Libations Poems | Examples

Libation for Chase Poole

Hear the 15-year-old crying 
 “Momma,” "Momma" as he lays dying 
Shot in D.C. Juneteenth crowd.
A voice of suffering rings out loud
to a country’s conscious ears,
that are deaf to blood and tears,
from bullets sounding through the air,
as joy and justice were on minds there.

Veins yet tender, young and bold
Rose with warmth and sleep in cold?

Where was his mind as he lay dying?
For his mother, he was crying
Not on his father did he call.
Had he known this man at all?

Sleep in peace, Oh "native son,"
shot on the streets of Washington.
Libations to your memory,
a soul the struggle has set free.
Slain by a wanton hand unknown,
before you were a man full grown.

Crossroads

Here I stand
Amidst the Crossroads of Life
Abandoned, Worldly Pleasures behind me, Forsaken Crimson Wasteland

Here I Am
Pouring Libations to the Oracle of Truth
Selfish Desires Beyond Me, Rites of the Sacrificial Lamb

Messenger of the Crossroads, I Prostrate Before Thee
Time as a ever Rolling Stream, A Speckled Phantasmagoria
I look forward as my Faith is Sealed, The Shaman's Stone Revealed My Destiny

On my Right
Kindred Patriarchs Hold my Hand
Designate Strength to Avoid Dismay for Eternity
Fortify Me With Sturdy Ideals, May I Stand Upright

On my Left
Nurturing Matriarchs, Soothed, Comforted and Healed
Suckled And Secured, I Yield, Restored am I, Divine Spirit of Purity
Here I Stand Before the Thinning Veil, Maiden of Unbounded Weft.

A NEW AFRICAN

He is a Chinese man,  
He walks with the confidence of a crowned king 
Roaming Africa's ancient paths  
Like a masked spirit, unfazed by the stares  
That follow his every step.  

He finds a new home
Claims vast lands, rich with mines 
Even as the sun glares at him 
For he wears no claim to black skin.  

Where hair once curled like the darkest night
His shines like a torch in the deep.  
Neatly parted, each strand kisses the sky—  
He waves, "Zou Hao," as he takes his leave.  

The new African  
Is not a man dark as the bottom of a pot.  
His stories are not of Bra Spider 
Nor does he pour libations to honor the ancestors.  

The new African is Chinese
A builder of fragile webs
Spun like silk that dies beneath the sun's heat.  
He wears Agbada, Ankara, Ronko
Yet speaks in whispers of trade.

BINARY DINEary

She sings her heart out
Every night at the club
He brings down the house
With melodies of God's perfect love

She opens her purse
To anyone in need
He runs a ministry
That continually feeds
...the hungry

Hungry, everyone's hungry
.............Hungry, HUNGRY....hippo

Starving souls seek solace
A balance between operations
Realms of gods and men
For protection, offerings of libations

Power and control of the unknown
For fear of the finality of death
Hope in the Resurrection
For the chance of breath
...return

A system anew, arises
One of the old, laid to final rest
Where followers on both sides
Place peace on power's vest

No more up and down
Condescension pressing worth
All of LOVE's children
Move in their place of birth
...accordingly

Music......can you hear the MUSIC
................SINGING SALVATION SETTLED SLAVERY

Written by Trudy Schrader on 02-19-2024

For You, Not Me

What does it feel like to know everything you prayed for actually happened?
What does it feel like to know that everything you once desired has now come to past?
What does it feel like to know everything you hoped and wished for is now present?
It’s more than just a breath of fresh air.
It’s more just than a summer breeze.
It’s more than sipping libations under a shaded tree fan.
It feels like the collapsing of icebergs that are plunging in a -30 degrees splashing plane.
It feels like a rushing water rapture leading to a magnificent fall.
It feels like an eruption of a dormant melted rock.
It’s almost like nature orchestrated the events that led to this momentous feeling.
This feeling is majestic. This feeling is imperial. 
But most of all, this feeling is for another soul, not me.

Happy Hour

~  inhibitions turn loose, libations flow; let the revelry begin!  ~



Date written: 11/17/2022

Village Death

VILLAGE DEATH.

Where are the old men
Lets visit the sacred tree
Offer sacrifices
Pour libations
For the village is perishing

Maybe the old graves are ugly
Or they are angry at us
They are hungry
Its long they saw food on their tables

Tell you mothers sons and daughters
To  come for a cleansing ceremony
Ask them to be traditionists
Let them carry the remains im their grandmas huts

Ask the elder fathers of the clan
To get the attires for the event
We are at pain
And wont live among graves

Lets not accuse their culture
But to save the unborn
And the living
Lets embrace the culture
Abide by it

We will all bow down and pray
Cry and pour libations
To get back our lives
To confess and ask for forgiveness

Call back healers from their graves
Witches and soccerers from their wooden coffins
That they give back their knowledge
I know they hate us now
But after confessing
They will save us

Dafina
Culture#

Its the Best

he was pouring at the happening and usually there is a fair amount of disdain for the enthusiasts 
who like to sidle up to sample the snacks, libations and what have you goodies.

he was a wisp of fair blond - a hippy kid.

he asked me if I would like him to crack my can of brew
I told him that this was not necessary

I looked at some stuff and listened to some other stuff
trying to maintain a bit of elbow room 
while the crowds swirled and yammered
 biding some time before refill and then I went back for another and he 
cracked this one for me and said "cheers"

I drank it down and went for a walk down the street
I did not want to appear to be too gluttonous so I gave it some minutes

when I resurfaced in the crowded room and foraged thru the groups back to my man
he smiled and said "I grabbed this one at the bottom so that its chilled and now it needs to be shotgunned".

I laughed and retorted with double thumbs up
Impressed that this cat accurately assessed my quench and provided a 
responsive and congenial atmosphere in one that can be rather unpleasant and clannish

my man had it
and I salute him for it
the damn hippy dippy 
had it

kindness

Numbing the Pain

Sad husband just buried wife.
     Clad in funeral glad rags;
     Seeks refuge in libations.
          Taxi called to bar


Date written: 09/25/2021

Noir

It’s the rewrite of horrors noir, with no thobe, just a Kufi, and dirty black sweats. 

Vibrations striking ears with no lobes show precisely how dirty black gets.

A screenshot of a touchscreen keyboard shows the flows when nerdy blacks fret.

Colossal pets are healed and rebuilt by the pens of wordy black vets. 

That fish looks good, Girl.

Get the oil ready, while I toil steady on the soil levy, to keep my domain imminent.
I’l be back for lunch, libations, and lineaments, while we plan our way out of cursed tenements.

Massage my back with that juicy a**. Attach a nipple to my goose skin flask, and I’ll revise the countenance on your Tutsi mask, and rewrite the  horrors noir.

Lifes Mysteries

L Libations proof - a lifting of spirits.

I Ills for a time can be distilled on shelf.

F Fresh scent of pine in Winter blues, a wit.

E Elevation of mood, aware of self.

S Star in the sky, infused in baby’s gaze.


M Myriad maker of all the sky lights.

Y Years of earth’s life are dim;  Ancient of Days.

S Surreal, the arms of love who’d win the fight.

T Talk, talk, talk — with smooth lips, the mind’s on fire.

E Effervescent, maddening - red as rose.

R Realization you're in love — deep desire.

I In awesomeness of emotional throes.

E Eccentricity freshens a fruit bowl.

S Smile on sweet face disturbs the woeful soul.

12/8/2020
John Hamilton’s LIFES MYSTERIES
Hybrid Sonnet in acrostic form

Dunderheads

Dunderheads were led into thunder domes. Cats were heaved, therefore rats increased, in incense-sweetened sanctuaries. 

Love comes limp.

With our clap-stomp frolic, we shall cure alcoholics, then boost the sensations with wine.
For the next six days, libations appraised at the ABC suit me just fine.

Doubt is a virtue. Shaytan never hurts you. He gives what our tongues cry for. Politely I pass on the communion glass. I was drunk when I came through the door.

I said it before. 

He don't look much like me, so he ain't my god's son, yet still, to his feet I run. Though it's mineral rain, that cleans my bloodstains, and my crops are still fed by the sun.

Pardon the pun.

When I point out the finite power of the painting before the pews, I'm treated as someone crass, as you wink at another man's wife in the church, 'cause last night, she done gave you some

No Football Here

Down under in Oz, over here,
There is no football, my dears,
This is a tale so drear,
A footy champion, once held dear, 
He died of no football, no cheers,
We buried him at the ground, so austere,
His tumulus amounded each year,
We'd drive by, pouring a libation of beer,
The tumbleweeds blew,
Grass long and shaggy grew,
At the bar, no bevvies or beer,
The bar fridge empty, also austere,
The BBQ so cold and so drear, 
His ute rusted away, so near,
We'd pass by, pouring libations of beer,
Sad, to die of no football, my dears,
A tale from Oz, somewhere over here,
F...it, on the other side of Covid, we'll all have a beer........

Having Fun With Abcs

A Bearded Cat
Dancing Energetically Found
Generous Helpers imagining 
Jealous kittens languishing meaningfully.
Never ostentatious private queries 
rendered sassy tales united vivaciously 
with ‘xact youthful zestiness.

Zany yeti ‘xtraordinary wisdom visualized
under true scholastic reality quickly 
paid ordinary niceties many libations.
Killing joyful imagery hereby granting
federal enthusiasm during catastrophic
bemused antecedent.

The Mariner's Toast

To all celestial siblings gathered here,
The salutations of our salvation,
Living water to all those you hold dear,
To the enemy’s minions, damnation,
Fire in the grate and meat on the table,
Libations enough to make the ark float,
And a joyous song from every gable,
Now get this communion wine down your throat!

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