Best Heir Poems
Prince William was so sick of being told
He’s receding and is now going bald
So he called in the royal hairdresser
To see if he could ease the heir pressure
He gave him a brand new hairstyle
This ‘buzzcut’ would be so worthwhile
His hairdresser is very highbrow
But his fees have raised an eyebrow
William’s head looks like its been shaved
Oh how the press stories have raved
£180 pounds is what we’ve been told
It’s so costly to look like you’re bald!
The cost Prince William has now denied
It wouldn’t be the first time the press have lied!
One day William will be ‘heir apparent’
And cutting costs will be more transparent
When William’s crowned then we could sing
With altered words to God shave the king!
Based on a story in the press over the cost of Prince William’s news haircut
01/20/18
He seemed to be
just a Ranger of the North
The folk around Bree
knew him as Strider
But there were some things
the crowd at "The Prancing Pony"
were not aware of
This "Ranger" was descended
from a long line of kings
He was Isildur's heir
A glorious lineage!
When the hobbits saw himin
They knew not his true identity
They feared him - Sam was ready
to fight for his master's life
Aragorn won their trust
Due to his protection
they made it to Rivendell
Where Aragorn's love awaited
Arwen Evenstar and Aragorn
were desperately in love
Arwen knew she faced the doom of Mandos
if she wed Aragorn
Yet she was willing to give up eternity
for the true king of men
Dying light in West
Sunset of revelation
Leather wings transmute
Shameful legacy refused
Better hungry than blood drunk
5/25/16
© by Author
For Contest: Traditional Tanka
Sponsor: Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
Limerick: Once a future King heir apparent
Once a future King heir apparent
Old House stained and shredded to pennant
Divorced the future Queen
Married divorcee between
Now sees Russian demimonde during Lent
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Dear Father Abraham,
I Know that Too Much Time has Past, Events Taken, and Choices Made that Forever Changed the Course of History.
I am a Son Not by Birth, but by Adoption, You See I Follow the Teachings of Your Son Yeshua.
A Man Who Came Long Ago, Was Crucified on a Tree between Two Criminals, and was Raised the Third Day, Which Made My Acceptance Possible.
Father I Only ask Now, for without You, I would be destined for an Eternity Separated from God.
The Old Writings State that On That Day You Had Three Visitors, One Whom Resembled The Son of Man, or God Himself.
They Brought Good News that Sarah who had been Barren Till Now Would One Day Have A Son, and You An Heir to Carry On Your Family Name.
Time Passed, and You Both Growing Older with No Fulfillment of the Promise in Sight.
A Choice Was Made to use Hagar as the Possible Vessel for its Fulfillment.
The Result a Beautiful Baby Boy Named Ishmael, Who Grew to be a Wise and Strong Young Man.
All Was Well Till The Fulfillment of Time had Come, and God’s Promise To You and Sarah resulted in a Child also, Who Would be Called Isaac.
Now there exists Two Sons of Abraham, One of Hagar, and the Other Of Sarah, but Both Are Your Seed.
Father Abraham thousands of Years have Passed Now, Since Those Moments In Time, And Much Blood Spilt Pondering the Question Which One is The Rightful Heir?
For Two Great Multitude of People(s) Resulted from Those Choices Made. The Sons Of Ishmael Became the Muslim Race, and the Sons of Isaac Would Become The Israeli or Hebrew.
I Know that as a Gentile I Have No Right to ask, but It was on My Mind.
Looking Back at the Wars Fought, Blood Spilt, Lives Lost, and Time Spent, Between the Descendants of Your Two Sons.
If You Could Go Back, and make Different Choices, Would You?
Is there Any Way To Bridge the Divide?
There are No Easy Answers, Only More Questions.
I Don’t Know if it is Even My Place To Attempt to ask the Question at a Possible Way Forward?
I Only know From the Outside Looking in, that They Are Both Your Sons, and I a Gentile, don’t Know all the issues, or May Never Completely Understand them, or Have Any Possible Answers.
Father I Wonder What Do You Think?
Sincerely,
A Confused Gentile
Author Paul Cumberbatch (July 30, 2020)
Crystallized diamonds, heir,
soothingly embezzled, and coils,
the heart,
deeply within your own depth,
my eyes gaze,
to be tranquilized,
in burning flame,
which soars aloud,
faithfully to become,
its heir of resistance,
among yours,
to one day,
Carrie the importance,
of your last name,
as husband and wife,
because your kiss, is
On my list, when I turn,
Out the lights,
like crystallized;
diamonds heir......
"... what I said is, I am the Artist, Who Shares..."
More heart than you could ever imagine
And alive with a beautiful vision
My passion is compassion
And my gifts are for giving
"... in the light of right sight..."
There is more to sharing
than you can envision
the lives we can touch
with a voice of caring
a chorus of love
and it's free...
"...for just believing..."
Born a Christian in the fertile womb of a blessed land,
A paradisiacal genesis for a continent chained to imperialism.
Genocides cascading beneath the crumbling altar of human rights.
They crucified my humanity
With demonic chimeras.
I have dragged my zinc coffin since birth
Across the minefields of these greedy philanthropists.
I carry the age-old weight of curses
Of my zombified people since the slave trades.
They do not want me to sanctify my traumatized Africanness
With the blessings of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
I am guilty like Jesus Christ
And innocent like the soiled hands of a child soldier.
I have never enjoyed the riches of my partitioned continent.
These scavengers have spread hatred in my people’s hearts for centuries.
My tormented mind is the vault of horrors
That the West has perpetrated in the cradle of my ancestors.
These criminals want me to curse Lucifer
As if he were responsible for centuries of dehumanization
Of my forebears in the Americas.
The devil will never be my enemy,
I have never met him.
Human savagery has nothing metaphysical about it.
My indelible scars are not fictitious remnants.
He called me a filthy *****,
He discovered the face of my love.
He will no longer have the courage to insult my genetic code.
I scourged him with the laws of the Code Noir
Of the Republic of slaveholding Enlightenment.
I share the same skin color as Osiris,
The same beauty as those colored pharaohs.
The journey is scarred,
The traumas, too silent.
I fight in the death row corridor
To remain a man of integrity.
To write the darkness of my feelings,
A liberating outlet for my demons.
I chose integrity in the meanders of precarity.
In another life, I would wield guitars
To escape the whims of misery.
Serenity, my only solution in this dimension.
I think of the reaper every day,
Like a man condemned to death.
Dossier (doze heir) About This Sleepy Head
Unable to shake off drowsiness
iz not ease zee,
hence, as a night owl, no
(not that you
give a hoot) ye
may be share compatible
(i.e. nocturnal) circadian
rhythm with this wee
Willy Weber,
but more particularly
one po' somnambulant,
whose square noggin resembles
a flat screen tee vee
actually receiving signals
from the outer limits
of the twilight zone
quite clear reception,
especially after three
o'clock in the morning
slightly before scree
ching roosters announce,
the break of dawn re
lush hing, the
poignant hush pre
seeding the sudden
onset of que
kin ning hullaballoo
amidst hectic pre
dominant hustle,
and bustle to and fro,
hither and yon nee
sis aery frantic
pace to maintain
21st century
technological light
(reo speed wagon) rush,
this lifestyle not for me,
hence I favor
knuckle scraping,
bloodied hand to mouth,
bare subsistence
existence my lee
ving no wiggle room
for adverse sit tee,
thus very mindful to maintain
laser focus key
ping astutely attentive visa
vis discover ring je
nais sais quois,
(the only French I know)
hee...hee...hee
well nigh conk
clue ding goofy
dwarfed poem (compared
to the Iliad,
or Odyssey), now
time to put this old
Scottish matted
(swiftly tailored,
haired styled)
puppy (i.e. me)
to the land without
my wordy wizard - Doctor dre,
but alive with
a Rob'n Zombie!
She died,
She died to save her son,
From the horrors of her past.
She felt it was the only gift,
She could truly give,
One that would forever last.
She made many mistakes,
But none could of been ,
Considered a crime.
She knew this deep in her heart,
But she sat silently in her cell,
Serving her time.
Society had already deemed,
That her blood,
Was only fit to be spilled.
Her supposed crime,
Helping her husband,
Find the victims he would kill.
Yes she had used poor judgment,
But she was totally unaware,
Of the kind of monster he was.
Once she found out,
What he was truly capable of,
She did what any person,
In her shoes does,
She took her little boy,
Her darling angel from above,
Found a better place,
For him to be safe and loved.
She then called the authorities,
So that her and her evil husband,
Could be locked away.
And now here she is,
Sitting in the executioner's chamber.
Patiently waiting for her judgment day.
Taking with her a secret,
That an innocent woman,
Was about to die.
But to her it was a fair trade,
For her baby to keep believing this lie.
The truth,
Once revealed,
Could only cause him despair.
For how could he truly handle,
Knowing,
He was,
A murderer's heir.
Form:
based on a photo posted
on media today
of King Charles III
bitty boy bored
wedged between babysitters -
queen is celebrant…
prince-heir bides seventy years
beholden crowds cheer his crown
________________________________________________________________
Like the Sun, in its brightness
and thoughts that equals it shine,
goes boldly about.
Ventures without fear to be another Shakespeare
with another sonnet, or a hundred.
Take a drive and see Aurora
rise, like Maya Angelou
on a road,
and get lost in Robert Frost.
The Sun, in its brightness,
seems to soar solely in the sky.
The moon shares the sky with the stars in darkness.
Brightness and darkness
appears to be their illegitimate children
Brightness, darkness, shadow: a poet shines.
A New Heir To the Throne
By Elton Camp
The long-awaited baby is finally here
With much to hope, but some to fear
His general appearance is genetically set
His mama and papa are not cause to fret
Both of them are royal knock-outs
But family genes give reason for doubts
If Prince Charles he looks much like
Have sympathy for the little tyke
For his looks, the child will be hating
If he resembles the Prince of Waiting
But there’s nothing to do but wait
He may favor Diana or his mom Kate
If appearance genes the Queen passed on
Like her, he will look good on the throne
But whatever the case proves to be
The royal throne he will come to see
The child’s future is already set
Adoration of the public he will get
But it’s a life he didn’t choose
Yet nearly impossible to refuse
So let’s hope he enjoys a happy life
Free from the recent royal strife
The young have energy to spare;
Some old folks, too, but they are rare.
The difference, though, when we compare
Won’t help those younger to prepare.
For life is stressful and unfair
With pain and sorrow we must bear
And as we age, we have our share
Of circumstances that can scare.
There’s bound to be some wear and tear
On brain cells caught in worry’s glare,
Depleting strength from reaching where
There’d be a chance at some repair.
So those of us with graying hair,
Though not quite in a rocking chair,
Are, through our bodies, made aware
That where the bed is – we’ll be there.
When often intestate a rich man dies,
From out of the woodwork suers materialize.
Long unheard from relations from far and near,
Each one crying and vying for a share,
As they petition the lawyer to find a solution
To an awful case of "heir pollution".