Long Bubonic Poems
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I awaken, alarmed by contagion’s dread,
by the advancing bubonic omen.
My muscular spasms unleash, involuntarily.
My astonished malediction yawns, cavernous.
I gawk vacantly in my remaining moments,
at icy stones beneath my trembling feet.
Just a prisoner, I conclude.
Just an incorrigible coward.
Inconsolable, impotent, lachrymose,
I await my execution.
My penalty decreed in infectious agent.
My sentence prescribed in replicating pathogen.
Cacophonous are my incessant night terrors,
allying insomnia with somnambulism,
compounding calamity with conception.
No redemption in these ranting forecasts.
But I cannot reduce the fever.
And raving violence only deepens.
Yet, when capacity breathes hush in my channel,
I close my eyes.
Letting go is migrating sentience.
I am the silent release departing.
With my interior eye of providence,
I verify the amber brilliance,
this luz de Amarillo,
The Quaker’s inner light.
The Hindu’s moksha.
The Shaker’s simple gifts.
The Buddha’s luminous mind.
Dimensionless.
Breathing again, radiant rapture quenching.
Breathing again, from the riverbank,
watching mortal suffering float by.
And in Yoga, the knots of trauma
dispel from my vertebrate. My spinal lesson,
the simplest song for which I find no words.
My lives and deaths are passing weather systems.
Forbearance offers pristine extinction.
I shall watch
And I shall laugh
I shall hold my last breath before I die
And released it with smiles of one last gasp!
Once again in this solemn place we meet
Perhaps I came to bring the battle to our feet
Carry on with these memories of time
Presents of eternity
Perhaps I've been away for way to long
But I'm here to present a scenery through rhymes
Just maybe I could substitute my misery
In exchange for the essience of suffering internal
A cast I miss so dearly
Now in my moments of less truimph my enemies fear me
So open to a blind side
I kind of figured
That white chariot would be a kind ride
These heavenly possessions become demonic
Seems my obession
Has been plagued with something worse than bubonic
A ball and chain pronounced as life
I suddenly recall
A pain that accounts for living twice
Who knows the means of how this came to be
Still it's plain to see
That somehow your presence remains in me
Will I live To see my children make similiar mistakes?
It's a mystery indeed, But somehow I can see myself
Getting away with a small portion of fate
Things will never change
Yet I'm blessed and still living
Angels forever seem strange
Who would've guessed that this life was given
Still my presence is only here to retrieve a promise
In which we each believe
But no sooner was it granted it was stripped from us
So forgive us for our sins
Spare us our grace
As we open our eyes to witness the END
I shall watch
And I shall laugh
I shall hold my last breath before I die,
And released it with smiles of one last gasp!
The Gloved One
Halt who goes there?
The Disease
I am the health care scare.
The Gloved One
Is your name bubonic, measles or tee bee?
The Disease
No, that is not me.
The Gloved One
I do not see you
The Disease
That does not mean I am not true. Covid 19 is my name
And social disruption is my game.
The Gloved One
I feel a draft, a cold wind with no laugh.
The Disease
At 19 I was ready for the draft but peace was holding up any military wrath.
Covid 19! I am the one that taunted the powers that be
With an innocent start inside a fish mart
I had ports of call where I made the masses they did fall
Ordering people to stay inside or maybe they will die
The Gloved One
I said halt you wretched thing we have defeated your kind with our royal kings
We will go back to hand shaking and peace making
Once you have been disposed of and replaced with true love
The Disease
Yes I have a short term here
By spreading isolation and frustration without a tear
The Gloved One
Begone Begone you treacherous villain you are making a million by using sickness as a way of killing
There will be a rise in temperature
From this contagious situation that is so immature
And when the heat increases
Covid 19 you will be in pieces
The Disease
Tally ho Covid 19 here and I must say it is time to go
The Gloved One
Lurk all you want in your invisible form
And in the end you will wish Covid 19 was never born
The year was sixteen-sixty-four
A comet crossed the sky,
And Londoners looked on in fear
Convinced the end was nigh.
The streets which once were paved with gold
Were now awash with waste.
A swarm of flies and scourge of rats
Foretold the death they faced.
And so it was that London town
Was struck down by the plague,
And corpse on corpse, wife, husband,child,
Were taken to their grave.
Deep in the dales of Derbyshire
A peaceful village lay,
Until a bale of cloth arrived
That inauspicious day.
A bale of flea-infested cloth
Hung by the hearth to dry,
Which stirred the soporific fleas
And roused the plague thereby.
The tailor's poor assistant died
A death of searing pain,
And pestilence intensified
Its unrelenting reign.
As many planned to leave their homes
The vicar intervened
Declaring that instead of flight
They should be quarantined.
'Dear flock of Eyam, sacrifice
Not self must be our plan,
For once enclosed we'll suffer but
Set free our fellow man.'
Within the space of just one month
So many perished there.
The smell of sadness and of death
Ingrained the putrid air.
The years have passed,the plague long gone
But graves still tell the tale
Of how their sacrifice and strength
Meant others could prevail.
13.02.20
Let The Pens Flow - Narrative Poetry Contest : sponsored by Jenish Somadas
N/A
A Historic Event Poetry Contest - William Kekaula
NOTE:
On 1 November 1666 farm worker Abraham Morten gasped his final breath - the last of 260 people to die from bubonic plague in the remote Derbyshire village of Eyam. Their fate had been sealed four months earlier when, after the onset of the plague from flea-infested cloth from London, the entire village made the remarkable decision to quarantine itself in an heroic attempt to halt the spread of the Great Plague.
You scream for my attention in the checkout aisle
With tales of infidelity and sordid guile.
You pique my curiosity with spicy clues.
Gives me those supermarket tabloid blues.
You document the glamour of the silver screen
By trumpeting the rise of some new movie queen,
Then interview the hooker who her husband screws,
Exposing supermarket tabloid blues.
You hear a scandal splash and then you go to press
And document the details of the whole damn mess.
Your hottest stories simmer like delicious stews
To feed us supermarket tabloid blues.
You swear to any rumor's truth, however vague,
By spreading sordid gossip like bubonic plague,
Then quote the Bill of Rights if anybody sues,
Exploiting supermarket tabloid blues.
"The Pentagon communicates with UFOs."
"Archbishop blesses little boys without their clothes."
You’re churning out more headlines than my head can use.
Gives me those supermarket tabloid blues.
There's just one small confession that I have to make;
I’ve got a funny need to hear those stories break.
A guilty little pleasure that I freely choose.
Bring on those supermarket tabloid blues.
Vane glorious and absolutistic,
though I defiantly,
cavalierly, and blithely attest
Yukon bet your (laugh-in) sweet bippy
mine acidic breast
houses anarchic, anti-poetic ballistic,
barbaric, and bubonic
cannibalistic demons within thy
safely guarded Pandora chest
atomic cesium clock
timed to trigger avast
burst of anxiety, frenzy, and
(What me worry
Alfred E. Neuman) blast
ting mental quietude at most
inappropriate, inconvenient,
inopportune, out classed
adrenaline rush, nausea,
palpitating heart, vertigo
besieging, corrupting,
endeavoring fractured arrant
cleft daemonic gripping
hellishly psychic chant
rendering unto sieze hoar,
a choking vise grip extant
yule hiss sieze indomitable
banshee fully controlling grant
diabolic, dogmatic, and dynamic,
anguished corporeal ache
easily, egregiously, and emblematically,
exemplified historically
graphic fatalistic, and ecstatic coup,
(koo), when I caused furious frantic flight,
and/or fight betake
king angst causing just desserts
for Marie Antoinette,
who got her humble pie cake,
thence dispensing with formalities,
where a joshing drake
(named Gill O. Teen)
also known (solely known
to mine selfish source error ways)
alias i.e. as; the Lewis (loose)
lunatic, heady harvester,
and decapitation Deacon trumpeting,
trouncing, and triumphing tranquility
for fifty three Tuesdays,
thence sea king punishing psychotic
pre pound payment
basking in glory (re: gory us)
amidship crashing quays
music to mine ears hearing plaintive neighs
high pitched straining
vocal chord hamstrung keys
regaling oceanographic
lambent hagiographic essays
and keeping at bathos bays.
Courtesy For The Broken
Alchemy that lasts among the virtuous and wise
Botany that casts its oxygenated strength during its demise
Misery that is so vast and deep that is accompanied by resentful sighs
Lonely elements that last among loved ones without reprise
Tormented sorrow of the regretful souls who cannot change their fate
Undocumented tomorrows of the young and old lining up at heavens gate
Augmented burrows of technology that the youth idolise and rate
Discontented blows of the underprivileged who stand around and propagate
Ornamental figurines that form a strange collection
Sacramental fractured dreams that mystify invention
Consequential satire based memes that signify retention
Influential capatalist scenes that can’t dignify to mention
Symphonic compositions that profoundly illuminate the mind
Bubonic inquisitions that eradicate mankind
Subsonic intuitions that vibrate throughout what humans find
Catatonic ammunition that leave the poor man to suffer blind
Elucidate the problem properly and solve the puzzle for the masses
Repudiate the omen overly while the flies drown in molasses
Stagnate at the waters edge while the populations integrity crashes
Instigate the uprising from the hedge as they’re ruled by a greedy fascist
Condescending television hosts that smile like false prophets
Trending internet chat thief that through the lies they profit
Ascending through the war torn grief like photos in an ancient locket
Pretending through the disbelief that you’re interested in the rockets
Absurdist inclinations that refuse to compromise their form
Introverted artistic invocations that defy conventional norms
Perverted imitations that disguise the broken and forlorn
Extroverted provocations that bring demise before the storm
The End Copyright Elizabeth Moroz 2025
If
If I could turn back time, and change a single act
What pressure there would be, how would I react?
Would I stop Jesus' crucifixion, make Hitler a peacemaker?
Would I snuff out Bubonic Plague or kill the first cells of Cancer?
I could warn of Nuclear damage, the burn of radiation
I could help the natives in their cause, protect their sovereign nations
I could equalise the gift of wealth, and slavery abort
There's all manner of historical hysteria I could sort
But knowing that each tiny change will lead to new endeavours
Who's to say that all the consequences would be better?
So what if Hitler's noble peace prize makes a German hero
Only for Goebbels to emerge, as Fascism's De Niro
So what I'll do, I'll accept fate is fettered by said powers
And focus on tomorrow, which gets nearer by the hour
I'll own my regrets, I'll stop blaming and start living
I won't look back or change the past, I'll spend my time forgiving
An English village lay at peace
Until that catastrophic day
When flea-infested rolls of fleece
Brought pestilence and death their way.
They heard the village rector say
'No remedy can bring release
In quarantine we all must stay
So that the spread of plague might cease.'
09.02.20
NOTE:
On 1 November 1666 farm worker Abraham Morten gasped his final breath - the last of 260 people to die from bubonic plague in the remote Derbyshire village of Eyam. Their fate had been sealed four months earlier when, after the onset of the plague from flea-infested cloth from London, the entire village made the remarkable decision to quarantine itself in an heroic attempt to halt the spread of the Great Plague.
A Multitude of Notions
Subsonic phonic interference with my ailing mind
Bubonic pneumonic incoherence at the passing of these times
Hedonic tonic maladherence to the rules of constructed rhyme
Neurotic moronic disappearance of the complex and defined
Palentology and mysogony make for an unpleasant combination
Archeology and phenomenology predate the current conversation
Numerology and autonomy form a starstruck invocation
Epistemology and ideology culminate in complex connotations
Radiant cosmological constellations inspire wonder and awe
Gradient chronological extrapolations graphing out what all of this is for
Salient anatomical combinations leave the post surgical patient raw
Valiant ethological consternations distinguish the greedy from the poor
Astounded by the notion of another concept to illustrate
Confounded by the commotion of the latest political debate
Impounded by devotion to the church, leaders and state
Resounded by emotion as it begins to culminate
Anthropomorphic projections by an unusual mind
Isomorphic reflections on the state of all mankind
Nonmetaphoric infections that keep you humble and refined
Heteromorphic injections that leave you perpetually unkind
Illuminated thought forms streaming down from a twighlight sky
Communicated societal norms leaves the question firmly stated as why?
Automated technological reforms leaves the humans passing by
Captivated innocence is reborn as each man prepares to die
Copyright Elizabeth Moroz 2025