Long Overridden Poems
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Sail from afar of my journey made.
What could be the sound my ear do hear?
This seems to be that of a glorious celebration,
Which needs no ear to be put on the wall.
Ogiri leti.
The wonderful work of men in women at the village square.
When asked of what celebration it could be.
The Independence and new birth of our nation.
In purity of joy my heart celebrates the celebration from this long term slavery.
Not knowing that it's starting of the yoke to be place on us,
The foundation which was laid in 1914.
While now at close sixty still a crawling lad.
Despite the cry for this change and that change.
Hmmmmm...
When the foundation is destroyed, what can the righteous do?
Now we're amuse by fulanization of us which has been brought by RUGA.
Why the cry is coming now when our silence is grace by the Independence slavery.
Equity doesn't help the indolence but the Swift.
War here and there is said to be the eminent solution.
How dare you note that?
Trust that you've met with the victims of the Biafra war,
Your testimony would have changed.
Ibere ogun lanri kosenitoleri eyin re.
Dear great Divine kindly arise to our rescue for kwanshoko has overridden the belly.
Ephemeral enchantments like ribbons
adorning a softly sparkling smile,
beautiful bow ‘Happily ever after’ written;
Perfect fleeting and often hidden
dressed up whispers begin to beguile,
ephemeral enchantments like ribbons;
Every ounce of you begins to quicken
exploring me your hunger tastes hostile,
beautiful bow ‘Happily ever after’ written;
Lost in the moment logic overridden
drawn to such a magnetic profile;
Ephemeral enchantments like ribbons;
Velvety sweet the lips of the smitten
disruptive ticking clock comes off vile;
Beautiful bow ‘Happily ever after’ written;
Wound so tight and bound to the forbidden
the glass slipper and gown fit for awhile;
Ephemeral enchantments like ribbons
beautiful bow ‘Happily ever after’ written.
Nothing quells the fury where anger dwells;
her skin pales, and incantations begin.
She sells secret potions and magic spells;
and in her heart, she'll not forgive his sin.
At night, amidst ghostly shadows of light,
she calls forth demons as the evening falls.
Her fright overridden by magic's might;
she scrawls a pentagram on bloodstained walls.
Anxieties rise as she wails and cries,
conjuring hate at an alarming rate.
His lies cannot save him, and yet he tries,
for fate has left him in a frightened state.
Once more, she cast spells to open Hell's door;
and swore that he would suffer evermore.
Pixies riding butterflies
corral an Easter rabbit.
And over the centuries,
they have gotten good at it.
The fairies weave straw baskets
and fill them with colored eggs.
Yet fail to get the bunny
to stand on its two hind legs.
For that requires the finesse
of a young elvish Queen's touch.
Only after sprouting wings
will her powers grow that much.
She blends ground unicorn horn
with the nectar of flowers.
To give the Easter Bunny
special magical powers.
And with a kiss of her lips,
Mister Cottontail's transformed.
And stands up on his hind legs
as the ritual's performed.
Each Easter, colored eggs are
conspicuously hidden.
And reality's paused: then,
discreetly overridden.
I was right in the middle of commenting to peers at Poetry Soup when the power went off and I found myself in utter darkness and feeling disappointed since it was still only 10:45, a time much too early for night owls like myself. After groping my way upstairs in the dark, I have managed to locate my pen and paper (can’t even find a flashlight!) and here I sit out on my porch step using the little light of a nearly moonless night and of my trusty cell phone. The sound of crickets around me is large! Their chirping fills up the silence, and there's the faint sound of dogs barking in the distance. Even at this late hour, I can hear cars zooming down streets several blocks away, but all of that is overridden by the crickets and the wind rustling leaves on nearby trees. Cooled by the night breeze and feeling undaunted, I begin to work on my little poem.
This Mellow August Night
Out here as I sit on my porch,
cooled by a summer breeze,
I’m soothed by the rustling sound of
leaves on the nearby trees.
The chorus of crickets I hear
chiming in as I write
is a lullaby without end
this mellow August night.
Aug. 17, 2012
The Unforetold Truth
The Truce unclaimed is yearning
The Halo surrounded is hatful
The treasure unfound is slothful
The ink unused is fading
The forces unchallenged are daring
The stakes untaken are dilapidating
The cross unbeard is rightful
The characteristics unfeatured are deriding
The Chances non-formed are regretful
What do all these culminate to produce?
The Unforetold Truth
The knowledge present in everyday felicitations and adventures reborn
The Unforetold truce present in the lie conquered and disseminated
Where there is strength in bold and overridden fear
With success in the wind.
Ode to Fanny
Her start in life was rather poor
with wastrel parents, ones to abhor
She avoided living in the gutter
Earning enough for her bread and butter
Her break in life came rather later
Before, bigamy and babies to underrate her
Her kids grew up in the care of another
She never took to being a mother
Her culinary skills proved rather good
She could write and critique on all kinds of food
Destined to star in sixties telly
She graced her shows in glitzy finery
Her zany persona was rather dippy
Her dress was ball gown and misplaced lippy
Shunning apron and hat that looked so drab
‘Cos cooking and baking should always look fab
The man she had met was rather fine
Ex army major, life was divine
They fronted shows as man and wife
Fanny and Johny, well matched and no strife
Her fame continued for rather a while
Overridden by others in different style
And gaffes too many, they booted her out
No telly shows, no gowns to flout
Her recipes of the past still rather great
She put pizza and prawn cocktail on our plate
She and Johny, always a couple
Poor but content to remain conjugal
Ooh rather!
8/3/21
When I get drunk I smoke THC like a chain smoker
Never been able to stay sober
A new day and hangover
Stand in the way and it's game over
It's time I take over
These fools can't even play poker
All they care about is their Range Rover
Burn 'em down with a flamethrower
Then follows a strange odor
Dagnabbit
On this planet
At times, I nearly had it
Sick of always being an addict
And such pitiful habits
You'd think I have on a strait jacket
Tearing at the very fabric
Of reality during a Black Sabbath
There's constant racket
And endless havoc
Eventually we all end up in the casket
That's just a given an automatic
Don't be a chicken
And always panic stricken
As of today, nothing safe from being off-limits
It could soon be forbidden
In this odd world we live in
I was able to fit in
Yet I didn't
I don't like religion
Or history because half of it could be fiction
I try to see it all with crystal clear vision
Easier said than done, the same can be said for wisdom
It's global, not just here to Great Britain
There's always competition
And shady politicians
As well as brain washing on the television
This is not no superstition
Or just my intuition
It's going beyond that, regardless of if you listen
A lot of good in the world was overridden
There's more than meets the eye, therefore something's hidden
Meanwhile the plot continues to thicken
Like a diamond in the rough, I glisten
Always completing my mission
Yet no luck with women
To this day
It's sad to say, and the cause of much dismay
No I'm really not okay
Like anyone
I just wanted to be loved
When push came to shove
I turned to drugs
And always got a full mug
Now I'm always numb
And hum to the beat of my own drum
Not proud of what I've done
A lot of which has been dumb
I admit at times when I was young
I was a bum
And often glum
Now I have come from
A long way and then some
At time I can be one
Hell of a son of a gun
Continually I've dug
It was all for none
Ugh
I can't continue to shove under the rug
I need a lot more than a hug
Or a juug
Off another plug
An astute and interesting citizen
Observed his legislators in their
Seats of congress.
He took a mental photograph of their
Actions and later developed the picture.
That picture unveiled for him a great
Practical picture of life.
As legislation presented in congress,
Our lives can be debated.
We can be berated.
We can be frustrated.
We can be hated.
If through much endurance,
We manage to make progress,
We are still subject to be vetoed.
But keep to the path of endurance.
Give it all you've got to give,
Because that which opposes you,
May well be overridden.
Never Too Late To Say "I Love You" Until...
Futile lamentations reverberate along
corridors of times long gone, this papa
tearfully apologetic revisiting his base,
fitfully lachrymose torturing unrelenting
voluminous wrongs against thee dearest
precious daughter aware poetic/ prosaic
ministrations cannot substitute bonafide
nor ameliorate cumulative forsaken joys
requisite to bolster compromised delicate
innocence exhibited upon begetting deux
darling (wool worth more than fine spun
gold) healthily nurturing priceless progeny
two quickly grown to young womanhood
priceless offspring, whose treasured quasi
nubile kindled joie de vivre far surpassed
petrified plaguing yours truly (particularly
during pre/ post pubescent phase), outlook
grim to take life by the horns, nee apathetic
pestiferous psychological, frankly zapped
wracked, plagued aversion to live steering
any natural borne autonomy, (within meek
minecrafted muffled mortgaged self) bereft
existence, (albeit manifesting during latter
sainted days of boyhood), a death grip vis a
vis anorexia nervosa (robbing, stunting, and
halting critical puberty) against attaining my
maximum potential, nee then and every sub
seek went till present day truncating, stifling
raining aftermath of torturous, noxious, jinxed
insufferably hellacious, (hence reiteration to
cease livingsocial, rather antisocial) under_
scored, ordained, narrated by whirled series
of unfortunate events, (without courtesy of
Lemony Snicket), which passivity degraded,
exacerbated, fouled... gradual punctuation to
adulthood overridden when me as man-child
never tested survival, but found this scrivener
beating hasty retreat defeated by emotional
illness demarcating the Waterloo which I
fitfully fought when mandatory ultimatums,
measures, dictates...forced eviction within
cocooned hideaway (such as bedroom at 324
Level Road), which parallel repeated when
decamped at 1148 Greentree Lane, the latter
poisoned your welfare, with dire declaration
of toxic dependence (Zison's harshness) fed
deprivation, and desperation, while ye bore
brunt of emotional, financial, mental...fallout
indelibly etched within impressionable
Tabula Rasa, now the anguished suffering
ye unfairly experienced.
AU REVOIR!