Best Fratricide Poems
Our supposed modern scientific genius
May in fact just be our last fatal weakness.
This technological house of cards we've made
Left humanity walking along the edge of a razor blade.
How much could you buy or sell using debit or credit
If someone or something wiped out the internet.
A computer virus, terrorists, hackers, or an E.M.P.--
Will wipe out our hard-earned wealth eventually.
Killing beneficial insects is almost like fratricide.
Think really hard again about ever using insecticide.
How many fields of vegetable plants and fruit trees
Will ever bear fruit if there are no more bees.
Rather than organically producing more living topsoil,
We're killing what remains with chemicals derived from oil.
As chemical contaminants follows their downward motions,
Choral reefs and plankton are dying in the oceans.
As a species, we've all become germ-o-phobic neurotics,
Religiously trying to kill all microbes with antibiotics.
But pharmaceutical medicine will never defeat every bug,
So one of these days there's certain to be a super plague.
So will we all starve because we cannot buy or sell,
Or because the oceans and farmlands have all gone to Hell?
Will we be extinguished by some invincible virus?
What ever it be, the fault will probably lie in us!
I wish I could offer some brilliant inspired solution,
But remember that extinction is also a part of evolution.
You may write me off as some kind of nutty alarmist,
But people that know me consider me to be an optimist.
Famished and flagging footsoldiers;
formerly fitters and farmers.
Facing fatigue, fitful fever,
faeces and foul, foetid fungi.
Fostering feelings, frustrated,
for this faraway, foreign field.
Forsaking fissures and furrows,
forced forwards with fleetness of foot.
Firearms flash and fragments fly far,
feigning the firmament aflame.
Fighting so fierce and ferocious,
fratricide set free on this field.
Fuelled by freedom, nay, falsehood;
for their fellows and friends, foremost.
Forays so fraught with fine failure,
fatally fettered from the first.
Forged by such fatuous fawners,
focus firmly fixed on this field.
Forfeiting furtive and fiendish,
fulfilment was falsely forecast.
Fate flexes her fickle fingers,
future’s foretold and foreshadowed.
Faustian favours forthcoming,
for folly to feud for a field.
Families of fine forefathers,
fought fiercely, for fear we’d forget.
Forthright and filial feelings,
forgo fun and frivolity.
Familiar flora forms focus,
for the fallen in Flanders Field.
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8 syallables on every line (www.howmanysyllables.com)
November 2018
(This is my original / extended version)
I wanted to do something special - and a bit different - to mark the centenary of the end of The Great War (11 November 1918). This poem is dedicated to all the brave souls lost defending freedom during that terrible conflict (and all conflicts since).
I share thy chains oh Farah!
in my hands and heart they hurt.
I share thy stains from afar
for my skies are red and tears fill my pot
I feel the frailty of thy fatherland,
in my heart lays the fallen palestinian.
I feel the fratricide in thy fatherland;
the innocent bloods speak to me: a nigerian
Though my hands are hanged
to the cross of continental border
yet my pen is pegged to thy prayer pad,
together we can end the yellings in yonder
I share thy shoes oh Farah!
walking in the hope of a bright future for all palestinian,
I share thy ship, sailing from afar,
cruising with the compassion of a noble Nigerian.
Homicide and genocide
Need punishments to be applied
And fratricide and suicide
Are awful – that can’t be denied.
But something else I can’t abide,
Although, in this case, no one died,
Cannot be what we take in stride –
A crime that’s known as verbicide.
Unlike insect- or herbicide,
Its perpetrators tend to hide
And, if confronted, they’d be snide;
Corrections down their backs would slide.
Some criminals are hanged or fried
But as for writers, here’s a guide –
To those engaged in verbicide,
May lots of tsking be supplied.
Sarah Johnson is, and will always be a cold, heartless murderer. She has no empathy for what she did to both of her own parents, Diane and Alan Johnson. Her friends and family can't even believe that a sweet girl would kill both of her own parents over some guy. They knew that Sarah wasn't supposed to get into this so-called "serious relationship" with this guy named Bruno Santos. The illegal immigrant was three years older than her, especially when he is still known for having a criminal history. It's sad to hear that Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had to die that soon. The entire Johnson family had their lives ahead of them. Sarah Johnson is a heartless liar, an assassin, and on top of all that, she has no soul. The girl was afraid that both of her parents would go to the police and have her so-called "boyfriend" arrested and charged for statutory rape, so Miss Johnson killed them. Now, that was a cowardly move. The reason why Sarah Johnson had killed both of her own parents (mother and father) is because for one, they were going to send him straight to jail for dating a then-sixteen-year-old and they grounded her for life, as in, "indefinitely." Everybody, including her brother, knows that Sarah has no heart and no soul. But in the end, I guess society is better off with Sarah Marie Johnson in prison for the rest of her life. And as far as the citizens of Bellevue, Idaho, her family and her high school friends are concerned, prison is where she belongs. She wasn't abused by both of her parents, but I still can't believe she killed them in cold blood. Now that's what everybody's talking about: a cold, calculates sociopath with no remorse for what she did and had felt no empathy. Sarah Johnson will always be remembered as a bad woman with a selfish ego. And if all types of homicides (matricide, fratricide, and/or parricide) continue to increase, there's no telling what bad thing might happen next.
A broken mirror
A gustily reflection of misfortunes
I don’t recognise myself anymore
An honest look at my dishonesty
Yes, I’m a liar
The image distorted with each retreating step of shame
I take, and I move ten steps backwards in life
The falling pieces like sharp knifes
Pierce the ground with screaming cries
No!!!
Did I just dig my own grave?
The earth bleeds (from me)
Soaking the ground with broken promises
I try to flee the scene
Hoping never to be seen
To hide from my guilty conscience
Hoping not to be convicted for seven years
By poetic justice
And the crush of his firm finger
He had pointed straight at me
The lie exposed
Blood on my hands,
My fist broke the mirror
My lack of character,
A life of no restraint
Of anger and hate
My over indulgences and cutting corners
All brought to bare
The broken mirror echoes my scattered, dying soul
It intrigues me like a thousand pieces of a puzzle,
Challenging me to put my life back together
You’re such a liar, I dare you!
If I’m honest, I know only I can,
But my inner voice is unrelenting
No you won’t you liar!
I put my neck on the block
A voluntary fratricide
To be rid of this inner, rotten core
A mind like Pandora’s box
They say garbage in garbage grows!
The contents need to be forgotten
The combination unknown
Self-destruction mode on do-not-unlock
I accept I can never run away from my own thoughts
This outer shell content with my decision
For seven years it exhausted me
It haunted me,
Assimilated anew in the fields of second chances
Reassembled from pieces of glass and blood
I return to me a complete reflection
Famished and flagging footsoldiers;
facing fatigue, fitful fever,
faeces and foul, foetid fungi.
Fostering feelings, frustrated,
for this faraway, foreign field.
Forays so fraught with fine failure;
forfeiting furtive and fiendish,
fatally fettered from the first.
Forged by such fatuous fawners,
for folly to feud for a field.
Forced forwards with fleetness of foot;
firearms flash and fragments fly far,
feigning the firmament aflame.
Forces fight so ferociously,
fratricide set free on this field.
Forthright and filial feelings;
families of fine forefathers,
fought fiercely, for fear we’d forget.
Familiar flora forms focus,
for the fallen in Flanders Field.
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8 syallables on every line (www.howmanysyllables.com)
November 2018
Entered in Brian Strand's "Contest No 515".
(1st Place)
I wanted to do something special - and a bit different - to mark the centenary of the end of The Great War (11 November 1918). This poem is dedicated to all the brave souls lost defending freedom during that terrible conflict (and all conflicts since).
Villanelle : When countries slaughter maim who brands that homicide
When countries slaughter maim who brands that homicide
Proclaim citizens who kill under the patrie’s pennant heros
Permissible by far all things done to boost national pride
Killing for your god even to ward off a remark thought snide
Fellow believers’ll enshrine your name in martyrs pantheons
When countries slaughter maim who brands that homicide
Leaders lie cheat slander even – forbid – commit fratricide
Citizens shrug shoulders and pass it all off as political woes
Permissible by far all things done to boost national pride
Sick secret service scions see to it their victims all slide
Down the slippery slope of unaccountable anonymous blows
When countries slaughter maim who brands that homicide
And yet leaders and preachers claim peace for all with pride
Their individual charters and scriptures back sinister goals
Permissible by far all things done to boost national pride
Why then history relegates the greatest actions taken at tide
To memory’s junk pile where fester countries and their heros
When countries slaughter maim who brands that homicide
Permissible by far all things done to boost national pride
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Speak to me of true love
And I’ll show you a dog
Preach to me of wetlands
I’ll take you to a bog
Sing about sweet Christmas cheer
And we’ll read about suicide
Discourse on the sanctity of childhood
I’ll teach you of fratricide
Write poems on the joys of life
And I’ll listen to your lies
Rhapsodize on friendship
We’ll learn how friendship dies
Show me purple clouds at sunset
I’ll warn you of storms to come
Rave about the fires of hell
I’ll show you where I’m from
July 28, 2015
The Gods must be crazy
Or they never lived
And those that depend on them to give
Blessings peace and life after death
Had better not be holding their breath
If They live They’ve given so much
The Inquisition Jihad and such
War after war after war after war
Priestly abuse the concept of sin
And so much more I don’t know where to begin
Survival of the fittest
The reign of elitist
Slavery poverty robbery atrocity
Homicide patricide fratricide genocide
It really truly is hard to decide
What the hell The Gods may have decried
Creating a species hell bent on suicide
There may be good hidden in the garbage
But still no reason or need to pay homage
We are not here for any good reason
Just an accident – physics high treason
Morality is not a command from on high
But rather necessity for us to get by
In this heaven or hell we call life here on earth
Something of value to give life worth birth
December 2015
My Lost Legacy
At the land’s end I stand, like my ancestors of Indus-Valley
Looking for my lost legacy, while the tri-sea emitted in hue
Dishes once prepared for celestial wedding but poured in adieu
Into its mouth, as sand, shells and beads, in repeated dilly-dally.
At the land’s end I stand, like rishi Agastya, who captured
Whole River in his rage, once stood here on mission to level
Peninsula Bharat as world converged for Siva’s marital revel
In Himalayas; if crow marooned his rage, row my riches ruptured.
At the land’s end I stand, like Parasurama who in a sober mood
Once wielded his axe pushing Arabian Sea to make a land, lush
With peppers, heating even snake Vasuki to vomit in holy blush;
If paternal command made his matricide, fratricide pursued our feud.
At the land’s end I stand where once stood Ramakrisna’s disciple
After stirring conscience of world in Chicago; beyond here was held
Assembly of great litterateurs ere the second was in temple city held;
If ocean immersed my land and literature, emotion forged our typal.
At the land’s end I stand still, as hands of time forever pull sun
From eastern bay in its zeal of morn, only to push it down western
Sea sealing day on its rolling wheel; legacy once to powers western
I lost; I seek once again, striving with vigor tirelessly like the sun.
Walk up to a stranger and look 'em straight in the eye
Keep looking until the world fades away at your side
and you're here, now, unbounded by silly "time"
with your "selves", that construct you feel so deep inside
Wait...
Do you see race or just some atoms that somehow came alive?
No colors, these meat coated skeletons are just a ride
A bunch of moths mistaking the moon for a porch light
Merriam Webster should replace humankind with fratricide
Cause we've been at war with our brothers like it was implied
Steal your cone cells and literally rob you [color] blind
Then maybe, just maybe, we could all see "I" to "I"
Numbers Subtract At Dawn
(4 & 6 Take Sides)
Number 4 and 6 are safe for the moment basking in their wholeness
In a sun, on their side, as they stand holy in the light
Erect, gesturing, complete, as numbers should be
Enemies destroyed most digits starting with the perfect ones
Calling them irrelevant, having them erased, having them removed
Fractions diminish, section by section, cut off from equals
Fratricide is common among numerators and denominators
Fighting to be on top
Major math, primary numbers, stand alone
To figure out the calculus of it all
Zero explains much, holds integers as “whole”, as accountable, in contempt
Real numbers hate them for their size, exposed parts, being divisive
(Division is a crime)
5 does everything in its power to become the number to its left or right
It calls them neighbors
4 and 6 will have nothing to do with it
They call 5 a “numeric perversion”
4 will always be 4. 6 will always be 6
They both want 5 to leave the country quickly (at once)
All numbers should be reduced by day break
They will comply and murmur down
Subtraction takes place at dawn
Where the countdown begins at once
Starting with the number one
4 & 6 take sides but don’t change
Nothing else remains
Sometimes for fun men worship a gun
To shoot a recruit, to vanquish a victim
Whose only fault lies in a bun
The poor nibble in a starving team
Barrels and muzzles dominate
In thoughts, actions, deeds and priorities
Held high in fake media to disseminate
Philosophies and heresies propagated in sororities
With convoluted creeds
Infants decry when refugees die
In droves as their faith pleads
On its knees for the dissolution of the lie
Shouted aloud by a boisterous crowd
Gathered despite a genocide
Perpetrated by the mighty and the proud
Who pronounce their side innocent of fratricide
In the DRC, South Sudan and Syria
Where Christians suffer untold humiliation
Malaria, starvation, indignity and diarrhea
And unprecedented persecution and the violation
Of human rights
While the UN watches inept
In the face of blatant veto fights
Pursued with vigour kept
High on an agenda of futility
Arguing a fruitless case
Resting on the volatility and motility
Of the talk shop whose base
Inspires revulsion
At the incompetence and pretence
To take action on the expulsion
Of sanity and competence
Hitherto worshipped as holy grail
By the General Assembly
Whose voice and choice are shot off the rail
By the mighty and bubbly
Who appoint themselves arbiters
To determine nothing gone wrong in Yemen
Despite the death of powerless characters
When the Security Council in unison shouts amen.
Freddy filched Frankie’s fav’rit fudge,
fearless Frankie flattened Freddy to the floor.
Father Fletcher fearing fratricide
fastened Frankie’s feet
firmly to the farmyard fence while friends
fixed Freddy’s fractious frame
fast to the family Ford.
December 8, 2020
contest: Alliteration
sponsor: Eve Roper