Best Rebrand Poems
Wodon gave them song and verse
Promethius gave them fire
Dionysius gave them wine and games
Orpheus played the lyre
Atlas held the world aloft
Fenrir consumed it whole
Ceres gave them seeds and crops
Ran the waves that roll
Pandoras box kept evil locked
Rati set love free
Boreas brought the winters frost
Eostre, springs fertility
But for my name they are nothing,
Upon these you may not call,
For I am christ the jealous god,
And I destroyed them all
So do not sing mousai's songs
Rebrand all festivities
For each of you are heathen
And theres is only me
Scott (loki) MacDonald 2017
Surfing new releases
On the poetry site
When up popped a new ad
To my sheer delight!
From "Pardons Canada"
All flashy and red
Replete with maple leafs...
Sold! On I read.
"Need a Canadian pardon?"
Rubbing my eyes,
Have I got the whole story?
We're selling a rebrand;
Pardon the new "sorry".
18.02.27
Robert Haigh's
Make Me Laugh
Just Because I Said I do
From her words I put out this,
Both in her words her wish is scoop:
“Whatever I do, this I, worth a note”
-She said she needs answers.
For nag I will not play the part,
But for proofs, I will play my part:
I will call you to order as your hobby,
Cos, two wrongs can never make a right.
This love, my lady, is all about understanding.
Though, you are pretty but lack comprehending-
You easily get abnormally obsess, and “let me help”,
You would totally ignore.
Another thing that baffles me about you,
Is the apathy in your pitch and words;
While I word pithy all through for you.
Your love you love throwing in the air,
Especially when you are annoyingly possessed
By things and actions not going your way.
I pity, the why I write
Cos never my strength and personality
To talk behind your back.
A piece of advice to “I want love to remain”-
Reshape, rebrand, reflect, and revive.
For nag I won’t play the part
But for proofs, I’ll play my part.
Your love you love throwing in the air,
Especially when you are annoyingly possessed
By things and actions not going your way.
4/2/2014
Here you unearth the “beast” leaders
They actually are the best
Best leaders anyone can possibly imagine
Leading their subjects without force
No force nor coercion do they employ
They lay claims on better modus
Like washing our brains white
White; and painting it Green
Making us wise in our own eyes
Moreover uniquely foolish in theirs
They made us believe
Believe, that we are helpless
Soon enough, they offer to help
And we saw it coming
Earnest help!?
They rebrand us
Repackage us like mere toys
Feed us with sincere lies
Conjured in their rotund beer bellies
Brews bought by our very sweat and tears
But only time will tell
If “Green and White” should be the colour of my brain
Only just time
The candle light never stopped burning for aeons ago,
A hushed rustle of applause testified to a widespread approbation,
That was on the day he was certificated in the University,
Indeed, he was a bookish arbiter of conduct; a balanced moral fibre.
Tony - born in a home of abject poverty, a pretty immiseration,
The wretched mother sold all she got,
To raise all the buried hopes from their sepulchers,
A thread to the valley and shadows of death to wipe her tears.
As the hands of time ticks,
Getting a white-collar job remained a mission impossible,
Expectation darkened into anxiety and hopelessness,
Their fathomless depths of suffering deepened.
He threw a ton's weight of resolve upon his muscles,
Doubt tortured him not; armed robbery became the last resort,
On the early hours of 24th December, 2016,
He called “Mother, I’m in Aba city now to be home tomorrow to rebrand your life”
Tony’s voice was soft and full of assurance on the telephone,
While the mother writhed in the grip of a definite optimism,
Hours later, they attacked an entrepreneur,
He was caught and the rest of the gang fled; a fluctuations of prosperity and adversity.
The commercial cyclists came with their jungle justice,
Motor tyres engulfed him like a deadly ring,
His eyes stared unseeingly as more and more stones hit his head,
The hope of survival became far, unrealistic and dim.
His soul was compressed into a single agony of prayer,
As mammoth pangs of regret made its splashes in his expiring mind,
He pleaded for mercy, and the mother came to the crime scene,
Disheartened and broken.
And she cried and said “My life depends on him,
He is my future,
And everything I got, please don’t kill him”
But the angry mob ignored her sorrowful pleas and set him ablaze.
Honestly, it was an unforgettable afternoon,
When death flowed in its accustomed stream.
He never visited the poor mother again with riches as he promised,
But only left Aba city through a hellish path to the grave.
THIS BODY OF MINE
Woe upon woes offing
To my creator I owe a debt
After this voyage of mine on earth
And I, to this burden of death endureth.
Woe upon this body of mine
‘Tis a stinking sand
This dust return; my soul demand
The thorns of life chokes, my spirit rebrand.
What fate has this body, but dust...?
For all this attention to beauty is vanity
But beauty of eternity neither fades nor bust
Below this earth the frame of man will suffer rust.
Oh man prepare your bed with fear
To your crown of joy be bold to hold
Lean on your master; his precept adhere
Then your tomb of fear will he turn to care.
What then shall we say is life?
With all man's ego and pride
We often ask, “do you know who I am?"
Why boast when your breath you cannot boost?
On earth we gather all the perishable fortunes,
They transcend not but here it ends.
To this end, man reflect and learn
That this body, an impending meal
To maggot a perfect feast
Be not proud with title too,
For all is vanity without excuse.
The recorder clicks on.
What made you stay?
I didn’t stay.
I fastened.
I was made to fasten.
And if you're made to fasten,
you look for something moving.
Something strong enough
to take you somewhere.
You tell yourself: better to drown in motion
than dry out drifting.
Were you happy?
Is the leaf happy to believe the river chose it?
Is the river happy to carry so much brokenness?
Sometimes the wanting
drowns out the sound of splintering wood.
Did you know the hull was cracking?
No.
Or yes—
but only the way you know storms exist,
somewhere beyond your horizon.
You hear a creak,
you call it music.
You feel a lurch,
you call it loyalty.
If you could go back—
No.
No apology tour.
No redemption arc.
I made my choice—
it's permanent.
I just didn’t know I’d lashed myself
to something already sinking.
Didn’t know the waves
would only take us this far.
It's the sameness that gets you.
Is that why you speak in reflections now?
Maybe.
Maybe because reflections
are the only things that still move around me.
Or maybe because when you commit yourself
to something broken,
you stop dreaming about drift—
rebrand it as patience.
The recorder clicks off.
The ship lists, leaking into the tide.
The barnacle stays fastened—
stubborn, small, not asking.
She rides the current—
nothing left but to learn how to live with it.
I Know Some People
Through thick forest they always move
Amidst busy market they always stay
Ever busy streets they always trod
They don’t move alone
But always with a glittering glitter
Every blessed day they feel pleasure
But because of sympathy they are not happy
Even though they ought to be happy
They walk through town and gown
Just because they must impact
Mother of life is what they are
Mother of multitude is what they are
Mother of generations is what they are
Mother of impartation is what they are
They walk through dark and dead because of kids
They kiss mucus so that there kid would not kick bucket
They recollect and correct
So as to rebrand and repack
These people are the ones you kept awake with your cries
They are the ones you denied sleep just because you must snore
They are the mother of handsome kings and pretty queens
Dear me
I have been picking up
All the broken pieces
Of my life
Always putting in place
All that has fallen off my vain
I knew who I am and that is the source
Of my movements
I will never let me down
Not even when me is broken
I will keep picking up every pieces
And replace them with a new life
I will not fall not to rise
I will never shame my shadow
In the light
I know who I am
I can rebrand my future
Recreate my moves
And keep my success stable
Dear me
I will always be better
Than the man in the mirror
I will always defeat him
Each time I see him
I can't do better with out me
So I keep picking up every
Fallen piece of my heart back to love
I keep answering the calls of nature
Despite the distraction of money
I remain royal to the universal force
Of nature
In this part I always can be better
Than the man in the mirror
So don't think am down to your games
Rooted with jealous and Ego
Oh you empty gossiping men
The only man I am in competition with
Is the man I always see in the mirror
He got a name called
Dear me
Bloodstone
Band the status quo
Letting go of the ego
Overpowering the negative energy
Offering thyself a torch to see through the dark
Doing my best and playing my part
Self and Soul have been tied
Taking each experience in stride
On to the next level of life to rebrand
Needing only the highest to guide my hand
Evolution sparked by love will reveal His plan
At water’s edge, this rocky chasm shore.
I am Belisama, numen of lakes and rivers,
or sometimes Brigit of mystic phasm lore.
I am the brightest one, the fiery one who delivers.
To the Romans I am Minerva of wisdom and poetry.
The Christians rebrand me Saint Brigit Kildare.
But it’s my magic Celtic roots that make me visionary.
In each sheeny silver sliver of being, I am there.
Like the Prince of Peace, I am invoked for war.
Warriors gain strength from me on the battlefield.
But my origins betray the bellicose fervor,
my mindful still water core is always unsealed.
The modern multitask brain neglects the lyrical,
but hippocampus allusion recalls the metaphysical.
I’m declaring a personal rebrand.
I’ve a new personality at the beach.
On the way here (to Heraclee) - on the train
or the Uber - my ambitions and inhibitions
dissolved, without apology.
Frivolity is basal here, not some accessory -
we take our unseriousness seriously here.
If someone asks us about our plans,
we feel slightly attacked - what plans?
We left those behind, in Paris,
and we were happy to get rid of them.
I decided long ago, quite firmly, not to be miserable.
I’ve a real, stubborn insistence on joy.
After my first week here, I’ve practically forgotten AI panic,
crazy presidents, foreign wars and social media multipliers -
instead, I picked out matching pjs, cover-ups and string bikinis.
We have hard decisions to make though - even here - like,
‘Should we stare meaningfully at the ocean - or hookup?’
.
.
:
I remember the sun by XTC
More Than This by Roxy Music
.
.
*80s music seems to fit the beach
grab them by the blank
never have to vote again~
liberty rebrand
This time,
Janice is wearing a priest collar
and I’m the altar.
She hisses when I open my Notes app
during communion,
calls me a heretic
for spellchecking my trauma.
I tell her my whole personality
is based on being misquoted.
She says no, babe. It’s based on needing
a witness and a warning sign.
Then she bites the rim off my coffee cup
and whispers the true name of God
into the ear of a raccoon I once dated.
She reads tarot using expired CVS receipts.
All the cards say return to sender.
I ask if that means my father.
She just shrugs
and duct-tapes a feather to my forehead
like it’s penance or war paint or both.
We co-author a manifesto
on a napkin stolen from a dive bar bathroom.
She titles it
Why We Don’t Cry During Apocalypse Drills Anymore.
Later, I catch her sobbing
to a podcast about deep-sea fish
that flash their own bodies
just to be noticed.
I ask if she’s okay.
She croaks,
do you even know what it’s like
to be evolution’s punchline.
Yes, Janice.
I call it middle school.
I call it dating men with lowercase ambitions.
I call it standing too long in the same place
and becoming part of the furniture.
By the time the sun decides
to ghost us for good,
Janice is already skywriting
with the last of my mascara:
don’t wait for closure—
just close the damn door.
I laugh like I mean it.
She screams like she doesn’t.
We steal a shopping cart,
fill it with unsent letters and beef jerky,
and ride it downhill into the end of everything.
I am finally the bird.
She is finally the girl.
And God
God is just someone we unfollowed
after a bad take on grief.
We (the missus and I) kvell for Katz TOASTER PASTRIES!
I prefer to craft a poem
for no rhyme nor reason
expressing heartfelt pleasure
to our highly refined palate
versus presenting tasty, yummy
and zesty nutritious snacks
exuberant feedback courtesy Tik Tok.
Aside from harkening from Semitic stock
me and the missus
relish those (Katz) gluten free pastries
they give us the oomph to rock
and similar to powder milk biscuits
give us strength to do what needs to be done.
Though no intention to mock
popular Pop-Tarts
(stylized as pop•tarts),
an American brand of toaster pastries
produced and distributed by Kellanova
(formerly Kellogg's) since 1964,
which consist of a sweet filling
sealed inside two layers of thin,
rectangular pastry crust.
In 2006, Mrs Katz decided
to transform the world
of gluten free snacking
for her celiac children.
Eighteen years later,
she retains firm stronghold
courtesy word of mouth watering
salivating (videlicet) Pavlovian
salutary, masterly, hardy,
deliciously crafted wholesome food
clinching dominant market share
analogous to stronghold ala deadbolt lock,
a recipe distributors attempt
to steal by hook or crook,
yet unable to break down fortified doors
after they loudly knock
on one occasion
holding the bakers on their break hostage
pointing culinary harmless
imitation edible Glock,
nevertheless drawing attention
of media camera crews that flock
for breaking shipping news
that harbor standoff
with quasi narco traffickers,
intent to rebrand and sell
Katz TOASTER PASTRIES
as mucked up poor quality dogs treats,
where special op forces
heavily guard the dock
maintaining vigilance around the clock,
to prevent goods held as contrabands
and subject pastry chefs to intense torture
forcing unsung heros
to stay awake 24/7 blindfolded,
so as not to see miscreants,
where ingredients of goodies
sniffed, sifted, and scrutinized
by sophisticated chemical analysis,
and thus I now conclude
contrived fictitious poetic scenario
to share such helpful feedback
in a little ditty composed ad hoc
can boost sales for your company.
by: matthew scott harris