Best Revolted Poems
“ Affirmation without discipline is the beginning of delusion. Jim Rohn “
Relentlessly I pace around the room,
like a caged lion, dreaming of vast forests,
yearning for savannah grasslands,
vaguely remembered.
I fret for I feel inadequate,
still, I yearn despite the drudgery of life.
My thirst for you is insatiable,
always increasing though deluded,
as if I'm living in some devastating desert
where no fertile oasis thrives.
How can I enforce discipline? I cannot do it.
Night deepens and I yearn for the day.
Lying in bed I wonder
how much of all this I can take.
At last, my wife's home,
reeking of foul-smelling cigarettes,
reeling with too much drink,
dress soiled with what I dare not think.
She smiles at me, I freeze revolted.
Her kiss is blistering
as I wipe her saliva off,
I help her reluctantly
to her dark solitary cot.
How easy my fire is quenched!
All sweet song is muted. I despair.
How many wearisome nights are appointed to me?
That we should exist
when life is just like a passing wind,
it comes and goes, extinguished forever.
Till then, she and I are but chained,
each to his own devious devices.
Will I ever see joy again?
I retire to my fitful sleep
and dare to dream.
Perhaps one day.....
Who knows?
The newborn dawn is nigh,
its first rays are fresh and bright.
Yet, despite reality and delusion,
I dare to dream.
Placed 1st
3 polished oak fans,
Swirling in robotic unison
High maintenance socialites,
Sipping on Merlot fallacies
Lemon yellow coated walls,
Flat,
Like their smiles
Comparisons of dangling Porsche & Bentley keys
A glorified day care center,
Pacifiers included
The muted virtuosos speak softly in hymn dialects.
Courtesy laughter in snob’s octave
Their heads twitching side to side,
Left to right to left
An equilibrium facing assault charges against self
They slow dance to cello dreams
And E minor dividends
Two-step monotone, sway
Against platinum lacquer foundations
…
But, it was then.
These same socialites,
Made of recycled candle wax
And rubberized, hedge-fund confidence,
Began to stare longingly at the party host’s 70 inch plasma TV
Proudly imported from China
“Attention uptight snobs of Mecca!
The city zoo has imploded!
The monkeys revolted!
The zebras were tired of being racially profiled!
Run for your LIV…!”
(SMASH!)
And before the reporter’s frightened inner child could finish’s his clause,
An elephant crashes into the decadent room
Filled with Crisp linen scents of Febreze & judgmental fear
It stares at the socialites,
Laughing heartedly as it playfully stomps away into constellation’s onyx night
As tears waterfall from the snobs’ sobbing eye sockets
As if they just listened to another Celine Dion song
The real newsflash
Metaphors played hooky today
©Drake J. Eszes
Flightless Birds Trapped In A Gilded Cage.
.
Fledgling innocents incarcerated in a gilded ornate cage
Budding pretty flowers
Within the blossoming of youth
Of tender sensitive age
.
Born into an imperial dynasty
By destiny and decree
A view from a palace window
To the outside world
Was all they’d often see
Far from the peasant underclass
Living in the gutter of poverty
.
Each one an individual
With different varied traits
With nothing but love in their tender hearts
For they’re parents
Unaware of their countries fate
.
Ripples of unrest and anger
Soon turned into waves of hatred
For a seemingly
Uncaring despondent regime
Toward the Tzar the affluent nobility
And the withdrawn empress Queen
.
The hungry angry peasants revolted
And stormed the palace gates
And for the Royal family
There was no escape
.
Sewing precious jewels inside their clothing
They were forced to leave their comfortable dwelling
And taken prisoners to a place far away
Where they tried to make the best
Of life in where they had to stay
.
Unsure of their fate lost in fantasy and dreams
The revolutionist planned their fate and schemed
One day they were taken to a cellar
And told they were about to die
They must have been terrified
And no doubt
Screamed and cried
.
Shots were fired at the family
And many bullets ricocheted
Bouncing of the clothing
Where the jewels wee hidden away
But eventually blood was spilled
Sending the family to an early grave
.
Peter Dome©2021.
It's time now for me to start a new,
I have to as all my poems were removed.
Locked out of my account by poetrysoup,
I was excluded in exile from this poetry loop.
Following this exclusion I am now back,
not fazed pulsating the evolutionary track,
evading the limits as I upgrade and adapt,
soaking up the jargon and improving my act.
Many others write rhymes befiting to poetry,
with less common or poetic words in decipher reads,
my rhymes are more fitting to an unsightly reality,
with everyday common words on the contrary.
On the face my style has a lesser appearance,
but I write rhymes for head and chest clearance,
I don't comply to the contemporary coherence,
I'm more a wild card away from adherence.
I had created a monster,
the sort offence sponsors,
a repulsive imposter
receiving revolted responses.
A quest that I conquered with ease and perfected,
but went to far and squandered to see it ejected,
wondering beyond the boundaries until disconnected,
I didn't ponder it, I was fond of it that's why it was selected.
When I get knocked down I return with haste,
grab a fresh slate and draft a brand new taste,
when you lose all, start new and don't hesitate,
in the face of adversity carry on and create.
My life's a quest to evolve and progress,
each test to solve, break down and digest,
unstoppable on this path until I witness,
a poem I write with rhyme finesse.
She portrays me to be selfish
but I think she's just helpless
and I feel so foolish
for letting her make me feel so selfless
and this insanity will consist until I dismiss and resist
giving into this repetitive mess
And as I proceed
indeed I feel naive
to know I would repeat this same routine
from sixteen to eighteen
but it's such a relief
to be able to release
this disease
that was in my skin
and made me weak at my knees
and I'm pretty sure anyone in their right mind would agree
So now when she tells our story
she forgets to say
all the things she ever did
to make me behave this way
and as she lies awake
shattered by the idea of what we became
what she couldn't contain
yet she's real quick to complain
I can't even begin to explain
why it was so hard to escape
why I always remained
I believed I was addicted to her
like a coke head is addicted to cocaine
Discouraged by the possible pain
but I've learned
pain is the consequence of
happiness
it took longer than it should have to realize
I can't be having this
consistent irrational madness
she's still convinced I planned this
just because I revolted
and flipped the axis on our atlas
dropping acid
just to paint a clearer picture on the canvas
Trends mirrored me
I wrapped fire in my gut
Passed through the cells of light
I cut my anchor rope
Struggled to realize my dreams
I floated above time
All is left to me alone - alone
The suffering - sleeplessness
I swam the opposite of my tragedies
I'm a prisoner despite the distress
I did not give up my sails to the sea
In the memory of my begining
I walked in my derby
Criticism - heart breaks - suffering
I wore them my stories
Walkers hated me
Lookers spited at me ugliness
I held it for years
Crossed it to sleep on
Hugged it - Hugged it
Mortgaged myself
Watered all my seeds
Although revolution is repeated
Yet career has not risen
Planes of enemies
Tasted the scourge of the earth
Civilization denied me
Parties divided me
Earth hunger revolted it
Soul milk satiated it.
It’s wrong to judge people by appearance
So when he approached me with that grimace
I tried to see what’s inside
Perhaps a sweet prince did hide
Behind scaly green skin on the surface
He offered his lips, I felt revolted
And through the door I just might have bolted
If I had not made a vow
To be less judgmental now
So we kissed and my heartstrings he jolted
Such heaven we found on his lily pad
Till he turned into a horny-toad cad
Now my mouth is filled with warts
And no more bliss he transports
I just look at him and shout out “Egad!”
Sometimes a book’s cover shows what’s within
And I’ve surely learned much to my chagrin
This frog will not be a prince
When I look at him I wince
And just belt down a few chugs of sloe gin
This entry for the happily ever after contest is based on the fairy tale about the frog
prince.
Rastafari certainly was a young man of magnificent talent indeed...
He praised God, as Abraham did, in his chant and dance with true glee,
Bob Marlyn and Peter Posh helped him become a raggae star;
some folks thought he was crazy with those long, braided hair.
Since ninenteen-seventy when hippies abounded,
and revolted against the American Government with protest...
Rastafari wrote great songs of many themes for the oppressed
and poor who were denied civil liberties in their own land.
Listen to those songs, feel the vibrant beat in the his unique music
and walking in his shoes you can sing with him and become his friend,
because Rasatfari dreamed of seeing all peoples embrace around the troubled world...
has he died in vain or left an indelible legacy for those adoring his everlasting beat?
(autobiographical)
I was barely eight before mother died
When Gerald was happy and not as reduced
When he was the loved son
The child with a loving home.
From aunt to aunt I learned to live
Out of the anger of dad
Out of the voice that brought fear.
Into the hand of pestilence-
My second life began-
A life of maltreatment,
A life of struggle
Elder brother disowned when he revolted
The treatment harsh and inhuman - so he bolted.
I joined the struggle
The life of scuffle
Wherein I was the marked
The recalcitrant and ragged
The delinquent in school
The tortured child of the family's few
Who outlived the deads of two aunts
Beseeched to care for him.
I am half mad, they tell me
I know I am a psychic
Half crazed child
A ricochet of mum’s death-
I have been alienated
Disillusioned by life, ill-fated
Tortured by a disturbed mind.
Dad on my heels
Listening to propaganda
murder-bent at my heels
flogged flogged flogged till I go for pills.
Fled my home to the street
Ate from the bin
Lived with street kids
One of the flocks
One of the hard rocks.
I have been in the cold
No bosom have rocked with me
Save mum’s who lies in the clay.
I am spiritually dead
Physically out of mind, they say.
From pastor to pastor
From prayers to prayers
From recessions to intercessions,
Through starvation for correction
I remain unchanged.
I am finished, they say.
Nothing can help me
save God on whom I weep and call.
My relatives
Alienate me
making me atychiphobic
Aggravating my anthropophobia
building in me gelotophobia
and all those anthropological phobias
A loved child has no right to know.
It bringing me pain for they are nailing me shut.
I pity myself - Pity me father
Pity me, brother
Because I have tried
Tried to be loved
Tried to be the best from limps
But I am not up to those dreams.
I know that many dislike me
Feel uneasy when Gerald is around:
Instead of helping me
They become indifferent, violent.
I told Louisa last week as she fumed at methat
anything I lay my hands on
fails to work again.
It either gets bad or broken.
My own things end up craggy
No matter the patience and prudence I put in.
Why then am I born?
Why the fear
Why the alienation?
I pray that I be left alone
Donot curse me again, donot.
Accept my fate and let me be
Else you help in killing me.
Once I sat on our veranda with my sister, sweet Miranda
And the forbidden goodies we had purchased at the store.
While I nibble, neatly snapping, suddenly there comes a flapping
Of an apron at the door. My dear mother is once more
Catching us in our misdoing while her favor we are losing
Standing at veranda door.
Frowning, pointing at the floor at the shells we had been dropping,
Cracking peanuts without stopping, we had purchased at the store.
"Pick them up," our mother uttered. ""You are lucky they're not buttered.
They would be forever more staining my veranda floor.
We could see she was revolted so my sister and I bolted
To our mama at the door.
Neither of us dared to amble, bump each other as we scramble
To pick up the shells from off the floor, for our mom who we adore.
Vowing not to buy them anymore, unshelled peanuts from the store.
Ready to be reprimanded, though we've done what she commanded,
We stand still to be admonished, knowing well we should be punished
For the shells upon the floor.
Written: Oct. 4, 14
Sleep our glorious ancestors, sleep!
Do not be disturbed.
We,
your descendants would never betray
The blood you have shed to liberate
Our land.
The Land of:
Homer and Hesiod
Aeschylus and Euripides
Socrates and Plato
Hypocrates and Alexander
For
We would never let another enemy,
No matter how powerful,
To invade our holy motherland-
The birthplace:
Of Philosophy
Of Democracy,
Of Tragedy, and
Of the Olympic Games.
Sleep you, immortal heroes of freedom, sleep!
Let your blessed souls roam onto the Elysian fields, and
Let yourselves enjoy the company of our
Forbears:
Of Hercules,
Of Achilles
Of Odysseus, and
Of Agamemnon
For
We stay vigilant guards instead of you
Ready to safeguard the values and ideals
For which you have fallen.
Ready to follow your footsteps, and
Ready to die for our land: Greece
Which
You have liberated after four hundred years of
Insufferable and tyrannical occupation.*
©Demetrios Trifiatis
25 March 2021
*The Ottomans captured Constantinople (Istanbul), which was
the capital of the Byzantine empire for eleven centuries, on the
29th of May 1453. Greece remained enslaved till the 25th of
March 1821, when we Greeks revolted against the oppressors' tyranny and after a long war, we managed to liberate ourselves!
Long live Freedom. Long Live Greece!
Each Wednesday evening, we eat soup and bread.
A simple meal like one our Savior ate,
Supping with dear and closest, trusted friends,
Taking the food to meet his coming fate.
Every one is regretfully afraid,
Realizing that our precious Savior dies.
Revolted that our black and grievous sin
Is causing Him to ride to His demise.
Traveling fearfully with Him to His doom
Until His death on cross on Black Friday.
All of us mourn and sorrow by the tomb,
Looking to promise we'll see Him again.
Sunday brings the most astounding vision.
He has risen! Our Christ has arisen!
“A dying people tolerates the present, rejects the future, and finds its satisfactions in past greatness and half-remembered glory.”
“A strong man makes a weak people. A strong people don’t need a strong man.”
John Steinbeck (Nobel Prize 1962)
for the DEAD in the Struggle for EELAM
I
Ages from now, let it not be said:
Blood spills only as brother dies.
Ages from now, let not peace be bled
By chances lost now in sighs.
To the high nor low slams the door
To him who seeks the Law and more.
Take, take the Golden Mean way!
Truth your only key, don’t ever slay!
Where the elephant roams un-tethered free,
The familiar myna will echo carefree
Words of yore buried in sacred memory:
One breed, one species carved in ivory.
No greater fear simmers in the lowlands
Than the stealth of brother against brother;
No higher disdain festers in the highlands
Than vengeance lying in wait for the other.
II
Think not of the promises made and broken,
Think only of the time lost and forsaken.
Every hour, every day, a life blown or taken;
Every month, every year, a people woe-driven.
To the high nor low slams the door
To him who seeks the Law and more.
Take, take the Golden Mean path!
Truth your only key, never the lathe!
Think of Prince Paranirupasingham who to succour
King Jayavira’s queen, to Kandy, fled his throne:
Abandoned to court intrigue, schemes and wiles encore:
A princely retreat, a physician’s penance alone.
First governor, then regent, the last Jaffna King Cankili
Learnt best the conqueror's cruel art of slaughter;
Then, fired by the local converts' iniquitous treachery,
Revolted too late, his head the butt of lofty laughter.
Think of C.P. Ramanathan the island’s cause to defend
Sailed over choppy seas past wild submarines
To raise the nation’s flag in the court of the Empire’s den,
His homeward chariot drawn by one peoples’ teens.
(...continued in Parts 3 to 5)
My country is the beautiful sun
My country is not the hard winter
My country is an often green Eden
Always languid and tropical at dawn.
It’s a country where the crowing of roosters
Revives everybody every morning
It’s a country furnished with filthy slush and rocks
Where nature is a vast and miserable garden.
It's a country full of horrid stories
Where slaves and decent people are revolted
Against greedy settlers and bloody buccaneers
It’s where only macabre memories exist.
In this awful and morose atmosphere
Where I banter all that is negative
I will build positive monuments
I will dream and recite fables.
My country is the moonlight
Which gives hope and strength to fight
Against masked and zombified
Bogeymen. Oh! God, I hold no grudges.
My country is the ever positive imagination
Presently, I don't want to denounce anyone
However, I will silence the chiming bells
Oh! It's sad to see my people on the exodus
Near the evacuative shores.
P.S. Gilles Vigneault, this poem is
For you and our people.
Copyright © January 2023, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
I come to bury Gandhi,
Bury him deep,
Not to praise him.
It is fashionable nowadays—to decry him
As a racist, as a casteist.
Accuse him of discriminatory practices.
No one will challenge me.
Perhaps I may add that
He often fasted
Because he had constipation!
All that he did was to lie,
(Though he claimed to speak the truth)
Across the road,
Across the railway track,
Across any British move.
Attlee, unlike Churchill,
Was a liberal-minded man,
Eager to free India.
British economy was in shambles
In the wake of World War II.
Trade Unions were launching strikes
Across the subcontinent.
Jinnah demanded a separate state.
Indian Navy revolted.
All this is true.
But if the butterfly of a Gandhi
Had not fluttered his wings,
India would not have got her freedom
Without an armed struggle,
Which is also true—
More or less.
—Ram, R. V.