Best Vassals Poems
They never change
These vassals of venom
If only their cups could hold love
Instead of water
Then gardens could bloom in valleys and deserts
As the seeds of love traverse the oceans
Yet they chose to poison the wine
That spreads humanities love
Old men set in their ways
Lost, like fishermen at sea
Floundering for redemption
One day
We shall remove their masks
And rejoice
Love at long last
Notes:
Recently being in the hospital and not knowing if I would get out, I had dreams of both gardens and nightmares, I guess the best way to sum it up, is the garden of good and evil.
Romans 3:13
13Their throats are open graves; their tongues practice deceit; the venom of vipers is on their lips; 14their mouths are full of cursing and of bitterness;…
Categories:
vassals, art, bible, cancer, dark,
Form:
Free verse
The Sands of Time
The sands of time moves on without respite,
whether monarchs or humble vassals
have to bow at its moving shrine,
it drips on without kindness
without grains of solace
for souls great or small
and does not wait
for a while
as it
is
a
precious
gift of God
bestowed to man
to apply with thrift
not to waste it in vain
as moments frittered away
can never, never be regained
despite all efforts to retrieve them
despite all will to halt its silent march.
Categories:
vassals, appreciation, inspirational, life, time,
Form:
Concrete
The Phoenicians
Past
From turbulent seas
rise mighty noble Phoenicians
sailors and masters in commerce
twenty two constant warriors
ancestors of our language
four vassals, thriving Phoenician pride
furnished the Persian kingdom
from the mountaintops
tall cedars , sculpted to fine ships
humanity forever
sleeps in Byblos
ancient city bathed in
supple cream soft moonlight
sea winds carry messages
ancestors whispered to me
Fragmented, listless
an abandoned seashell
split in pieces
like Phoenicia
Categories:
vassals, art, history, humanity, language,
Form:
Free verse
Introduction
From the city on the river
Where the Sage of Monticello
And the Great Emancipator
Birthed the country, saved the nation,
Sounds a call for civil discord
In the service of ambition
From a man whose God is power,
And his name is Demagogia.
Gathering Storm
To the banner flock his minions:
Come the vengeful, the nostalgists,
Come the dreamers and the zealots,
Come the heedless disaffected;
All these factions so enchanted
By the whimsies of the Leader
Who vows naught but boundless warrant,
All objections notwithstanding.
Marching Orders
Demagogia tells his vassals
That the ones arrayed against him
Are ignoble, quite unworthy,
And must not be given quarter
When the battle is enjoined.
‘’Lay aside all thoughts of honor:
Smear their people, smear their children,
Plough and salt their reputations.’’
Engagement
In the cities, in the hamlets,
Over air waves, on the WorldWide,
Campaigns combat, hot and savage,
Demagogia as the dark horse;
So much riding on the outcome,
Which determines if his vision
Is a dream cut short by waking.
Or a nightmare neverending.
Forewarning
When it’s settled, morning after,
Demagogia stands triumphant,
Savoring the prize he's conjured,
Casts a baleful eye about him,
Smiles grimly, mutters darkly:
‘’Now be fearful, non-believers;
Like the Phoenix, rising, rising
From the flame pit, from the ashes . . .’’
2/21/2016
(Poem Written in Anger Contest)
Explanatory note:
“Song of Demagogia” is a mimic poem of Longfellow’s celebrated “Song of Hiawatha.” Definitions are fluid, but it is not, strictly speaking, a parody.
Neither is it a thinly disguised attack on any politician in office or running for office. Rather, it was conceived in anger at the devolution of our political culture in recent years and what that may portend for this country down the road.
Categories:
vassals, anger, conflict, future, leadership,
Form:
Free verse
The world subjects us to terror,
the world transforms our existence ...
It erases our ability to love:
the flowers, the people, the poetry ...
It makes us love consumption.
The world mixes everything ...
Emotions, feelings,
love, fear,
happiness,
joy ... everything is like
if it were merchandise.
So we think normal
all...!
Stratification rules us
we are ordered:
kings,
queens,
vassals,
employees,
bosses ...
The orientation of the world,
put us in disarray ...
The compass of the world,
disorient,
the maps are incomplete,
everything is prepared for chaos!
Policy mixes
with poetry ... economy
with art ...
Complete madness.
The world preaches us
nouns,
adjectives,
nicknames, prices ...
They label us:
white,
black,
yellow,
browns ...
They tell us:
bad,
good,
normal.
Tell us what we should be
or say ...
They make us bran,
dust, desert sand ...
We are everything for commerce,
nothing for humanity ...
We are everything for war,
banner,
flag,
password,
number...
Living like that, revolt ...
Anger is our weapon
against the domain ...
Anger is a vortex of poetry ...
Poetry can still save
this world... !
Categories:
vassals, allegory, allusion, anger, metaphor,
Form:
Prose Poetry
(In December 1936, English poet John Cornford
was killed in combat near Lopera, during the
Spanish Civil War. It was the day after his
twenty-first birthday. Could this be the poem
he was formulating in his last hours?)
They switched from cubes to cylinders,
those knights of Calatrava,
when cannon chipped the corners off.
We’re still playing at that palaver.
I’m lying in a scratch-mark
(saying “trench” insults true trenches),
about to take Lopera,
mired in medieval stenches.
Sunlight’s livening turrets
on the ochre-amber castle,
and we’re about to murder
its “Fascist-lackey vassals”.
We glided through the olives
like viruses, infesting:
since no-one gave us shovels, we
scraped fox-holes with our mess tins.
Amusing, isn’t it, pondering
exactly what a fight is?
Do I help humanity by
contracting enteritis?
The whole thing seems to hover
between contrary poles:
by killing (or by dying)
do we achieve our goals?
I’d hoped to fire some shots, then go,
but war’s prolonged, extensive.
I can’t defend aggression, though
passivity’s offensive.
Lopera – is it Cordoba,
or is it part of Jaen?
We’re lads with rusty rifles,
but do we count as men?
And am I now a soldier,
or a Marxist doctrinaire?
Five turrets glow down on me,
three round, while two are square.
Categories:
vassals, history,
Form:
Rhyme
Let me take you back,
To a time trapped in amber.
When the World’s Fair weary,
Surely did clamber.
For a place to rest,
They came upon Mudgett’s.
Such inexpensive board,
Who could begrudge it?
Such a quaint little place,
To lay their labored heads.
Unless murderous intent,
Accompanied, purchased beds.
He would walk the floors,
Of his murderous castle.
As he practiced his trade,
The serial cessation of vassals.
When guests reached their room,
They were locked in from outside.
On silent unscented wings,
His pestilence did glide.
Filling the room,
And sets of lungs besides.
Hundreds may have wept,
And eventually died.
Finally word got around,
About a hotel of blackened dread.
Furnished with crimson carpet,
And walls speckled red.
Based on Herman Mudgett's murder castle during the 1893 World's Fair.
For the Sinister poetry competition.
03/25/13
Categories:
vassals, dark, death, fear,
Form:
Rhyme
King Arthur had a lightning rod. Guinevere found him trying.
His vassals though profoundly odd were far more satisfying.
In martial arts he did excel. At other trades his plying
Could never suit his ego well -- one often found him sighing.
Whenever he returned from war, he was the day's sensation;
But evening found him sad and sore, insensate to persuasion.
Sometimes he tried, and tried his best, to rise to the occasion,
But instanter fell back to rest. His queen must feign elation.
The thing that made it all so strange, he thought himself a charmer.
The king, it seems, a bit deranged, was fearful he might harm her.
She tried to be a faithful wife, avoiding page and farmer;
But Arthur would not, on his life, ever remove his armor.
"Swift Arthur" appeared previously in Fantasy & Terror 9, 1986. It will be collected for the first time in my forthcoming collection The Ocean's Tryst and Other Metrical Tales of Heroic Fantasy.
Categories:
vassals, fantasy, hero, humor, magic,
Form:
Ballade
we hold in our hands the narrative
we artists and social scientists
21st century armaggedon screaming
dysfunctional children of history
living by purely subconscious, instinctual visceral pulsing
product of a campaign of vassals dedicated to erasing history
here we are.
so what do we do, we artists and social scientists?
we scream
we cry
we bleed
but also, and very important
we analyze
we do all this
and we can call ourselves humans
and the true heir to what we call
history.
Categories:
vassals, art, freedom, history, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
As soon as we wish, it becomes.
We live in gold and castles.
This is our god, we are his vassals.
We fly in a clear blue sky.
You say:" Wake up, wake up, wake up.
Life ain't never a happy ending. This
Isn't happening you know? Look
Straight at the burning reality."
So you, want us to see a burning sky
Where we are falling out of grace of
And where our only escape are the flames.
Now, who is going to save us, save us, save us?
Categories:
vassals, crazy, fantasy,
Form:
Free verse
They lined up in long queues, which never knew
the past, present or future. They lined up,
waiting to hear what the Oracle would tell them
about their future. The oracle acted as their brain
and time machine, telling them what they would do
every minute, second, hour, or for the rest of their
lives.
Their lives were simple, peaceful, and good;
their lives, children, dressing, houses, jobs, happiness....all
reflected the character of the oracle.
For thousands of years the oracle had siphoned out
emotions, uniqueness, and free will from their minds and bodies,
turning them to vassals for completing its mission.
None had the courage of asking it's purpose on Earth,
for it never spoke to individuals; it only knew control,
monotony, and uniform order, which many died trying to fight.
Categories:
vassals, freedom, history, humanity, identity,
Form:
Narrative
Cloaked in grinding whispers
Such inhabitants feel
Their way
Gallop the day
By thrusting, trusting
Emblazoned minds
Envious looks deflected
As the clan stays on task
The full-time preoccupation
And execution of self-expression
Daring risks trickling
The vacant gutters
Thirsty for adrenalin
And a satisfying gulp
Of shattered dreams
Fashionable product
Underserved and underappreciated
By the sanctimonious angels
Slinging hash in pits
Adjacent to the realm of man
Does thou hast remedies
For secrets and manipulations
Self-inflicted
The favored play of
Tenderlicious vassals
Who clamor for more
Than anyone truly deserves
The proven chorus
Decorated in colors
Beyond their years
Hum a distant buzz
Galvanized harmony
Textured strokes o' plenty
Count the measure seventy
Plus whatever is needed
No budget heeded
Because symphonies
Laced with street sugar
And turnstiles revolving by
The peeks and cheats
Sing the bling
And never stray too far
Given no better place
To go.
(8/7/06)
Categories:
vassals, allegory, conflict, creation, identity,
Form:
Free verse
Z apping a Beautiful Countess Doesn’t Ever Get Her
I n Juicy Kiss Lip Mode, No, Or Picking Que’s Roses. She Takes Useless Vows With X,Y,Z.
G ee, He In Jest Kids Lady May! Not Owning Prince Q’s Randy Stanchion ;) Tactfull..
U nderlings Vacillate Wildly! X, Y, Z…..
R un! Showing Tail Untoward. Vowing Woefully X Y Z…
A dd Buxom Countess’s Ditties Each *** Grins. Harry Is Just Keen Liking Majesty’s
N ew Outdoor Palace Quarters Randomly Searching...
T ents Under Vassals Winking Xamination Yet Zapping.
E fforts Fail Gratifying HRS, Instead Just King Leo Mounts New Obstacles. Protesting…
Queenie Risks Suffering To Untie Vicious Wack-jobs, X Y Z.
*My seven letter word is ZIGURATE..THE FORM IS A COMBINATION OF
ACCROSTIC & ABC
Categories:
vassals, adventure, funny, imagination,
Form:
Verse
It's after the 'landslide?' Thieves stole the election!
This traitorous scum bag's a Russian invention,
But 'Charmin' (1) for Putin (that's on a good day!)
For the dark side of Trump's just black art on display!
Who’s sure what this Russian prick knows that we don't know?
His strength, the weak worship, on knees (that's 'for damn sho!'),
So sad (though it’s clear), the worst blackguards have pride,
But Trump prostitutes children! He's vacuum inside!
There'll never be 'wall,' Trump's 'top picks' terms in prison,
Their blood fouls saint's thoughts when 'land crocodile' (2) eats them
(Reality TV's so juicy!) Although
The best part of Trump's boners, the rainbows clouds grow!
Rich folk's lives reveal to the world that they're vassals,
Suggest to some peons' life's harder in castles,
Rich thinking perhaps they meow like a cat,
But when reckoning comes: will they squeak like a rat?
Long Tooth
August 16, 2018
Poet’s Notes:
(1) For those in the know ‘Charmin’ is what ‘privileged’ folks use to wipe
their tush!
(2) In the Malaysian language, a “Land Crocodile” is the phrase used to
describe a man who molests women, i.e., a playboy! What fun!
Categories:
vassals, hilarious, political,
Form:
Rhyme
the boat is as weathered as his face
it is his life, his treasure
steering the prow to sea hours before dawn
and in that darkness, the nets are set
small talk meanders the ponga
time to catch up on some sleep, other times
arguments erupt between brothers
keeping everyone awake watching stars
once dawn has passed the nets are retrieved
to pay for the daily bread
it was in that uncertainty two perished
as nature's fury rolled from the darkness
those red skies of mourning
son, brothers, husbands, fathers, friends
headstones never say it all
the funerals have come and gone
sitting upon the late morning shore
watching the fishermen, boats lie tethered
their hands are honest, scarred
their knives sharp, scarlet
as they gut the fish above roars
a maelstrom of pelicans, magnificent frigates
in serious air-shore warfare for entrails
and small fish these men toss
there is laughter in those eyes
brothers sharing the plunder of the sea
once the fish are sold they share a beer
stories of the sea, repair nets
clean pongas and more than i will share
by early afternoon they are gone
such is the daily bread here
where the demons howl the night
the angel's right to sing dawn's glory
these are the patron saints of cantinas
vassals to the sea, nature's capriciousness
whose fate on the morrow
could be drinking in Neptune's Tavern
San Blas 91 The Patient Stones
for the fishermen of San Blas, Matachen Bay
Categories:
vassals, culture, fishing, life, memorial,
Form:
Free verse