Best Blueprint Poems
blueprint
To have the innocence
again, not abused
nor denied
to see with the
eyes of a child
the beauty
that could be
in it all -
what we lost,
through bitterness
the curse of
me over you
and warring life
throwing its poetic
grenades, watching
feathers fly
the absurd piranhas
and cockerels fighting
fed love,
the monsters
put to bed to sleep,
to wake
to live
the beautiful dream
the sting
of wonderment
in the child’s heart
untouched
open, sweet
beatific smiles
innocence untried
retrieved blueprint
could be ours again
in another world
in another time
bathed in sun,
Blue Sky
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"The Walk"
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_walk_1376951
Past and Present; A Blueprint for Success
Ancient legends reside on worn stones;
carry out their journeys through time.
Nothing is ever new, it is only
rediscovered by new senses.
Birds of iron and steel taxied across
ancient deserts millennia ago;
are depicted on ancient temples and pyramids,
the world over.
In Alexandria, Egypt;
sailors guided by an old light house;
traveled ancient seas in search of gold and lapis.
The technology is lost in the folds of time.
Egypt’s electricians are remembered,
despite efforts to deny them;
the artists of their times have,
immortalized them in stone.
Modern man, a creature of technology;
fails to duplicate what, the ancients knew and
saving face, destroys the whole planet for,
lack of the ancient knowledge.
Lost is the original set of blueprints; trial and error are the ends when,
we forget the past in favor of the future.
Like siblings, past and future must, grow up together.
Favor one over the other and something is lost.
In looking back as we look ahead in the present;
nothing is truly impossible.
Indelible plan
Carefully concealed inside
All living beings.
Can I write this without being corny and still be prideful?
I grew up on Hip-Hop, and I have a lot of idols
Every time I pick up the pen and use ink
I hope to write something that would have been good enough for Jay-Z's blueprint
I grew up on the likes of Tupac, Lupe Fiasco and Wu-tang
The only 11 year old who was listening to lyrics that some adults struggled to understand
I'm thankful I grew up on rappers who would share a message
That's why when I have an issue, I'm not scared to address it
8 years old, was the first time I heard Eminem
Since then I've put my heart into my poetry and made it genuine
I learned you could be emotional without being feminine
Sometimes I like to have fun and see how many rhymes I can pencil in
Tupac gave me quote after quote
Isn't it funny how people you've never met, can give you hope?
50 Cent surviving being shot 9 times, made me feel like I could survive anything
I looked up to, Eminem, 50 Cent, Scarface, Rakim like they were my parents
Foster care staff, telling me the music was inappropriate because of the swearing
Which just showed me they don't listen to the words being rapped
It's great when you relate, and you feel your own hurt being matched
I remember the emotion I felt when I first heard Eminem release Like toy soldiers
I didn't really start to appreciate Jay-Z until I got older
Sleep is the cousin of death, Nas Taught me that
I came to see that People make up lies and spread rumours when they're short of facts
I'll always have love for Nas, Eminem, 50, Game, Wu-Tang, Scarface, Ice Cube
There's more that inspired me, and I'm thankful, because of them I write too
I always loved Hip-Hop and had a lot of idols
I just hope I managed to write this without being corny and can still be prideful
Every time I pick up the pen to use ink
I hope I write a the good enough to be on Nas's Illmatic album or Jay-Z's blueprint
BOKO HARAM’S BLUEPRINT.
Happy worshipers dance,
Sending praises to her
Redeemer.
Sound from guns is the instrument
That intercepts every song,
Bomb has become duplicate
For expressing love.
Various kiosk has closed up,
No one sells my regular
Palm frond.
You fill proud destroying this
Present world
Carrying toothless tongues,
You search to relocate any
Church situated in the north.
Don’t be a coward,
Come and speck with one voice,
Even if you are pronounced
Deaf and dumb,
Show me signs your war
Hasn’t been cursed.
Virgin blood are spilled into
My soil,
Mass grave instead of farming
Maize.
I can identify some of these
Selfish hawks
Fighting for slots at all cost.
Explosion is your blueprint
For reaching the top,
I hear you wear horns
Claiming to be Fulani’s
Son.
Boko Haram is a tatted shop
Would be eliminated by a
Collective tractor.
I now protect the security
Force
His gun just got burnt
All his swords are also blunt.
Lets await the rhythm of a
New song,
Hold hands and walk towards
Luck sited in between joy,
Niger can never spoil,
Who will claim
He knows my source?
Don’t make my faith become
A disgrace
Your ways are extinct trace
On the lane of waste,
To eventually fail in shame.
AKEWUSOLA HABIB.
From knee high they told me to be patient, wait it out
Build foundation, straighten out,
never rush creation.
"You gotta stay strong through the drought,
because rain'll come one day and that seed'll sprout"
But i didn't know what the seed was
All i could see was a dream, ‘cuz
at the age of ABC’s
a dream is something to actually be achieved.
and then i became a teen
and the scene became a thing
where chronic cynicism wrings hope out of wishers
like rags of dishwater into soapy mixtures
so excuse me mister,
could you verify what it is that you advise?
do i rise to the skies or simply follow the traced lines?
'cuz i'm sick of beaten paths, littered with half-empty cups
that can glitter with a slight trace of still "giving a ..."
and those shards of luck stuck in the earth
unsure, whether it's worth it to pluck out of the filthy dirt
i'd rather lift above the ground,
above the crowds of clowns and towns,
to where so many vowed:
the clouds.
how's that sound?
god doesn't need to tell you when you're allowed
Those man-made gates were built out of hate
Lands manipulated, turned narrow and straight
because there's a simple key to reaching your heaven, see?
love.
respect.
integrity.
BOKO HARAM’S BLUEPRINT.
Happy worshipers dance,
Sending praises to her
Redeemer.
Sound from guns is the instrument
That intercepts every song,
Bomb has become duplicate
For expressing love.
Various kiosk has closed up,
No one sells my regular
Palm frond.
You fill proud destroying this
Present world
Carrying toothless tongues,
You search to relocate any
Church situated in the north.
Don’t be a coward,
Come and speck with one voice,
Even if you are pronounced
Deaf and dumb,
Show me signs your war
Hasn’t been cursed.
Virgin blood are spilled into
My soil,
Mass grave instead of farming
Maize.
I can identify some of these
Selfish hawks
Fighting for slots at all cost.
Explosion is your blueprint
For reaching the top,
I hear you wear horns
Claiming to be Fulani’s
Son.
Boko Haram is a tatted shop
Would be eliminated by a
Collective tractor.
I now protect the security
Force
His gun just got burnt
All his swords are also blunt.
Lets await the rhythm of a
New song,
Hold hands and walk towards
Luck sited in between joy,
Niger can never spoil,
Who will claim
He knows my source?
Don’t make my faith become
A disgrace
Your ways are extinct trace
On the lane of waste,
To eventually fail in shame.
AKEWUSOLA HABIB.
I pattern my rhymes to relate to the divine plans of the maker/
Marvel at how my nouns and verbs seem to dance on the paper/
Advanced orators don’t hesitate to drop the prepositions/
And don’t use words unless you know the proper definitions/
Create metaphors and similes to enhance the verbal imagery/
Discard any absurd words that disturb the symmetry/
The energy used in your verses should be used in your chorus/
And don’t be ashamed to use a dictionary or view a thesaurus/
The law is never to bite a rhyme cause you’ll face relentless hell/
Always practice your elocution when the opportunity presents itself/
And defend yourself whenever you’re faced with instigation/
Constantly write what you see. Don’t waste the inspiration/
Some misuse their muse and write pieces that barely move/
Find topics in your daily news or try views that’s rarely used/
Don’t choose to follow pop kids in their quest for tall pockets/
Their life is all profits as they digress to false prophets/
Claim to be discerning entities without learning empathy/
Requiem for fallen emcees as their bodies burn in effigy/
My recipe for writing lyrics of all classic varieties/
Mix in skill and honesty and add small dashes of irony/
Don’t lie to me about packing heat for handling stress/
Damsels in undress and how your style’s damaging reps/
Can I suggest you keep it real and spit I can feel/
Ink scripts with writing skill and flow sick with mic appeal/
Don’t get discouraged for fear that all your peeps will hate it/
This is the primary obstacle on the road to being creative/
And be original, whether you’re a warrior or a pacifist/
Find your own niche in the realm of emceeing and master it/
/
There’s 7 billion stories in this world all ya gotta do is tell em….
the animal-spirits
hand-painted
on cave walls
witness
the religious
blueprint of man
So many ways to say it...
tossing off without a thought,
"a man's his own worst enemy"
all unquestioning
and any one of us
a victim of perception,
laughing at out careless ghosts
a little while
and sponging tears at night.
The patriarch is back to haunt,
and never knew his power
to turn away.
Never, ever knew.
The victim, hanging to a precipice
with twisted hands,
twisted body slipping
from a lifetime legacy
of twisted worth.
Contract in hand...the self is built,
foundation made of pain
and walls of insecurity take form,
designed from plans obscured
by heavy smudges...
product of the soiled fingers of neglect.
Now, the rooftop!
There the view of hopelessness
creates its crowning touch,.
for here is love outdistancing
the child's pursuit.
The sirens call, (the child will play)
and life is ruled by consequence.
Fabricated tyranny? Oh, yes.
The experts pass a finished product on.
Now chimeras and dragons deal the cards.
The feckless captain of a sinking ship
looks back at his mirage, and shrugs.
His refuge now, escape or death,
and better men will laugh.
~
Someone recently spoke of "the fabricated tyranny of that which never existed." The
implication was that many of us are led by our fears, and give in to them. I
wanted to ask the question, "Why?" and decided to search for the answer within my
own experience. The most expedient way for me to do that, was through poetry. This
was the result.
They interviewed the artist
inside of her large blueprint mansion.
At one point she criticized America
for being overtly materialistic.
Her painting studio alone, was large enough to
house half a dozen desperados...
but instead, it harbored dozens of giant unsold paintings.
I was amazed by how bright a person could be
but at the same time completely blind to their own
devastating hypocrisy.
I am looking for a blueprint for love
the one I've once felt about you.
The perfect blue paper
that helps me figure things out
that tells secrets about a lover's skin and sighs
- the ones I knew as yours.
Now I wish to redraw, then admire its design:
relearn, then follow its patterns
down to my very heart.
I want to rebuild its structure,
recreate the way that is no more,
to have the perfect edition of it;
a guide to my true self,
the one who once knew what it felt like
to be in love with someone like you.
I stand alone and take in my surroundings..
The Earth is quiet.. the Earth is still.
Only I exist in this very moment..
In all my complexity and freewill.
This is my personal blueprint..
Uniquely created like DNA.
It exquisitley defines my identity..
From my first breath to my last day.
I'm characterised by my birth name..
The location, date and time.
It is my future path.. and my history..
Marked where the planets and stars align.
By the constellation my stars occupy..
I am the elements of water and fire.
My gift is the Cusp of Oscillation..
Ruled by the Sun and the Moons desire.
It defines my weaknesses and strengths..
My compatible soulmates and life path.
Lucky numbers and self expressions..
This is my blueprint, my Birthchart.
27th February 2020
GIF# 2
1st Place
Contest: GIF With Your Best Anything
Sponsored by: William Kekaula
Judged 14/03/2020
The blueprint marked the plan of her life.
Just like an architect she was, she constructed it perfectly
Drawing it to the very detail she wanted it to be.
Ink dripping, paper raffling, on to work she was.
As others slept, she kept burning the midnight oil in the attic where the sound was below ten decibels.
The blueprint contained segments and blocks. Each segment was partitioned by a pathway, demystifying a phase of life she had.
Armed with a compass she placed it on top perhaps a clear signal the direction she wanted her life to take.
Shapes were drawn, lines crossed and figures inserted between columns and rows.
To her advantage, she wasn’t in the 70s for she would have to wait for the canvas to dry up.
A peculiar picture struck my mind upon seeing her work, "a bridge “was it a message or a phrase “we’ll cross the bridge when we get there?
Leap upon the waves of life;
Ride them with elation.
It is in the rush of life that,
we come to know others and ourselves.
Escaping the bonds of mortality;
revelations unfurl;
your scroll revealed;
blueprints by, which to grow your identity.
Your roots identity is not you;
when you bud, you bring color to a monotone world.
When your petals fall,
they gift nature with food for life.
This exchange is a continuous cycle that renews
and revamps all life.
Lose one blueprint and everyone feels the loss;
everything goes away.
Visit the drawing board too often and all stagnate.
The most horrid revelation;
that one can set back the entire world for decades,
single handedly.
Take care to grow your buds,
to read their blueprints well;
they will blossom a world of positive progress; responsibility and compassion.