Long Confiscating Poems
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He learnt to fly when he was a child,
Darting throughout the air.
Shooting through crowds, leaving everyone happy,
At the country fair.
Shooting people in their belly, back and their legs,
With his small little love tipped dart.
Leaving them with a crush, a brand new love,
In their beautiful heart.
And then the local fun police arrived,
With insurance to run the carnival.
They saw him, caught him, held him down,
Confiscating his arsenal.
The fair is now safe, no one will be shot,
No loving, no dreams, and no dance.
And today Cupid’s on the airport runway line,
To holiday on the tower in France.
When my wife found my pot, she thought it was tea.
And her employer fired her after he made her pee.
My dad caught me when I smoked my very first joint.
He blistered my buttocks, he wanted to make a point.
He also gave me a lecture about how dope users never win.
The next week he caught me smoking pot and he blistered my butt again.
When he was done, my butt was bright red.
He spanked me so hard that my butt bled.
He thought that I'd quit because twice I was caught.
He thought that I'd stop smoking weed but I did not.
I no longer pay for marijuana because I grow my own.
The cops just found it and I'll lose all that I've grown.
The cops are confiscating my crop and they're arresting me.
I'll see you in ten years because that's when I will be set free.
(This is a fictional poem and I believe that smoking marijuana is wrong.)
I awoke hoping for a golden day
I’m easily dazzled, I suppose.
But it’s cool and overcast in Paris.
They’re limiting the sunshine today
because of global warming.
How can global warming bring a thousand harms
if it can’t even cook a turkey?
I love this after-Christmas week.
The crowded activities and Hallmark card events are over
but we still have the sunny moods and infectious vibes
(and no classwork).
My parents flew in last night.
It’s a holiday miracle.
What’s better than running into your mother’s arms
for a, “Mom-MEEEEEEEEEE!” hug.
Joy is a land unto itself, dizzying and potent.
“Your hair,” she said, almost immediately
- confiscating my adulthood with ease.
I‘ve missed her interrogations
and itchy, absorbing interest.
Re-entering childhood can be emotionally wearing
I needed a skin of those shuttle tiles for reentry.
The funny thing is, I get to watch my momma smother
under Grandmère’s beam-fixture gaze.
It seems awfully bright in here - far below the overcast.
.
.
Songs for this:
Wouldn't It Be Nice by The Sirens
Conexão by Amber Mark
A merry band to profer hope in the land
A lute, fiddle, drum to make brigandry grand
A staff, bow, arrow to strafe the noble strand
A sworn oath to lawful king; a sword to gentry's overbearing hand
A pruning staff to fleece corrupt shepherds, who saintly flock's fodder have panned
A bow and arrow to poach servile game from royal tableland
A fealty to nature's law; a license the privileged class to brand
A Kangaroo court dispensing arbitrary justice to tenured gentry in the lowland
A pauper's lease, tattered remnant to expand
A squatter's right, doled penury to remand
An opportunistic syndicate confiscating hoarded supplies to reduce growing demand
A marauding troop of mercenaries liberally sharing their contraband
A providential broker, allocating pilfered alms poverty to withstand
Ama you are a father
Father my father
Whose basket of fishes
Sweetened my mother’s dishes
Whose naked feet danced
The jungle drum you drummed.
I remember
Father I still remember
Those joyous days
When like brooding hens
You employed your hands
To shield the offsprings
Those several bodies
O! the little bodies
That clung to your bare wide chest
Like the eaglets unto their nest!
I remember
The sun-burnt days of the hunted panther
When the full moon-light chimed
The rhythms of jungle drum drummed
Rhyming with the story told
By the white-haired.
Then your roaring march
Along the prime paths of the forest
Then your rustic touch
Touching the weapon-hilt
Making carcasses of beasts
Making fresh clan feasts.
I still remember
The raw feasts of the drummer
Which strewed this universe
Like young Mbari warriors
Taking the spear from several clans
Turning their crowns into tributes!
Ama, you are the drummer
Whose communal tongue echoed
From the hidden chambers of the Niger
The drum of your conquests echoed
Everywhere in the universe
Like the gusto of the Sheik
Confiscating my land from the Sahara
In her eternal desiccation.
You are the royal father
Whose royal eyes woo the moon
Whose black hairs detain the sun
Like Joshua at Gibeon
Even in the deep valleys of Ajalon
Bringing the heavens to abrupt halts
When their course possesses progress.
O, Ama! you are a noble father
And like the gold-laying eagle my Africa
Your natural pocket flowers gold
Which fills the coffers of the household.
O Ama! you are our race
The clan greets her farmer
The tiller of my earth
The earth of the ancients
The ancients of my blood
The blood of my race.
The clan is still drumming
On the drum that now is a mere echo
Of the eternal rhythm of your drum
Ama, you are still our clan’s song;
O, you are my song
The song my jungle
The jungle of my blood
The blood of my race:
A race
Waiting
Now and ever
In a forlorn clan
Awaiting
A return of the drum?
Form:
The Humans Terrain
Undulating mountain ranges that cry out for slow release
Ambulating strangers that are covered in polluted grease
Dictating derangers that covet the Golden Fleece
Translating trainers that have broken their contractual lease
Commiserations for the silent ones who never speak a word
Invigorations of the violent guns who deal in the gratuitous and absurd
Continuations of the resilient suns that shine like they have been heard
Obligations for the wires bent for runs that have had the lines all blurred
Contamination of the water sources and slights upon the proud
Observations of the four main horses that come down upon the clouds
Celebrations of the multiple courses that defy the logic of the loud
Condemnation of the armed forces that illuminate a mushroom shroud
Ideological premises that combine to fill a season
Phenomenological nemesis that refine to environmental treason
Categorical messages that define philosophical reason
Allegorical sentences that design an artistic state of glee’s ion
Affluential indulgence circulating around the priveledged few
Monumental divergence insulating the poverty stricken from the news
Transcendental convergence incubating as the profundity is used
Non judgemental resurgence confiscating the subtle shades of colour among the hues
Copyright Elizabeth Moroz 2025
I thought
I believed
I was beyond the reach of light
Trapped there within your darkness
You eclipsed my wonder
My innocence
My hope
You wrapped me fully
Confiscating my will
Smothered my unrealized self
Draped me in your need
Subjugated me to your narrative
Then in the distance
A flicker
A tiny dot
Beyond your optics
Your contrived paranoia
Your insatiable need
I watched it grow
Filling my craving
Firing my synapses
Awakening my indefinable
I was not born to be in darkness
Wriggling in the shadows
Instead I pushed beyond your borders
Grabbed onto God's hand
As He effortlessly lifted
Transforming my impossible
He banished your Darkness
He rewrote your narrative
You took me from myself
Yet today I am back
I am strong
Freed from your insanity
I know
I believe
I am beyond the reach of darkness
Here I frolick in peaceful meadows of possibilities
I have claimed my wonder
My innocence
My hope
I live within a transcendent light
Mine is a world of every
Everyone is welcome
Peak out from the dark
Push back the veil
A hand stretches
Reaches
Pierces the sadness
Hold on
Let it be
Let it lift
Let it love
Let it consume the darkness
For Vicky Tsiluma's I'll be back contest.
I was inspired by Robin Davis's poem "Abuse Shocked Her Into a Shell"
There is light beyond abuse in whatever form it takes.
Questions are proliferating,
people search for answers
in old pants pockets
in long discarded purses.
The scampering feet of baby philosophers
can be heard from the moon.
The media is stymied, they are manipulating,
confiscating and hiding behind the backs
of massively overgrown ballers,
willy-nilly they scribble an alternative reality
upon indoor swimming pools.
The manic mayhem of our daily grind
is wearing our hair thin,
Somebody should take control of the truth,
but it keeps dodging questions
and slamming doors behind it.
Mark my words with invisible ink,
scratch a cat behind its ears,
somersault all you like
but we are all getting overrun
by imperfect pontifications
by the indecent Doctors of spin.
and all this endless self-questioning
keeps replying over and over again
but only in unbreakable code.
The lure of lucrative jobs
In foreign lands
Excites desperate souls
As they see a better future
Than in their homeland
Recruitment agencies
Operate from shady joints
Promising dream jobs
With perquisites to match
For these gullible customers
Human traffickers
Pose as messiahs
Enticing innocent candidates
From rural areas
With tempting proposals
Once on board,
They exploit the poor souls
By confiscating
Their travel documents
And short-selling their skills
They are not petty criminals
It is a well-oiled machinery
That perpetrates
And perpetuates
Such atrocities on migrant labour
Many agencies chip in
To run this recruitment mafia,
Negligent government agencies
And casual outlook of courts
Add to their woes
The hapless victims
Pay a heavy price
And get sucked into the vortex
Of a vicious circle
They did not bargain for
Don't Just Eat That: Do Something
June 23, 2012 at 6:29pm
By Oladeji Vicki Acquah:
How long have we warned you
How long have you ignored
How long will we be side tract.
We know who the culprits are,
There's no shame in their game.
We can call out their names,
They are not hiding, the disregard is blatant.
They can stop the one, they can stop the two.
The masses must rise, and organize
Before we are to weak to rebel.
This is not a quick sale.
We have been investing in this for a long time..
Keep thinking there's someone watching the barn.
How long have we warned you
how long have you ignored
how long will we be side tract.
We know who the culprits are,
there's no shame in their game.
We can call out their names,
They are not hiding, the disregard is blatant.
They can stop the one, they can stop the two.
The masses must rise, and organize
before we are to weak to rebel.
This is not a quick sale.
We have been investing in this for a long time..
Keep thinking there's someone watching the barn.
FDA, CIA. FBI, haarp NOPE
They are not on your side
They are (frienemies).
"Enemies with a SMILE"
You think they care about "round-up'.
Or genetically engineered foods, do you ?
Do you think they care about" bovine cows"
Or chickens grown in six weeks with no beaks,
Do you ?,...
Do you think they care about
Confiscating your seeds?
Do you think the food you eat has nutrition..
And the confiscated seeds- were confiscated
With good intentions, do you ?