Best Criers Poems
Dim the lights low and let me dance,
To the memory of you engraved in my brain.
As they lowered you to your palace with a timing,
My whole being, drained.
Mentally, emotionally, physically,
You tore.
Yet you gave everything up willing,
I couldn’t bother to ask for more.
A twirl for the laughs,
A sashay for the tears.
Don’t brighten the lights just yet,
I’m still mourning for my dear.
Sway, sway, sway through the room,
The drums in beat to your beatings,
The piano, o! The piano,
In tune with your teachings.
A tune for a dance that has been meticulously practiced,
And, as repulsive as it may sound, I HAVE dreamt of dancing to this tune before.
Before,
You were lowered.
Before, criers of the spheres arrived.
Before, all else.
Before our reality has turned into nothing but a memory that I now sway to.
Therefore…
Dim the lights low and let me dance,
Let me wallow,
Let me die slowly inside,
Let me twirl till my heart’s content,
Let me rejoice for the greater good,
To the memory of you engraved in my brain.
As they lowered you to your palace with a timing,
My whole being, drained.
Aeilnnorvy. S
Descending eyes piercing the starry nights
Deeper yet, unto hearts of men
Crossing thresholds shattered darkness
Behold, the fallen angels unbeknown to sin
That of weakest appetites malign
As heaven's tears spilling city streets
In futility cleanse what's evil-wise
From beneath, us vagabonds of broken wings
Empty rooms loneliness desperately
Weary hearts for yearning error in love
Far off stares and blank faces, harrow in oasis
And inspirations forgotten, never peering up
Divine light cease upon closing heart
Earthly flesh feeding frenzies
To another piece of faith withdrawn
Humanity continues on and spirituality dies ending
Some pretentious fly toward false sanctuary
Never escaping whispers, persecutions within
Hissings soft, but brimstone in our heads
Countless fallen angels iniquitous deprivation dins
"Criers" define us as the times most desperate
"God, forgive us, please" hollow words that we pray
"The wicked must be punished" God's eternal now and tomorrow
His arms outstretched further still but, where are we today
The king of hades came and rode
And split thousands many throat
From the body of men and women who float
On the blue rhyme-singing water in boat
And the massacre continued into the large city
Crushing all the dried lilies
And drawing blood from the body of innocent farm-boys who looked tacky
And from the royal kids from a blossoming family
And from all others that are not or more than wealthy
The king of hades came and rode through all living bodies
And made them in a blink of the eyes and a pump from the lungs a breathless sleeping body
Many a women were left with an open abdomen
And some mercy-untimed killings for the men
And some more ruthless savage for the salvagers in the den
For priests are a torn face and cracked skull
For town-criers; arrows were stuck into their guts
And for many anonymously unknown, they were greeted by cold-death on swords
And for animals, some had their belly torn
And some killed by spilling a drain of blood; from a stab of their own horn
And birds who had their skin burnt
And fishes who in black boiling oil were drowned
The beautiful horror scene filled with terror is more than the eyes can afford
And more than nature could afford
What more for, what more before
The king of hades came and killed thousands, and infinity, and many more
My conscience came to a clearing,
Freed from clamorous cacophony
Of criers, critics, and claimants
That commonly carp at me.
Calm, cool contemplation
Called out its care and concern:
Consider a commitment to courage
Fortitude's clear-headed urn.
Calculating quickly a crisis,
I had come to the critical curve:
Could I commit to courage and clarity--
Or into craven cowardice would I swerve?
My conscience had come to a clearing:
Could I conquer my demons this time?
Pour the oil..Feed the fire, war with Iran..And drain-stream outlet criers.'
A few ticks to midnight, and all is well.!
We absorb the horror, yet can't really
Tell.' Screen-shots file drops fury and
Shells.' Missiles and the droning.' Media
Artificial..All seens pell-mell.' The dead bodies are
Creations of those hellish narrations.' And
More living are in transit, to the place where Iran
Sits ' no rational motive, these soldiers are
Votive.' An offering to baal.' Well we can't
Prove theres a 'cab-al' its just all maybe? haphazard, Time and tide shows in the
Mirror that got shattered.' I ask it not be
Splattered with blood pending.' I think it matters.? Lives in exchange.' For freedom?
Yet I am 'poet non grata' as the machine
Of vilolence needs them' G I''s marines and
Sailors, i'lll fortune holds no favours.'
Which hero is the bravest.? Only Jesus truly saves us.' All this paloply of power is
But a backdrop to the minutes and hours.'
To the murder of the silent ones,
entombed
In life.' Not allowed to run, to see the world
In all its gory.. That is maintained by much false history. Sacrifices on the altar of lies..
The emancipation of women..'
Or maybe now? They are guys.?
In echoes of more affluence.'
Oh and get ready to pour some
Wine.' On the sands of the
beach-heads just ( this one time! )
as was the jingle in
1914..Now mostly forgotten, though it
was
Also so ob-scene.'
Yet tell me of noble aims and?
Well causes so just.' While we line up for
whatever..' For truly; only, in God can we trust '
She smiles
and considers the crowd,
all backward somersaulting
detached vagabonds, all,
serious soft smalls revealed -
marshmallows imbued
with the glee of writing
irregular poetry;
works of art thou art,
thou art, thou art, all indeed -
and what did Dickinson say,
“the Maples never knew
that you were coming -
I declare, how red
their faces grew” -
well, we all march on,
and by the side of our roads,
the righteous town criers
of prognostication, stand
their grounds for commentary,
like sensate servile monks
full of the base sound facts,
ringing their shellac bells,
like an exercise in pulling weights;
the waits inside their cries foretell,
of the things we do not know,
will never know,
like the bride we all are,
gullible, innocent of what is to come,
but we dance our dance
flirting with luscious life
beckoning come hither,
we still write our own vows,
and throw our skirts asunder,
spinning bottles, all undressed
half addressed half said,
punctilious lost in
wayward pentameter,
such bad whirling dervish
behaviour,
truth and dare
and Father Time
will kiss and tell
we poetically march on
we all march on
we think we know
which side we're on
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“All those Hills you left for me to Hue,
There was no Purple suitable -
You took it all with you.
Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door -
I will not be pursued”
Emily Dickinson. March.
TECHNOLOGY……
Technology grows.
As the day goes.
Though some homes uses the broom.
But mine uses vacuum.
Gone are days of town criers,
Awhile ago, people share flyers.
Now fast and swift.
Can information cross barriers.
Talking of a machine mould,
Compared to a manual mould.
What you do for several days,
Can be done within a day.
Who on earth can lift a car?
Even those on drug, can only try.
For technology as heard your cry.
The jack lifts all, with a care.
Great pleasure,
Has technology brought.
For a room could be so hot,
But technology turns it into a freezing hall.
In medical world,
You are like ‘sagging’ of the fashion world.
For gone are days.
When people die of pains.
For days gone by, are for piggy banks.
But right now, we go for online banks.
For they are more safe,
But yet to be free from crime.
Full of advantages.
But not without disadvantages.
With this truism.
Technology is not left going.
As whole shoyinka rightly said,
In his creative death in the dawn.
‘’That there are wrathful wings.
Of man progression’’.
Requesting a slap from ones clerk.
For him, it’s a corn.
In a lions den.
But for robots, a fish in a dogs front.
Replacing snail-bat things,
With the tortoise-horse things.
So great indeed!
Have you helped.
SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGy!
Technology grows
As the day goes.
Though some homes uses the
broom.
But mine uses vacuum.
Gone are days of town criers,
Awhile ago, people share flyers.
Now fast and swift
Can information cross barriers?
Talking of a machine mould,
Compared to a manual mould.
What you do for several days,
Can be done within a day.
Who on earth can lift a car?
Even those on drug, can only try.
For technology as heard your cry.
The jack lifts all, without a care.
Great pleasure,
Has technology brought.
For a room could be so hot,
But technology turns it into a
freezing hall.
In medical world,
You are like ‘sagging’ of the
fashion world.
For gone are days
When people die of pain.
For days gone by are for piggy
banks.
But right now, we go for online
banks.
For they are more safe,
But yet to be free from crime.
Full of advantages
But not without disadvantages.
With this truism
Technology is not left going.
As wole shoyinka rightly said,
In one of his presentation.
That there are wrathful wings
Of man progression.
Requesting a slap from ones
clerk.
For him, it’s a corn
In a lions den.
But for robots, a fish in a dogs
front.
Far indeed,
Has technology helped?
For replacing snail-bat things,
With tortoise-horse things.
Winter's crisp yet early breath whispered to me this eve
A yearly session as we, the cold and me, gather
Conferring when, when can I join her, join her as she
gallops wild and free-
Life has been cocooned, reigned tight and sensory
deprived-
all I cry for is the wild. The wild and the wind, as I was
meant to follow-
Espousing her movements is where I was meant to be.
How could you know?
Wrapped in a thick, sticky web of dubiety, never has she,
the wind,
seen me free. Dreams of conifers and dancing emerald
aurora always
calling to me, always calling and pulling me.
Yet, in this populated, polluted cocoon I remain as a
corpse,
not as a thing wild. A thing to lick raindrops off grass and
go where the day seizes me, never to wander among the
honeysuckle and bees, listening... just listening...
Concrete, lights, noise, horns, words, highways, bi-ways,
runaways, flyaways
Speak easies, slippery tongues, silty breaths, monitors,
breaks, jump ropes,
shoes, bonds, bonds- chains. Always chained.
Bosses, fights, liars, diers, criers, things always moving,
changing, squirming, vibrating, stinking, pissing, kissing,
f***ing.
Disease and lies- untruth to ones own self.
Utter self deception- the worst sin of all.
The cold wind fingers my hair, touching intimately
the parts she wishes to follow her-
the cocoon wraps even tighter, pushing her away,
completely away.
But I can still smell her and know she wants me.
She knows I want her, she knows I love her,
she knows I will die before ever truly knowing her.
Touching any metal un-gloved,
Turns skin to tin, fingers on fire,
Breathing inside what’s above,
Kindles lungs to a stinging pyre.
Exhaled steam is white as a dove.
Some find refuge wearing eider attire,
But hours exposure ends the tropical cove.
After a while the icy novelty tires,
As keeping calm means the need to move.
Snowmen dread mercury higher,
For melting’s their fateful groove.
Winter’s funeral march has its criers,
But in shivering’s end there is no lost love.
In a castle on a hill,
Sat a king upon a throne,
Who thought life was dull and still,
Because he was alone-
He summoned castle criers,
To find a bride to be,
They canvassed all his shire,
And found suitable were three-
The first was very pretty,
Marked vanity was her want,
The king felt it a pity-
Only looks she liked to flaunt-
The second yearned for power,
Her heart was full of greed,
Demanding things each hour-
Of love she had no need-
The third was quite possessive,
Each friend of his she shun,
The king found her obsessive,
And knew she not the one.
In a castle on a hill,
Sat a king upon a throne,
A ruler of free will,
He chose to be alone!
Moral of the story: Better off alone than with one who doesn't love you!
written for Castle On A Hill contest
Picasso painted me ugly.
Two lips slung over a rusted hanger.
One eyebrow burnt for attention's sake.
Let's tell Grandma how much fun we had today.
Picasso is still at work.
Monet swallowed your stupidity.
Five teeth missing and nary a barbed retort to bend.
One un-photographed smile was left behind.
Let's tell Grandpa his prized lilacs are in mourning.
Monet is still at work.
Seurat poked your larynx.
The roses in your hands may be the thorns in your side.
Ivy and Sumac spice the teas I serve the unfortunates.
Let's tell Auntie June her parasol spikes are dull and snapped.
Seurat is still at work.
O'Keefe smears one simply.
Stamens and pistils shoot the misanthropes dead.
A spare will be guarded for the one's I've missed.
Let's tell Uncle Ed the lessons you've learned today.
O'Keefe is still at work.
DaVinci played baccarat with Stalin.
Swelled hands made it difficult to paint distinctly.
Dirty tongues are as useful as frayed dishrags.
Let's tell no one anything.
Let's tell no one nothing.
(naughty, bastard boy -
using double negatives in one sentence).
Pay one tuppence to the tillerman
and remind the collected town criers -
I'm at work.
We're all
at Work.
Exracted from Gerald Nforche's Epic, The Slave's Tale
-Duala, RIOS DOS CAMEROES, 1787-
One fine morning, when love birds flew and sang
And the valleys with every gaiety rang,
The sun just setting from a misty east
We had visitors from the waters’ midst.
Our fishermen were out spreading their nets
Though broken, could entangle fish’s legs
When they saw at the horizon, approaching
A large house, like none ever seen, smoking.
Smoke exited from large horizontal
Mouths, like some fire within wood and metal.
Very huge flapping leaves hung on large ropes
Made us shiver, staggered with every lope.
And as the large house ebesse approached
Our fine archers were ready for the broach:-
Scouts scanned from the nearest hill and informed
The djanewa for any quick reform.
Village criers had announced the fall ’f war
Within which those who could lift arms no more,
Women and children wide-eyed with fear
Were evacuated to our secret lair.
And in the waters deep ebesse stopped
Emitting a loud cry: come watch us hop
Our blood about to clot from our within:-
Wood and metal kicking, crying in the wind.
Many canoes splashed into the waters
And creatures with sacks fell in from ladders
And rowed towards us, towards our very shores.
We kept the watch, canoes following a course.
Minutes soon, at the very shores they came
We watching baffled, belligerent lame.
Fifteen they were, hairy, brown and long nosed
Not unlike pale pigs in the valleys noosed.
Large brown bowls perched on their massive heads,
Noted by us as they poured out in herds
From their dancing canoes. Pipes hung from mouths
As tobacco was devoured and feet jingled loud.
And we understood they were some traders:-
We had heard their chilling news from gossipers
Who’d spoken of the magic of these men
Who had come by wind, traded and returned.
And from the gossip that ran a-wild,
We‘d gathered the name made for them from sight:
They looked burnt, like they were once like us
We called them mokala for we were at a loss.
With the prodigious group were our brothers:
We shared the same skin, they were no rioters
Save they spoke with mokala like mutineers:-
We watching, bemused straining with all ears.
A troop marched forward expressing might
Mokala watching unsettled, wide-eyed
Befuddlement on their very black lips:
Pity spelled in their eyes, daggers on their hips.
MOON MORGANS
On a clear night long about October’s end
When the wind is wailing a dies irae
And your brain befitting the season is newly webbed
With la ronde des lutins (the round of the goblins)
Laughing in eerie chorus
Catch!
Swallow hard!
Then look ye up!
The great golden eye will appear slightly misted and
Flitting much like strange derby-wearing cigar chewing
circus criers
Are these small pot-bellied men with wings
Called by weird mystics “Moon Morgans”
You will hear them sing a burlesque tune
They hover just above mother earth
Though they appear quite close to the lunar apparition
So far away - mind’s eye and ear you know
“Too ra loo ra, pumpkin pie
Too ra loo ra, up in the sky
Too ra loo ra, my oh my
Too ra loo ra, oh how we fly!”
“This is nonsense!” you will say
But of course!
Moon Morgans are ineffably stupid
Majestic shades of green
rise with spring awakened scallion spikes;
Hunter greens edging into the forest hues
blended in jaded moss clusters pacing;
shamrock stepping stones low upon the grass,
amidst fern colored harlequin dreams;
minting limes scent the valley lily fields
with fragrance of spring rain blooms set free.
Shaded emerald pines stretch tall and regal kings
touching an arctic blue stone spruce assembly;
mixing morning azure navy skies creeping in
wafting untethered upon the ocean cobalt waves;
longing criers wail at the wind swept of peacock plumes
floating a wavy carefree farewell to Aegean lapis streams;
Each call out - come hither with scent and fragrance of the seas
released surf to pantone Persian midnights
and all the hidden repressed dreams
of spring in early bloom
and oceans writhing in storm tossed summer stills
blending earth and sea with colored dreams.