Best Ideology Poems
Old fruit tree
By front porch;
July harvest
~~~~~~~~~
A dear friend visits
Chat over old times;
Feeling young again
~~~~~~~~~
Scary dream last night
Unhappy endings;
Morning aftershock
~~~~~~~~~
Jigsaw puzzle pieces
Mickey and company;
Difficult fit
~~~~~~~~~
Morning ritual
Early wake-up call;
Drowsy awakening
~~~~~~~~~
So much stuff
Too much nonsense;
Not much else
~~~~~~~~~
Temple visit
Prayers for the dead;
Ancestral tablets
~~~~~~~~~
Sunday church
Sermon on the Mount;
Lovely echoes
~~~~~~~~~
Morning papers
Another beheading;
Modern barbarism
~~~~~~~~~
Sadly we mourn
Your sudden passing;
Think upon old days
~~~~~~~~~
Familiar faces
From another life;
Nondescript
~~~~~~~~~
Troubling times
Conflicts and chaos;
Empires of the mind
~~~~~~~~~
Dying is easy
Living feels hard;
So much suffering
~~~~~~~~~
Close encounters
Death and taxes;
In-between distractions
~~~~~~~~~
Early songbird 20th floor
Sweet lullabies cooing;
Pleasant surprise
~~~~~~~~~
Joy in the morning
Savvy sunburst;
Light on my face
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
09 February 2015
Singapore
Atrocious thinking and violence are
Father fed to bed sons in hatred sheets
Gowned in anger and false ideology
Heisting their true natures to stimulate
Abhorrent dogmas justifying violence and suffering -
News of heartbreaking actions frighten the world
In ways that shadow box our collective fears,
Subject us to senseless ignorance and brutality
Tapping us in a net of collective nightmares -
Attacking and torturing are no one's true nature.
None but God knows when and how love will overcome.
An outlook on life varies from person to person
Various aspects do count
Your ideology
Your experience
Your view
Your emotional quotient
Your intelligent quotient
Your conscience
Your confidence
Your perseverance
Your perception
And lastly maybe the influence of a religion
But there's no rights or wrongs
No perfection
No flawless guidelines
And so we lead a different life
With different consequences and endings
And so we're so eager to find
Any voices from heaven
Any signs from heaven
With our eyes,our hearts and our souls
Watch out for that ideology
Bad effects on your psychology
It bleeds into our sociology
‘Til we hate one another’s biology
Let’s make a pact
To get our facts together
Have no ideology
Whatsoever
Hitler and Stalin and Mao and Amin –
Terminating angels of some fantastic machine
Marx and Weber and Keynes and Rand
Raised a fist of thought in hand
But Peter and Paul and the whole Roman Church
Didn’t wanna leave anyone in the lurch
Ho Chi Minh shoved me on a Mekong barge
Meanwhile, the Castros were living large
Let’s make a pact
To get our facts together
Have no ideology
Whatsoever
Apostles, ideologues, acolytes –
Whatever gets you thru the glassy night
The world is your battleground and you must fight
Just watch for the mines under your short sights
The Mountains of the Dead
I’ve seen the mountains of the dead,
the worn-down hobnailed boots,
a child’s pathetic pair of shoes,
those ladies’ heels in red and blue,
and stared at each macabre caress;
scuffed patent leather,
canvas twisted rubber soles,
threadbare laces noose tied,
forsaken footwear’s silent echoes
of ghettoes quickly cleared.
A million steps that led to death.
In moving epitaph to abandoned hope,
a pile of battered suitcases
bare the hasty scrawls of human beings
I’ll never know:
Klara Goldstein,
Peter Eisler,
Olga Kornfeld.
A lost property office
for the Lost.
Reaching out, ten thousand spectacles
watch me through a window,
peer deep into my soul, tug heartstrings
to my conscience,
these twisted frames,
the ultimate victims
of a twisted ideology.
One thousand lives
Extinguished
Every
Single
Day
There were shades of tranquility
aching 'neath civilization's cry,
still blood was shed amid glorified
borders of battlefield's convoluted calling,
each magnified footprint pooled crimson
filled ideologue's of disenchantment
amidst revolutions of ill-chosen power,
marching to drumbeats of fool's gilded dogma
We drove home on that Sunday. The summer I was twelve
it was hot, windows down
instructing me about freedom,
liberties, rights, never considered self.
A lager fixed firmly between your legs
as you drummed the steering wheel
in unison to oldies from the radio.
It was a 66' Ford pickup, green with the smell
of pride that hung from the rear view
swinging to the road. I remember
it was like a personality that was assigned
to you, which is not yours at all.
Cold hungry hands
How they wrench and heave
Hack and cleave
Stretch twist and compress
Hands of Procrustean carnage
And how will they attain their prized guest?
She is too luxuriant and grand to deign rest in an iron bed
Ah but these hands are crafty in their foolish obsession
They only need a piece to justify their ends
And how easy she is to extract!
The ether of being where she dwells
Contracts to proportions pinchable by dextrous digits
The simple triumph of purposed Mind
Once the hands have her she bucks and kicks
How alive she seems! Though she is in her death throws
But alas, she is formless. She must be made to fit!
With religious attention to scientific precision the feverish, clammy hands measure, pull, hack
How precise they are! Entire volumes must be filled - great tomes must be written in order to encapsulate all the intricacies of the hands’ technique!
And what is the result? Such perfection! Such seamless fitting.
There she lies
Shackled by impenetrable certainly
Stretched taut and straining
How she strains!
How beautiful! How simple and true she seems
She glows implacable
The rust-tang colour of contrived honesty
Delusion!
But even as the hands dance
- Primitively, like maggots -
She, the disfigured beauty on the iron bed
Begins to fade, translucefy
Until Time, her favourite companion
Makes her opaque with the grotesque monolith of her Orwellian dwelling
She betrays its concealment
Every false mentor
teaches lies as truth
virtue as weakness
Unidentified my world
this push and shove battalion
take from them and leave them broken
Crassly ridiculed by viral industries
black blood automaton
the throwaway plagues of economy
Enemies arduous in pestilence promise
digital demons disposable to pay the fist
take from my brothers and leave my sisters bereft
Born to breath into not my world
the grit pitiful distance between unity
as miseries tourniquet mocks all of us belligerently
From innocent eyes to haunted heart
a misplaced paradigm of sentience
concocts for idiots the demons ideology
For a lifetime the world of not me
my rebellions soaked in propaganda
liberties plasticidal warrior
take my brothers
take my sisters
and suffocate their orchestra
And all the more the cruelty shall reap
the intoxications of biles inaction
and rejoice in the cursed ideology of demons
Unrecognized my world of human
compassions every degree shall embrace every soul
and with the quill of love a future transcribed
by heavenly scribe in the ink of life
is written for our children
It's not just black and white,
Not simply he or she —
It all comes down to one thing:
A ruling ideology.
Who cares about reality,
When truth is kept at bay?
No right or wrong, no higher ground,
Just what the leaders say.
Politicians send our sons to war,
To die on distant, foreign shores.
And why? What is it for?
To guard their grand ideology — nothing more.
They come back home, try to find a place,
But council flats have left no trace.
Sold to fat cats with a grin —
That’s ideology once again.
Is my moral compass broke?
We pay through the nose for gas and light,
Water bills that drain us tight —
All part of corporate appetite,
Fueled by ideology cloaked.
Let’s take a vote — in or out —
And fifty-two percent shout “leave!”
But MPs twist and weave and doubt,
They’ve got their own beliefs to grieve —
That’s ideology, no reprieve.
Now let’s get real, and make it quick,
No more playing politics.
This world turns not on thoughts alone,
But actions — roots, and sticks, and stone.
Ideology might light the spark,
But it won’t guide us through the dark.
So let’s wake up, and truly see —
This world needs more than ideology.
My eyes resting on the sky
… I want to get wings and fly off
Time shrinks into the Room
what will happen to me?
I am of stuff, turning into stuff,
And my Life is made of this
I needed an Ideology to embrace the entire world
( but now? ) I am just sitting here
Information and signs are attacking me
It seems I have no place of my own…
( but of course, I got my eyes alone resting on the sky )
thoughts come and go
sometimes the stuffy ideas crack and fall
So I tell my friends a joke
Have my fourth meal
Stressing around
Oh, but to forget myself
With my angel´s wings and sea-green eyes
You re beautiful like stars in the night skies
Even death cannot separate us
Because we’re destined for each other
No wonder why
Lightening cannot set us asunder
What is love?
A fool’s ideology
For my love for this woman
Is deeper than philosophy
What is lust?
An infatuation of men
A 5 minute pleasure which will surely come to an end
True love is a gift
Cherish it wisely
And treat that lady with respect
Or do things nicely
The thought of you
Plagues me like a terrible disease
You re infectious
And at times
Difficult to please
But I love you
And don’t you ever forget
Hold on to these words
Please do not neglect
You need a man
To tame that unbridled mare
Which changes like the weather?
In times of despair
Through the tempestuous waves of life
No matter how stormy it becomes
I shall never abandon my wife
And when darkness sets upon your face
I shall console myself by looking into your eyes
Yes your eyes
Because in it
I know all hope is not lost
And I shall console you by giving you this message of hope
When we’re being crucified and nailed to the cross
For we’re all common mortals
No servants, no boss
As innocent as in birth
And as solemn as death
As you make your last wishes with those dying breath
We shall overcome it
Even if life ends
For our children will carry on and the outcome depends
Kathy Boudin thought the U.S. beyond repair,
She thought she saw the deep reality, and it was unfair.
From SDS to the Weather Underground,
She dived deep in Marxism, plain sense no longer found.
A bomb went off, unintended, by chance,
Meant to shatter lives at a soldier's dance.
Kathy didn't learn from that gory scene,
She fled intact, still in the radical dream.
She tasted deeply of the bitter cup,
When stopped by cops, she gave herself up.
But behind her guns took two cops away,
In Bedford prison for years, her price to pay
[chorus]
You say you're for right, end up for the reverse
The end of the road is a funeral hearse
The road to hell is paved with ideals,
Know thyself, its honesty that heals
A model prisoner, sorry but still red
After decades released, but her victims just as dead
Then hired at a university of high renown
Or was Columbia just a facade, already going down
A contrast was Yeonmi Park, a source of light
She escaped North Korea one frozen night
Walked across the Gobi Desert, a long, hard trek
Got mercy when she held a knife to her neck
Columbia told Yeonmi patriarchy to blame,
To censor her voice or join in their victim game.
Echos of a homeland that brooked no debate
Both places she observed anti-American hate
In North Korea you had to obey
In the U.S. students would throw their rights away
North Korea's great leader, a feudal regression
But U.S. Students had illusions of oppression.
[chorus]
You say you're for right, end up for the reverse
The end of the road is a funeral hearse
The road to hell is paved with ideals,
Know thyself, its honesty that heals
Boudin thought it moral to join the B.L.A
A Black Army who claimed crime was OK
She thought it was not for her to ask why
Trust the oppressed, her self-erasing lie.
At the Hamas protests, a leftist describes
Students manic, electric dazed look in their eyes
Who, do you think, more worthy of respect
Yeonmi, Kathy, which one ultimately correct?
Which way will those students go
Will they relearn what the rest of us know?
Must they repeat Boudin's trail of fear
Is there any intelligent life down here?
Is not my worth in what I own -
in real estate, big company,
nice home, fast car, prized jewelry,
investments that have grown?
Is not my worth in what I do -
the job I work, the sum I’m paid,
awards, promotions, deals I’ve made,
how nice the office view?
Is not my worth in art I make -
a poem or melodious line,
a bridge or building I design,
or photos that I take?
Is not my ideology,
morality, religious view,
pursuit of ethics and virtue
what matters most to me?
No, worth exists externally –
in God, my wife, my daughter, sons,
and friends. My worth is in the ones
I love and who love me.