Best Despot Poems
In countries where a despot rules
And history’s revised in schools,
The freedom to speak out unspools
Since nobody will dare.
The USA is getting close;
It isn’t hard to diagnose.
First Colbert, now a second dose
With Kimmel off the air.
They put him back, but ABC
Is not the hero, not to me,
But maybe now the world will see,
For any unaware,
That what we’re facing’s really sick
And if we don’t do something quick,
This blatant bully might just kick
Our laws beyond repair.
Slowly he creeps,
I just wish his coming can be descried
And that I can fight him off.
He turns a joyfully atmosphere despondent,
Diabolic they is he,
Yes he is the despot.
He came knocking,
He forced his way into my abode
And my body gave way to my soul.
Alone he left me in the middle of the desert,
I shouted, I yelled, I bellowed
But my voice was swallowed by the silence,
The silence no one can shut.
Onwards I go
For there is no return.
Fortune I have had,
Respect and good looks;
How frivolous they look in the sight of my new world.
The church bell groaned,
Tears streamed from eyes of loved ones,
But I am gone.
Take courage lover,
I am gone but not forever
Perhaps I will meet the eternal bliss
And there I will wait for your coming.
Take courage lover,
You won't see me again but not forever,
Hope to meet you someday.
It is the witching hour.
There are no breezes in a windowless house.
There are no shadows in a cave devoid of light.
There are no dreams in a sleepless night.
It is the witching hour.
When our endangered psyche roams.
When we are captured by pernicious spells.
When we are easy prey for rogue chieftains.
It is the witching hour.
When warlords game the system.
When sorcerers gaslight the faithful.
When conspiracy conquers fact.
Only the crestfallen sense the seamless
interval of peril.
Only the dejected resist the wizardry
of the despot.
Only the discouraged view the counterfeit
wallpaper of rot.
Only the discontented shout the truth
against the cacophony of sophistry.
But Stonehenge, the domain of the dead,
will always know first light,
will always vanquish the ruse of our sanctity,
will always sweep away the opiate specters
of tyranny.
The witching hour no more.
Light, the detox to our Stockholm syndrome.
The witching hour no more.
Democracy survives
to live another day.
The Death of a Despot
By Elton Camp
Eternal vigilance is said to be the price of liberty
It’s also the price of despotism as we just did see
Eventually, even ones a dictator does bully or hire
Get their fill and against him they will conspire
He who lives in such luxury and power on one day
May suddenly find his life has moved another way
Neither fancy cars nor the most elegant of palace
Help when he must drink from the poisoned chalice
The despot flees to his hometown for his protection
Thinking there he will prove able to avoid detection
When the avengers come about to pound on his door
He desperately tries to escape the fate he does abhor
So many others he has killed without any pity at all
It’s different when on him the Grim Reaper does call
His caravan is attacked as it sweeps grandly along
The despot shouts, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”
Into a concrete pipe underneath the road he will dive
In a last-ditch effort that he might somehow stay alive
“Don’t shoot me, my sons,” he does fearfully cry
But it is on that dreaded day he finds he must die
Perhaps the wisest ancient writings he should have read
It tells the killer it is by man that his blood will be shed
Iam Gautama buddha, an enlightened despot of East Asia, Who met the mass of Christ or christmas, I delighted to see the Christian tree, I remembered the similar bodhi tree, under which I got enlightenment, I have seen Jesus Christ, the messiah of Christianity as a great Bodhisattva, I considered the month December. as a notable one in which Christmas and Bodhi day took place, I advocated the virtues like. generosity, kindness and consideration, which were followed by christianity, I focused on universal values like
peace, love and kindness Which were championed by Christian,
I believe resurrection strongly,
Which was confirmed by Christ, Who raised from the dead on the third day after his crucifixion, I propagated humanism in South East Asia, This was continued by the son of God Who spread the humanistic values. through out the whole world,
Maya's son was happy to meet Mary's son, Who sought the kingdom of God.
My heart is a despot
I'm desperate
Forgive me, Lord, for I have fallen
My heart, it spins
Their mind sins
Turning from my better judgement
[To evil's chagrin]
Her venom still spews
My mind loves dissent, and follows, in her shoes
I fall backwards into this darkness once more
There much to lose
Why pick-and-choose?
I'll lose my morals by night-fall
I live in dread
We're better off dead--
I'll live this frivilous lie, again, instead...
Desperate man
Potting a nation
in his oval head
Flim Flam
the hero man
sold his story
and away he ran
From Hanoi to DC
before swamps could be drained
karma would catch him
and rot out his brain
But the damage was done
in the Great Halls of power
as his bombs of war
the whole world did scour
So what is now left
when the hero has faded
same as it was
a nation all jaded
Clamoring to praise
what was clearly a fool
a spoiled near despot
the ultimate tool.
(8/25/2018)
Let’s crack down
On the cracked brained crackpot
Lunatic ideas that are certifiably crackers
Screwball cuckoo nuts and such ways
Sure, his is crafty and cunning
A nonsensical narcissist
Mad in a somber maniacal manner
But wait say the dupable, we want this despot
We voted for him -anything is better than a woman
Besides, we enjoy his despicable bullying ways
It is in the all surveying gaze of the sun that I concede to the veil of sanctity
harbouring a humane presence in me.
It is in the light of day that a lurking sinister figure hides and takes refuge in the guise of my shadow.
It is during the eve that a poet knocks on my being and exhales the vital essence of his expression into these empty words, bringing them to life.
But it is in the lonely night's chill that I am engulfed by the vast expanse of this shadow.
And as an ominous breeze sways my curtain gently aside ,
the faint incandesent glow from the outside breathes life into an obscure picture now in full fledged motion.
A trip into the heart of the soviet land,
A remorseless Stalin gleaming at an imaginary crowd atop the podium at Red Square .
A despot is born in a world plunged in darkness.
The shadow awaits the day the sun will never rise again.
He bears in hand old guiles,
And tons of wiles he wields
Across breath-mired worlds,
Upon sands of mortal fields.
His chilling senses waning fall,
And eyes darkish with tired sins
Beget thoughts bitterer than gall,
Prowling in malice-hoisted stilts.
With creeds devoid of marrow,
He's exchanged sense for myths;
Seeking to mar glittering faiths
Twice before the roosters crow.
His date with Hades' gallows
Draws nigh with every thrust
Of ill-tipped sword into virtue,
Muting Lord-chastened fellows
Unbowed by lead-heavy woes.
Creativity…
undemocratic
Tyrants of insight,
breaking new ground
Vision on fire,
effigy’s burning
Painting’s unframed
—all muses set free
(The New Room: November, 2020)
The pictures of sorrow--people fleeing
the land they love--who wanted freedom
above all.
These images will long haunt us,
as they should.
Yet, many stay to face the wrath of a despot
who only wants to claim the once-free land
as his own.
So, he sends tanks to flatten buildings
missiles to kill the children
silence their singing.
Can he be human--composed of blood and bone
the same as those he kills...
the same as all.
How can this happen? Have we not learned?
Our hearts break for you, Ukraine.
The courage of Ukraine people astounds us all
and makes us proud.
Generous Poland, and people of the World
who embrace strangers
and share their homes
This is Love.
Dear God, please save Zelensky to lead again,
when skies are blue
and only raindrops fall.
March 9, 2022
for Kyiv Poetry Contest
by Kai Michael Neumann
folks on the canter
as though they were etched in stone.
despot hoots slyly
Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's-
but Caesar has stolen everything:
the land,the tongue,the airwaves,
even the prayers we whispered under stars.
Render unto God what is God's -
but God is tired of excuses,
God wants justice,not jingles.
God wants bread for the barefoot.
God wants truth that does't trend.
So tell Caesar:
We are the new prophets bro,
we carry Scripture in spray cans,
we baptize pavements with protest songs,
and our psalms wear hoodies and sneakers.
Tell him the meek are armed
with metaphors and memories,
Tell him our tithes is uprising,
our sermon is survival
our altar is the street.
Render unto Caesar his coins -
we're doing trading our souls.
For the kingdom of the poor is rising,
And the drum is the only law we obey now