Best Patrician Poems
This is a message to children who lack sincerity in school. Hard work always gives easy success. Whatever hardwork we do during our school days, decides our future for entire life. Its not only about studies but the sincerity which is developed along with it.
This is a story of two brothers.
Who lived together forever.
Both enjoyed the dignity of a patrician.
Well bred with values and tradition.
Sharp contrast of a Strategician and a tactician.
JUXTAPOSITION OF HARDWORK DURING SCHOOL DAYS
Given his druthers, Veerang would skip studies,
Would escape to play snooker and pool with buddies.
A boaster, prodigal spender and his pathological lies.
Hard work during childhood is just about studies, he didn’t realize.
Krishnang, sincere and studious, positive and jovial.
Help to mom, a great company to sisters, extremely capable.
Topper in school, loved by all, he was just so amiable.
Yes, both grew together.
One believed in hard work, another preferred leisure.
JUXTAPOSITION OF HARDWORK DURING ADULT HOOD
With freedom comes responsibility.
It’s not only about us but our family’s and parent’s dignity.
Hard work during childhood decides our ability.
Yes, our capabilities and the possibilities
In a way our acceptability and applicability.
Krishnang, goes for holidaying across nations.
Veerang is still striving to boil the ocean
What an irony, hardwork now is a compulsion.
JUXTAPOSITION POETRY CONTEST
Sponsored by: Silent One
Date: 21st Nov; 2020
Idle hands scorching a trail
Through the Capitol
Closed mouths and hearts turn daggers
Biting our own tongues
And the streets are red rivers
Through which they drive
golden chariots over the backs
of their forefathers
Words falter, slave and master
plebeian and patrician
And whips silence in return
They dream of a revolt
While breaking their necks to bow
We do protest hotly
In secret chambers
Tear down the throne!
Hang the tyrants!
A bloody revolution!
Let's then schedule it for the
King's convenience
Hear she comes, most lovely
She'd slit our throats
With pleasure
O Gods save our Queen!
She'll pluck this acedia
from our cold dead hands!
Slaughter the innocent
Distract us with wars!
O Brutus save us from
our apathy!
What will it take
for our walls to break?
O give us liberty
or at least grain at
our own price!
Give us our tribunes!
There can be no
Republic until
the people speak
themselves
-------------
Inspired by my research for a story. This deals specifically with the establishment of the
Roman Republic, but plenty of this still rings true to me. Acedia = apathy.
MY TREE - IT SHALL SURVIVE
Beside the Kinta River still it stands
Colossus of the primal forest panoply
Residing native of the fecund land
It’s limbs supporting graceful arcing canopy
A wondrous teeming aerial village live
It shall survive
A plume of smoke in still cool morning air
Warned of a threat to life of our dear friend
I dragged back fire and damped consuming flames
From perilled home of copious verdant life
Reprieved to face more challenges, and strive
It shall survive
Bearing scars, endured with grace of old patrician
Looking on unchanged, while all around contrive
‘til once more needing care of a passing physician
It shall survive
Each time I pass that way, I muse as I see
With warm complacent notion : ‘That’s my tree!’
13 September 2019
Writing Challenge 2, September 2019 - The Photograph
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
I know an ambitious politician
His nose in the sky like a patrician
Looks down on all others
As voters, not brothers
Appointed ‘Chief of Dog-doo Emissions’
Piano gently plays
Eyelids like shades drawn
Ease back in La-Z-Boy chair
The present slips away
Eternity is present
Piano gently plays
Fingering time and space
Reaching for relationship
With the most, high God
Piano Gently plays
I never leave haphazardly
The patrician Rock keeps me
He blesses me with peace
I trace His words in my spirit
Piano gently plays
'Twas April Fourteenth, Seventy-Eight.
Lest any should repudiate
what on this very special date
the two of them were doin',
Let's for a moment contemplate
their entry to the grand estate,
the legal right to procreate
through mutual "I Do"-in'.
Our hindsight intuition
says that he was probably wishin'
he was fishin', with precision
swishin' flies to waiting bass.
For he had but one ambition
and considered his commission
was to fishin' competition,
pulling lunkers from the grass.
But he set aside this mission
for submission to tradition,
and Patrician erudition
soon replaced his noble cause.
Now a maid with hair of titian
dishin' clams and oysters squishin'
and musician's compositions
may engender his applause.
The Mrs. was the perfect mate
to tolerate and moderate
that diehard fishing reprobate,
and of her own volition,
Found better ways to celebrate
and venerate their special date;
They'd renovate and recreate
the joys of goin' fishin'.
For many years ago this day
they both agreed to go their way
through life together come what may,
the good times or perdition.
And though it's now an old cliché,
the best times all the bad outweigh,
But those which in their hearts will stay
were spent when they went fishin'.
Just another Warrenpiece
He ruled his kingdom with an iron fist
all looked up to the earl of otherworld.
Women sighed over his handsome face,
his manly stature and his sense of humour.
His heir and son was cultivated and charming.
Yet the earl's wife was a fiery woman of red hair
with an hourglass figure she tempted and teased.
He was putty in her hands when she flirted.
His warriors would follow him to certain death
such was their trust in his leadership and skills.
His earldom was both strong and rich in arts,
jewels with bounteous harvests of fruit and grains.
His once many enemies were now scattered and few.
He gazed out over his kingdom and knew with certainty
that all was ready for the day he was no more
that his son would carry on capably in his footsteps.
He knew he would be remembered with relevance
that many would mourn his Rite of Passage
after all he was the patrician all he beheld
and he ruled all with wisdom and strength.
written 07/17/2015
contest Patriarchy
FEAR NOT THE CLAUSE
There is no cause to fear the clause
It has no teeth, has no sharp claws
Though analysis may give you pause
Dissect it, then you’ll be the one to dictate
It has a subject, and predicate
But a usual function subordinate
It does neither state nor interrogate
It's a delegate with aid to dispense
It may have a pronoun and a verb with tense
And might be inclined to make a pretence
But while it may have a where or when sense
It’s not a true sentence; although a key stone
Lest it's the MAIN clause self determined, alone
A patrician of syntax up high on a throne
As a sentence support like a vertebra bone
Put in its right place could give words a revivali
So direct the clause, noun, adverb, adjectival
Do not be concerned, it won’t risk your survival
And make it act as your aide, genitival
There is no cause to fear the clause
MASKED BALL – THE SURPRISE
The final sweet phrase has sounded
Our dancers await by twos
All still in mask, impatient
To hear their sovereign’s news
Queen Adaelade, Ball Chancellor
Has watched the evening through
Her task, by long tradition bound
Select the reigning two
Her selection goes a wandering
But, at last, in regal voice
She points the Lady Persephony
And her lordly patrician choice
The pair, to wild acclaim, unmask
Selection, (all along) contrivance knows
Will be the Lady Persephony
And her *Cavalier of the Rose
*I couldn’t resist the last line’s reference to Richard Strauss’ Opera
Der Rosenkavalier.
Charles Bukowski Road Not Chosen
While reading Charles Bukowski poetry
On the metro ride home
Listening to Buddha bar music
On my oh too hip IPod
I begin to see myself as I was
Over 30 years ago when I was merely a bit player
A minor character in a Charles Bukowski poem
A wild young underemployed intellectual
Hanging out in dismal bars and dives all over Asia and California
Hanging with disreputable women and drunks and drinkers
And characters out of his kinds of haunts
A mad poet bard of the underground
A drunken poet in a drunken bum show
That nightly played in his head
Then one day I met the women of my dreams
And went down a different path
A long slow path to respectability
And now 30 years later
I am no longer a wild man
I am still a poet at heart
But I am now also a bureaucrat
In a button down suite
Doing the people's business
Working for the Government
I've become the Man
Sometimes I wonder
Would I have been better off
Going down that another path
Would I have ended up
Somewhere else
Doing something else
Would I have been as happy
Would I have been as successful?
There is no answer that satisfies
The longing in my heart
For that wild thing
That still lurks beneath
It's civilized cover
And I know that I am still
A mad poet at heart
Railing against the injustice of the world
As I work day by day in the belly of the great beast of State
I recall the ancient Chinese saying,
"Confucian during the day while Taoist rebel at night"
Playing out in my head and nightly dreams
In the true American Upper class patrician tradition
I close the book and look out the window
Get off the train, and walk slowly home
And realize I had no choice
But to take the path that I’ve trodden on
And so I put aside my misgivings
And say goodbye to my "Bukowskian"desires
For another night of domestic contentment
Was it worth it all to take the conventional path
And not take the bohemian road to hell and back
I look at my wife and realize
I had no choice, had no choice
But to follow her to the ends of the earth
And beyond by her side as we walked our path
Of shared destiny
Goodbye Charles Bukowski wherever you are
May I meet you in a bar in the next life
And figure out where we should have gone
Until then the drinks are on me.
A crowned king is you mathematician
You cured our problems like an experienced physician
You manipulated our facts like a sorcerer like a magician
You created masterpieces like a talented musician
You twisted our minds like an articulate politician
You shocked our souls like a brilliant electrician
You trained our brains like a skillful technician
You awed us like a scientist on a sacred expedition
You made up daily life as a constant definition
You represented our goals in a variable expression
You proved impossible laws like an eloquent patrician
You wrote a play of theorems without an intermission
You made formulas like stars with immortal ignition
A final word to say before an exposition
To you the ancestor of Gauss the prince mathematician
And the son of Euler the father of mathematical fission
Let others be corpses and you be their only mortician
The pedestrian kettle steams on to the Capitol pyre
With a weight watcher tonic; more lean legislators to sire
The Grand Old Party a taste of the aromatic brew doth require
Medicinal tonic blended to alleviate bloating gout of every Democratic squire
Preferring their watered-down, generic brand, constipated digestive tracts go haywire
The savy financiers sit on the sidelines in their cozy markets ignoring the taste test flier
The partisan grit clogs the filter producing a quagmire
The vitriolic ingredients boil over causing a rancid fire
The billowing smoke rises and streams to the patrician choir
The generic master brewer in his white house stews in the demagogic mire
Commercial winds sweep in fanning the flames causing the heat to reach dome's spire
The regurgitated grounds spewed forth to every intoxicated shire
Democratic gainsayers scare the elderly that the side effects are so dire
The rest of the squeamish plebians in their depleted hovels continue to sip their Common Roast with ire
I've heard it said that if all the people
who ever lived and died, were buried together,
it would fill the size of Spain.
No gazpacho, no El Greco
No Flamenco and no Bolero
Just row upon row, with nowhere to go
on a Saturday night
Dead all over, nothing to do
Of course Guernica might fit in
as would certainly, the Inquisition
overseen by some church patrician
staking out his historical place
in God's eyes, of liturgical grace
But who would be then accepting
a place of Conquistadors amors
if all the American continents
couldn't be relied on to be invaded?
There's still the rest of Europe.
But stones and dates of birth and death
as far to horizon as can be seen
would be enough to put anybody off
Pablo Casals and his pals would
flee for less shaded climes
and maybe start again, in Portuguese
Pamplona's bulls unknown to run
would only be cast in marbled stone
above the heads of political deads,
world-famous and anonymous unknowns
So perhaps it's best to strew the gone
over on and around the world beyond
continental lands to north and south
to spread the wealth by word and mouth
We all in time will, without exception
join the breathless dance of sleep
Leave the Iberian Peninsula to
Basques, the Castilians and Catalans
The lifeless can lie in hinterlands
peering up from past the Pyrenees
© Goode Guy 2013-07-27
B52s above the Aleutians?
It never was a Red Dread global mission.
Fidel was just Galician patrician,
and Ho and Mao were scholarly Confucians.
They wore those uniforms like horsehair vests,
to carve from abject nothingness an entity,
a national and regional identity,
ingredients which only coalesced
when nascent nations donned that soviet skin,
abhorrent to the blinkered Baywatch mind:
unowned, untethered, boundless, non-aligned –
but with Kalashnikovs airlifted in.
As Mary Jane moved in on moonshine stills,
the five-year-olds rehearsed their fallout drills.
Tourist in Bruges
I was in Bruges, in Flanders, once
Saw beautiful old buildings where the patrician class
The merchants and charlatans lived
Where the poor lived in the past has been erased
The poor now live in high rise flats.
We rented a carriage with a bored horse that did its round
On streets too clean to be true; animals peed on canvas.
We walked around took the pictures as did others.
We had lunch at a café too expensive for its food, but the beer
Was good and that is worth remembering.