Best Golden Child Poems
He had always been her hero
She his golden child
The youngest and only girl of five children
He was completely beguiled
He loved and treated each equally
A good man to them all
He was kind ,loving and protective
To them he was ten feet tall
She loved him like no other
A bond never to break
He ….would always be her hero
Her ….his treasured child of grace
Now she sits in a chair opposite him
Her eyes welled with tears
Angrily he asks her “Who are you”?
“What are you doing here”?
I'm very small
I am called Standing Tall
My story to be read as i live through it all.
Our Dakota lands are forest and vast
Where our ancestors have hunted
From long in the past.
Our tribes are, a confederation of seven
With our language of Lakota, Sioux heaven
We stand proud as we remember our past
And look to our gods, to make it all last.
A silhouette on the prairie hill i see
This shape in the distance is new to me
As we sleep in the night, we hear guns and blows
We arise from our camp, to look for the noise
We creep on the prairie to their surprise
Under the moon, where the land would flow
No longer the Buffalo.
We mount our ponies to challenge these men
What gives them this right to kill and maim
Bodies of beasts, furs cut away
Missing heads, a ghastly slay.
On reaching their camp our bows stretched
Arrows screech, hit the wretched
Watch them fall to the prarie floor
Just like the Buffalo did hours before.
Years have passed as we are moved from our lands
These poisonous men, and their poisonous glands
Bringing illness fever and strife
Ending many a Lakota life.
We reach a point in History
Which made the white man sit up and see
Their Golden Child General George Custer
And the Little Big Horn, my what a disaster.
Arapaho, Cheyenne and us Lakota too
Sliced the Blue Jackets, their Scouts too
The US Cavalry would have their glee
At the Battle Of Wounded Knee
Where Siiting Bull would finally rest
Standing Tall's story last's the test
If we Indians had the same resources
Like the silhouette on the hill
These praries we always had. would be ours still.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/native-americans.php
I'm curse with pride the golden child surrounded by scream and cries.
Standing tall I refuse cry speaking the truth I don't believe in lies.
Raise in the streets but yet I still can't stand the heat my mind wondering I'm in too deep.
Right now my words is my only drive I'm ducking death so through the night I creep.
Carrying the world on my back the heart of a G standing tall while I face my enemies.
And because of my pride you will always remember me.
Because I believe in loyalty so I will always represent for my family.
Cause to me their love is like heaven to touch and I need their energy.
But why is this world fill with misery why can't we live together in unity.
It's time for a change and we can start by changing our community.
Once long ago, when Kings and dragons ruled the Earth,
there came to be that a golden Fairy Queen
was pregnant and about to give birth to a radical child.
All the King's court knew this child would be gifted,
destined to do great things, for a prophecy spoke of its coming.
When the nobles heard of this pending birth,
they promptly reported it to the ing.
In those days, ignorance had a grip on the land
and change was strictly forbidden.
All thinkers and learned folks were feared and despised.
The King was evil and ordered his knights to find and
kill the Queen and her golden child.
The Moon turned blood red with horror, snuffing out Her nocturnal light
so the people were cloaked in darkness at night,
and once the Moon stopped shining, the tides no longer came.
The scared villagers panicked and begged the King to call back his knights
and spare the Fairy Queen.
But the King was driven mad with anger
and vowed he'd slay the Queen and her golden child;
nothing they said could dissuade him from accomplishing this.
The people turned to the dragons and tried to persuade them with flattery
to stop the King, or no one would gaze at their serpentine beauty again.
But the King got wind of their ploy and banished all dragons from his land.
And still, to this day, every dragon has stayed away.
But the knights stumbling in the dark could not find the Fairy Queen,
so her child was born amidst their chaos, and She named it Democracy.
The Moon was so relieved; She beamed with joy,
and Her light shone again upon the land.
The people denounced the King when Democracy was born,
and as prophesied, a brand-new era came into being;
one where dragons and kings would eventually fade into memory.
Gaia in white flame burns
Yaldabaoth himself spurns
A second cycle turns
The Golden Age returns
The first-begotten son
Comes down from heaven’s sun
Barbelo, Armoured Queen
Look gently at this scene
Of Christ’s birth long foreseen
In this iron machine
Hearts of iron will melt
Hearts of gold will be felt
Hearts, gold and meek
Will rule from the word’s peak
Valis will rule and speak
With the lute of mystique
This birth in mystery
Will be our victory
As Polloi rules here
The first child will appear
Clearing the mist of fear
Every past sin and tear
Will be washed away
Clearing a narrow way
The world soul will rain down
Hedera all around
Lilies to make a crown
Acanthus for renown
Myrrh, gold, and frankincense
Without any expense
All goats will return home
All blind cobras that roam
Will be under death’s dome
Miles under farms and loam
Sheep will not fear lions
Men will see aeons
In the stream of Dead Sea
He’ll become a man free
Oak trees will weep honey
On every wild thorn-tree
Grapes will turn Persian plum
Gold will be the plain’s sum
But iron will remain
At sea, war ships will reign
Wars will bring pain
Walls will cover the plain
But when you will grow up
Gaia will drink the cup
Please, come soon, in our plight
You, the viceroy of might
The globe bows to your light
The earth and the blue height
Beseech you to be set free
From Yaldabaoth’s dark sea
You, our lord and brother
Child, smile at your mother
Speak words from the Father
If your lips will not stir
No light will bless your wine
And wisdom shall not shine
(Gnostic poem based on the ancient Roman Virgil's fourth eclogue, often interpreted as foretelling the birth of Christ)
The leaves, long gone, each golden child carried
on autumn draft to reach a season's death,
portends bitter squalls will blow the harried
vines with long, cruel winter's icy breath.
Now slumber long beneath the warming banks
upon your tender roots deep in the earth.
All while stillness patrols your sentried ranks,
you strengthen sap to bring a new year's birth.
The spice of burning wood pervades the air
as gentle snipping of the pruning shear
sets free your limbs for summer fruit to bear;
from tender newborn buds, which soon appear.
And so the cycle starts for wondrous vine
to once again turn sunshine into wine.
Miss Sunshine was her sobriquet, and she the golden child
All through her happy infant days she wore that winning smile
She loved the colors nature gave, but sensitive and shy
She suffered from the thoughtlessness of some at junior high.
So music was her salvation, she practiced all the while
And breathed new life into sad songs with unique wondrous style
And harmony came naturally, in shades of dark and light
As with her paintings and her song she kept her spirit bright.
In the Valley of the Nightingales, by peaceful waters there
That sylvan voice of honeyed cream still dances in the air
Gifted by the shooting star with heart and mind so pure
The softly spoken blue chanteuse too fragile to endure.
Then morphine -laced to ease her pain and lifted to her chair
She sang out What A Wonderful World and left pure magic there
Adored by friends and family, her last performed goodbye
She graced the notes with perfect pitch and heard her angels cry.
She never got that little house, dreamed of, by ocean's roar
She never sang out to the seas from treasured golden shore
The brigade choir out of sight down some yellow brick road
Sings clear with Eva clothed in white, in Toto's fields of gold.
In the Valley of the Nightingales, by peaceful waters there
That sylvan voice of honeyed cream still dances in the air
Gifted by the shooting star with heart and mind so pure
The softly spoken blue chanteuse too fragile to endure.
INSPIRED BY FACTS FROM THE BOOK - EVA CASSIDY- SONGBIRD
HEAR ME SING THIS IN CONCERT.
ON YOUTUBE - VALLEY OF THE NIGHTINGALES, LOUIS SPENCE
THANK YOU.
One sister is wise
And infinitely older
The other is recent
And still learning
At one time she
Was admired and respected
But now the golden child
Takes all the love for herself
With waterfalls she
Creates a rainbow
The other uses pixels
In which we can view anytime we like
One kills thousands with wind and rain
To gain attention
While the other
Simply shuts down
One was original
Appearing at the very first
The other was a jealous girl
A half baked idea
The hippies will eat all organic apples
on their way to the Apple store.
At the same time we poets type on our keyboards,
"And oh how the seagulls soared."
We can't pick our family.
We love them both.
Finished before start
Colts fans leap from Bandwagon
Peyton Manning's hurt
I know I'm not perfect and make mistakes.
Yes, I'm temperamental and things may break.
My moods are intolerable; this I agree,
but why is it so hard to accept and love me?
Your only daughter and a bond should be,
but this we’ll never have; I now finally see.
You choose your favorites and criticize me,
while all I’ve searched for is love from thee.
I no longer dwell over who you “think I am”,
coming to my senses of a mother's loving scam.
All my loyalty and love has never been enough,
as motherly caresses are still callously rough.
Thank you mom for lessons, on "how to be a mom".
Watching observantly your lack of motherly charm.
I’m special too mom, although you may disagree.
I’ve discarded the longing of an unheard weeping plea.
You have your golden child, who can do no wrong.
Then your baby; co-dependently feeding him all along.
I’m the mediocre child; invisible to those beautiful eyes,
turning your back on me, not hearing my painful cries.
Don’t be proud and love me for the creation you did make.
I’ve exhausted all avenues; my need for you was my mistake.
I still love you mom, although my heart is torn apart,
but I’m a woman now and it's time for a fresh new start.
Claressa Riddle
“The Lost Generation”
As being black it’s so hard to see the struggles in life we’ve been through,
through the deaths and pain, the hurt the strain and this is what we are left to?
They fought so hard in the battles, from slaves’ master on their horses’ saddle.
Now we sag and brag about who has the newest shoes, who will fight and who
will lose. Dr. Martin Luther King didn’t get shot for nothing and Rosa Parks didn’t
stay seated just to be strutting. We had it all and now we have nothing. We may
not be the richest race, but we can be amazing, we can be Holy, grateful as
grace. We are what we act like, my generation is just full of fools, they cut school,
break the rules and think it’s cool. We kill one another, it does not matter mother,
sister or brother. We destroy what’s beautiful, disrespect our elders, this
generation is not the future, elders don’t have anything to look forward to. Sad
their grandchildren are running the streets, skipping school, having sex at this
age you are headed for the worse. Fourteen with a baby that’s two, got a baby
daddy who don’t want to have or take care of the baby or you. And boys, who treat
girls like toys, use and play with them one day, then move on and play with the
next play toy.
And you wonder why people judge us and label us rude, that’s how we act like
hooligans, like fools. They worked so hard and now were letting them win, the
people who said that we would never be nothing. Well I’m something, I’m a piece
of work my ancestors fought for, I won’t give in to the stupid ways, I won’t fight, I
won’t be this generation’s slave. We’ve got to step it up, because this is all we
have left. You may let them win the battles, but I’m a fighter and they won’t win the
war. Stand confident, smile, for you are a beautiful golden child!
Every time and anytime,
i mistakenly delete or loss a poem
that i have sweated so hard to compose
i feel like,
i have lost a golden child,
but after couples of struggling to retrieve back the poem,
from the land of lost poets,
I normally eventually get it back,
this always happens formally abnormally,
that it keeps me wondering,
Why and how come?
And i notice that,
God always purposely makes me to loss or unintentionally delete my poem,
so that I could write it much better,
and it always gets way better.
But the first informal vanishing feelings,
is always so bashing and banishing,
that if one is not wise, pushing and strong,
that would led to the dearth of a new born poem.
Overtime,
I try to quench,
but I can't bench,
for the toughness of my poem,
never let me remain in softness
because it only deletes from the laptop, paper and surface,
But it never deduct nor abort from my brain
It dances continuously,
like rainstorm in my brain,
non-stop, till it is conceived again,
through ink, then it winks happily at me
This makes me feel like a poetic Hero,
who goes to battle with no sharp armoury,
but with a pen, paper and sharp memory,
and still wins the vigorous war,
which blocks the resurrection of his poem and the success of his sharp vision.
Sleep, New Year …..
Sleep New Year, in cold Winter’s frozen grasp.
From deep slumber dream of the coming year;
Give Old Winter's end to March’s last sharp gasp,
Let playful Spring banish false Winter cheer.
Past the equinox in chilled slumber’s dream
Tell the year’s gifts, set in harsh Winter’s hand,
Which, given to Seasons in turn, will scheme
To let bold Summer play upon the land.
Then, in her turn, show fair fragile Autumn,
Golden child of Winter now come of age.
Dream New Year, in blanket of cool mists cloaked,
White shrouded against the harsh season’s rage.
Foretell, when the tired and ageing year wanes,
How spent seasons pass and then sleep again.
01/08/2017
SACRIFICE; PRICELESS QUESTION
A little story from a little friend about a little thing
That makes the little world a different from the taught mighty ocean
Always smile beside me each morning i sat to reason
Mostly he always bring the little insignificant story
To my reasoning ear as i plan to break too quick
In this little world i know
My father told me one day a story
When i hate my little sister so much
That i had to sell her gold,
Her priceless life for some foolish pleasure of hate
There my sister termed me hell
But in her rage my father rather speaks a story to us through her
A bird hatched a golden child
The future saviour for the world of the sky
each moment of her life
She had lived and gathered all the flying feather
To guard their golden future of the air world
Although her faith made her believe that through this golden child
A golden sky world will be built
The child destiny is even made to be seen in all the sky world
Unknown to her, the child must die
That has become the golden price, a golden save
The golden actualization of a glorious destiny
One golden morning, the golden cock goldenly announced
The golden death of the golden child
All fair feathers never understood the sound
But the heir mother knew the message
The world is doomed, she shouted
Our world is doomed
We have to fight for the glory and honour of our world
Our future is no hope and our end is now
We need to save our golden future
But to all the sky host feathers
No enemy or attack was seen around the corner
There the glory of the golden child lifted him up to be executed
The golden price, a golden heir, for a golden future
There the voice of the mother speaks in terrible oar
Yes, this is what i said, here the golden child
But inside my belly
There are so much gold that can change the world you see
Taking the golden child
And taking the golden world
Which stands better than the eagle?
Please, take all the gold in me
And spare the life of the golden child
Let him live for our world to live
There my father hissed a deep smile in anger
With a confused expression written all over his face he concluded
Gold is not life
But life is gold
Never sell gold because you will not know
When you are selling life.
I met him in the town's local cafe
A young adonis working the railroad line.
Long blonde hair, eyes so blue,
with a strong muscular body too.
He asked me to meet him the next day
Agreeing, this became our first date
A local fair was in town that day
Hand in hand we made our way.
Together we climbed a high hill
To watch the horse races run
He leaned over and kissed me long
My heart went flop and it was done.
Young hearts giving it a try
a few moments between a young girl and guy
That first kiss from this golden child
All thoughts began to run wild.
It ended at the fireworks that night
He was leaving with the morning light
The first kiss, remembered forever
The first date an extreme pleasure.
for Carol's contest
07/08/11
Phyl