Coins tossed into the wishing well
no match for prayer, a citadel.
Citadel of hope
I rest in thee
From these lonesome troubles
A flame burns in my heart
A small flame it is
But it keeps me warm in this cold world
It keeps me company on dreary and weary days
It tells me all is gonna be alright
I trust in you flame in my heart
But I fear deep down, the day the flame burns out on its last jar of gasoline
What will be left of me when it runs out
Will I be able to pass through each dreary day
Cos my heart breaks so easy
Cos am so sensitive to pain
I pray you never run out my soothing flame
A citadel of secrets on a dry and dusty plain
As I journey on always protecting the flame
What do I talk about to fan the dying ember
Of times when I was happy and want to always remember
Time is such a fleeting thing
So the poets want to bring
But what does it say to you
When you think it through
So here I am as the citadel
And wondering what the hell
Do I start again even though it is so late
As all things inside of me are left to contemplate.
© Paul Warren Poetry
I will not run from fear. Its torment I must shun,
when it threatens with distress and intimidation.
No song of despair will I sing when day is done,
nor will I cower, cringing with grim trepidation.
Though calamity assails me, I will not be alarmed.
Courage and faith will justly serve as my citadel
until the menacing enemies have been disarmed.
Then, in serene existence, once more will I dwell.
I will not burden my heart by anchoring it in grief.
Life should be a celebration, a mirthful affair,
but everything I fear will steal my joy like a thief.
I choose not to squander a minute in dire despair.
Death will not find me trembling on my knees,
for it's the dreaded price I must pay for mortality.
I will not plea with the Reaper, only to appease
him in granting me one more day before finality.
I will tend my garden on these hot Summer days,
and rejoice in knowing Autumn's chill draws near.
I will welcome Winter snows with words of praise,
and await Spring's arrival without anguish or fear.
August 12, 2022
Strong Emotions Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Emotions highlighted are fear and despair
The forces of self destruction wax in their strength.
Virus of creation that goes to every length
to snuff out the dancing lights coloring our soul,
making soft oblivion preferred to control.
From what wellspring comes this sour, blackened madness?
Foulest demon shrouded - sowing seeds of sadness?
Perhaps it is intrinsic to created things;
the sight of our limits may falter one who sings.
But behold the wonders within your pulsing hearts!
Dreams, love, curiosity, and other upstarts
who see the race of time and somehow still rejoice,
knowing that to be has e'er been the noble choice.
So cling to art, romance, and all may still be well -
Withstanding death's sneer in your neon citadel.
Written 24 April 2022
Crowed to the morning exercise
Faces, bringing life to the citadel.
Whilst some witness the morning rise,
Its quick birth some would repel.
Serenity, traded for daylight rhythm
Freedom, chirping songs from solitude.
Skirts and trousers quaking the earth beneath them
Sharing glances and attitudes too.
Some, to the knowledge cubicle
A race for seats at its feet
Some, planning a tyrant's coup,
Grace to the nature's treat.
For learning and culture.
A tyrant's bloat, the struggles puncture.
In the citadel the plans were made
The dynasty set was not to fade;
Plans to enforce the ruling hand
And gods were set across the land.
Then came a warning loud and clear
It rang across for all to hear;
“Approaching enemy, the army of Light
A call to arms, prepare to fight.”
“Bring out the prisoners who live for our cause
Arm the accusers who fight in our wars;
Fight to death despite the cost
And destroy the prisoners if all seems lost.”
“There,” said he,
“Observe the rat —
It makes its nest within the shell
of this, the ancient Citadel.
“Note that many greater souls
who once did walk these gath’ring grounds
have died, and are again born, and
that very rat now hears their sounds!”
I asked “What sounds?”
He cackled, “These:
On the rat, a thousand fleas.”
(Dedicated to Edgar A. Poe)
When the Citadel doorway opened its jaws in October 1898
And its grand three stories loomed above the urban prairie landscape
Eighty men shoulder to shoulder at the longest bar in town
Guzzled beer and spirits, while the gas lamps shone around
Pissing in the porcelain trough installed beneath their feet
Which glowed ethereal as yellow rivers ran into the street
And a piano played the first bars of Beautiful Dreamer.
Men Only, yet the ladies leaned lascivious past the parlour mark
And boys with crates of whisky bottles winced at the barman’s bark
While drunks toppled backwards, saturated, crack’d on heartless tiles
Dragged away like sides of beef by hotel staff with sated smiles
Who mopped patrons’ blood into a pail of pink soup that darkened to red
Drinkers filled the gaps at the bar like teeth flying into a toothless head
And the whores’ heels tapped up the stairs with their Gentlemen.
she build the walls much higher than before
for she remembered well the sting of pain
her citadel of heart could not take more
the weakened roof let in the acid rain
she fortified the structure with her fears
a mortar of regret on every wall
the open spaces filled with hardened tears
this edifice of strength would never fall
the work complete, she looked with searching eyes
to find a place where one could enter in
should this be found, it would be her demise
she'd fall to Hades from her paradise
The walls all fixed, her heart in good repair
though haunted it would be; no soul lived there
Eileen Manassian
Filter through barrage...
Drawer bridge select...
Silent comment...
Complainers (common denominator)
Quantrum retreat...
Climb into the mind unaccompanied...
Delve the walls fortress...
Quiet Solice Serene...
For the time inside my citadel...
Quiet Solice Serene...
Wet furrows slowly churn,
his plough horse snorts,
a farmer walks,
lost to his morning world.
Clay sticks yellow to the disc,
he kicks at it,
the dawn sky is his citadel.
Harsh days, like summer,
blaze in his memory;
confined to this land,
his earthly flesh has made a pact.
His arms are held like tree boughs.
Beautiful, tall clouds hidden behind lower lying drizzle-makers;
Grand, expansive spires of nature's great conveyer;
hidden behind a mist of weary half-carriers.
Great pillars of the sky looking down;
the view lost, thwarted by aborted weather-child.
These majestic lakes of the sky;
hidden by the puddles from earth bound eye.
Drowned out by;
And then one...two,
drops;
as even the heavens cry.
In knowledge they weep, in puzzlement keep:
searching for that spire...
Mayhem
Reigns above hills,
Behind city wall lies
Fortified dreams in chaotic
Order.
Languish
In confusion
Of emperor’s torment
Levy madness, out of control
Refrains.
A citadel perhaps
Of shadows only
Making walls from the thoughts
Of disembodied men
Each satrap
Anxious with its own platform
Does not feel for us at all
I could speak to your heart
Reposed in a dungeon there
Standing on the shoulders
Of the crowd I cried
Into the mountain of silence
The voice becomes
Outside the shadows impenetrable wall
You are not our king again
Yet excoriated by pain
Know it feels the worse
When love through the body makes its course
You look so silly now
Talking without the music in your voice
And soon the buzzards shall rejoice
Yes, I can still believe
In golden mornings and angels bright
Serenading the king of light
And this fancy that we weave
Shall bleed me no more tonight
The citadel is dark and cold
It's shadow is a pity to behold.
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