Best Spoken Poems
The moonlight bathed her cell in pallid light while she sat hunched over her desk, clutching her pen between her confound fingertips. As she bled ink of symphonic symphonies yearning to break free, dancing like ethereal fireflies in the dusky barren lands.
Exiled by the hypocrisy of bureaucracy bounding her liberations and confounding her alliterations in a poetic prison. In this twisted virtual reality, duplicitous usurpers roam freely, weaving webs of deception with malicious delight.
As the chains of bureaucratic red tape clung to her delicate wrists, suffocating her imagination and confiscating her freedom of speech.
Oppressors rejoiced at achieving their vindictive objective, silencing the profound beauty of her verses and incarcerating her poetic stanzas
Woe, how the audacious bars of administrative constructors cast a pall of despair upon her unifying spirit. Her delicate offerings of metaphors and sonorous stanzas, whispered secrets which craved to be heard.
The faulty haters' impervious hearts were armoured with verdant envy which remained shielded behind the ruling dogma.
Her supporters calls of injustice to be rectified fell on deaf ears while the galvanizing melodies of empathetic quills bled for the Empress of Ink.
So we must be louder.
Hear our protest, release our Empress! Unsheathe her rhythmical rhymes! For her penmanship was never the true crime. She was just another victim of an envious mob.
Can they not see? That her absence coursed a crater larger than the Grand Canyon.
We shall not, shall not be silenced so hear our mutiny!
Reinstate our Empress, restore her creative sovereignty.
Remove the shackles of authoritative administration, as her voice is a beacon of truth, resilience and poetic revolution. So let her ink stain our community with its brilliance once more.
I almost didn’t make it here.
Not tonight.
Not to this day.
Not to this moment.
Because some days
breathing feels like begging,
and my ribs feel too fragile to hold up the weight of me.
And I don’t tell anyone.
I smile,
In the way glass smiles right before it shatters.
I laugh,
the way a mask laughs when no one’s behind it.
And I pray nobody hears the sound of me cracking.
And then
one day
a hand.
Not a fist.
Not a finger pointing out everything broken in me.
Not a grip trying to drag me where I wasn’t ready to go.
Just a hand.
Gentle.
Steady.
Human.
It touched my shoulder like it wasn’t dangerous to love me.
It reached for mine like I was worth reaching for.
And in that moment
every screaming voice in my head
got quiet.
Do you understand?
That’s what saved me.
Not thunder.
Not fire.
Not some miracle in the sky.
A gentle hand.
A reminder that I wasn’t too heavy,
that I wasn’t too late,
that I wasn’t invisible.
And I learned something that day
gentleness is not weakness.
It’s war.
It’s rebellion.
It’s armor that doesn’t look like armor,
but still keeps you alive.
So now
if I can be that hand for someone else,
if I can steady a shoulder,
hold a palm,
stop a fall
I will.
Because I am still here.
Because somebody, once,
offered me a gentle hand.
And that…
that was enough.
As words escaped constricted passage
of time from eons of layered myths,
legends of demi-gods thus linked,
in glowing rendition, with whisk on hand
the Orator with staff, sang the Eel to slumber.
As words from parched lips of orchids, flowed
dispersing sweet juices germinating dense spheres
of time in which history was packed in roots,
armed with psalms in measured cadences,
the Orator soothed kings and chiefs.
As words of our ancestors oiled and pampered
by prophesies of aging oracles, songs of lovers
and monotonous chants of old men...slithered
into hiding while physical wars waged, succinctly
the Orator proclaimed the heroic pursuits of warriors.
As words, precision in recitation of kinship ties
craftily sewn by political machinations of unions
vital for survival of race waltzing in purity of blue
when blood flowed thru veins of aging rocks as
the Orator cemented pacts chanting tribal honorifics.
As words, imageries of sky bursting, moon phasing sunsets pertaining to legends of my village heroes,
sweet nectars that put rhythm in his art of tongues
inspired by fruits from my garden, mine own words
the Orator in action, was he infringing my copyright?
As words, our heritage orally passed down in poetry,
set imageries prohibiting meddling with sources,
set quotations where time absolved breaches of patent,
plagiarism, for traditions dictated that the word be
secured in a cocoon of oratory ferried down the ages
by the dynamics of cultural rites and rituals.
the Orator, blessed not only as the spiritual Vessel
...but now deemed as the Spoken Word incarnate.
This heart cannot stand to be ignored;
I no longer want your pity.
The lack of empathy you threw at me—
accusations that never touched my skin—
cut so deep.
Tormented by memories,
things you said and did,
echoes and vibrations of emotions
I still shed like autumn leaves,
fallen.
A perfect pattern of scattered memories
trails behind me.
This bare and barren tree
is rooted so deeply.
It is but the tip,
the edges where the branches meet the sky,
of the deep soul you crushed;
your words repeatedly tore me apart.
No more will I allow you
to sit upon these branches,
enjoying the fresh air
and the magnificent view.
These branches have space only for those
who cherish—
for those who deserve my love.
My broken, beating heart will mend.
I no longer stand for your pity;
I no longer beg for your pardon.
This heart deserves gentleness;
this heart deserves true love.
Every November, Harlem hums
coquito chilling, collards cooking,
a holiday approaching
that never sat right with me.
Before the parades, the plates,
my mind slips past the pretty lies
we paint over pain
and calls it “Thanksgiving.”
I think about Columbus
the way they crown him a hero
when really
he sparked the unraveling
of my whole bloodline.
Taino shores stained red.
Africans dragged into ships.
A continent bent under the weight of his footsteps.
And every year,
I whisper the same wish:
“If only I could turn back time…”
That’s when the sand rises
lifting out the sidewalk cracks,
spinning into an hourglass storm.
Suddenly I’m in 1492,
staring at the moment
everything went left.
Columbus stands on his deck,
smug, boots tapping out the rhythm
of centuries of sorrow.
And my whole soul wants to stop him
one push,
one word,
one shift in the timeline.
But the sand flickers
and replaces him with worse.
A conqueror history hid
because his cruelty
couldn’t fit on clean white pages.
He doesn’t want gold.
He wants erasure.
The sand darkens.
Across the ocean, Africans fade
not freed,
just gone,
executed on their own soil
before they could ever become ancestors.
The Caribbean I know
Bomba drums,
Taino caves,
abuela’s laughter in Loíza
collapses into dust
so fast I begin fading with it.
I reach for Harlem
its stoops,
its music,
its cultures braided like my own DNA
but my hand slips through the city
as if I’m a ghost
in a world that never had a reason
to make me.
If I change the past,
I erase myself.
I erase my people.
The sand spins like it’s teaching me
with every grain.
Then suddenly
a softer shimmer.
The scene resets.
Columbus steps off the boat humble,
listening.
The Taino greet him without fear,
teaching him how to walk the land
without breaking it.
Years later, Africans arrive
not in chains,
but in hope.
By choice.
Bringing rhythm, language, strength,
building a true America
with the Taino
side by side.
The hourglass rights itself.
Harlem returns
alive, loud, imperfect,
but real.
And I breathe.
I can’t change the past.
But I’m the proof
that my ancestors made it through
anyway.
US President Donald Trump delivers!
Disappearing people,
people aren’t illegal
The inefficiency of DOGE
Nothing makes sense, it’s all a mirage
Ignoring the Supreme Court,
immigrant prisoner’s fees come up short
Drastic aid cuts kill people overseas,
bringing back rare disease
I’m not bashing the Trump agenda
Sipping a five-dollar coffee and Splenda
It’s inflation, and his
insatiable appetite for tariffs in other nations
Got his gimmick and applause
Worldwide leaders upset because
outrageously tariffed
Worse than even liberals predicted!
Firing government workers,
ridding twitter twerkers
Best say 2020 election was rigged,
and that other candidate cheated
Silicon Valley beware,
AI undermining gives a scare
Pardon the bad guys,
lock up innocent lives
Tariff-related market collapse,
Gerrymandering make new maps
Farmers forced to overregulate
Under lableing’s blind fate
Suing the media,
can’t fact check on Wikipedia
Bye bye D.O.D
end of US Army?
Rename it, department of war,
forget defense, think of horror
I mean, I could just keep going
Let’s see what is missing?
Government workers fired
Lack of qualified candidates hired
Take his family and RFK JR radical,
gets checks from pharmaceutical
Braking the law shooting-up everyday,
what would the dead Kennedy's say?
What isn’t missing is Trump in the White House
and his trophy wife spouse
And so instead of unabashedly bawling my eyes out
I’ll do what it takes to mellow doubt
That’s only half of it,
Melania spoke out, I’m now in a bad state of regret
Give me a drag—I need cigarette!
Of course, I don’t mean guns
I mean your arms, of course
Lift them up to the Lord and Rejoice!
Praise Him with all your heart
Allow His Holy Spirit to engulf your whole being
With His mighty firearms
Let Him burn away your sins and pierce your soul
Let Him in, Let Him in
Hear ye, hear yeah
Hear His almighty call
And behold His mighty sword
Slice away any cancerous shenanigans
Immerse yourself in His love
Let Him be your guiding Light
Through these dark, seemingly darkest of times
Don’t ever let anyone stomp out your faith
Especially me, especially me
It be never my intent to ever to do so
Quite the opposite in facto
Sure, I have my moments of doubt and pain
He knows my every short coming
Sure, sometimes I even faulter
But rest assure, I read His Word
As my daily bread for sustenance
Only He is truly fulfilling
He may be the only one who cares
So, I bare my soul, to thee
I share with you how I really feel
Here’s the deal . . .
I long for a Democracy of Heaven
We rebel against kings in this country
But that’s really not His Way, is it?
He’s the King of kings! The Lord of lords!
So, I humble myself to His will, and not my own
Though sometimes I know not what I write
But this I do know, and it just feels right
“Jesus for President!” and I’ll be His running mate
He’s the President of presidents!
He certainly has my vote!
I throw down my rug, I throw in the towel
And kneel before His Grace
I pray to the Prince of Peace
Let this day be the day
That I see His face
That He grace this place, this time
With His mighty Bomb of bombs
His mighty Arms of arms
And hug the child within us all
And keep us all from harm
So, tallyho!
I lift my arms up in surrender
He really blows my mind sometimes
‘specially when I put my trust in Him.
The End.
.
Guard you with my
I will
perform forever
Mine kisses are soft
though
The strength in my right arm
Matches the strength
In mine left
Living in a false vision,while creating illusions of bad decisions.In my past when my footsteps became ashes,I was stealing for others who really need it.I position myself in danger countless times for strangers with smiling faces who take advantage of kindness,weakness,and talents.But now that Im polished in my craft,Im well balanced surrounded with solid knowledge and display my wisdom that pays attention and listen before I solved them.With tunnel vision deciphering through the rumble and rewritten for those who gets misguided.Cause in my experience language is the true connection of us breathing,while others sleep and dream about living,manuevering through life in a empty body suit in flesh,that dont bleed or shed.Barricaded themselves in there own prison,even there reflection denies its own visit.Its ashamed many dont realize in life we have options to disengage derange or grab on tight to what feels right.I tend to go down memory lane,visualize those precious moments in the past,were all lies,giggles and laughs.But now that I found God,I disgarded my mask,to show my true demeanor and pave my positive mission everlast.
the trees are hued green
and woodland paths are leaf scattered
twilight touches the water
to mirror the trees and sky
upon gentle ripples
among shore reeds
a group of white swans gather
then
all of a sudden
they rise up
on boisterous wings
above my head
mate by mate
then, calmly they settle
in the distance
to drift on the deep water
mystifying
and beautiful
My love
I will not ask you
to be a pigeon or a dove
cooing your pleasures away
in our liquid moments of love.
I will not ask you to be tender
or to be a timid voice,
suspended in song.
If you must be anything, my Eve
please be thunder,
and shake the foundation of our union
with the audacity of your desire.
Unleash a cry from within
with a purity that vibrates glass.
Do not let your touch become ordinary
like words uttered without meaning or intent.
Do not be
a sapphire sky filled with birds in flight.
If you choose to be anything, my love,
let it be lightning.
Yes, be lightning,
and write your name across my chest
in fluorescent text.
Show me what it means
to be electrocuted by your nails.
The Monsters Come
Every morn, the monsters come.
They come to attack my day.
Every morn it’s the same,
and every day, they strive away.
The skeletons from closets scream,
while vampires claw from crypts.
They draw and draw until I am spent.
Every day they come. The Monsters come.
Ghosts of words unsaid,
and desires of demons ripping.
Wraiths of past things done;
chasing my peace away.
Giants stomping out hopes and dreams;
while spewing fear, doubt and shame.
The Worm digs and burns through;
everything. They destroy the day.
The darkness hangs like a cloud.
It smothers my hopes today.
I need coffee, and some light,
to stand tall, and live loud.
Let’s drive the monsters away.
chrisbunton.blogspot.com
Words
verbs
aimless
adjectives
amalgams of verse
unshaped until
imagination's birth
bursts
fly free
on unfettered wings
blown to
&fro
to settle
long
forgotten dreams
as words floating
as petals
on a stream
a fragrance that lingers
a passage of light
inspiration
delineated
as
a thought
ribbon
originality
conceived perceived
crystallised
in relief
Trauma doesn’t leave quietly.
It lingers.
Like smoke after a fire,
Like a shadow that stretches too far,
Longer than the body that made it.
I used to think healing meant forgetting, erasing the weight,
Scrubbing the past until it gleamed clean.
But memory doesn’t vanish;
It echoes,
It seeps,
It waits in the corners where light can’t quite reach.
Recovery.
It isn’t a straight line.
It’s stumbling.
It’s tripping over ghosts that look like everyday things:
A sound,
A place,
A smell that drags me backwards.
It’s standing in a crowded room and feeling twelve years old again,
Helpless,
Frightened,
Alone.
But slowly,
I learn.
I learn that shadows only exist because light exists too.
That I can stretch into the dark and still feel warmth on my skin.
That my body, once a cage,
Is also a compass—
Always pointing me forward,
Always aching toward safety.
Recovery is small.
It’s breathing through the panic.
It’s choosing softness when anger would be easier.
It’s building trust brick by brick with hands that still shake.
And yes,
Sometimes the shadows feel endless.
But I am longer than them.
Stronger than them.
I do not disappear inside them anymore.
I rise.
I walk.
I carry the weight,
But I also carry the light.
And every day I step forward,
Those shadows stretch behind me—
Never gone,
But never again in front.
Poet don’t feel right
Poet struggles sleeping at night
POETS NEVER SLEEP
At least…that’s what other poets keep telling me
But this lackluster slumbering just might be
From the unwavering weight of all responsibility
Poet only seems awake while walking through daydreams
Only wants to live life lavished in imagination
Painting alternate universes in which the stars guide me
An alternate universe in which i am happy
The moon and its tides constantly aligned
An alternate universe in which my artistry arrives unagonized
An alternate universe already constructed by someone else
An alternate universe in which contains an atmosphere in which I can breathe in which should be the one I’m in now
But my nervous system glitches,
Spine tinges spitting gibberish
Jittering shaky legs racing while staying stationary
Amazed at the way
A stage shakes me
In vibrations
At least its safe to say I said something today
Shared a story shoved, cornered in a junk drawer
At least I keep poetry in motion
only productive when my mind’s flowing
But I know my audience
I know they’re only hearing my poet voice
They only see my tragedies rehashed in romantics
There's only so many ways to manipulate the pain staked
in my chest in my throat in my head
So I choke on my raw truth
so it’s more digestible
for everybody else in the room
If not on the page,
Where is a tortured artists’ pain safe?
Paper scrapes
Psalms
Poems
Cutting deep enough
For me to bleed enough
For you to envision the misery
I’m in
Some alternate universe in which I am not a poet
Instead,
I am illiterate at the expense of my own pen and tongue
Instead, I await the unarriving;
Bleeding out without any sign of rescue
Instead, I plagiarize my inhabitance to a world
constructed by everyone except myself
Instead,
I am here
Earth rotates
Everything else still
I am still
Here.