Best Tyrants Poems
They look down from their holy thrones
They pass judgement onto those that stray from the pack
To be different is to be unique
To be unique is to be a sin
And to sin is to burn
With venom filled words they whip our backs,
They strip us of our humanity
They toss us onto the wildlands
Just for being who we are,
We're nothing more than scum to them
The sacred boundaries they claim,
Have been defiled with our very existence
To love is to bring about hate
To hate is to commit suicide
And to die by our own hand,
Is just another proof of our sin of life
The robed men preach their indignity
Scream their hate
March their ignorance
Banned from a hypocritical dystopian
We're scared and traumatized
Divided and hunted down
Hurt and dying
To be a loving God, you must be Perfect
To be a holy angel, you must be free of all sins
To be human, however, you must learn to love
So now we ask you, the "holy" tyrants
If to be human, you must learn to love,
What is it that you truly are?
Perhaps, just maybe, you're the blasphemous sinners you claim us to be
Political Games
Played over the dying
Trophy of decay.
Some serious religious sophomores claim Christ ('Witness' Bluff)
Almost like Columbus: to hit the Other, take their STUFF
Nothing Doing here; I am a Minister of Jesus' Gospel
For the same Reason they fled HERE to Native Indian lands
Catholics to Lord Baltimore's Maryland, Puritans to Massachusetts;
Persecuted Quakers to Penn's America - for debts Kings owed the Admiral
(Indentured white servants came in thousands, here and in the Islands
There's no shame; we are all sinners, or erstwhile peasants, made Kings)
Don't dare preach to me to abandon my dress, language, culture
While you want nothing of Jesus, and His Gospel that saves sinners like us
THE SECOND COMING WILL NOT BE TELEVISED, OR ON FACEBOOK
NOR WILL IT BE APPROVED BY THE MILITARY, UN, OR the WHITE HOUSE
This world has enough of such CHRIST claimants
Even Jehovah's Witnesses tell me to forget my ancestors
So she can rest assured, make the world safer for Imperialism
No, Sir. No Ma'am. Jesus never asked me to lose my language, wisdom ...
To become akin to POPES, priests, Luther, Calvin, Puritans of Boston
Who killed four Quakers before 1660; just 40 years post-Mayflower arrival!
THE SECOND COMING WILL NOT BE TELEVISED, OR ON FACEBOOK
NOR WILL IT BE APPROVED BY THE MILITARY, UN, OR the WHITE HOUSE
That was not all; Roger Williams fled Boston, for fear of forced deportation
Was fair to Natives, now America's first Baptist. Not so for Anne Hutchinson
She was expelled from MBC (Massachusetts) when pregnant with child #8
She never survived the flight, but did open up Portsmouth (Rhode Island)
So when we think those South Africans of Indian descent must change ...
I ask, As Columbus wanted change? As the Puritans? Those slaveowners?
Thank God the Slaves kept their African culture in America
And made Christianity BETTER than ever, gifting us such SAINTS as Dr. King!
So there!
THE SECOND COMING WILL NOT BE TELEVISED, OR ON FACEBOOK
NOR WILL IT BE APPROVED BY THE MILITARY, UN, OR the WHITE HOUSE
Tyrants make a lasting name,
They ruin life and lure fame.
Their name incurs all sorts of shame.
They think alike, and die the same.
Tyrants of the Ruling Sun
Let the universe swallow my slaving soul
As the sorrows surround the sinking shoal
The light lingers before it falls on my face
Edacious echoes engulfed will embrace
Sisyphean stars of sadness will defuse
The barbarians of Babylon will bemuse
Silent screams slumber in nomadic night
As the dogmas of deceit deluge in delight
Wandering waves of woe thru the mist
The blackness bereaves with a feudal fist
Apparitions appease the malefic mind
Idolatrous illusions a cancerous confined
The red moon menstruates the mirthful
A lunatic laughter of the hidden hurtful
Dimensional demons deft in their defend
In impeccant infinity’s imperious amend.
March.24.2018
Alliteration poem
Sponsored by: Silent One
Impossibly still
The very worst of our kind
Often lead us all.
The world is run by tyrants who don't really care
Like the Cameron's the Clinton's the Bush's and especially Tory Blair
These warmongers ruin lives and destroy communities
And they all should spend life in prison doing toilet duties
People are coming together realising where it went wrong
United in solidarity is what'll make the people strong
We need to keep up the momentum and push for fairer times
And stop the evil Tories committing heinous crimes
Because under the current Tory rule it's caused a lot of pain
Theresa May and Hammond I look down on in distain
Giving tax breaks and subsidies to their Etonian chums
While offering the poor and vulnerable only loose change and crumbs
So why do we accept homelessness and foodbanks today
While the rich quaff shampers on luxury yacht's far away
Because under the current system it only benefits a few
So people need to suffer and that includes me and you
The world is run by tyrants who don't really care
Like the Cameron's the Clinton's the Bush's and especially Tory Blair
These warmongers ruin lives and destroy communities
And they all should spend life in prison doing toilet duties
Timendi causa est nescire (Ignorance is the cause of fear).
– Seneca
About two thousand years ago,
when Quintilianus said it
(at least, that’s who gets the credit),
his paradigm was apropos:
the words “Vestis Virum Reddit.”
Garbed in leather, silks, and cotton,
emperors took his words to heart
(at least, they tried to look the part).
While rags for the misbegotten
kept wealth and hoi polloi apart.
Latin lessons soon forgotten
as kingdoms rose and kingdoms fell.
The rich get rich, the poor rebel
all through the Middle Ages rotten,
and the Enlightenment as well.
The New World spawned a tyrant king,
who would rule The Divided States,
fomenting fears with false dictates.
He'd boast that he knew everything,
a claim the test of time negates.
Galumphing loud he’d hit the links,
while flashing flaming orange hair,
and a most massive derriere.
His minions thought it ugly stinks,
but if he knew he didn’t care.
Sometimes he’d putt without his clothes,
few dared tell him he’s forgetful --
those who tried were soon regretful.
For it’s the truth that he most loathes,
and Media makes him fretful.
What is the measure of a man
who walks naked from his tower
while his Party members cower?
Has no patriot in his clan
the spine to speak truth to power?
When pictures in the Press were viewed,
“Fake news!” he’d claim. “This I decree.
I wear fine clothes, as you can see.”
Blame hubris? Blame ineptitude?
Let’s let the judge be history.
So, let us speak of history,
to the feckless that forget it
the words “Vestis Virum Reddit.”
Let truth be not a mystery --
give Quintilianus credit!
February 2022
"Latin Lessons" Poetry Contest sponsored by Margarita Lillico
The honest lips no lies do tell,
Nor independent ones deceive,
But tyrants' smiles conceal Hell,
Their words are fakeries.
The honest hands no taxes lay,
No properties defile,
But tyrants' hands take all away
While lips play out a smile.
The honest mind to life is true,
Depends on self alone;
But tyrants' have men's health in view---
To stone and stone and stone.
(Victor Hugo fought against the dictator,
first on the barricades, then in scathing
poetry like this - "Souvenir de la nuit du 4".)
She took him to the hearth to warm him up,
not noticing his legs, already stiff.
Alas! Our mortal fires can't give back breath
to those who've felt the icy hand of Death.
She bent her head and took his little feet.
"And isn't this a thing to break your heart?"
she cried. "He wasn't even eight years old!
The teachers in that school thought well of him.
I tell you, Sir, if I should need a letter,
he'd write it for me. Are they terrorists?
Sweet Jesus! Are they killing children now?
I watched him play this morning, at the door.
This gentle little creature. I am old,
it would be nothing if I had to die.
So couldn't Monsieur Bonaparte shoot me,
instead?" She stopped. Her sobbing took control.
Emotions mastered once again, she said,
"What am I going to do, alone? Tell me.
He's all that I had left of his poor mother.
What did they kill him for? I wish someone
would walk in and explain it all to me.
Some shout for the Republic, that I know,
but not this little scrap of life. Not him!"
We stood there glumly, speechless, hats in hands,
helpless before this grief which couldn't be eased.
I'm sorry, Ma'am. You don't know politics.
But Monsieur Bonaparte is full of tricks.
A commoner like you, he feels that since
he has the name, he ought to be a prince.
He likes fine horses, servants, palaces,
and Sandras, Julies, Saras, Lucy's, Alices.
Of course, he'll save the Church, the Bank,
protect the Family, and folks of Rank.
But first, he needs Saint-Cloud's unblemished lawns,
where second-rates can come and grovel, fawn,
and flatter him. Such things just have to be.
That's why old women who can barely see
must sit up, weeping in the dark and cold,
to sew the winding-sheets of seven-year-olds.
When Tyrants Tremble
when tyrants tremble
at the fury of those who tremble no more
their veneer of stability seems rotten to the core
when the trembling ones shake off their long-hushed fear
the trembling ones
tremble now with a rage that injustice everywhere can hear
when tyrants tremble
as the dispossessed shake their foundations of tyrannical conceit
tyrants tremble
when the common ones expose the phantoms of tyranny's deceit
when the trembling ones
refuse to be cowed and bowed and beaten down again
the trembling ones
scream their vehemence as they have little to lose and freedom and dignity to gain
when tyrants tremble
their trembling resounds and echoes around the world
tyrants tremble
then in each far-flung tyranny at the peoples' flag being unfurled
and finally when the trembling ones
take back the citadels, the streets, the squares, and the parks
the trembling ones
send a message to power that revolutions may be triggered by the merest of livid sparks
and that tyranny may reign for a decade or a generation or even two
but tyranny must eventually succumb to the rage of the common ones that appears suddenly out of the bright clear blue
this isn't a warning or a threat or a declaration of ill intent
this is a sober lesson in history for the peoples' history with oppressive stasis can never be content
when tyrants tremble
they should know that there will someday come a trembling surprise
for the garbage heap of history patiently awaits each tyrant's wretched demise
In tribute to Lt. Col. John W. Bell,
B24 pilot during WWII.
He was an ace in his flying machine,
Could spiral downward at full speed,
Then pull out and level off just in time,
To touch down safely on the landing field.
Well taught and ready for hostile combat,
Sent off to fight, our freedom to defend,
Was not there to socialize or chat,
But to drop bombs upon the tyrant’s den.
Flying with skill of a bat in the night,
He hit the targets time and time again,
Each sortie could have been his last flight,
Into the cold heart of the tyrant’s den.
He sat bravely in the pilot’s hot seat,
Shrapnel went through the wing and cockpit pane,
But he flew committed to defeat,
The wicked intents of the tyrant’s den.
And when the final victory was won,
He came back home, a new life to begin,
In a nation singing freedom’s song,
Having put an end to the tyrant’s den.
(In December 1851, Napoleon III, nephew
of the great Bonaparte, staged a coup d'etat
in Paris.)
The child was dead. Two bullets in the head.
The room was decent, humble, honest, clean.
An Easter palm was pinned to some old print.
A grandmother wept quietly in one corner.
In silence, we took off the little boy's clothes.
His bloodless mouth gaped open, and one eye
stared wild, surprised, unseeing, drowned in death.
His arms appeared to ask us, as they flopped,
for help; one pocket held a wooden top.
You could have put a finger in each hole.
I don't know if you've ever seen a hedge
with over-ripened blackberries; that's how
the darkened clots appeared. His broken skull
reminded me of firewood, split in two.
The old grandmother watched us as we worked,
saying, "How pale he is! Come near the lamp.
Oh, God! His poor hair's sticking to his head!"
Once we were done, she held him in her lap.
The night was ugly. Shots were ringing still
along the street. Others were being killed.
"The boy has to be buried," someone said.
A walnut cabinet gave up a sheet,
but grandma wasn't ready. Not for that.
And so there are the new tyrants
- And who are the distinguished?
The moguls who benefited from TARP
- The cries for help can not be extinguished
Who hoarded monies and increased their penalties
- Further, insulting the American public
Lopping on still more late interest penalties
- We once were an admired republic
Now, are children are but homeless
- Who can bear to hear them weep?
The price that’s been paid is senseless
- Many knew the problems ran deep
Denial became a common theme
- And so is gone the American Dream
Tyrants Walk
What shall I feed my children?
The garden is empty,
the plants have been pulled up.
The dog, we ate already.
There are no rats in the traps.
Instead, they live in the palace,
where the fence is live wire,
and the guns shoot the chickens,
begging for scraps or seed.
People that know no hunger,
and have never known pain,
can not decide for me or you,
what is to be gained.
By losing the very boundaries...
of our nation,
giving room for the wild to roam,
will do more not less,
toward bringing about
the beginning of the end.
Revelations re-read,
and sadly re-written,
a sin to be paid for at the gate.
The fate of the marked,
and the willingness to sell early...
for the right price,
to grow readily the wealth,
of momentary desire.
Buying the country for a price,
sold to the highest bidder,
retaking the house that belongs...
not to them, but to the people,
by crazy undead, living beyond the grave,
vicariously alive through
the body parts of the young...
stolen in the night,
children of another faith.
Are you tall, are you short?
What color is your skin?
Is the material you are made of...
useful?
Are there too many of you?
Creepy governments lending a hand,
terrorists worshiped for their leadership skills,
in killing the young and innocent.
Stop the insanity of Orwell's predictions,
the flood too great for the dam.
Yell out,
wolves among sheep,
riddles in the dark,
New York City Park,
The scarecrow screams,
"Hark!"
"Who goes there?"
The devil has appeared in plain sight,
it is time to fight, it is too late to flee.
There is nowhere to go.