Best Populous Poems
Imagine all the people
who trade in human life,
imagine all the reasons
given to this particular vice.
I visualize the rivers
that run with coagulated blood,
I visualize the tyrant
that stir the waters good!
Imagine all the evil
where nightmares are conceived,
imagine all the weepers
locked in harmony.
I visualize a great peace
when man is down and out,
I visualize a yearning
to stir up warring lout!
Imagine all the carrion
fleeing this earthly scroll,
imagine all the zombies
them humans without soul.
I visualize the populous
with only one track mind,
I visualize the despotic master
not too far behind!
Imagine all the wrongdoers
that wait for the morrow,
imagine all the innocent
with aggravated sorrow.
I visualize his disciples
locked in earthly battle,
I visualize all intellect
smitten with ancient prattle!
Imagine all the dreamers
that dream in psycho colours,
imagine all the dead ones
John Lennon and others.
I visualize the sky
that reflect the sombre waters,
I visualize the time
they’ll be no virgin daughters!
Imagine all the children
born with colour blindness,
imagine all the peace
driven by human kindness.
I visualize a new order
maybe for the best?
I visualize the establishment
being put to the test!
Imagine all the people
with lives of eternal bliss,
imagine all the barriers
created when living with this.
I visualize heaven here
in this heathen place,
I visualize the angel
in pure virgin white lace!
Imagine all the new born
scanner pattern at birth,
imagine all of today’s crime
eliminated through death.
I visualize a dossier
of PLC news speak,
I visualize authoritarianism
of every aspect!
Imagine all the cloning
created for human part,
imagine all the respect
donated to this particular art.
I visualize the unscrupulous
desperate for existence,
I visualize the farm of haste
the plough of insistence!
Imagine, Mother Shipton
prophecies all came true,
imagine only one statement fails
the end of the world.
I visualize even then
common sense will prevail.
I visualize only Jesus Christ
will forecast the ultimate end!
© Harry J Horsman 1993
Forget about futuristic wars
between nations, race against race
country against country
tongue against tongue;
soon the populous will know no
borders, continents no boundaries.
“The New master”
Is awakening manoeuvring
stalking, his plan already activated
The twenty second century will
see his bidding become
formidable, the pocket, whims,
thoughts and desires
will be his to regulate, what
to eat, drink, lay on ride on, he
will control, no law will hold him,
he will be the law!
Politicians will become
his directors and producers
will guide his script, play his media
trouble shooters
his bounty hunters, seeking out
the moralist, the Salvationist,
no competition will be his aim,
manipulation of all things
one world
one God
one Board
one CHAIRMAN
“The ultimate ONE COMPANY”
© Harry J Horsman 2018
Once there was a famous king,
More famous than Ozymandias.
His name was King Wolf.
Sultan was his nickname.
He called himself a benevolent despot;
And his style of government
A ‘democratic dictatorship.’
He spoke good English—
A foreign language, though;
Only a minor problem with 'l' and 'r':
Once, for instance, a reporter asked him,
"What about elections, Your Majesty?"
His response:
"Why, I have them everyday!"
The poor reporter was thoroughly confused.
His kingdom was a land of superlatives:
The oldest civilization,
The largest standing army,
The largest population,
The largest exporter—of people,
The largest emitter of carbon dioxide,
Now the second largest exporter of goods, too,
And will soon be the largest.
Since his was the most populous kingdom,
Demography was his obsession,
Which he called his specialization.
Of course, Sultan had tried his best
To check population growth—
By means of family planning.
It didn't work.
So he curbed people’s Right to have children.
But still there was a huge difference
Between the optimum number
And ground reality!
Therefore, Sultan hatched a wonderful plan:
Started a war with a friendly neighbour.
Every section of twenty soldiers in his army
Had just one primitive rifle between them:
If a soldier went on,
He would be shot.
If he went back,
Again, he would be shot.
A Catch-22!
Many of his men were slaughtered.
But still Sultan won—by sheer numbers!
Oh, God!
But the King did not believe in God.
Like king, like people!
But the dead soldiers were only a small number.
So, now another plan:
Government is the boss.
Let people overwork.
Sultan cracked the whip.
And a number of people died—
Of overwork, year after year.
Further reduction in population.
Production increased:
Cheap goods flooded the world market:
From PCs to push-up bras.
No warranty.
The economy boomed.
Ah, his kingdom became a Big Power!
But once some workers gathered
In the Capital and protested—
Against exploitation.
The name of Karl Marx was in the air.
“Listen,” Sultan roared, “Marx died—
Long ago.
So should you—now,
For raising his name in vain.”
So, still further reduction in population!
Now, when this narrative ended,
Sultan was busy, planning for another war.
Poor soul!
How else could he solve the problem—
Of overpopulation?!
***
Miles of broken, sunbaked seashells,
resembling pieces of porcelain of lesser value,
lying across a populous beach subdued by misty blue,
as hungry sea-gulls pounce the fiddler's crabs..
The beach entertainer draws huge crowds;
singing funny songs and making comic skits
by spicing up his unique modus operandi,
and modestly mocking his modus vivendi...
He has never made lots of money,
but settles for dollar bills to earn their sympathy;
dressed in tight and colorful ministrel's attire,
he amuses the public with his monkey-shine...
And he pulls out his fiddler and the crowds go wild,
awakening, by its high-pitched sound, a dope fiend,
who has built a temporary shack threatened by the blowing sand;
He puts on his sunglasses and disappears in the groovy sunshine...
The beach entertainer follows him, leaving everyone behind
saying," Sorry, brother...I didn't mean to wake you up, the bum turns around taking off his lenses.
and exclaims, " Music doesn't fill an empty and aching belly...and cheer up a feeble mind! "
" Here's all I got...take it and get something to eat!" He says stretching his hands.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Suddenly from somewhere
A street urchin-
An untamed bird of the wider sky
Dropped down
Into the circus tent
Before him was unfurled
Scenes eerie….awesome!!
Roaring lions and tigers,
Gibbering baboons, caravans of camels,
Animal tamers and acrobats,
Artists balancing on poles
Swinging from bars to trapeziums
Pliant girls with plastic limbs
And pouting breasts,
Walking on tight ropes.
A strange world,
Peopled with beasts and men!
His face, painted white and red
In motley dress, he was arrayed
And a tall tapering cap, placed
On his forcibly tonsured head
He hardly knew what it all meant.
He heard the bells ringing
And it was time for the show
He was told
He would henceforth be a clown
And should make people laugh
A thousand sunsets passed him by
He forgot the familiar alleys of the streets
Lost sight of the endless pathways of the sky
In a world –
So populous- so empty,
He buried him
In the hidden caverns of himself
Nursing a hundred bruises
Inflicted by Time’s sharp razors
Often he was reminded-
“You should make others laugh”
He did make people laugh
While a fountain of tears lay frozen
In the slivers of his broken heart!!
Jan.7. 2023
~ Placed Fourth~
Tatters Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Mystic Rose Rose
THE WEAK ARE BEING
PREYED UPON.
MOST DON'T HAVE A CLUE.
GLOBALIST HAVE A GOAL.
THEIR GOAL, CONTROLLING YOU.
BIG PHARMA HAS YOUR DNA.
WHAT DO YOU THINK
THEY'LL DO?
GENETICALLY MODIFY
HUMAN BEINGS?
THAT MEANS ME AND YOU.
TECHNOLOGY IS A DANGER.
WHEN IN WICKED HANDS.
ESPECIALLY IF YOU'RE CONTROLLED
TO FALL PREY TO THEIR DEMANDS.
THERE ARE THOSE, WHO BELIEVE,
FREE WILL IS NOT YOUR RIGHT.
IF THE MASSES ELEVATE
CONSCIOUSNESS.
THEY WILL LOSE THEIR FIGHT.
THEIR FIGHT TO CONTROL
THE POPULOUS.
EVERYTHING WE THINK SAY AND DO.
THEY REFUSE, TO RELINQUISH
POWER.
WHICH IS AUTHORITY OVER YOU.
TRANSHUMANISM
ISN'T SOMETHING NEW.
IT'S BEEN AROUND FOR MANY YEARS.
NANO CHIPS INSIDE YOUR HEAD?
AN ATTEMPT TO QUELL THEIR FEARS.
WHEN THEY CONTROL THEIR TECHNOLOGY,
PLANTED IN OUR HEADS.
THEY CONTROL WITH A CLICK OF A
MOUSE IF WE LIVE OR SHOULD BE DEAD.
BIG PHARMA IS NOT RESPONSIBLE
FOR THE VACCINE RELATED DEAD.
TELECOMS AND COMMUNICATIONS
NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CANCERS
OF THE HEAD.
SOME POLITICIANS ARE BOUGHT
AND PAID FOR.
SOME ELITIST LIKE TO BOAST.
INTERNATIONAL CORPORATIONS
BELIEVE THIS DESERVES A TOAST.
POPULATION CONTROL
THROUGH GENOCIDE
IS A FORM OF EXECUTION.
ELEVATED CONSCIOUSNESS
WILL LEAD TO A REVOLUTION.
I TIP MY HAT TO THE TRUCKERS.
WHO DECIDED TO MAKE A STAND.
ATTEMPTING TO SAVE OUR
FREEDOMS OUR LIVES AND OUR
LANDS.
I AM JUST A POET.
JUST WRITING WHAT I SEE.
WHEN IT COMES TO FREEDOM.
FREEDOM IS NEVER FREE.
Michael E. Harris
02112022
“Wandering through empty and crowded streets with no destination in sight and sleeping under the sky with the fire burning inside was my life, the life of a vagabond. Survival is a funny game and life is an endless odyssey for survival” ~ By Poet
Homeless, a wanderer all his life.
An orphan, he was raised in the streets.
Mongrel dogs and gypsies were his company.
He had wild days and dolorous times.
At nights, he curled up on street corners,
Had brawls with other street children.
But as he grew up, he began nursing a dream,
To own a home and no more be a vagabond.
He took up odd jobs and worked day in and out.
Over time, against heavy odds
A little hovel, he did build,
In a verdant stretch of fertile land
Off the noisy, frenzied crowd
With sheaves of hay, he thatched its roof.
With reed and bamboo, its walls were made.
With mud and charcoal, its floor was glazed.
With wooden planks, its entrance he laid.
At dusk, when birds to their nests depart,
And beasts, to their covert burrows and dens,
After the day’s toil, weary and weak,
He curls into the cozy comfort of his home.
Through months and years, it gave him succor.
Sheltered him from storm and rain.
Made him differ from the gypsy tribe.
Lent him a footing in this populous world.
He wove around it many a dream.
With frugal care, his needs he met.
Like a squirrel stocking nuts and grains,
In it's secret granary for the rainy days,
He saved all that he had earned,
For a life to be lived later in bliss.
But alas!
His haven lies so derelict!
Its very foundation raced to the ground.
The once beautiful stretch of land,
Robbed of its greenery and grace!
The eviction squad usurped his land,
Hurling him down to the streets!
Making him once again a vagabond…
Bewildered, failing to budge an inch,
Like a boat, midway stranded in sea, he stood.
But his resilient spirits, to him affirmed,
‘Never defeated, though destroyed'
Soon the mud hovel, to a palatial mansion turned.
Where he envisioned himself as king of the land.
His smiling progeny picking fruits from his orchard,
And his cattle chewing cud in the shade of trees.
Why scoff it as the fancy of a fevered mind?
Oh! But to dream is every man's right.
The sky turned stygian grey, violent winds blew.
From above, tears of liquid grief poured down.
Flood waters rose, pressure got built under the soil.
The earth erupted with rocks and buildings,
Coming down with a deadening sound, not once
But thrice in the wee hours of the night.
After the day’s hard toil, those who lay down to sleep,
Were swept away without a moment’s notice.
Two populous villages with hundreds of houses,
And public buildings vanished out of sight in seconds!
A landslide of horrendous magnitude came,
Shrieking like a fiendish banshee....
Sweeping away habitations and the belongings.
In the place of lush green vegetation and towering trees,
Nothing remains but a heap of rocks, stones and debris.
Their voices are forever stilled, their dreams, shattered,
Those who survived the tragedy face the greatest trauma.
With sobbing hearts and a vacant stare, they search,
For the dear ones missing, a grief hard to bear.
The sight of pet dogs sniffing for their masters
Under the slush and debris is so heartrending!
***** ***** ***** ****** *****
After two days, the pouring rain stopped, the sky became clear
Now the earth lies in dreadful silence like a graveyard.
The rubble lies heaped where homes and buildings once stood
Help is pouring in from all quarters of the country.
The initial shock has begun to wear away as reality has set in.
The dreadful numbness gives way as grief takes hold
People sober up from the initial shock and get ready
To have a foothold, knowing well that long nights are ahead.
Reeling minds with no balance, now regain some equilibrium.
With cautious steps through the ruins, they plod with resilience.
The affected people and volunteers work in unity,
To regain what has been lost, though it is a herculean task,
To darn and repair the torn land to make it fit for living.
Man has an ability to sober up and emerge like phoenix,
From the pit of ashes, healing, mending and finding his way.
How it must feel to be homeless, all alone on the streets of this world
I ponder this quite often, wondering where I would go if I had no where else to go
Dropping through the cracks of our society into the dark subtext of this world's heart
How would I ever crawl out of such a grimy, jagged crevice back into what I would call life
Protecting myself from the blackened hearts of our populous
Where would I get hope from when the truth is so horrible and lies seems so beautiful
Would I steal for food when I'm starving for strength
Would I kill for security, just to be safe and not for another night weep
I wish not to think about how dark the darkness would grow that's already inside of me
And through my thoughts I find that this world doesn't resemble me
Doesn't value the same moral fiber as I do, doesn't share the same deduction as I do
And I search for why I am here, why I can't seem to survive in this alien world
“God why am I even alive in a world that I'm so different from that I can't survive”
Two Thousand Sixteen's Coming
By Franklin Price
4/21/2015
Two thousand sixteen's coming
It's not that far away
Politicians from the woodwork
Are coming out to play
Posing and expounding
Until their breaths are spent
On the negatives of others
As they run for president
It's not the things for which they stand
Or the good things that they did
It's the bad things of their opponent
As a stupid teenage kid
There's no recollection out of bounds
How far fetched to mind it seems
It may not have even happened
May have come to them in dreams
While you're deciding how to vote
Listen closely clear your mind
Search for one who speaks of self
Maybe one of them you'll find
If you do and they make sense
Plans for the populous
Get behind push them along
Climb on the campaign bus
This searching is the hardest job
For which anyone applies
For politicians fool us
Put blinders on our eyes
Blinders are for horses
Not for presidential races
Look closely at the candidates
And for their second faces
The Wakening World
A new world spins kaleidoscopic, a whorl of color in revolt.
Oceans quake, molding into fissures of tectonic hunger,
ravaging the deep, stirring the primal need depressing
populations unseen to the denizens of land, left in man’s wake.
From diatom, to whale, from single cell, to open hand
from sun, to star, to mushroom bomb, we have light.
Within the orb of eye, retinal flares of light
an inside-out, upside-down, yin and yang revolution;
juxtaposing wealth with poverty, throngs rise asking for hand-
outs, aching with a human need to know, hungering.
Childhood ends as the predestined ouroboros wakes.
Death’s rattle subsides, as head eats the tail of depression.
Communication becomes the global antidepressant.
Aborigines in Australian huts and Inuit in igloos see the light.
There will be no holding back the tide, for hand in hand, cells wake.
No longer can knowledge be held. “Phone home,” a revolutionary
cry, the breast will not be ripped from the lips of hungering
humanity, tyrant and saint will be juxtaposed, their time at hand.
Instant contact scrapes the barnacles of blight handily.
The stroke of fingertip to keyboard or keypad depressed
sends ignorance fleeing, freeing the knowledge hungry;
showing the way out, the way up, the key. Light-heartedly
heads bow in prayer, the we will rock you will revolt.
Let tyranny be eaten, and righteousness wake.
On the egg of earth, we float in celestial wakes.
Solar tides stir the shards of glass raising death’s hand.
Round and round the top spins each revolution
forced by the pumping thump of nuclear rods depressed,
rods magnetized or charged with lightening
will energize the populous for we all hunger.
Evolution brings revolution, each thirst quenched brings new hunger.
Repression will never depress the desire to wake,
nor, will the fisted hand ever bring the light.
Courting days are long over now
men, well, what does define a man?
Certainly, it is not merely physical?
yet one would expect manliness to
involve some sort of strength?
Does a man let a woman cry?
Does a man make a woman cry?
Honey DO this! Honey move-do that!
The theater is mostly empty now,
no sedans emptying bushel loads of kids,
no popcorn flying through Saturday afternoon’s air.
The kids are reigned in plopped in front of laptops,
too elastically rubber-kneed to walk more than
from the bed to the chair.
I mean the lounge chair, where
they slouch in perpetuity.
A decade or two of days to reframe
two generations of total couch potatoes.
They sit glued to their IPhone, IPods, Kindle’s
not writing, not composing but gaming.
It’s enough to make a mother cry, daily.
Fathers rush down packed highways,
single sardines in smaller and smaller cans,
toward their own desktop comps.
Carpal tunnel runs rampant over the populous.
Emptying box, after box of environmentally correct
reused paper tissues and green nappies into landfills,
online they bet on the daily double.
Abhorrent those phizog few,
At times they flood his mind.
He did not even know why them his mind drew,
He has got to get down, reasons to find.
His mindly nib, she oozes memories,
Of old and new… far but few,but many ,that he knows not.
On papyrus his mind scribbles and carries,
And then drains encapsulated emotions that afore are now brought.
His heart bleeds of porous feelings,
Bleached and dried by furious despotism.
Of people he knew real close in life’s dealings,
Of the ones he had no knowledge of their absolutism.
Blood flows from his weary eyes,
Tears flow from his broken heart.
But he has not yet learnt life’s game of dice.
All he has borne is the fury of the tyranny’s dart.
My thoughts like his lie chained ,
My mindly nib brings afore,
Glued stuck and stained.
Memories of the past eon all sore.
Get up my Goa…..
Can one dare to hope…
Instead of all in this darkness grope
All he can hear is Empty voices….. cold… dark and sterile,
Shapless dreams , but sought in the midst of peril
Black mirrored roads and murky simmering waters,
Is no place for perfect reflections, but for our dream slaughters
Leaving behind a land adorned by hungry eyes…
Its beauty diminishing like wisps of smoke amidst populous cries……
Get up stand up….
ElseWe will run blinded in the dark,
And meet the hard embrace
Of whispered truth and scolding truth without a scenario of a worser case
You are watched and inspected,
Governed , directed , censored and corrected.
You are told what to do,
You are told how far to go.
Where is that haloed glow?
No more a part of your grand show,
Have they driven your thoughts to a tangent,
Oh then even your smile could shortly become pungent.
Your sanity unseen
Your senses now dumb that were earlier keen.
I still cannot reconcile as to why?
Why why and why?
You still walk in sheathed in tatters of pride….
Lips closed but open eyed…..
How long……..
Do we have to be forlorn
How long……..
Do we have to be forlorn
The big debate : “What is a city ?” –
A town created by a charter
And often with cathedral church
But sometimes with an ancient abbey.
St David's, Pembroke is the smallest,
Just twelve hundred citizens
And London is by far the largest,
Populous eight million plus.
Many sprawling conurbations
Are the backbone of our nation :
There's Leeds and London, Bath and Bristol,
Canterbury, Sheffield, Hull;
Then Cardiff, Glasgow, Edinburgh,
Norwich, Wells and Peterborough,
Oxford, Cambridge, Manchester,
Swansea, Truro, Chichester,
Worcester, Portsmouth, York and Belfast,
Carlisle, Chelmsford, Perth.
In cities there is entertainment
With cinema and theatre too,
Museum, gallery and concert hall –
A cultured way of relaxation.
A city has a green side too
With parks and gardens to explore,
Pedestrian precincts help us shop
Away from traffic noise and fumes.
I recommend a city visit,
So many secrets are in store.
Leave your car outside the ring-road,
Hop on a bus to start your tour.
Do you believe that beauty just seen.
I believe beauty is in the eye of beholder.
Variance is the key factor of any gene.
Everyone is beautiful, though some are colder.
Reaching your idea of beauty will never bequeath.
Since your idea of self indulgent looks are bold.
Individuality presses upon appearance of all.
Travel the worlds populous to truly unfold.
You shall see the true beauty of humankind's fall.