Long Accession Poems
Long Accession Poems. Below are the most popular long Accession by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Accession poems by poem length and keyword.
Can a man – all alone - foist a god upon his fellows
Even if it’s only himself
And they his subjects
G.. is Akbar!
Does the muezzin from the minaret of Qoutoub-Minar
look up or
down to the illiterate savant emperor
whose newly-ordered cosmos
much as Tamerlane and Genghis Khan's blood
mixed gods
invented the Gysin-Burroughs cut-up and fold-in method
a cornucopian chimera
shi'ite-sunnite-kharidjites
hindu/buddhist-jain
confucian-taoist/zoroastrian
orthodox-christian/judaic
saivite-vaisnavite
mahayanist-theravadite
shintoist-zen-chan
agnostic-atheist
A…. is Great!
In the begining there was no VERB for him
In the end
from
"brahmana" Himalayas to the "asurya" Deccan
from
Ghazna and Kabul to the spent chugged mouth of the Ganges
where bloomed the Allah-Upanishad
One common language
One uncommon religion
One classless society
One mutually nourishing art
One scientific quest
and the sweet music of friendly disputation
within then the world’s vastest book and art collection
though knowingly
took to wife an Hindu princess
chose his prime counsellor from among the Brahmin élite
where within hearing distance lithesome nymphs bathed in scented milk
his victoriously wearied warrior limbs back from punitive expeditions
through Panipat Delhi Agra Punjab Gwalior Ajmer
Gujarat Bengal Sind Orissa Baluchistan Ahmadnagar Kashmir
Khandesh
to circumscribe the sub-continent
a Ceasar at the court of Fatehpur-Sikri
Akbar is ___!
Who would parse and complete or conclude the syllogism
For « One » who dared abolish the jiziyah
Note: Jalal ud-Din Muhammad Akbar (1542-1605), the third Mughal Emperor, edicted that muezzins should herald the rising of the sun by the call: Allah-u-Akbar!
The « jiziyah » , a word of Arabic origin, meaning a tax levied on non-Muslims who wished to conserve their own property, and imposed by the Moghul sovereigns – on and off - in India, was abolished by Akbar in his seventh year of accession to the throne.
©: T. Wignesan, March 13, 1992 (from the sequence/collection: "Words for a Lost Sub-Continent")
4
there is no ending of words
is there anything that may be called
the end-word
let the words make questions
let the words give replies
let the words shout
let them battle among themselves
i can’t understand
why is there so much endeavour
to take me into that chaos
a plant of small white flower
is enough to make a garden itself
even-then
an assembly of
the rose the jasmine the tuberose is made
to increase the rule of the garden
after picking flowers from those plants
my wife puts them to the feet of the god
to worship him
she has a drinking-glass a plate
a hand-fan a throne
for her god
all are like tiny-toys
among them
the throne
is very important
till today
in many of our houses
there is a throne
but it is neither for accession of men
nor for making themselves king
i’ve already said
the throne is for our god
that means for our lying on
there may or may not be
even a broken cot
but for our family-god
to provide a throne
is a must
5
on that day
when once i had gone into the
myself-man
i saw
that the government and the opposition
both sides were gheraoing one another
in the same pace
they were reciprocally
quarrelling threatening rebuffing abusing
thus there was running
a fine piece of democracy there
it gave me enough pleasure
then i again came out
of that myself-man
in the outer-world
i saw
bypassing the stones and the hard
the roots of the trees
going deep down in the dark
in search of soft soil
and their branches are taking bent
towards the sun-light
6
of late
my intelligence seems somehow
to become slippery
there is so much pollution
in the myself-ism
it seems
even in collision with my shadow
some dragon-flies are killed every day
why do my eyes see so little
why do my tongue speaks so harsh words
to whose custody has gone
those rain-drops
those lemon-blossoms
there is the glittering of dew-drops
on the cob-web
the evening-worship
is sinking into the barking of dogs
as if the wings of the parrots
become van-rickshaw
as if the moon-light were
gradually retreating
in the enlightened city-life
I am the Project Air Bridge,
The veritable virus lord-cum-felon of duty fraud.
Fumaye's privileged his bridge that projects pompous airs.
Maelstrom, mammon coextend where it forks and fares.
Transpontine ambulances shriek, hearses creak;
Cispontine pandemia profiteerings peak.
Lip service put onto pushy pumper,
Juggling jobbery jarred into cushy number.
I am the Project Air Bridge,
A villainous virus lord-cum-gubernatorial wailing ward.
I have federal flag foil my neckties,
Have federal fiefdom at my behest.
At home seizing states' supplies,
In style feathering my own nest.
Grave grin toward myriad plunders amassing in size;
Frivolous glee unto stricken states moaning distressed.
I am the Project Air Bridge,
A versatile virus lord-cum-omnivore slyly adaptive-jawed.
All foreign aids I indiscriminately swipe and sweep,
Compatriots in need, meticulously sift and bleep.
Cronies and bogeys bogart the most and the best;
Those in the doghouse, let viruses lay them all to rest.
My wheeling and dealing can always pay off,
Just owing so much to so many I always play off.
I am the Project Air Bridge,
A heinous virus lord-cum-Old Nick's Regalement Board.
Blanketed by bereavement are betrayed people,
Their wounds bleeding undressed.
Butchered for banquet, the Bald Eagle,
My plates attending undressed.
Muddy mug shades dirty cook;
Murphy's mug shakes leprous wine.
Worse stinks history's mug book,
Ever since its accession of mine.
Silver spoon feeds up mouth; siren's spoon feels up lips.
Sicking up are malapropism and spoonerism of freudian slips:
Feasting my eyes on boons cross air bridge,
No blink for victimized crossbones' bare ridge.
This is me, the Project Air Bridge,
The very virus lord-cum-Juggernaut Accelerator of boons-for-bones baud.
I AM THE BANANA TREE
I am the banana tree
That dwells where rivers meet ;
I am the banana tree
That dwells where sun lives;
On fertility I tower ; believe,
Your party hour has come
You shall now eat my fruits,
As these buds you see now
Shall wither not till fruits they become.
When they call me barren
And say I am fruitless and arid ;
They that once invaded my field
And carted away my buds,
I heed not their buzz ;
When they mock my torn leaves
And call me progenitor of scarecrow ;
They that once stowed their holds
Till cambers with my seeds,
I lend no ear ; when unschooled children
Call aleovera vegetable,do we blame them?
Their ignorance my knowledge
Though they don’t know me
I know who I am: sucker of millions nods.
My first pollination they arborted
When like gladiators they came
And destroyed my foliage like locusts
When they brought elephants to my garden
And scattered all my heaps and ridges
When they mutilated me like unedible snake
How so soon they forget that call me infertile !!!
Thanks for procreation that multiplies my breed
And erects a signpost of my lavish fertility
In their Lady and Lord’s vineyards forever.
Rejoice Africans;
Yours is not a barren womb
Rejoice, yours is not infertile -
I am the banana tree sprouting form the stump
Of old flourished tree the wicked cruelly felled ;
The sepulchre is opened , my resurrection has begun
It is dawn of my accession , my glorious hour has come
Because I am the banana sucker, this a tree you see now
Shall tomorrow plantation become.
Beyond the boundaries of those forged laughs ,
They were the descendants of Satan
Hiding their insanity were their purple scarfs.
Carving her feelings with pain as if it was a game of chess.
Bewildered with her virgin heart
Made her a dominant prey for their dark sorcerer
Crushing her bones to dust.
Smothering her trust was an accession to another fortress,
They knew smiles were a symbol weakness
But hers still had the strength of gems
Crushing them would pleasure their inner sadism
Excavating her soul to be deported in the daggered drum
Sucking on her blood like it was the preserved ancient rum
Cries of Cruelty were the pillars on which their kingdom flourished
The destructive art of their devil still obscured
Scattering their victims in blanket of delusion
With slow ticks pulling them towards their burning demolition
Dragging her self respect, empowered their integrity
Soldering her figure to that explosive felt like the only necessity
Starving her of the love her body desired
She would serve as a souvenir their future generations admired
The embellishments on her body have tarnished
In influence of the rust of manipulation
Now slacking like a chain was her devotion towards her heavan
The letters addressed to the seraph were seemingly hidden
She was the artistic beam of light in their dark den,
So they had to clutch her shine away with their bare hands
Now She glorifies sadness
With smile being her weakness .
Dark of Winter, contagious nightfall’s sigh, hide me, hide me from all. Be my guide oh Sweet Darkness pride.
Oh Glorious Papa coming down to see, exactly what notion came over me. Why so downcast my soul? My answer is it’s all foretold.
Scoop of brown clay across my face and body; Godly formed and forever forbidden to have a say. You know the world, when the world says no, you want to devote but pray to devour.
Innocence seems a pretense game of subjugation, and no one can view the implication. Thistles & thorns will be worned like ignorance glee; too late to,too late to carry me.
Horrendous hyping like a clown, forever chirping to make the world go round.
Palm of hand, down to the hour, what a shyster with millions craving more. Built with blood but not the Savior’s. So many Deceived by craftiness down the wire, which leads inevitably to an earthquake’s hellfire. Without form, without void, we won God’s Glory from masks removed- exposing heretic clowns with power.
Nail in hand, no accession to my name, will we end the crying game?
Darkest rainbows come hither and save EarthAngels from mortal selves. Cool and kind; that is my motto among faceless droids designed to replace us. Hearts
removed; truth stomped out; warped among a sea of doubt. What is a banner with guilt galore; Our Banner is Christ Who evens the score!
“… The 1986 revolution in the Philippines … brought an end to the martial law imposed by Marcos’ regime in 1972, and saw the accession to power of the first woman president, Cory Aquino.”
Freedom songs of militant optimism
Reigned with victorious patriotism
Liberty shouting spirit of volunteerism
Vanquishing oppressed activism…
Music reverberating freedom’s prevalence
Street dancing breaking Martial Law’s silence
Commending People power revolution excellence
God I thank for His bestowed historical opulence…
Such marked grand national milestone in my College days
Having first woman president along political race
After freedom-driven coup d’etat of peaceful ways
The Lord I praise for His provident grace…
Best of all is my spiritual freedom exposure
Midst university culture shock pressure
Genuine peace*, divine liberation I gained with pleasure
Through Jesus Christ the Saviour Who my eternity does assure.
*Romans 5:1 Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.
March 12, 2020
1st place, "DANCE WITH ME" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues; judged on 4/7/2020.
Adieu the king,
Long live the king:
The crown was in the grove
Where his forebears dwell
In their majestic transfiguration;
There he would inherit the fiat,
The power to say and to be;
In the grove of royal tutorial
Where prince became king
Where ancient secrets were learnt
The tryst of the dead and the living
Forest of rite of accession.
There fortune anointed me,
Made venus’s heart my portion:
The royal heiress smiled at me,
Her eyelids blinked and blinked,
Like fire fighters’ ambluance,
Her boby moving ups and downs
Like a piston of new brand auto
As she nailed her eyes on me
She made my spot her path
By my side she offered me wine
In a royal calabash of symbol
And laid her hand on me
Like a bed spread on yielding matress
Instantly I woke from my slumber
Like a chameleon rewinding back its tongue
And she piloted me to the chamber
In the interior of the royal
Where many games were offered;
Ludo and chess I did not play,
But played love with my princess;
Sure the gods are wise:
A night in the royal grove,
Remains love of my life.
When is the best time to ask the hardest question
Is it when I’m at my lowest and ready to break
Or is it when you have reached your accession
Either way the end result will always be heartache
The hardest question to ask is always a painful task
In my mind I ask “ how will she respond”
Will she be hiding her true face behind her mask
Or show her true feelings and beyond
I know the hardest question has to be asked right now
Time will stop and my heart will pause it’s beat
My heart strings ready to be played by the violin bow
In the back of my mind I’m thinking do I retreat
Here it goes, I ask the hardest question
Her face sunk into the floor as if made of concrete
I tried my hardest to use all my discretion
My words were not able to creep around and be discreet
How do we recover as a couple from this
Honestly, I’m not sure and we will have to take it slow
Fingers crossed with teamwork and love we can persist
And save this relationship and start again tomorrow
God wears the bling,
Its a constitution ting,
King Chazza going to fix it,
Give the corgis their biscuits,
Now he's got the crown
He can turn that frown upside down,
There's no way his Regal reign
Will get washed down the drain
The Patri, mono and hier archies
Rely too much on his malarkeyGod wears the bling,
Its a constitution ting,
King Chazza going to fix it,
Give the corgis their biscuits,
Now he's got the crown
He can turn that frown upside down,
There's no way his Regal reign
Will get washed down the drain
The Patri, mono and hier archies
Rely too much on his malarkey
To dazzle the curious populace
That might wonder if now its the time and place
To shed the over familiar embrace
Of a pale, stale, overripe monarchy
The media's wet dream fantasy
Filling front pages with hyper hysteria,
'Did Andrew deflower a teenager under the wisteria...?'
What will it take for everyone to see,
He's no emperor and, without clothes on
He's as naked as you and me....