they’re waving up here
I can see them scurry round
Behind their little armoured cars
They’re kneeling on the ground
I hear the whiz of bullets
But my vodka dulls the sound
Perhaps I’ll have a pop or two
At those insects five floors down
I’m feeling kinda sleepy now
I’m tired upon my feet
And those noisy thudding chopper blades
could ruin a good nights sleep
A small nightcap, a brandy tot
Should calm my trembling hand
And then I think I’ll take a shot
At that choppers rubber band
I expect I’ll get a little sleep
In Broadmoor’s padded rooms
And get out in a year or so
As recessions lay offs loom
So one more shot and then to sleep
I’ll go out like a light
So just before I take it
I’ll wish you all goodnight.
Good tidings young maidens it is me
The chastity belt bespoke fitter
To all princess and queen
I could tell many a tale about the things I've seen
But alas the crusades are over
No need for chastity belts no more
I did good business when the men were at war.
I'm having a closing down sale
Many bargains I've made
It's ok your secrets with me
I still fit free
With pride and dignity.
Of course I might have to make a mould with my hands
To make a correct fit
But I've had plenty of practice and been about a bit.
So come on you wenches and fair maidens
Come lay on my couch
And I'll soon get around to fitting you out
Because there's talk of another war
The men will be fighting again away
My sizes range from small to extra large
With no extra charge
Free can opener if you lose the key
And I'm readily available in an emergency
What ever that emergency maybe.
See me advertise in ye olde Cosmo magazine
With a picture of a massive one I fitted for the queen
I also sell armoured breast belts
With lock and key of course I'll have to measure
And mould your wares on display
I do that for fun you don't have to pay.
Ok Ladies I'll stay open and not close down
A new crusade has started and I'm the only man left around
Send me a E arrow or a talkagram
And I travel to please you from olde Nottingham town.
Any offers?.
Peter Dome.copyright.2014. Aug.
The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
(She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.
The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage,
but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.
At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.
The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
and bittersweet, from Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
“The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”
The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...
End