I never talked about the rooms
of orphans languishing in beds -
still corridors, like wombs,
that darkened pictures in our heads,
escorting us through tombs.
No unseeing their hopeless eyes,
tied in their cribs, such tiny souls -
and eerily, no cries.
Ceausescu's children paid their tolls
amidst the buzzing flies.
I could not save each child in need,
just one small baby, sweet and small -
more than just a good deed.
I wished that I could take them all,
and I will always bleed.
Many dictators come to a well-deserved fate
Brutally assassinated or dying at their own hands,
Consider these more recent promoters of hate
In third world countries and distant foreign lands.
Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini immediately come to mind,
But Mao, “Papa Doc” and Castro died from ill health
They, like too many, lived to a ripe-old age, we find,
And too many lived in opulence, off ill-gotten wealth.
Nicolae Ceausescu of Romania is a notable exception
He was executed by firing squad along with his wife.
All these men were evil incarnate, it's my perception,
It is my opinion they should’ve all been denied life.
Written December 4, 2022
Nicolae Ceausescu
Blood on morning dew
Severed neck for fascist crimes
As justice rings in freedom’s chimes
24th January
Old man, I resemble you in inversions
With your palace plucked from
A ninth cloud and dragged as
An infant's relentless screech
Crying inevitably for attention
And contributing nothing save slavery
I would dine upon it
How I killed God and pulled the next
Kingdom into palace gates
How envious they would be!
Smuggled into a devil gorge and starving into pieces
It is like lilac, calming but altogether unconvincing
I would fall to my hands and knees
Digging a perplexion of graves within rock bottom
Swallowing the communion wafer of a bullet
My blood, a revolution
And my shattered bones consumed.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.