Long Dungeon Poems
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I sit in the back corner of a dark musty warehouse now
Discarded, forgotten, despised, unwelcome, bereft.
No one has been in this place for at least sixty years.
Once upon a time in my heyday I was revered and petted.
Children squealed with delight as they approached.
They laughed and giggled and chuckled about my candies.
Fat women covertly looked both ways before approaching.
They loved my offerings but did not want everyone to see them.
Milk chocolate! They said with a sigh, as they gulped my candies.
Skinny men whose wives had them on diets approached with a skip.
They fairly hopped away, with the enthusiasm of their youth.
These memories keep me happy as I sit here in this dark dungeon.
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Delilah: Samson! Why do you imprison my love in the dungeon of mistrust?
The hypnotism of my succulent breasts, and the soothing soft feel of
my moist lips, your stolid heart betrays.
You really do have the strength of a God, but even a God is subject to
the mind blowing caresses of a goddess. Prove your love to me by submitting
to just this nagging request, and our much anticipated wedlock which you very
much desire will be certain.
Samson: Your words turn me on as much as the moist feel of your honey gate. How could I
ever resist thee Delilah? Certainly at your behest, I bequeath my awesome and
divine strength.
Delilah: Then rest your troubled head on the comfort of my massaging hands, and see that
there never was nor can ever be, a warm resting place for your wearied head like
these lovely hands of mine designed like a pillow fit for a Prince.
My mind is a very active place.
Like for all people,
the number of its rooms is limitless,
for the mind travels to many places
as well as traveling via novels and movies,
so those rooms are ever-changing.
They are decorated automatically.
You need not lift a finger to decorate them!
One room different from the ever-changing ones
is my attic. Perhaps for unluckier souls
this room could be a basement or a dungeon!
In my attic are mostly memories which,
for me, are beautifully colored.
Nostalgia floods its very broad expanse
and drips into every nook and cranny.
The main room of my mind
is the living room.
This is like the living room of my friends' minds,
the common room where our thinking dictates
what lies inside it and how those thoughts
are perceived by others.
I like to think my living room is unique,
but also I know it's filled with too much clutter!
The room most interesting of all my rooms
would be the room of my imagination.
In this room are thousands upon thousands
of closets, cabinets, and shelves,
and inside each one are different pieces of
my imagination!
Each cabinet is organized by type.
Some are surreal in color or vivid technicolor!
Those pieces are my dreams.
My fantasies are closeted.
The ones made manifest on paper or computer
are sitting out on shelves!
All the ones which can be seen
are those I call my poems or stories.
Most are not dark in color
but are bright or multi-colored.
I decorate the room of my imagination often.
You may come and see my new shelves
at any time!
Do mind the wet paint.
I'm never finished adding to that room!
Feb. 26, 2018 (my only free verse for this year so far!)
Inspired by another contest but too long for that one.
For John Hamilton's Best Free Verse of 2018 Contest
#The_10_years_of_EFF_existence
For weariness of being, a baton fell so hard on African soil, the barking of dogs so loud, defeaning one man conscience, the heaven asked who is worthy to lead the hopeless and promises ravaged-minds and hearts, of Azanian child,
From a savaged past, tattooed with disappointment and deception and backstabbing by those he trusted, in the midst of leaders masquerading to serve,
a formation, unshackled from the dungeon of bruised yesterday, a red regalia so vicious and unequivocally unwavering, took the fore front, and became a voice to the voiceless, a backbone for the weak and frail and ones fear have incarcerated.
My ground catches tremors, I hear voices of reason, breaking lose my bones, a wound has festered, Thomas Sankara, Kwame Nkruma, Fidel Castro, Chris Hani, Gaddafi, Mugabe, an African Renaissance hailing and bowing gratitude that at last a seed has fallen to mzansi soil and now its starting to germinate fruits of hope, their long forgotten and burried vision for every African child,
many voices across the globe shaken to their pans, a revolutionary movement has been unearthed, to cut loose generational chains and norms of man-made political and economical bonds, to an azanian child
they say Rome was not built in a day, to date its 10 years, since inception, the light long overdue at the end of a colour being tunnel, in my head I hear a shona man from Zimbabwe saying "pongoane pongoane" a bit by bit, the foundation has been laid, it's only a matter of time until the vision is realized and africans awakened and African child received his biological birth right, his land and economic freedom
the tracks before me are vivid, mother African is only a matter of time, the glory of your seed brings to life your hope and wish for your own, the economic freedom fighters on the forefront the gloves are off, until the vision is not only realized but accomplished,
the working class, the students, the poor of the poorest, the hoe is on the ground by force this world shall realize the dream, the time is now or never EFF is the force to be reckoned with and epitome for every Melani child
#EFFTurns10
#Poetic_Ink
In the stillness of darkness
mockery, lies, gossips like air arise
dragging you down, for a penny sake
Abuse of power just for wealth.
Who would have thought of these silent moves?
Cheating on a poor innocent
While still in a dungeon of fire in a
gloomy weekly days and nights in lost paradise.
The so-called "smile" is a shadowed
for the world to see, but the cruelty it brings into reality.
A smile that wears a mask, sarcasm and insults that leave behind a scar.
'Till a dame's untouched heart broke
Lonely, weary and dreary.
No one cared, nor listened.
In the name of Penny.
Still, I wait for the beaming light above,
the everlasting hope in my heart
will never fade.
I won’t let evil take root in me—
only the Spirit,
somewhere, somehow,
guiding me
to make my deeds upright.
Fairest and prettiest of all queens, you're never faithful to your king whose hands
barely touch your luscious lips that others secretly kiss;
and you meet them in an empty dungeon to satisfy your urges of lover,
not honoring those vows blessed by that priest who sprinkled Holy Water.
In the prime of your youth, you were given in marriage
for an exchange of great wealth by a father so greedy and heartless
who sought his interest, refusing to admit you were of a tender age;
and he brings his gifts to appease a king who won't demote his rank of prince.
Loyal maids know each secret and arrange your meetings with another knight,
keeping a watchful eye, and they would warn you if they heard footsteps;
naked and screaming, enjoying the ecstasy of lustful lover...wishing it would be night,
to forget the lack of everything: from sensual kisses to warm caresses.
Does guilt ever accuses your conscience of wrongdoing,? No, you seek revenge
by having continuous affairs with knights who have more sexual drive than an old king.
Harry and Meghan each yearn to be seen
As pillars of U.S. community
So publicly private, this faux King and Queen
Bespoil the royals with impunity
Harry said, “Hey, there’s a newspaper guy,
So fetch the kids up from the dungeon.
I’ll make sure he brings his photographer by
While you go and peel a large onion.”
The journalist sat just as Meghan came in
He said, “We should start talking soon.”
She said (once she’d practiced her quivering chin)
“Remember that you play our tune.”
“So listen,” said Meghan, “this tear on my cheek,
Will show up quite well with the light to one side.
This photo could well be your shot of the week,
If I rub my eyes sore like I’ve cried.
“Please put in your paper we won’t milk our names,
Our royal connections we’ve hurled.
We intend to fashion our own brand of fame,
As Princess and Prince of the world!”
Deprived life in the mundane dungeon bleak,
tries to find an escape route beyond the dark,
crafty mind constructs the wings of freedom.
The flight through the lower layers of self-belief
crashes in dire dejection on the sea of sorrow.
Untamed surge of swirling wind called ambition
drives the unanchored ascent to soar and scale
the great heights at the delusive edge of success
in the realm of the unreal where transient rapture
crumbles and falls like dust.
There’s no escape from the clutch of misery,
even if the dreams on wings soar in high sky,
for in the draconian domain of the blazing sun
the dreams will burn in the stoked fire of hubris.
If the unreserved arrogance unheeds the idiom :
‘don’t fly too close to the sun’,
you'll scorch the wings of wax melting in tears,
feel the burnt remains of Icarus, you think you're,
falling like ash within hollow you.
October 10, 2019
Edward Ibeh's Contest Pick A Title, Vol 10
May 27, 2020
Contest : Falling
Sponsor : Kai Michael Neumann
Through these verses I divulge my poetical expressions
to ignore criticism and not hoot while extricating my ideals;
my work is marked by indisputable integrity,
more plausible than a woman's chastity!
Recognition and deserving honor are nice,
but they are the least rewards I seek,
best of the best...who ever was ?
Worst of the worst.. I cannot be!
I fall between these two, lest I fault
and fairly deserve the dungeon...
the crowds not applauding my effort,
not proclaiming me a champion!
My words are soave, sometimes as rigid as hooves of a horse...
reminding all that I am as human as anyone else who bleeds and rejoices,
but my creativity is not satiated by inferior knowledge or bizarre notions,
although my glory is never accompanied by real expectations!
Like Homer and Virgil the masters of ancient poetry,
I do praise their work, and recognize their genius shining in their word;
Troy fell and Rome rose to prominence by a bloody sword;
I don't fall by trickery, I stand on my fortress of liberty!
My obligation must be fulfilled by ardous work, I will not depart,
or merely linger on...until this mission is faithfully accomplished, and this voice,
before fading, invokes its last sunset to finally fall silent;
and if readers acclaim me, I have succeeded in my poetical expressions!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci