Criers Poems | Examples

protests

shout shout let it all out, you are a peado and we want you out, 
come on were talking to you, come on were talking to you, 
shout shout let it all out you are a peado and we want you out come on were talking to you come on, were talking to you, 
you better watch out, better not cry, town criers here and were telling you why,
peado your leaving your house, peado your leaving your house, 
peado your leaving your house, 
you pack your bags in the morning, you pack your bag in the day, 
the police car is a whaling, and there coming to take you a way, 
you better watch out, better not cry, 
nonce our kids and we hope you die, 
peado you are leaving your house,
you better watch out better not cry, 
all the hunters are here and were telling you why, 
peado your leaving your house, peado your leaving your house, peado your leaving your house.

Crown of Crows

Soiled sinners lecturing on the art of being pristine.
Innocents retreats to black pits and dank seams 
God tucked away the ivory ring and red lantern
very few are rescued from the darkness within.

The good sheep are hoarding gospel and fear
charlatan and sharks are circling with shears.
Talking heads in it for ratings and attention
Town criers race baiting for a vote once again.
Millions gorging on fish and blue-collar greens
but very few do the sowing and reeling them in.

The horizon is deeply rouged and roughened
nobody caring enough to balm it or buff it.
Bloated children are crying out once again
cupboard and pantry are running very thin. 
There's no lullaby nor nursey rhymes left
So, one day they just decided to snuff them.

Black crows preening atop a thorny crown
the curtain of humanity came crashing down.
Somewhere deep in the soul of a dead-end night 
heaven was nailed to a neon, no vacancy sign
Saint Peter packed up without saying goodbye.

A Treatise on Newspapers

    Newspapers can be logs for the fire
        or non-functional rolling pins

    Obsolete as white-stockinged town criers
        along with typewriters ~ has-beens

Aja

From the valley of a lone Victor,
Hope bloomed on mornings dew,
Carrying promises of a brighter sun,
In echoes of joy and persistent smile.

Here he comes, draped In night’s shroud ,
Messenger of silent, gusty winds,
Challenging the ‘criers to a falsehood
as Gossips' tales, recounted long.

Beneath motherhood's heavy song,
Tears freeze in pain's tender gaze,
Bearing burdens, frail long lays,
In ceaseless lays,  finding no solace.

The reaper's pact, at dawn's first light,
His price, a debt, oft collected,
In twilight's shade, no trace in sight,
For dawn alone, his scythe erected.

Hope, a melody hauntingly sweet,
Fading to shadows with each passing lay,
Echoes lingering , a symphony complete,
At thresholds, betraying their way.

Strength spent in fields of toil,
Make rue of Harvests reaped in thorns,
the farmer returns with his aging hoe,
In cycles old, he pursues another toil.

The Scientific Nebulous

Oh such a mess.
The Scientific nebulous. 
Deception, misdirection, misrepresentation.
Electronic misinformation.
The recalibration. 
Attainment is futile.
For the vile. 
Love and friendships torn apart.
Right from the start.
Traitorous laughter. 
Fallen lives a disaster.
Betrayal of Magna Carta.
Distorted facts. 
Piracy in their glass houses.   
Shattered. 
Humanity ridiculed.
Bereft, wayward as criers obligated.
Liberties, Freedoms, to dust.
Memories of trust.
Oh dear, what a mess!
Will they confess.
It’s up to us.
Oh the Scientific nebulous.

First Check the Car Tires

The car's engine Fred often fires.
He. simply, first checks the car's tires
And off moves, tires spitting fires:
Tubular rollers end up criers;
Traffic wardens with their "Stop!" liars:
Fred at what he loves never tires!

The strength Free Fred uses he hires
From booze and kola sold by Mires...

After three months Fred's Benz for buyers!
Often worse than cars long in mires.

Criers and Listeners

Criers and Listeners
Miracle Man
4/6/2023

Mercilessly, 
many are drowning, 
in the stress of everyday life.

We cry out for help,
but most ears are only attentive
to crowd generated noise,

and thus ignore the whispering,
of a drowning, solitary voice.

Town Criers No More Needed

Young man, just try a glass of sangria,
Now, we all can see you are angrier.
Audience is not a ‘a must’ for Town Criers;
Their job can now be discharged by flyers...

One cries too long and one lips get drier,
More pacing about the legs look sorrier.
In some circles you become a pariah,
For being of all things Hollow Wood Carrier.

Yes, you keep that in mind, Prepared Crier:
A town crier’s voice might go higher
But to his critics “A Hopeless Liar”
Or in short, he is the no more needed,
His colleagues in other towns fast weeded.

A Tune Out of Line

Dim the lights low and let me dance,
To the memory of you engraved in my brain.
As they lowered you to your palace with a timing,
My whole being, drained.

Mentally, emotionally, physically,
You tore.
Yet you gave everything up willing,
I couldn’t bother to ask for more.

A twirl for the laughs, 
A sashay for the tears.
Don’t brighten the lights just yet,
I’m still mourning for my dear.

Sway, sway, sway through the room,
The drums in beat to your beatings,
The piano, o! The piano,
In tune with your teachings.

A tune for a dance that has been meticulously practiced,
And, as repulsive as it may sound, I HAVE dreamt of dancing to this tune before.
Before,
You were lowered.
Before, criers of the spheres arrived.
Before, all else.
Before our reality has turned into nothing but a memory that I now sway to.

Therefore…

Dim the lights low and let me dance,
Let me wallow,
Let me die slowly inside,
Let me twirl till my heart’s content,
Let me rejoice for the greater good,
To the memory of you engraved in my brain.
As they lowered you to your palace with a timing,
My whole being, drained.

Aeilnnorvy. S

The Ember Months

Asked to assemble
Things that resemble,
Henry remembers
The Racy Embers:
Months of Baptismal Fires:
For man waiting with criers
Attitude – changing September
And attitude – worsening October,
Kennedy – snatching November
And Robbers – multiplying December:
Months for ruinous steps on Mamba
And Urine’s loss of its amber.
Urged to still assemble, 
Things that resemble,
Henry remembers
His family members:
His wife whose every joke tires
And their kids, incurable liars.

Morning's Broken Armor

Morning’s Broken Armor
by Sy Roth

 
Squeaky crawls the moon’s light

Falling briskly against the chinks in the window

Uneasy sleep

A voluble accompaniment to

An out-of-work cello.

 

Scooting, crawly insects beat against it

With a frenzy of scrawled brevity

Tattooed on its soft shell.

 

Horns bleat somewhere in the inky distance.

Town criers bellowing news to a somnolent brain.

 

Alternatives roll away from eyes

Cemented closed with a.m.’s dream glue

And the clinkety-clank of Sir Gawain’s armor

Makes its way into the room.

Declaring additional valid seconds

Feet flopping like pimpled pancakes ready for turning

To the cold floor

The morn ready to mourn another day.

Tears of Men and Women

Tears some men easily wipe
By smoking a waiting pipe,
The same tears most women shed
Precariously perching on a bed.
Big tears male criers crave
While on female cheeks they’d rave:
Some tears a man strenuously forces,
On the eyelids of a woman racing horses:
A wounded pride’s would eternally last,
The physically injured’s drying up fast;
The messages in men’s tears are short
The ones in women’s a well-aimed shot!

Waiting For the Plague To Pass

I know not when we shall shake hands again
Or hold in warm embrace for the sheer joy 
Of each sunrise and moonlight
For the plague and news of frightful deaths
In faraway lands 
Have erected monuments of fear in our hearts
This scourge knows not the old or one with gold
It has made unsure the prophesies of seers
Who did not foretell its emergence from the East
Though bearers of the Rod of Asclepius have 
Responded with their art 
Each day is made uncertain 
With sirens announcing the next patient for isolation
And the morticians awaiting the next carcass
Of the mighty and the lowly levelled by the plague
The king’s men and town criers have told of 
The enormous chains at city gates 
They have forbidden us to act as free men
But a woeful lot propelled by raw ignorance 
Have defied the king’s edict and 
Like stray goats tempting a rustler 
They dare the plague to come nigh
Our store houses have grown lean
And Like a century ago 
None from this can flee except 
God shows mercy

The Dance

They have continued
The naked dance
In the centre 
Of the market square…

Elders and children
Shamefacedly dishevelled 
Have kept the dance 
Of shame
To their chest
Like a golden inheritance…

Sadly we watched
Crying for an end 
To the naked dance…

But nay! Many 
Of the watchers
And criers of yesteryears 
Have today 
Swum gingerly towards 
The market place
To join the naked dance of shame…

A friend of mine
Who yesterday swore
To end the dance 
Is today at the head 
Of the drumming crew
Alternating the beat with dance-steps
Frenzied but crooked 
Albeit beautiful in all their eyes…

‘Hey! Friend!
You pledged to quell 
The shameful dance last night
But so early today 
Are u wining and grinding 
To these damnable beats…’

He laughed
Scoffed…

‘Come on board
And eat with the gods
Dance to sacred beats
In the hinterlands 
Of the chosen few,
The view in here
Is prettier than yonder.
Dear friend,
Blame me not 
For I am intoxicated 
To be a god among men…’

Then I knew 
The naked dance has no end…

There may be 
A change of beat
But the dance 
Till eternity
Shall continue…

A Test of Alliterative Conscience

My conscience came to a clearing,
Freed from clamorous cacophony
Of criers, critics, and claimants
  That commonly carp at me.

Calm, cool contemplation
Called out its care and concern:
Consider a commitment to courage
  Fortitude's clear-headed urn.

Calculating quickly a crisis,
I had come to the critical curve:
Could I commit to courage and clarity--
  Or into craven cowardice would I swerve?

My conscience had come to a clearing:
Could I conquer my demons this time?

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