Best Dignitaries Poems
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Enclosed in a glass casket
Cuddled in a flower-decked basket
She lay serene as ever
No sign of her past fervor
Resting in her last abode
Before the journey by road
To her final burial site
For performing the last rite
Dignitaries came to pay their last respect
Placed a wreath, sad and circumspect
Consoled the members who were dear
To reduce their sorrow and repress a tear
She ruled the state for over a decade
Hailed as the Iron lady, never swayed
Adored by the masses, especially poor
She was the mother to all and a doer
Millions of mourners thronged the street
Wishing she was alive for them to meet
Sea of humanity surged in a melancholy state
Thumping their chests and lamenting their fate
Alas! She can’t hear their mourning cries
It’s a feeling no one can ever reprise
Slowly the coffin was lowered into the grave
The sea responded with a mighty wave.
UNSUPPORTED CODE
Brewing a temperamental storm in its hurt
Hot and heavy for our once marvellous heart
Death’s shadow creeps in the once blue lagoon
Attempting to flush us down the dark side of the moon
Our humanity seeks definition in it's arrested development
'cause it’s a clear violation to exist without inducement
Seven billion signatories signed a petition to turn a blind eye
As a handful of dignitaries sighed indifference whilst so many continueed to die
To have lived in Africa and never having seen a wild animal
Our children will grow up deprived of mother nature's endearment - this is criminal!
To never have climbed and fallen out of a tree is to never have known true freedom
And to continue ignoring the ‘Earth Song’ is to relinquish our own kingdom
So as we stand erect at the top of the food chain
Proud of our accomplishments and toast ostentatiously to a flawed campaign
We slowly suffocate on the fumes of our own parasitic self-indulgence
'cause the now forgotten parable – of the blue marble – doesn’t pivot around our existence
08-13-2015
Contest:
Mystic Rose's NEW FRONTIERS OR GREATER CONSCIOUSNESS
I lose my fingers keeping count
the number of kids lost by murder count
in the eastern districts media houses dread
Patches of brown-black roofs on aerial view
Aunt hills of buildings single roomed
Shoot to kill, a governing tool
Stiff figures of teens bullet riddled
a common thing amongst those
shortlisted by fate to call home
Survival be the theme
U haven't heard of Vumilia
a small suburb rich in thugs
at least that's the word best used
by the papers you so dearly trust
To denote a group of youths
unexposed to a mastery of trades
The elderly in their twenties
those swift enough to dodge bullets
agile enough to survive the batsmen
and have caught the eyes of political dignitaries
war veterans with all due respect
Kim was almost nineteen
died graffited with bullet holes
Sarah was barely seventeen
wrong place at the wrong time
shooter: a blue boy in his fortys
We hath from a vicinity
where weakness is a rare condition
and the site of a parked car
sparks a dollar bill imagery
crowded class rooms, empty bellies
a deadbeat government
a thing called hope
I was flabbergasted when given the chance
To join the renowned Roscoe's Oddity Of Circus
With no actual talent to speak of
I was pretty much dead in the water worthless
But Roscoe in all of his wisdom
Put me in charge of the Bubble machine
Low and behold people
Turns out...Bubbles is "ME"
I started out with simple patterns
Blowing one treasure at a time
As things progressed rather quickly
I soon had Bubbles dancing in Mumba lines
There wasn't a Bubble imagined
In which I could not achieve
But like I said at the very start
Turns out...Bubbles is "ME"
I even perfected what I like to call
The "Fantabulious Bubbles De jour"
In the Bubble circles in which I blow
I've become quite the Bubble Lore
My Bubble forte soon became
Floating Bubbles of Super Stars
I'm not one to "POP" Bubble names
Suffice it to say you know who they are
These days you don't have to go to the Circus
If you'd like my talent to see
I'm the one who does those Bubbles with the tiny words
In the Sunday comics you read
Why I've even been to the U.N.
Where the "Big Cheese" was highly pleased
The way I blew name tags and place mats
For all the visiting Dignitaries
But my favorite pastime after all these years
Even with all the fortune and fame I've found
Is relaxing with my Circus buddies
And blowing Bubbles of "Bubbles the Clown"
Just think when I joined the Circus
I had no talent in which to show
Who knew all it was that I needed
Was one good bubble to blow
It is noon on the day of the summer festival
Dai the gardener had used the rotavator daily
The grass was lush, green and level
Madam Clara’s fortune telling booth had been pitched.
The young boys were on radar alert ready to shout,
When they spotted the civic dignitaries were near,
Notes in hand the one read I won’t refer to previous festivals
Loud groans prevailed, wish we could gag him one shouted loudly.
Nan asked what’s that noise in the distance
I think I hear a toot from a steam train
Rumbling past the racecar track
Yes you did we all shouted
The day had been fun a smiling mam and dad,
Two children and a pup fast asleep journeyed home
penned 12 May 2018
Contest : Palindrone by Joseph May
I had a dream last night it reminded me of chaos
Nightmares, the reality self identified the sacrifices i made do they payoff
The butcher's got the blade in his hand but does he got a spade in his pocket
To gamble with your life , to throw it down the the drain, evil schemes do they prosper, mayhem makes it's appearance it's all like clockwork,
we all got internal engines in our brains that's why the enemies bent on
having my hand on a pillow before dignitaries ritualism is a killer
As i go back to calling on my ancestors for guidance
Ancient as the dark star who ever basked in the presence of darkness
Serpents clothe in sheep's clothing the poison still still in me only
because it didn't take my life my mind must remain open
Every 3 seconds someone dies that's the cold wind
Now bodies swell on the surface of the ocean
And earthquakes make rocks into the face of old men
Things confuse me easily these days
it might be age or some kind of rare
oncoming dementia preparing me for
a difficult but joyous passage of elder
time fulfilling my wildest dreams or perhaps
a period of prolonged revelation of prophecies
and keys that I alone will possess and heads
of State and ministers and elegant dignitaries
will stand in line to have an audience with me
just to have the good
fortune of hearing a
few pearls of wisdom
that will completely change
their perceptions and ways of thinking about
governing irritated populations that will make
them realize that harmony amongst all the peoples
of the world is a great and simple thing a kind of Babel in reverse and that the hunger for power for conquest and for control is a long and twisted journey over too many broken bodies of thought too many centuries down dark and lonely roads
with no demarcations or clues
no sacrificial boundaries and a
wasted expense of Capital on tanks and rockets and plutonium and the building up of armies instead of cultivating an educated and healthy populace capable of enjoying their lives and nature without destroying it and each other
and that pointing fingers
and screaming and filling valleys and neighborhoods with rivers of blood and lifeless bodies old and young is much less profitable and will prove over the long haul that the myriad unknowns and commonalities and fears we all share are far less destructive than the surface disparities that somehow always manage to turn into declarations of aggression and oppression and the bankrupting of moralities and policies and families…
or maybe it has to do with my
not getting enough sleep last night
or something to do with changes in my
eating habits or the climate or a reaction
to the round-the-clock radio waves
that surround us all
The Hunt
One bar broke and then another for the rapid break
The escape was quick and painless
The man ran for his life from enemies
At top speed he fled with nothing on his feet
Sweat exuded, poured from his body
Breathing deep into the jungle dark
Captors ran too to take his life with knives and rifles
Thick jungle traps laughed at them as they ran by
Pursued their prisoner through labyrinths of vines and branches
Screaming angrily with lit torches through the pitch black night
Close behind, the soldiers chased their prey
Running, panting below the canopy
Shots rang out burning by his ears
Limbs flailing as the bullets flew blindly through the tangled vegetation
Jumping over logs and bushes, petrified of dying
Trudging through a rapid stream, bent on taking him down as well
He emerged on the other bank with a bleeding foot
A piranha mistook it for a lure, tore off a toe, swallowed it for dinner
Pain and fear set in while he hobbled on into the darkness
Panthers glared frantically at the injured man
Sized him up as breakfast, less one toe
Even insects had no respect for dignitaries from another land
They too needed to be fed
The soldiers had their troubles also as the jungle storms set in
Snuffed out their torches and tortured them with stinging rain
Scorpions and snakes are cold and hunger for a change
Tired of eating the same old rodents and stupid birds
Running through the jungle is not always a safe undertaking
When hunting down your prey to take a life
You never know who is on the menu from day to day
Perhaps someone with a different taste, from the human race
Someone who escaped from another plate
Or someone with knives and guns
Will find another kind of fate and dinner date
Voice Of The Real Victim
Girls have me long as I increase her beauty, I’m the hair
But people use me creepy, it’s not fair.
Me the forehead being in a full entity,
Though I can grab your mind which is so shitty.
Me filled with salt water
Dreamt to be amazed with glowing colors,
But now with full of anger
Destroyed by devils with endless hunger.
With the sense of smell, I’m the nose
To those who doesn’t have nerves
By your sight I can smell your evil thirst,
And also, I can sense your noxious lust
The two attractive part, I’m the lips,
Only with love give me the kiss.
Me the neck, a narrow connecting,
But this brutal act makes me dying.
I create different sounds; I’m the reason why you speak
Don’t press me hard, as I’m a little weak,
Just like the sweet voice of the nightingale and sparrow
I cry within me, my anger and sorrow.
We the twin organs on a women’s chest
We produce milk for the infants to drink.
Why you demons strike us for the taste,
You make all our virginity to go waste.
I’m the shelter for your child,
I have nothing to make you wild.
What’s there in me to snoop?
Dignitaries don’t have an act to sue the group.
Longer we are attractive we look,
We bear a lot of pain in running and working hard ,
You break me to avoid getting kicked
Forgetting that, I have a life behind the wrecked.
I bear the pain of giving birth
But misused by people who lack to know it’s worth.
Women society should be made honorable
Who should also teach their own ennoble.
………………..
Legend Of The Black Dove (Part 11)
"Destination Unknown"
John Norrington joins his friends. As the storm is approaching
the Columbia they attempt once again to return to their own time
and home in England.The mist engulfs the ship and the wind
becomes gusty, Captain Owens and his crew are ready for any
immediate manuever they may have to handle to keep the ship
on course. The ship slows then stops, things seem to appear
normal, there is Dover Harbour. The ship now heads in to port,
John Norrington and Bill Jenkins disembark from the ship and
travel by stage coach to Norrington manor where they are
greeted by their servants and staff.Hours later Bill Jenkins
goes on duty at the hotel pub, only to notice his adversary
Jack Wild standing at the bar, Jenkins slips out the back
door for a moment to tell John Norrington about Wild's
presence, Norrington could not understand that Wild is still
free undaunted by Jenkins being present. The coach
is now ready along with it's cargo of gold, the dignitaries
are prepared to leave and Norrington also boards the coach,
being part of the original passengers. The coach then leaves
on time. As it approaches the fateful bend the Wild's outlaws
attack. The coach pulls up and Wild has his gunmen hold the
passengers at gunpoint. Norrington must act quickly, so he
leaps at Wild and knocks him from his horse to the ground.
Norrington pulls out his gun as the outlaws fire at him
gunning him down. He is lying motionless.......
Has Norrington been killed ?
Will the Black Dove save the coach from destruction ?
Don't miss the exciting final conclusion in
Part 12 ...."Terminal Paradox"
Posted the 1st January 2014
Written: 26th August 2013
The greatest comedy of all
Was at her funeral-
MmaUneghe.
The old woman lived for a long, long time
In isolation
And kicked the bucket of abandonment.
They called her "witch."
She was old, unkempt, haggard and shagged
So they called her "witch."
At her funeral,
Came all sorts of guests
Invitees and dignitaries.
The real tragedy was in the
Pomp and galore in which
Mma Uneghe's passing was celebrated.
The burial was well celebrated.
A quarter of the expense
Would have given the poor woman
A happy life,
If you know what I mean.
She then transited
From dust to dust
As the pulpits often say.
She became many, many millions
Of tiny particles of dust to float.
Floating all over earth
And beyond.
Laughing at them as she did
Mocking them as they mourned.
She reached far to the stars
And back as stardusts
To settle on their birthday cakes.
All who abandoned her at old age.
Scorching heat hassled my feet,
as I ambled alongside the beast.
A wooden cup, a water bag and
parched barley meal for a feast.
My shadow exhaled hot fumes
on the dry desert sand.
Days of prolonged journey,
In search of a famous land.
Mounted on the highest
was a man wearing a lowly thawb
With evident fourteen patches,
devoid of a pristine robe.
He ruled the continents
With power and dignity.
He owned a little
Enough to satisfy the brevity.
We took turns to sit on the camel,
to relieve ourselves of the toil.
One could rest and another hold reins,
to guide the beast towards the soil.
He beckoned me to stop
And climb on top.
Holding the reins
of the camel’s clop.
Approaching the purpose
I implored the master.
I did not deem right
for him to ignore his lustre.
“The dignitaries are awaiting the ruler
to command them and direct.
A meagre slave on the summit
Will not give you respect.”
He roared and his eyes crimson
He told me a reality
So easily forgotten
“We were humiliated in entirety
And Islam gave us honour
Shall we then choose this world
And push Allah in the corner.”
When his feet get muddled,
in a blameless puddle.
It stumped me more
and enhanced my lore.
It proved my descent
and that of my ruler
We are made with clay
and will return to it sooner.
A sight to behold awaited some,
as we marched into the city.
Never in history, had they seen
A king holding the rope with simplicity.
A slave riding the camel
Made most men bewildered
Tears flowed down relentlessly,
As the equality in Islam was remembered.
The man with fourteen patches,
raised the banner of Islam
Centuries later we still remember,
his humility and vigorous eemaan.
When the difference between
The ruler and the slave.
Was rendered null by the
faithful and brave.
(Thawb – Long shirt
Eemaan – Belief
Allah - God
Islam – Submission to the will of Allah)
He lived too long and needed to be culled
The Emperor of Exmoor, the nine-foot tall stag;
His country-wide fame may have got him lulled
Into believing that he was invulnerable to be bagged
As magnificent dinner which would proudly enable
Visiting dignitaries at Her Majesty's table
To feast on the flesh of this royal beast;
No - the stag was too old to be relished as meat.
It was his horns that the stalker had in mind
As a trophy to excel the best of its kind;
The emperor succumbed to a well-aimed shot
From a licensed assassin who felled him on the spot.
The Emperor, Pharoah-like, partial to incest
Endangered the continuing survival of the fittest;
Bested by a young buck in a recent wrestling match
His reign had just ended as lord of his patch.
Have you ever been to Edinburgh, Perth or Aberdeen?
Or have you been to London to see Her Majesty the Queen?
Have you flown over Continents or Cities by the score?
Spoken to US Presidents, knocked on dignitaries doors?
Have you followed in others' footsteps, to places quite unique?
So fatigued and tired, that you could hardly speak?
Have you listened to the music from many distant lands,
Played by Pipes and Drums and other interesting bands?
Have you been to far off Countries, where tragedy abounds?
Seen tsunami disasters or shells begin to pound?
Have you walked some streets with pleasure, admired them with glee?
Entered a fine Olde Restaurant for a lovely cup of tea?
Have you wandered in some valley, by a lovely flowing stream?
Or sat beside the seaside in a myriad of dreams?
Have you watched a sporting item or an entertaining show,
Where professional ability left a pleasant afterglow?
Have you considered all the options, which put you to the test?
Or do you really think that you have done your very best?
Life can be quite marvellous, tragic, sad or kind!
It's really what you make it, that gives you peace of mind!
We are lost cities finding reasons
to join our broken aspirations together,
a lost elegies uprooting tubers of yam planted by our forebearers,
dreams seeking for home and abode to abide by in the nexus of classism.
We've missed the track created by our ancestral ancestors in the dark days.
now, the light created by modernity hurt and hunt us through shame.
We keep running into the dire shadows,
Into hollowness, into races that named us betrayals & nothingness.
Race that track down our throats into splitting emptiness and sagging lips.
We lost between thigh of a lady,
Through the celestial eyes of women,
In between fingers of Delilah's make up.
Our name reek of bottles of wants and needs,
Our shadow duplicated in the thought of lost temples.
We printed the map of our cities in our mind eyes,
We foresee the routes of our helmet but we could not trace the fragment of it.
Home is the passport of dignitaries of righteousness and holiness.
Our kind minds the animation of this movie called life.
But the thoughts of leaving our shadows
To places where survival and existence
Are two starved fishes - wrestling under water is our fears and doubts.
Our bodies are home of sluts finding reasons to live!
Our minds are carved memories
our legs have created more pains than the rebellious act of Boko Harams.
How do you name boys like us when you place more values on baby girls?
You said we were stronger and you left us to find freedom,
musical notes of songs which is to be
Sang by boys who grew into men
Gulping crooked waters- for strength
We were the origin
Of those unclad boys rejected.
We seek for the way to retrace our way into future built before us.
.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent