Best Poetry Society Poems
You can bleed me blind,
execute my eyes,
victimize my vision,
immolate my imagery,
nullify my name,
suppress me into silence,
slaughter my soul,
execute my ego,
slay my spirit,
veil my verses,
poison my prose,
annihilate my alliterations,
ravage my rhymes,
waste my words,
vaporize my vocabulary,
halt my heartbeats,
but you will never
pause my poetry
Poetry and Freedom
A poet is still free to write about what they choose.
Come now, what do we have to lose?
Poetry~ one of the last bastions to be free.
With political correctness on the raging warpath!
After all words with mendacious audacity.
To steal words from group-think and rob us of poetic individuality!
December 9, 2019
Voices voices telling me
Where to go
Who to see
What to say
And who to be
How to think
What to believe
What to buy
And what to spend
Where to start
And where to end
Who to hate
And to friend
When exactly to be straight
And when exactly, they say I should bend
.
Rules to live my life by
And how much I should get
When to let it go
Or when to throw a fit
Voices voices I declare
On the page
And on the air
Every how
And every where
.
Every say
And every said
Constant voices
In my head
Voices voices telling me
What to hope for
What to dream
Where to find
Blue Bell ice cream
When to whisper
When to scream
.
Voices voices telling you
Vote the red
Vote the blue
But don't think for yourself
No matter what you do
Voices to manipulate
Paint good men fools
Paint evil great
.
Those other voices whispering
Prodding me to do their thing
If I'm crazy let me be
But you be you
And I'll be me
And choose for myself
What I call free
.
Five hundred twenty-eight megahertz
Called us up out of the dirt
It's said I'll know the Shepherd's voice
And when He calls I'll have a choice
It's hard to hear Him thru the noise
Or cipher through religious ploys
But I choose to hear Him nonetheless
Tune out the chaos of all the rest
That one true Voice it brings me peace
And floods my soul with sweet relief
.
One last time I must tell
Keep your voices to yourself
Schizophrenic I may well be
But you just be you
And let me be me
TRUTH
The egg
The egg of light
As full as it is,I see
It is priceless but free
It is one of its kind
Others like it, shine
Deceiving the 'wise'
Open your eyes
For it's
one
The Good Old Days
Take me back to the good old days
When we were grateful for what we had
Now people have much more than they need
And society has gone bad
Greed is the keyword and money their God
Everyone out for themselves
I remember a time when we thought we were rich
If we had food on our shelves
People have to keep up with the Joneses'
Bigger house, bigger car, better job
But trying to keep up with the Joneses’
Just makes people think they're a snob
They look down their nose at ones poorer than them
Think they're better than everyone else
Just because they've got private health care plans
And the poor have got National Health
I don't know what our ancestors would think
If they were alive today
They'd probably think we'd all be better off
Living life like the good old days
"I am because we are," a truth profound,
In Ubuntu's philosophy, our humanity's found.
Our shared existence, interconnectedness so strong,
In unity we thrive, together we belong.
To be truly human, the first maxim shows,
Recognize others' worth, let empathy flow.
Through others, our mirror, humanity's reflected,
Respectful relations bloom, connections perfected.
When choices arise, wealth or life to save,
Opt for life's preservation, the second principle crave.
For human value, far outweighs riches' gleam,
Thus, benevolence and compassion reign supreme.
Even the king’s power, the third tenet’s clear,
Springs from people's will, to whom he owes dear.
His status, a communal gift from voices below him,
Their will becomes his role, to uphold without a whim.
Solidarity's our strength, collectivity’s our might,
A life of sharing, a love life radiating light,
“Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu,” the Zulu recite,
Let’s live Ubuntu's truth, day and night.
Here in poets' glory, we bask....
Not long ago, a bard did ask,
"When did poetry become ethnography?"
Verse is part of human anthropology,
Even part of Christianity,
Millions of folk read their Koran,
As part of their faith of Islam,
Poetry is a sweet and sour dish,
You can interpret as you wish,
Each verse is a snapshot of society,
Part of cultural anthropology,
So, "When did poetry become ethnography?"
This muse has set us a task,
Good question to ask, good question to ask,
As here, in poets' glory, we bask......
Dark money donors
Opaque Senate owners
The youth of today becomes
The future of tommorrow.
All hope is placed upon the
Shoulders of this generation.
To carry on the world, make it a
Better place, achieve greatness.
The expectation is given, no
Input is required from those whom it
Is given to. We are given a final
Destination, the path being left to
Wherever we decide to go. Little
Does this generation know we are
Prey for the hawks. Every move we
Make sets off an alarm, bound to
Earn a scolding from society. They
Are quick to notify us of our
Underperformance, our failure, and
Our lacking ability to complete their
Desired task. We are now labeled the
Poisons of society. All in an attempt
To please, but that isn't seen.
I looked a gorgeous a-- in the face
delivered a thick compliment
then murmured contempt for them under my breath
the desire to bond or even agree to disagree
gave way to a bevy of jousting eyeballs
that nearly brought me to fatigue
I should have taken my cue from a drunken uncle
who hid everything behind shot glass and guffaw
while hurling insults under the guise of synonyms
I probably take myself too seriously
but we all must have some sort of defense
why get pummeled by those who can’t even keep a job
garcon more oysters on a half shell please
Gluttons, paupers, tis not thee I address,
Rather ye men, middle income meager.
Dames hast thine coffers slightly beleaguered?
Garments bejeweled, appetites sated?
Vultures dine thy muscles of toils weary.
Lazy bones remain roadside, pauper's soup.
Wages earned, eggs income, gathered hen coop,
Through petty tasks, worthlessness abated.
Gentlemen, tis advice long awaited.
Find ye equal love, damsels of mind fair.
If thee seek only fair face, silky hair,
Coffers of paupers surely tis fated.
Hasten, young men, to thy ladies true worth.
For prosperity not, befell thy birth.
why o why
is this cruel?
shattered dreams
beautiful people
eating gruel
why o why
is this world so cruel?
stop telling me, trying to persuade me
that you won’t do what you do no more ‘cause
the first time left me blind, but now I see
it is what it is, you was what you was
the games the same men and boys like they toys
where you from a project slum taught you s---
tomorrow brought sorrow and little joy
what’s your point light the joint and take a hit
a change of mind can sure mess your mind up
fools and lies can be a futhamucka’
I brought all my bad habits and my cup
call your mother and tell her you love her
your sip and flip make me want to holler
cut the bulls--- and loan me five dollars
With the humanization,
All of its progression,
A face of a nation,
Heading for destruction,
Power to power,
And land to land,
Bones of our ancestors,
Crumble by an unseen hand,
Life in a chalice filled,
With blood of those killed,
Rejecting all values until,
A new world is instilled,
Survivors watch as the wildlife disappears,
Earthquakes now normal yet remains in fear,
All around the casualties of war can be found,
Thieves pick pockets of those dead on the filthy ground,
Useless beings flood the street,
Many sick or dying with nothing to eat,
No longer a contrast between rich and poor,
When cold black clouds follow death to every shore.
Play the Fool
Once a knight now the court jester,
He juggles the pins,
If he loses the rhythm, he will lose his life.
The Queen stares at the fool.
She who knew him as a knight,
Now laughs with the rest.
The fool's face be streaked with tears.
He wishes only to be understood.
To be loved and held.
Many be his friends.
They see only the mask and the juggling act.
What lies beneath the suit they see not.
The clown wonders.
He knows what the people think,
However, not the Queen,
She hides behind her crown.
He knows he is only a fool.
However, wishes he was more.
Conversely, that the Queen would see him as he is.
She cares not to see.
The clown stirs that which she wishes dead.
He cannot offer that which he does not own.
Frightened by what she thinks to be the act.
The jester looks upon the court.
Many knights strut among the noble sort.
Beneath the armor, the knights be no more than he.
The nobles glimmer weakly from his mirror, without their royal robes.
He is the jester yet he knows.
That which blinds the others makes him see.
Conceived in the sinful lust of man,
Born poor as dirt,
Stripped of all that is high and mighty.
Sadly, he smiles at the pompous throng.
Continue forever his act,
Not for himself but for the others,
He knows the truth.
To tell no one be his bitter reward.
The knowledge gains him nothing.
Often does he cry,
Why me,
Should it not be the king or a knight,
One who can use the knowledge.
Fight the noble fight and win the bloody battle.
I play the fool, yet I understand.
He sees the gold of the court.
Many luxuries could it buy.
Greedy eyes of the noble pursue the riches.
Coins they toss him for the laughs he brings.
The gold which was dug from the earth, he throws back to the eager crowd.
They laugh at him all the more.
Such a fool he knows not the value of gold.
Even so, he knows and sees the truth.
As the world must have the worm to survive.
So must the court have one who plays the fool.