Best Confiscation Poems
The Mill wheel wouldn't turn until the Spring
The yellow tape defines it a crime scene
Similar to one in 1930
Locals watch police investigating
The 1840 gristmill's history
Involves the town's most famous mystery
A man charged with fraud and duplicity
Dodged first degree murder complicity
Whispers ran through the town from door to door
A dead body, missing cash... furthermore
Under the waterfall... just like before
Talk of murder weapon left on the floor
A deep freeze had the town on hold for weeks
No official info... except for leaks
By and by the case was about to peak
Ice melts, revealing secrets - the wheel creaks
Tips led to stolen cash confiscation
Perps confessed on cross examination
Funds came through for the Mill's renovation
Waterfall Weddings... book reservation
Submitted July 5, 2018
One, Nine, Sixteen V3.0 Contest by Viv Wigley
Seventh Place
In the Orient it's called Karma,an inescapable butcher of beasts continuously chopping,slicing & trimming the meat of our mentalities,precisely weighed,
Occidentally the official judge of justice is commonly greeted as God,punisher of aggravated appetites,gatekeeper to the blissful & blightful kingdoms,
perhaps there are astral accountants tabulating spiritual treasures of ours,scribing with blood & bones,celestial lawyers indicting us on ancient legalities,
no action eludes the energy of Nature's ear & eye,to sing with no voice or weep with no tears is to try & erase facts from flesh,removing silt from river,
sometimes good fortune arrives in our awry lives,unanticipated & unsolicited like dreams of victory teaching us its possible to outdo the odds,dance on defeats,
however,recompense is irrevocably required by the Divine source as agony is requisite for birth,a timeless tax that gives everything a welcome worth,a value,
a mother who delivers a deformed child,small business owner increasing sales,a professor thats worshiped,pastor of an indigent church,self content poor man,
the purse of Providence is heavy & organic like a full belly always digesting,making space for more & more charity & confiscation,smote with a kiss,
a balance of thefts & rewards,lies that give loss,love that provides learning,poverty that lends perspective,sorrow sowing strength,profits producing paranoia,
justice is a blacksmith that will heat you & cool you,strike you & smooth you,shape you into something appropriate for your properties,polish your planes -
J.A.B. 2010
"The Forgotten Poets"
Saints and Sinners
all calling out for
forgiveness
and wanton recognition
de Sade like minds
libertine and revolutionary
Saints living out their penance
kiss the sharp lips of Sinners
Juxtapositions of souls
Sinners become divine
Saints become unhinged
more human, mortalised
willingly they are led
They Become
Love makes us
All Hallowed Souls
intrepid and invisible
crazed with courage
walking unseen through
the sanctified temples
of the lost and isolated,
The Forgotten Poets
Manifesting, we are mesmerized
We are actuaries counting lives
through the hidden words
and forsaken numbers
along the jagged lines
absent of what
is most deeply sought
ruthless has been the confiscation
to spend our ink on clean sheets
imprinting heat we brand our marks
beating in time and out of time
a tattoo on a body of work
that will eventually be stroked
souls are traded
we are all bought
by the vanity to be read and seen eternally
understood by the Unseen who gifts us
A moment
to cross the static mind
to draw a line between
Trust and the Lies
We are Sensate
tracing softly the streets
in a lover’s open palm
to slide a finger sensuously,
provocatively
towards the crossroad
of an unclothed and vulnerable
upturned wrist
feel the pulse tickled
in the moist hollows of somewhere
a whispered breath
along a neck kissed
Communing with cunning alchemy
manifesting what is not said
through broken hearts
and the tears of half open doorways
closing on pasts best forgotten
wrapping our thoughts like
warm legs around the burning
Divine
leading us into temptation
with
futures and promises
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
“Certain souls may seem harsh to others,
but it is just a way, beknownst only to them,
of caring and feeling more deeply.”
Marquis de Sade
"My passions,
concentrated on a single point,
resemble the rays of a sun
assembled by a magnifying glass:
they immediately set fire
to whatever object they find in their way"
Marquis de Sade
I.
You see them on the media,
internet and TV,
people who say,”Take that man’s cash
and give all of it to me!”
Not caring that the rich fellow
has committed no crime,
that the cash the state steals from him
is a sacrifice of time.
Not caring that wealth is not a thing
that can be distributed,
that the productive must make it,
that it’s a thing created.
There is no ‘pie’ that we cup up,
but a force that grows and shrinks,
and when we take from those who earn
we undermine the whole thing.
The productive just shrug and leave
then the collapse begins,
don’t believe me? Well why don’t you
go ask a Venezuelan?
Jealousy is no excuse for
a confiscation sick,
you’ve no right to a thing they’ve earned,
you’re not poor because they’re rich.
II.
In the first place you have to see
businessmen for what they are,
they’re not monsters out to get you
or they wouldn’t get that far.
We all chose how to make money,
they go it on their own,
taking high risk for high reward,
often risking their homes.
Others choose to work for others,
and that too is okay,
differing methods, but the same goal:
To head back home with our pay.
Should we demonize a person
for the method that they choose?
Or do many of us simply fear
it’s not something we could do?
We don’t have the skills to run the show,
their talents we have not learned,
and rather then learn them for ourselves
we find it easier to burn.
Maybe we’re just too risk averse
to try surviving like that,
can’t stand people built differently,
so we hate them and give flak.
Maybe we just dehumanize to
make it easier to .
But if they play clean then we mus face:
We’re not poor because they’re rich.
I tried writing a poem tonight about the moon's brilliance. It was huge, as it was pale; hypnotic in its rise. The sun's reflection made me think of my own depression because I could see the moon's geography and its mountainous expanses. The darker shades of grey highlighted an elevation untouched by man's wishes. I had a sense of my own biology and its fragility. Like fine China placed in boxes void of upward pointing arrows, my warranty became null and void because of packaging and stacked in wrong directions. The molecular dust, mixed with rust, the ore and iron shavings, I could feel moonlight settle in my veins and I yearned to be a part of the universal order of detachment and attraction. Wishing ocean waves would wash over me as I fought the pull against my toes from lunar confiscation. A sea's toll, the sand that disappears from underfoot, admission into the deep. In my being, I felt all the knowledge Britannica had to offer, and then every answer fizzled away with evaporative tenacity and again I was left wondering about my place in this world, when a few seconds before; I swore, I was sure. The poem ended up being scrapped because no arrangement of words would've compared to witnessing the moon being painted on a deserted horizon and seeing His paintbrush come to rest on an easel.
No, my words wouldn't have been equal.
At dusk I'll seek the rainbow arch
and part ways with it's color.
The sky is darkening,
it's pupil obscured with cataracts
as sudden sparkle sprinkles,
and the dimension splits apart.
Out of opaque blue, and into clarity
I see the far end of what is near.
Forever's end nay come tomorrow
but through looking glass I see the day.
The emerging aqualung, the shaded spot
that connects the quagmire in arithmetic.
The artifice wakes and the quagmire vanishes;
swallowed anew in vague opaque;
intervention in imagination,
the mundane confiscation,
the obscurity of serenity;
I want to remember said fantasy in my dreams,
lest I wake again to disappointment.
Follow the money
Sergio Magkitsky did,
now he’s dead
Offload the stolen money offshore,
safe from regulatory confiscation
Hide the digital footprints
tracking back
to innocent Russian blood that was shed
Don’t get looped into
a diversionary sound byte
Keep following the money instead ...
Dirty money getting laundered clean
Circulating back
into the filthy hands of the enemy
Block the flow with well-placed sanctions,
shut the door
to the underground corruption being done
Following the money
will put your life in peril
So you always gotta stay
two steps ahead
Sergio Magkitsky didn’t ...
now he’s dead
Erased of Being a Human Being
Solitude can be so confident and precious at the same time
Thus, it may never cause any difficulties or injuries to stop being so sublime
Levels of sub-consciousness rising so near to the surface of intellect
Giving us reasoning of a semblance to an interior confiscation.
To liberty and freedom that no one can never take away from us
So many stories and tales are clearly stated in certain cultures
To which decimated, enslavement, tortured, murdered and maimed
in life
Of these many people has literally been thrown and erased from the earth.
By those who practice an evil entity deep in their inner core of their being
All these feelings of poverty to those souls who not know what freedom is
Their vulnerability, hopelessness, despair are misplaced of their faith and humility
And have no faith in man or even within their culture or instead of God.
Apparently, this leaving nothing but a yearning into the deepest sensation
Of nothingness that can never be erased from within their soul
Tis' it is a shame that a handful of people can and still being abused by far
Allowed to do this to another human being in this twenty-first century.
Stricken they are as if they have been tempered and erased of being a human being.
All rights reserved© copyrighted
Theresa Marie C.
Bankers have a license to steal
money from their clients
if you make a mistake
the bank can steal your money
as part of their banking license
Governments have a license
to steal money
from the public
its is called taxation
or confiscation
It seems
that police these days
have a license
to kill
unarmed brown people
but only brown people
and the president
has a license
to lie
as he lies
all the time
just because he can
and I have
the ultimate license
the poetic license
to write
these verses
to enlighten the masses
So! You think you're ready to ’Bowl’ with the ‘Big Dogs?’
You think you got what it takes to hang?
This is no place to be if you are ’Weak of Lung’
or suffering from a chronic case of ’Crap-4-Brains’
We’re Real Live, Big Time, Home Grown, Hard Core
‘Bowlers’ around here Pal. So have no doubt.
Welcome to ‘Bowling - 101’
Once we’re finished with you, you'll know what
“BOWL CALL”
is really all about.
Having your act together tends to pay.
As a Bellowing ‘Bowl Call’
can occur at any time of the night or day
When this happens, Do Not Panic!
Do Not Dilly - Dally - Dawdle or Delay
Just calmly drop what (or who) you're doing, and
report for ‘Bowling Duty’ straight away.
Arriving late for an ‘Official Bowl Call’
is considered a blatant ‘Party Foul’
Penalties run very high indeed. A first offense carries a mandatory surrender of your
bowl and the immediate confiscation of your weed.
Rookie maneuvers, followed by feeble excuses will not be tolerated,
So make no mistake! We smoke our brains out around here,
but only until we’re lightly toasted. It’s the Brownies that keep getting baked.
So this is it Pal, step up, smoke down.
It’s not as harsh as it seems.
This is your chance to live every Bowler - Wanna - Be’s Wet-Bowling-Dream.’
So the next time you're just kicking it with your favorite
‘Kind Bud’ and a familiar ‘Bowl Call’ echoes thru your chronic haze...
You’ll think of the years of dedication and practice and how you’re still so amazed.
‘Junior Bowlers’ from all around will hear of your early ‘Bowl Calling Daze’
and how high that it pays…
to be a ‘Bowling Icon’ as you keep Rolling Bluntly,
through your ‘Remaining Bowling Daze’
Loreen Parke
November 11 2003
Written for and dedicated to my friend 'Tiny' who originated the very first Bowl Call
I was asked, are you going to raise your flag on the fourth of July?
Why shouldn't I raise my flag on the fourth of July, was my reply?
Because they said, did you read Frederick Douglass's famous speech he orated in 1852, about what the fourth of July was to the slave?
Many slaves fought on both sides during the American Revolution War in hopes for liberty, was the answer I gave.
In fact, under the flag of freedom, many Black soldiers fought and became heroes in all of the American wars, and there were many whose blood ran deep here at home and on foreign shores.
In raising the American flag I honor those men who fought for this country and rescued and carried the flag that stood for common grounds for all citizens regardless of race, creed, or color for over ten scores.
With boisterous rebuttal they vehemently reply, Black people still live in a systematic racist society.
I concur, and with the consciousness and soul of a Black woman, I will always join you in the fight for equality.
I will roar loudly and march furiously for the value of human life.
For all lives matter and the battle for justice and equality is worth it even when stricken with strife.
The confiscation act 1861, the confiscation act 1862, Mexican- American war 1846-1848, Civil War 1861-1865, Spanish- American War 1898, World War 1 1914-1918, World War ll 1939-1945, Korean war 1950-1953, Vietnam War 1955-1975, Golf War 1990-1991 The war in Afghanistan and the Iraq War.
copyright 2021
Edvard Munch
An Ekphrasis Stylized Poem of Jealousy
Oh, ancient Oden!
I summon your primitive hand.
Take this oiled brush I hold,
and order my strokes with your command.
With deep red, spilling like blood across the land,
she appears as the object of my affection,
nude and reaching toward a tree
as if to lure my enemy, with want and lust-filled attention.
Is there reason, lord, why my foe is portrayed in Crayola-like imperfection?
Is he to be, Newfoundland, and she as Norway with Viking confiscation?
And are the greens not depicting my envy,
a reprieve from the harsh white lands of Greenland?
And now you insist… I portray myself, or maybe Leif,
or perhaps a Christian King!
Why do you torment me so?
Why can’t I just let this brush go, before a Berserker I become,
to seal my fate through fires run,
across my own pire I’ve tried to overcome,
and on success blazoned before the cross, to be succumbed?
Once filled with hedonistic jealousy, in my exhaustion,
I am finally outrun,
back into the green Norse woods I retreat, weak and numb…
to mend my wounds, and lust for your power hence come,
to paint another day.
by Martin Braun
July 11, 2023
My Name
Let my name remain with you,
This is good illusion for me,
Let this foibles remain with you.
Distance Between Us
Distance increases till ruin,
She was sitting in front of me,
But she was not ever mine.
Needs of Love
This is a fastener,
Just give the shoulder,
Needs of love is where?
Small Sin
Repentance is not for a big sin,
It is also for those smallest sins,
Which, we do not take as sin.
Love Story
A love story does never die,
But
While giving roles, people die.
Confiscation
I earned a lot of pain,
Now I have to pay zakaah
for confiscation.
So sick of this world and generation
they tryna take ahold of my heart confiscation
the taste is bitter or tart
when it turns to ashes
cremation
I still got attachments i'm full of frustration
love seems to be my passion
eternally waitin
cant find as if its out of fashion, yet i still got patience
bout to have me ration and give up on this nation
everytime its me they blastin
stuck with these heart palpitations
i ain't see, she wore the mask in
My body desecratin
feel like a jew and she a nazi
way my life she began takin
my love grew thats when she popped me
took a bite, her heart was laced in
some ain't taste right and not long after steady hallucinatin