Long Masquerade Poems
Long Masquerade Poems. Below are the most popular long Masquerade by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Masquerade poems by poem length and keyword.
There is never an ending
to the spending
a world of paper
and plastic to collect
and horde
clothes
and cars
and homes
and jewelry
and fine wine
and paintings
stocks and bonds
vacations
and expectations
entire vocations
devoted to
disguising the numbers
the Caribbean masquerade
to volumes of recorded
purchases and voices
of invoices
making
discreet
choices
all
to extend
the accumulation
of dates
and names
places and faces
communications
and connections
at breakneck
speed
must fill the need
must fill the need
a shouting browbeating
broadband
handing over
fistfuls of cash
to make sure
make certain
only the best
the finest
the rarest
of air is not available
for
the underwater martyrs
the silent box dwellers
the empty bottle collectors
the wheelchair drifters
the SRO limbo sellers
the workers at
the bottom
of the
fast
food
chain
and the indigent gamblers
who line the halls
to knock on doors
of government departments
crippled by reckless
and corrupt state
administrations
choking the dwindling
sources
and resources
that have
nothing to do
but
count the days
and ways
to disappoint
disarm dismay
dispute the reputations
and applications
held in sweaty palms
eager
to begin living
to end the doubt
to end the not having
the counting of pennies
the slow heroin erosion
the unbroken hollowness
the whiskey-soaked
ravages of vacant histories
better-forgotten memories
of cold emergency rooms
to end being
in a world
apart
a world
of resentment
of fear and hate and anger
of dark empty streets
empty recriminations
empty promises
made to themselves
by themselves
harming themselves
or
arming themselves
to rob to steal
to maim
to take whatever they can
for as long as they can
to approximate
the wonder and magic
of having what you need
when you need it or want it
to not have to beg
to not have to humiliate
or be humiliated
to not have to watch
the ease of others
who have a casual
contempt for misfortune
and respect for nothing
but their own wealth
of deception
to breeze through
tall golden doors
to an unbroken string
of shiny bright todays
and tomorrows
to not have to
lunge for hope
and
never grasp it
in all ways
and forever
just out of
reach
We were bloody.
Bearing the weight
of a gaping moon like
young Titans-
full of arrogant imagination.
We ran, hellbent.
House after house
playing tricks-
casting spells with
veracious foolishness.
That first pumpkin was
my stepfather. I watched
as his carved out grimace
became the nothingness
I was determined to fill with
chaos.
I screamed the lyrics to our
favorite Hatebreed song down
every street. Letting the Universe
know that no matter how insignificant
the World thought we were.
We would be heard.
All of us, brothers.
Bound by dark matter-
the silent replies to our
prayers that we'd never
admit to sending out;
Together we didn't need
Him, The Devil, or anyone else.
We were fearless, because we had
each other. And the might of bond,
not in blood shared, but spilled as one.
Parents tried to chase us.
Reign us in.
We laughed and taunted-
swinging our pillowcases
full of savory sin with a sense
of joy that only a lost boy could
even begin to understand.
Hands covered in slime, and seed
thundered together and sent out our
cacophony of delight as I tipped over
the HOA's Porta Potty.
Red and blue lights flash.
Someone has had enough.
We escape into the woods.
Sit on the edge of Willow Creek,
and light up a bowl of dirt weed.
The creek was shallow that year.
But, our hearts could fill it up;
All that life pulsing, racing through
our ephemeral- jack'-o-lantern husks.
Smoke signals went up that night.
As we exhaled our silent melancholy.
I think we all had some sort of hope
there, in that place. That our rage
would be sated. That we would be
enough to keep each other safe from
what we could already sense
was encircling us.
We never wore masks.
Not until we got older, grew apart.
And began to see we had to hide
that primal nature inside ourselves to
keep the moon from breaking our
backs. Because, we don't have
each other for that anymore.
But, I'm pulling mine off tonight.
Have a good look-
The scars. The worry lines.
The bloodshot eyes.
That same grimace I tried to destroy-
lighting up the room as if it were
carved to scare you away.
But I am no totem.
No walking masquerade to incite
any sort of terror, or joy for that matter.
I’m just another pumpkin head; candle
dwindling.
Waiting to be smashed.
-James Kelley 2018
Bring the Nzu and
Kola nut
Take it to the
stranger among us,
Let him kiss it and
be bless.
Let him rub the Nzu
on his arms then his
fore head.
It is our tradition
here not to neglect
A humble stranger in
our land.
We kiss suffering on
the lips, it harm us
not.
We measure our joy
with dance and
laughter.
pour the oil in the
calabash
Roast the yam and
break the kolanut,
Let the youngest
among us break and
share it.
Pour the dry gin on
the ground and bless
the gods
Our forefathers must
drink before we
taste ours
Angry will they be
if they taste not
the gin.
It is our tradition
here in Nkporoland.
The maiden must not
touch the raging
masquerade
Keep them afar off
from the here, let
them smell not of
it.
All the young men
must be present at
the Iza Afa festival
and then the young
women must not be
excluded from the
Igboto Nma festival
in the village
square.
When is the
initiation into the
masks spirit taken
place?
Warn all the young
men to partake, it
is our tradition
Never allow the she
goat deliver in
pain,
Go call the elders
to look after its
delivering.
The snake must never
be in group like the
beads
It is an abomination
not among the
tradition.
Gather the cowries
and the white chalk
and assemble the
youth in the shrine
Lets pour the goat
blood for the
sacrifices
The gos will hear us
this time after
We went astray from
it in foolishness.
Call on the widow
among us, i heard
there was one.
Her hair must be
Barbe thoroughly
She must bath and
drink the water used
on
Her deceased husband
bath.
The Umu Ada must be
there
It is the tradition
here.
Let the Umu Ada
check the maidens
Of their virginity
before they dance
Let them deep their
hands into the hole
One after the other
to check the fruits.
It is part of the
traditions.
The king must not
set his eyes on a
rotten
Shining meals which
are set for the
vultures.
Let not a child
whistles in the day
Let not a girl child
come out to the
Agbala naked
Under the initiation
in festival of
virginity.
We all must set the
tradition going
It is our right and
liberty to excel.
Neglect not the
wisdom of the elders
In his wisdom exist
pure and holy.
Our fore fathers
must be happy and
free
when we all observe
the traditions
Of Nkporoland in its
pure heart.
I stand on the highway of hope getting ready for the train to go on a trip to the mountain sphere, the passengers are pouring in, the seats are filling up, and everyone is in a mad rush. What on earth is going on? The passengers have been here before the break of dawn and excitement is all over the lawn. The cities and towns are flooded with lights and everyone has made an early sacrifice, smiles and laughter are everywhere and the people have nothing to fear. The highway of hope is taking me to the show, you can get an all-inclusive ticket wherever you go; you have a ticket for the train ride, the theatre, restaurant, cinema, the football games or just to go jogging up the lane. You have tickets to go shopping or to work out at the gym; there is a bus and a train for everything and there is one reserved only for music, singing and dancing. You can ride the bus or train any time of the day and your mornings and evening will never waste away, every ticket you buy will contribute to the blue sky and your donations will not die. Meet me at the highway of hope and I will show you where to go, the mood has change and joy is spreading everywhere. If you have nothing to do, put some snack in a bag and join the picnic train, and view all the terrain. The goal is to make a million in an hour and leave the sorrows in the showers. You will have something formidable to look forward to at the end of the day and your burdens and stress will surely roll away. Come with me to the highway of hope and join, the campaign fundraising train .Every ticket you buy will raise my ambition; every train you ride will elevate you to the sky, the numbers are growing and the passengers are swelling and my life has just begun. I have five-dollar tickets, ten-dollar ticket, a thousand- dollar tickets and any money tickets. There is a bus and train for every price and someone to show you how to roll the dice. If you don’t want to ride the train, the bus will do the same; a hundred bus and a hundred train is parked up on the highway of hope in every state so buy your tickets and join the masquerade. The goal is to make a hundred and fifty million dollars a day in the all inclusive bus and train ride on the highway of hope in all the fifty states so join the fundraising effort before it's too late.
Meet me on the highway of hope anytime of the day and don't delay.
Music and romance are camarilla comrades,
just like poems are my shield and arrows.
But not all lullabies of lovers,
harmonise like a street choir of angels.
If love resembles the weather,
then poetry is like a snowflake.
Its fragile abstract nature
can betray the innocence of a poetic heart -
serenading in slaughtered symphonies of silence.
When lust burns in assailable impurity,
love suffers in small doses,
performing a masquerade concealing truthful tones.
So what is the purpose of poetry if it offers no remedy?
Whispering winds form hailstorms in my mind,
wondering if there is a sanctuary
for lonely spirits suffering as seasonally sad souls.
In the midst of melancholic misfortune,
I wish to drown in tepid tides of holy water,
because fate is frozen in winter wanderlust.
Heartache taught me how to be a poet,
each scar inflicted from profound lies and cries.
But what is the purpose of poetry if there is no muse?
In the perception of imagination,
I search for the one
who left frozen tears on my pillowcase.
But her eyes see celestite waves kissing
ecru shorelines under blue pearlescent skies,
blessed with the radiance of saffron sunshine,
in the heavenly harmony of relaxing music.
So, I wonder why she resides in ebony emotions,
refusing to dance, lost in lyrical lament.
Some spirits evolve into envious entities,
but mine just misses the rose window to her soul.
When wine dark skies glare in misery and gloom,
composing ashen clouds to pour in plentiful rain,
I feel the chills of an Antarctic iced leaf on an ice covered lake,
but maintain an evergreen glow,
hoping to forever illuminate like cathartic moonlight -
reflecting upon her bronze fibers.
Opposites attract like fireflies in the night.
I am the bridge and you are the chorus.
so I follow footprints in the snow,
under the guidance of devotary sincere stars.
In the hope we will make melodies at midnight -
merging into rivers of unassailable purity
And If I can't be a poet, then I'll become a poem.
I cannot predict how my ink will spill,
so will you guide each verse to give it a purpose,
breathing my words into life?
Will you love me more than poetry?
Kissing all those diamond promises
into my rhinestone heart -
or will you massacre the music,
abandoning me like an unfinished symphony.
Since childhood,
as alexithymia struck my soul.
I kept all my hopes a secret,
hidden in a bucket of unshared dreams.
I kept my soul sweet like marshmallows,
but life has finally caught up with me,
Like a fast car overtaking recklessly,
leaving me behind in the slow lane -
and I'm running out of fuel.
I'm a vehicle of flashbacks from flashlights,
fatigued from embracing the old,
preparing for freshly brewed emotions.
Yet they deprive me at every dawn,
as new beginnings are always challenging.
Suffocating in this silent selcouth slumber,
life tries to call my bluff, when it knows,
I am the master of my masquerade.
My soul pleads with fate to usher me with belief,
but I can see death at my doorstep,
creating intrusive insecurities like termites,
eating away at branches of my sanity,
feeding upon my ordained Orphic glory.
Emotions are an interior mechanism,
so many remain fooled by my exterior,
but I'm tired of searching for salvation.
You who claim to love me,
gift me a scented candle made with your hands,
so its sentimental scent can bring me peace.
Take me to a place without a name,
without a label,
without judgment -
without suffering.
Unchain me from jeapordising January jitters.
Free me from meandering in misty meadows,
which have misplaced me in foggy morning sunshine -
bring me clarity.
These are not random thoughts, random poems,
because my ink is tired from trying to find new metaphors,
to supplement an abundance of alliterations,
portraying humble happy horizons.
Love can be a false emotion,
when we yearn for reciprocal ravishing redamancy,
but when was love ever equal or even fair?
I have no resolutions, just to breathe with ease.
Sometimes love's presence made me feel aesthetic,
but sometimes a badly drawn self portrait.
You can stay or leave, but do come back,
hold on, but not too tight that it chains my wings.
When I ascend, please, miss me,
so my spirit flies back to you.
Can you not see the irony?
We accumulate many reasons to die,
but search for only one reason to live.
Ask yourself which oxymoron are you?
Dying to live or living to die?
*Alexithymia
A person's inability to recognise or describe ones own emotions
* Redamancy
a love returned in full; an act of loving the one who loves you; the act of loving in return
if zee al chemist trump doth win go hide in the bunker
to save your ass
brace yourself as this don holed
confabulates that gold iz brass
and conjures prestidigitation
like spinning false hoods in2 truth - crass
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
a synonym force head fabricator -
will threaten democracy, thus be afraid
as this pompous voice quotes
from hiz playbook, which = a charade
the hard core truths, he
(who i liken to the plague) doth evade
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
and dreams up fault of Barack Obama
for extinction of dinosaurs,
crucifixion of Jesus Christ
down fall of the Roman Empire,
or far tethered Fred Flintsone ca fetching an escapade
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
yea...this rip pub lick'n presidential contender
evinces a psyche that did brexit n got frayed
building and monopolizing castles in the sky -
nonexistent as a grade
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
school fib - or donning role
as play ground bully teaming with ivan
the terrible to dominate the greensward
in the above fiction, but...man
that loose canon dressing his
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
"make america great again" gag line - whar i ran
and mid eastern countries will rise
as one cheering him as star of global hit parade
despite any raging oppositional pandaemonium
birth er ring a conflagration
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
kenya believe the world acquiesces
to thine projected masquerade
blocking im grate shunning crowds -
which number of people rival in size
taller (if stack one atop thee other)
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
than the trump tower casino or high rise
with his signature - hm...mebbe funds provided
by drug lords, the swedish house mafia
or terrorist ties???
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
whom security details silence by tossing a hand grenade
sham on you Potemkin village people for quaffing draughts
from elixir purportedly to transform visage with trademark
swept back, wavy and coiffed hirsute.
Form:
An email written to eldest daughter
December 28th, 2019,
which unwittingly, magically, accidentally...
resurfaced while scrolling
thru outdated emails
and OpenOffice documents of mine
thee evening of February 20th, 2022.
The remaining lines
comprising reasonable poetic rhyme
sent to said offspring
more than two plus years ago
and dada feels grief no more, cuz time
heals all wounds.
Papa unexpectedly overtaken with woe
flashback shook me complex edifice
head, shoulder, knees in to toe
quietly processing silent film status quo
shant upended jollity
between when a little girl no
matter mine nonconformist
mien unconditionally accepted,
ye dear daughter(s) don't know
sudden onset of anguish ho... ho... ho
holiday cavorting accentuated as
charade, facade, masquerade fueling ego
particularly Santa with the Misses,
and her sharp faux claws
keeping warm while
temperature five below.
No matter most every detail
I accurately gauge to attest
your life bustling
chock full o' zest
withheld, no doubt emotions
smolder within your chest
and kudos to thee lovely offspring
(both) packed bags
and headed out west
twas honorable duty, though now...
papa feels like
an unwanted guest
thee survived, albeit psyche bruised,
undergoing the electric
kool aid acid test
laughter when playing
Mancala, Uno, Sorry, et cetera,
how dada predictably did jest
when table turned,
I (spoiler Craigslist curb alert)
willingly, lovingly, and blithely
lost desire to win quest
to dispose cards, game
pieces, and/or glass beads
invariably other occasions
ye long since left (as thee must)
me and mother with an empty nest.
Nothing more doth
Matthew Scott ask or desire
then to delight and bask
as well educated hire
swimmingly how thee
learned to acquire
confidence and multitasking,
while I trod thru much
psychological muck mire
oft times (like now)
experiencing financial straits dire,
linkedin to when only youngster fire
within me belly to joie de vivre
peter out and prematurely expire
and yours truly reckons nothing
can change the past aghast being
deprived a marshmallow
at long ago time sharing campfire
with shortcomings scalding,
killing, crimping relationship,
courtesy lack of income
rendered paternal bond disastrously dire
doth now conclude another poetic wire.
Mother told a story yesterday
of how poets die in black penury
she said I won't be a pretty poet
as my dreams dance on my ink
"Poets are mirror of deceit and pain
craving beyond the debris of life
over my dead body will you be one!"
she pulled down the heaven on me!
a woman is a country of many colours
the hearts of men are far country
we are all students of life, learning
even the masquerade has a date,
a date to join their ancestors beyond
hold your tongue to your bosom
fate knows whose palm wealth will
be planted sooner or later by nature.
You will be raped by darned darkness
fed by junks of insanity lurking by...
a teary gland shall emerge, right in
the bosom of your myopic despair shall
you live by your sorrow like an oiled
orchestral stammerer down the street
father raged holding my LLB firmly
like pixels collection from a twisted
camera abandoned by a loner.
writers are mirrors connected to reflect
this world filled with broken stanzas
if my fears are not for my brothers and
my sisters and for Nigerians chains...
I will leave my hope dashed in the air
tilt this morning with the eyes of the night,
we will dice this moon for hand
on the paupers animated series of life.
Aduke birthed venoms last year for you
Chioma made your tears red images
words are like Sunbeams, the more they
are condensed the deeper they burn!
demise of a poet, no one seem to notice
in your domain,you don't expect praises
if a kingdom falls,there are several others
to replace it while you rot calmly.
Poetry pays but its a business of the Elites,
a trade not meant for children!
Shakespeare name is still carved on the
body of the sky, his head still seen today.
what is penny without a route in life?
Poets are pauper to their testy tongue!
Father, leave me to my dreams to perish
alone, even if evil calls for good,
I will stand as one poet and always will.
let the traces of a saint be kept in peace
let the shining armor of a poet glitter
becoming another star is not a sacrilege
Poets are not broken and shattered dust
this musing muse is only our spirits;
a spiritual elixirs to the clay world
we are crops, the worldcover, ladders
let the ways of poets be kept, we are
not paupers on the street begging for meat.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
The sky turns grey and a bird sings a song.
Sun is hiding truth and lies;right and wrong.
Clouds drift into shapes imagination does create.
A butterfly smiles knowing the caterpillar’s fate.
The branches of a tall tree wave goodbye.
A nest feels safe for the bird learning to fly.
Moments unwrapped like a gift to treasure forever.
Loved ones are a blessing and all the times together.
Round and round the merry-go-round we go.
Darkness...we wait for a new day to show.
Little girl giggles as her pink bubblegum is blown.
An old man walks slowly towards sparkling hope unknown.
At the beach the waves roar a lullaby,
Sandcastle of dreams built strong to the sky.
Once upon a time in a field of dreams and stories,
Past and present creations of both pain and glories.
Night turns to day and day turns to the night,
Shadows tiptoe to and away from light.
Some smiles on faces are suddenly upside-down frowns.
Life can be a masquerade of some uncertain clowns.
Gift unwrapped with ribbons yellow and pink.
Gallery of paintings that make you think.
Holding hands watching cotton clouds drift across the sky.
Sitting on a red bench thinking many questions why.
Footprints in sand oozing between my toes.
Snowman created and nowhere to go.
Humps on a camel traveling amongst the desert sand.
Sand dunes caress sky of a forever searching land.
A baby is born to live on this earth.
Waving bye; death becomes memory’s birth.
Bouquet of daisies on a table covered with lace.
Children roll down a hill full of laughter as they race.
Tick tock the time on this earth stands still.
Tick tock another year waiting to fill.
Ups and downs;roller coaster ride of life to explore.
Sunset, sunrise-each starry night never seen before.
Caterpillar crawls against the very cold,cruel ground.
Soon to realize that butterfly moments will be found.
Listen to the world’s silent screams.
Dare to cradle hopes and sweet dreams.
I stand still and I see a bird dance across the sky.
I close my eyes and I see hope with wings that will fly.
Yesterday and today walk together hand in hand.
There is a shadow of light and darkness in this land.