Why is Congress infected with socialism
which only creates division and schism
Seems to me it’s 'cos Congress just rolls over, plays possum
to forked-tongue liars like Obama, Biden and Trump
The electorate is finally fed up with representatives who won’t fight
against emperors without clothes like the aforementioned chumps
So now they’re voting for charlatans who shout, yell and scream
~ hard-core commies who'll kill forever the American Dream
It vexes me
I toss and turn
I cannot find the words to describe the beauty in sight
For I am a humble man of ink
New words have to be created to describe the fraction of the beauty that you are
But alas I do not hold such power
For I would have created a whole library
Just to describe your beauty, my love
Forgive me my love
For I cannot describe your beauty to the unfortunate who didn't see you
Else the Emperors would have cried and gave you their empires
Just for you to be at their funeral pyres
Some say Aphrodite cried the day the Titan made you
It broke her, it made her irate
She punished the Titan severe
But the Titan was rhapsodic for he knew he bested her
And so you came into this world
Amongst the quarrel of the Gods
Like a ray of light
In my empty life
Sensing betrayal, feeling animosity
Witnessing fear amongst this atrocity
Hating the rules governing such ferocity
Whilst Emperors clothes display grandiosity
The chaos of war with feverish velocity
Portayals of hatred, of a clear monstrosity
Resources withheld , the creation of paucity
Revolutionary peace peaks curiosity
Lucid Explanations For Living
Luminous virtuosity that lies dormant all your life
Numerous animosities that combine to form violence and strife
Curious curiosities for the emperors fifth wife
Numerous generosities that involve the back stabbing of a knife
Automatically mistaken for another person by someone you love
Biographically misshapen by the author as the truth is left out to the shove
Colour-graphically laden by the images of heaven from above
Instamatically forsaken by the grapevine from a dove
Elevations of inspiration cascading from the moonlit horizon
Revelations of observation parading bright without the lights on
Celebrations of invocations that serve only to enliven
Collaborations of confirmation that momentum forms only to syphon
Elucidate the concept as you illustrate the notion
Repudiate the precept while you hover above the ocean
Rejuvenate the incept as you maintain the sincerity of your devotion
Recuperate the sunset while you transpire without commotion
By Elizabeth Moroz Copyrifht 2025
Trapped inside
his mirror
Prevarication
flows
A narcissist
parading
The emperors
— new clothes
(Flexing In Brazil: November, 2025)
The emperors have no clothes on!
People are living in a trance
Psychologists like to call it cognitive dissonance
Perhaps even a carefully crafted chance
To see what isn't there, only to praise a hollow show,
While truth and reason disappear, common senses go.
It’s just simply a situation gone sad
I can’t help but wonder, have we been had or merely gone mad
The people fear to break the silent spell, to voice a single doubt
For they are to be canceled, labeled rebels or terrorists, and quickly cast about
Instead, they applaud the phantom apparel, with oblivious, hypnotic cheer,
Ignoring empathetic whispers in their hearts, that scream truth so clear.
But chatty whispers grow to rumbling cries, a stirring overcomes the digital crowd,
Suddenly, an innocent video, goes viral, distinct and loud.
"The emperors have no clothes on!"
An echo filmed of pure bravery
Hopefully, others will follow, setting truths to be viral and free
Reject conformity and fight for sovereignty
For all to hear and see
The emperors have no clothes on!
This day in early March sings
in a gust of wind it brings
the season’s change
life I’ve known rearranged
one day warm the next cold
nature’s changing moods to behold
when each day when I’m awake
nature’s tempestuous moods to partake.
Talk of the weather brings smiles and frowns
what goes up also goes down
and as we face our days of strife
the next day brings cloud in the sky.
My friend, beware of March’s ides
a time when emperors live and die
Amidst illusions of eternity, do they fear death or the loss of vanity,
walking through existence, raising fragile monoliths of silent legacy,
believing their names will echo through the ages, as if permanence were a gift,
not a delusion woven from desires, a dream lost under a bitter sky.
But history erodes with precision, turning emperors into mere footnotes,
changing scholars into misattributed quotes, shadows lost in the night,
if even the architects of civilizations succumb to silent oblivion,
why would they assume exemption, when time steals everything and erases all?
Do they fear death, or the realization that they were never essential,
that they are but echoes in the shadow of eternity, whispers lost in a forgotten tale,
facing the truth that we are all fleeting, like leaves in the foreign wind,
that the need to matter becomes a whisper of powerlessness, a dream at the dawn of destiny.
Their names have become
hollowed out husks
blown about the graveyards
of history. Emperors who once
claimed divine favour
and the imprimatur of the gods
now seem profane, despotic
caricatures of their age.
Loud cheers have ossified
to a silence or a curse lodged
in the throat of the citizenry.
Power still seeps its poisons
into the body politic,
even now into Prime Ministers,
Premiers and Presidents
of so called united states.
I look for a place to find
a little peace from the crowd
and the howls of an angry world.
Where once churches held
a sacred quiet, they too
have become loud stadiums
for opposing forces,
doctrinal battlegrounds
between the lost and the saved.
I retreat to that private space
where like souls meet, a room
somewhere, a forest or a beach,
or a corner of one's own garden
and there teach myself to listen.
I hear what has always been there,
transcending the reign
of emperors, wealth, privilege
and the power of the State.
And so it is, I hold to my chest
a well worn book of poems
by that saint, Emily Dickinson,
and here - renew my faith
and find a little rest.
Your entry into Jerusalem had volumes to speak
Was, like rulers and emperors, your fame at its peak?
Ocean of humans, as though welcoming the divine, rose
Did they know the secret that your end here on earth was close?
Waving palm leaves, the crowds celebrated your victory.
You knew. Did they know that thenceforth would start a new story?
It's not carpets, but their own garments they spread on your way.
The blossoms around swayed as though they had some truths to say.
The animal that wore you felt that its goal was fulfilled.
It seemed as though in everyone, their egotism was killed.
The chants of Hosanna, as wild thunderbolts, filled the ears.
Of the yolks and loads that bound them, had they forgotten their fears?
You could see Calvary calling you with extended hands.
In the form of passion and death, the times had their demands.
Eve listened to the evil feelings and thoughts in her heart.
Adam heard her hissing, as though, conscience tearing apart.
Arrogance-filled waywardness shined in the form of Apple.
Against their pride, the Almighty's love was seen to grapple.
Did the core conscience of Cain convince him to kill Abel?
Crimes and crudeness like one's flesh and blood became integral.
Suicide, homicide, and witchcraft continued like chains.
Under kings and emperors, humans were in endless pains.
Could Moses, Aaron, or Miriam save Yahweh's people?
Could saints and prophets of endless ages end every evil?
Who must win when humans and men fight for a bit of bread?
Why should humans fighting against humans find themselves dead?
Goodness failed. Evils won. Virtues lost wars against vices.
Existence shrank into contradictions and compromises.
The 5th Symphony
is the terribly great symphony that scarred the sky
The 5th Symphony
is in the hands of the conductor
with skin like the bitter Prussian snow,
and the eyes of a starless night
The 5th Symphony is played
in the tempo of War,
with the opera of mourning
in the Key of Retribution
The melting of a city made of gold.
The angel of Revenge
forges the weapons
for the sons of Injustice, Wrath, and Survival.
Gardens of peace offerings, swallowed in fire.
before their ghosts could whisk away
the arrows that clothed the ash
were fallen unto them
The edge of the blade condemns the Emperors, and their wives,
yea, even their handmaids to the Pit of Sheol
and their souls are rended apart, down to the dust of the dust,
even before they descend
They’re stark naked from their heads to their toes
Our aspiring emperors wear no clothes
Why can’t we see that
They look like two rats
Perhaps we’re too busy holding our nose
I started to fly this time,
Injecting the inclusions of notable eyes.
They’re always calling me a name I can’t yet find.
But this is happiness right?
Ten-thousand years of life
Ten-thousand years that I bleed,
And I weep,
And I breathe the hue’s of an emperors sheet,
A fools’ gold left me with the sins of Adam & Eve
This pomegranate heart
dreams to travel upon
a periwinkle path which
leads to the province,
where her royal majestic
persona resembles
papillon emperors,
floating under
mauveine skies,
adored by radiant rays from
the plummeting plum sun.
Serene clouds drift under
her lepidolite lilac gaze,
holding morning glory
amethyst raindrops,
ready to soothe her
fervid velvet petals.
A plethora of heather shelters
a rare rose dressed in violet,
flourishing under an
enigmatic Jacaranda tree,
surrounded by lush lilies,
infatuating irises alongside
opulent orchids,
blossoms infused with the
allure of musky ambience.
Tranquil twilight paints the
horizons in lavender hues,
stars appear like raisins
under magenta moonlight.
Her desires flow like rivers
of sangria and Syrah waterfalls,
bursting vibrantly through
mulberry mountains over
blueberry hills.
I have no desire
to reside in a place where
burgundy is too red
and indigo is too blue -
only in her unique aura
of heavenly purple shades.
Sub Categories
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.