Long Plunder Poems
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In the avenues of dreamland,
I met Orwell, who said:
“Man has not awakened.
He still bows to his servants,
who crown themselves as masters,
and he still claps while they rob him blind.”
Look around you:
presidents who eat for free,
live for free, travel for free—
and still plunder the treasury.
Meanwhile, you—their keepers—
starve, and cheer them on.
This is not democracy.
It is a farm of animals
where the pigs dictate the commandments,
erasing truth at night,
and you accept the lies by morning.
The soldier you fear,
the policeman you obey—
they are slaves too,
serving the same master who despises them.
For centuries you have tolerated theft,
you have swallowed corruption,
you have watched kings born from your own apathy.
And still you wait for salvation,
as if it will be handed to you.
But know this:
Power respects only power.
What you allow will continue.
What you fear will govern you.
And what you refuse to confront
will one day consume you whole.
So I ask—
not as prophet, not as poet,
but as a mirror to your cowardice:
When will the people stop behaving like sheep
and finally slaughter the pigs?
I wish I could capture today
A pocketful of azure skies,
As I stroll through this scenic way,
Store it with photographic eyes,
And present it as a surprise;
I wish to collect in my hand,
Little trinkets of sunshine bright,
And gather those sunny pearls grand,
Scattered on the lake in dawn’s light,
Then none need be scared of the night;
I wish to hold a rainbow small,
Bottle some lightning and thunder,
I wish and wish somehow to ball
Some spongy cloud, and then plunder
A bit of moon's magic wonder;
I wish to store a jar of breeze,
Aurora's kiss of freshness sweet,
The scent of fresh flowers to freeze,
A glass of dew would be a treat;
If I achieve these, what a feat!
3rd December 2022
For Emile Pinet's "A Christmas Special" contest
Broken picket fence
In sporadic stand
Outside this eerie house
On a cold misty land
Windows lit
For many years
It's where the killings
Leave their tears
The lights remain
A beacon of life
Intruders in the dark
Ending lives
A tree in naked stance
Towers in a darken grey
Dead leaves grace her branches
No green to decay
A normal family evening
Pure innocent flow
Five souls in contentment
In flesh and body blow
In hunger for their greed
The reapers seeds grow
In through the back door
Searching as they go
Their intention was to rob
Self control raged their minds
To leave their place of plunder
Leave the living lives they find
Something snapped inside them
Triggers easily squeezed
Five hearts beating
Lying in deathly wheeze
The cost of what they've taken
Priced against a life
To be somewhere, where they shouldn't be
Counting up their strife
Many months of policing
A courtroom awaits
This bravado gang
Their future fate
The judge has decided
On a chair they will sit
A lever will announce
That's the end of it
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/loss.php
She remembers the shimmer
of one Sunday morning
The sun had grown dimmer
on the overcast seas
The color of yellow,
spread long amber fingers
And the sycamore trees
cast strange somber shadows.
There was a threat in the sky
and the faint sound of thunder
Then a flash in the hills, in the blink of an eye,
Clouds gathered so quickly on the hillside, nearby
They rudely unlatched all the floodgates within
When a minute had passed light shined once again
and a radiant sun spread like gold end to end
At the old oak table, she sat in the kitchen
Staring at paper, with a pen in her hand
Searching for muse and the words for a poem,
seeking the magic, to paint with a pen
Hoping for gold in the late summer's bend
While hearing the tapping of rain and the plunder
And as quickly as storms, come out of nowhere,
a floodgate of verses resounded like the thunder
and flashes of lightning struck lines here and there.
Pouring on paper, like rivulets on windows
a floodgate unleashed, were the words in a row
Painting a river, a poem she could own
and words that would capture the late summer storm
___________________________________________________________
Contest: "Titles" Required using titles of our first 5 poems.
9/17/15
(Titles of my first five poems:)
The Old Oak Table
Dimmer
Yellow
Sunday Morning
Unlatched
Entered again: 'Second Chance for the Unloved Poem' Contest
Sponsor: Jesse Rowe
The moment I am out of the box
Foxes and hyenas surround me
Needy greedy aggressive seekers
Those who even a second before
Lay hidden in hibernation
In the tightly closed boxes of steel
On the verge of elimination
Thanks to the cultural policing
Now pouncing for dark and dense satisfaction
In a paleolithic plunder
Quenching reddening hunger
In the black and brown forest
Of unchained unrest
In pursuance of almost unconquerable
And incorruptible pleasure principle
Of animal happiness
Night and day
Sense buds making hay
Out of the aesthetic box
Wreaking senseless havoc
Our rose and rhododendrons in decay
Our seagulls
In infirmary and hospitals
Out of the box
The Spanish bull and ox
Flummox our poems
Into the imagery of
Ingrained instancy
For our tumultuous ascendancy
On the pinnacle
Of crimson churning
And the giant jingling
Tapering off to
The momentary Nirvana
Of the
Intense distraction
That arose out of the box
A moment later
In an inertia again
Of the restless vein
For the overwhelming rain
Into deep brain
Teeming with craving lanes and bye lanes
In the dim light delight
Out of box
The red fox
No mailbox
No riverine knocks
The box is very important
For our civilization
Into the flowers
Of sunny sublimation
_______________________________________________
18/01/2017
For the contest, How Long Can A Poetry Go,
Sponsor, Jamie Pan
Note: As the metaphors in the poem is too obvious to need explanation, no writer’s
Statement is added here, as asked for by the sponsor except saying that it deals with the psychological process of the dominance of pleasure principles at the cost of reality principles as elucidated by Sigmund Freud.
Peace is a word that mankind likes to throw around, but since the beginning of creation man has always had a warring spirit, always trying to conquer their fellow human beings.
Traveling Worldwide to do it, this elusive dream of peace from the powerful is a false representation to the people, while the mighty plunder the world for their personal gain.
It is so prevalent today with technology and everything right in front of our eyes, even with that they say that what you see and hear is false, the people with power are cowards and life to them is about profit nothing more nothing less!
Peace is but a word to throw around to fool the people and make themselves feel good, until pain comes to their doorsteps.
Peace can be attained if mankind genuinely wanted it, but for them it is an interval between wars, war is profit, "to hell with human life" peace could happen if they wanted it, "but they don't."
Loving your neighbors means nothing in this World unless you have power over them, mankind people of power have forgotten that there is a Creator who is in charge, not them nor their billions and in his time we will all pay the price for the horror's that we inflict on each other.
Peace is not elusive; we just have to truly want it.
Hey raisin, shall I tell you the tale?
Tell us of where history and news failed
to share truth? Be the sleuth and unveil?
Okay then, here's your two scoops...
Believe they say in a day when God's wrath
will find his way to you? Believe in destruction
death, plunder and confusion too? Chaos you say?
Here's a day you'll never forget...
I'll even bet.
Your God is here, walking the talk,
checking the parks and asking the lark,
did you hear? Did you read the book?
Didn't need it all, just one look...
"We are created..."
"In the image of..."
The rest lost to fallen egos "from above".
We call Him 'man'. Given a garden,
a song, a land... given two hands to hold,
a heart given as the color of Gold.
Given a rainbow, to remind us...
"We are created... as the image of trust"
"As above so below" they say
getting it wrong, never went that way.
"As above, we Are, Love"
I'd write that One down, if I were you...
Today.
"Define my wrath..."
Sure... she laughs.
Sure, she crafts, the messages.
Sure, She's a nut in a bubble of images...
Sure.
You can bet.
Here's another you won't forget...
"We are Two... got that? In the scoops?"
"Knock knock... we're Both home."
Believe they say in a day when Gods
will find Their way to you?
Hear.
Is the day you'll never forget...
I'll even bet.
5.13
!with a big fat eraser and some beers...
we met.
N ine is the line,
E leven the mind and
T hirteen. Is the rhyme.
and 12 ...
"Time catches us..."
She's a NET
Form:
the influences of days gone by
we refferred to her as an Old Woman
she was only 26 but she used
the way someone else to
express her concern
him he didn't learn much because
he refused to understand those
teaching due to
what she needed
to take with heroic greatness
perhaps as farewell when
or welcome then which
of your needs might I cater to
than in the spirit of the times
do we fall off the cart
or load it according to the specifics
of it's size
should he have studied Sobeuses teachings
now those days are the father of his history
and the mother of mentions
she wished what she heard would have been
dramatic conversation
than she would be allowed to use those words
she and her sister had learned from
Morelovee
Moody they spoke of the
endifferances they encountered
those who wished to be loved
could speak beneath skies
they could sing with a harmony
that suited all involved
those who knew the
song had little problem
with the lyrics
those who refused o study struggled
and their pay reflected their lack
of concern for their group efford
Angry she made those in her space to leave
their she'd soak in her madness
and shame
she cut brier branches from
the woods
and plaited them and wrapped and tacked
them around her walking stick
she dared anyone to say something
of the night before
or the evening that made this
situation so.
Euriffilia Guilder Tripp III
makes mention of Luna-sweets:
the classic song written by
Brittez and Drawez:
and the madness of those
who refused to rehearse
their lines.There performance
reflects the way they
think of my art.
such must be reflected in their pay.
those who's performance
were outstanding were
rewarded for their
performance.
We dream ourselves free and in our pride, we concoct lofty words of praise,
"We are democrats, lovers of liberty, free from prejudice and hate,"
In our furnace, we build the great human experiment, a dream always worthy to follow;
We speak melodiously, with noble sentiment, growing gardens of ideals meant to be seen.
But in reality, we are a vulgar mob, shoving and sharing quarrels,
Where passions are easily stirred by demagogues, media, belief profiteers, agitators.
Blasphemies uttered, this is called "the society of free people"; it's a heavy word,
What can we offer the world but overly full plunder we've stolen from humanity's land?
Under the hallucination that this mad theft can be called progress and bright culture,
We substitute our being in a blind race, too often tempted by subliminal deceit.
Everything is built on the foundation of illusion, a selfish altar on which we sacrifice common sense,
And we lose our hopes and dreams in the abyss of momentary prosperity, the delusion of a lawful happiness.
(Note: This poem is a Sonnet with Alliteration.)
----------------------------------------------------
Start stereo streaming, laughter lifting locks;
Hunter hurling hooks, choice chasing chatter;
Dance distant dreaming, trouble trouncing torque;
Buddy bearing books, mind moulding matter.
Love listens lovely, play planting promptly;
Texture tussles trade, boom bulging blossoms;
Vex voice valiantly, touch textures tightly;
Flexing frenzy fades, allure aids awesome.
Loiter lingers lull, words weaning wonder;
Do deliver deal, pressure primes pleasure;
Cheer cleverly culls, posture plots plunder;
Set sleepy sight still, movement mimes measure.
Winding westward way, preying pampers piece;
Pleasure pleasing play, ever eastern ease.
Leon Enriquez
06 May 2014
Singapore