Long Populated Poems
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In a city populated
by selfish, soulless men,
ghosts roam the streets tormented,
thinking of what might have been.
On the searing, sulfur sidewalks
haunted money hawkers dwell;
they meant to live in heaven,
but they find themselves in hell.
Account manipulation
will not give them what they need;
all the gold in Midas' coffers
will not change the way they bleed.
Chasing after their god Mammon,
killing love with greedy gain,
alone they ride sin's savage subway
in their city bricked with pain.
They might buy the Eiffel Tower
with the profits they amass,
they might be the king of Wall Street
on the backs of those they pass;
but every man must face the mirror
hanging not upon a wall,
this world is not forever,
pride still precedes the fall.
In a city populated
by selfish, soulless men,
ghosts roam the streets tormented
thinking of what might have been. . .
Copyright, 4/28/2014
Faye Gibson
WALKING NEAR THE WATERS
Under the warm golden hug of sunrise’s bliss
shielded by rugged ridges and flagging trees
emerged a peaceful scene.
Through the clear, somber, sleeping, water
sunlight revealed shadows spelling odes beneath;
odes unfolded by rising ripples in cerulean gleam,
touched by nothing but the gliding breeze which
seizes silt and shingles causing baby currents lift.
Sparkling like priced pearls in the still noon,
their waves, a calm heart’s pulse, speak.
I linger, tranquil, afloat in the ageless ocean’s
lea, sitting on a dry old rock-sheltered bank,
drinking the healing power from the scene.
Time is suspend; I see the lake like a child,
the ridges and trees, His grand legions line.
The shadows stretch, His noble progress to a life
unfurled during years of swarming battles.
But, He has a wealth of hope and stood amidst
the sudden ripples; unmoved by fear, for He
can hold the shifts. He who’s polished tough
and wise has championed in a sunken time.
He matured. He populated good influence
calling others to imitate his stance. He promised
life without fear cherished with gratitude, and
his shared touch was not dulled by passing years.
His memory endured, so many remember Him.
______________________________________________________
~Inspired by the painting: Lake by Georgia Engelhard ~
***For the painting, Debbi Guzzi's Ten Paintings, Ten Poems, Not for a Contest, thanks for the wonderful experience.
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
9:17am, January 14, 2015
Difficult to understand are the languages spoken by life
“he who works should eat,” but why the constant shift of the goal post?
Seriousness in following principles may lead one to be swallowed by the earth
I have always been an adult, let me be taken care of, like a neonate this day
So, I dashed to the nearest eatery with what should be enough.
Sitting in the restaurant gave me the grace of the countryside
a receptive bar tender thankfully indicates no alarm of fire or smoke
but the Menu condemns my class to neutralize any victorious smile,
half glass of a common drink and a piece of snack is not my trend,
nothing bad to have a first time in almost a lifetime.
Half way my meal, the one seated opposite me becomes too generous
to a limitless order he offers and gives the unsolicited visa
with the assurance of sponsorship from a well-populated pocket.
A massive top up from my command that flowed with audacity
as half my table causes, in the arena, an arm-length of goose bumps.
Those in white suddenly come in to capture a refugee of mental institution,
a threat to society who escaped, and he sits right in front of me,
it was six to one; yet the drag to the door is labored.
When bad luck meets greed, misfortune grows to a grandfather
I stare in irredeemable shock to my order that can feed half an orphanage.
12/2/2020
Seeds starting to germinate
The scent always permeates
The effect begins to percolate
Having an impact on the murder rate
As life begins or terminates
Thought I heard a hiss
But was too caught up in bliss
After a poisonous kiss
Everything going amiss
Because I was too caught up in getting my fix
She was able to nix
Falling and sinking amidst the fish
Can't resist, is this it?
Not while I exist
Had to find a grip
The tables turned and flipped
Took a lot of risks
In order to get out of the abyss
Couldn't keep falling for the same old tricks
Do what I want with this heart of mine
Don't care if it's dark outside
Experienced comfort and the hardest times
I'd be darned to lie
That sober s***
Been struggling to get over it
Often a Doberman
And other times a Nobleman
Here's an honest statement
At times I overcompensated
Made things far too complicated
And always got intoxicated
Making myself an abomination
When I concentrated
I often dominated
Always felt obligated
And that this world was far too populated
I just thank God I made it
Nothing else needed to be contemplated
Many place names in Australia reek of notoriety and oppression
Where massacres took place, involved first nation native population,
men, women and children, demonstrates gross inhumane expression
Many of these place names remain, Bones Knob, Murderers Flat, Skull Creek
are mapped in a university publication
The area where my family resided
may similarly have followed, same infamous identification
My paternal Scottish ancestors, original settlers on our family farm from eighteen sixties,
a time of many massacres
With axes sweat and labour cleared the timber, populated the land with sheep
Were they involved in a massacre? And if so, my father, was it a secret he did keep ?
Existing on the nearest road a signpost declaring Butchers Ridge
only a couple of hundred metres from the old original family home
Allegedly named after a horse called Butcher
far and wide he purportedly did roam
When I was young, the story I was told about this horse
he repeatedly escaped from his owners farm, crossed a bridge
Was always discovered on a sloping piece of land,
hence the area was given the name of Butchers Ridge
A different story of the naming of this area which makes more sense
was revealed by mother after father passed away
A massacre took place giving this area its name, about which my father never spoke
did my father bear inherited shame ? It's history now no one can really say
One full moonlit night, around the time of one unable to sleep
decided to arise, some teenage pleasure I would seek
Go fishing catch a big bag of speckled brown trout
from the stream there known as Butchers Creek
Halfway between the house and my intended destination
an eerie whooshing sound right above my head
Look up !! Nothing visible on this very still clear night
Very quickly reverse my fishing decision !!! Hastily run back to the safety of my bed !!!
I have spoken to several first nation dreamtime elders about this weird eerie sound
i experienced on that distant fishing full moonlit night
They say its first nation native spirits venting anger
thus responsible for my fear. I think they may be right
Anarchy incited by consciousness divides deeply
rather than conquer those already sleeping
evermore the same, those who have, who have not
shills at a game of chance fill the room, persuasion the game
populated backstories idealize and idolize submission
turned up volume can’t let me think I can do anything about it
take my word for it...you’re mine...heartbeats synchronized
oh, how sweet it is to be loved by you...
Poisoned in the great well, Lucky Charms soothe
I remember, I forget and so the wheel turns...those
who do wake up sometimes it seems go back to...
my heart, if really mine, saddens to think the gold is only
water paint and it too shall run away...
I wrote this after reading about Osho...what happens to our Guru’s or beings
of great spirit? Does our society mock and loosen their fabric of gilt? Does it become the fabric of guilt? I know not...I wish I could see from this vantage point beyond the illusion of this world...from this protected innocence...I crave knowing the truth...
Men are as Neanderthals
whereupon Women are as *****Sapiens.
We all know what happened to the Neanderthals.
*****Sapiens drove them to extinction.
So I guess the most logical conclusion,
and I say this with much disillusion,
is that one day women will no longer need men,
and then we shall all see
a new evolved humanity.
A planet populated with only lesbians.
They will continue to pro create
without the need of a male mate
either through cloning or artificial insemination.
So I guess if there is any truth regarding reincarnation
I may one day be reborn with the life of a lesbian.
Good thing too. I can't stand men.
I never understood what hetero women ever saw in them.
Still I am grateful, even though I'll never understand.
I'm a male you see, and I'm one hell of a horny man.
I spied a ship and descried the flag it flew.
It was nothing like the flags I had seen before.
It was red and blue, with white circles and yellow stars
The highlights of white and yellow stood out
like stars at night, and town lights bright.
The red like the color of the dawn and dusk.
The blue the color of the deep blue ocean.
It was clearly the flag of a sea faring nation.
As the ship got closer, you could clearly see its details.
It was a large primitive Polynesian outrigger voyager vessel,
a ghost ship as no one appeared to be aboard.
Where it had come from, the fate of its crew a mystery?
But the vessel sure knew how to sail
and knew where it was headed
as it sailed fast and free,
passed our sailing boat 'Snail'
on a true heading for a spot on the horizon.
For many years the Polynesian voyagers were decried as flotsam and jetsom.
How could these primitive people navigate through the vast open ocean
between tiny islands, pin-prick dotted in oceans of space?
It was assumed they migrated and populated the far flung oceans randomly and haphazardly
via their fishing trips and day trips being blown off course.
But research has descried their skill and fabulous knowledge of navigation.
Each island has a gild of navigators.
They use songs and stories to memorize navigation methods:
including the movement of the stars, wave patterns around island,
local currents, clouds, weather and bird behavior.
Polynesian navigators used the rise and setting of particular set stars on the horizon to set a heading.
They had wooden instruments, string and fiber maps of wave patterns and star movements to guide their way.
They skillfully know when they were near tiny islands
from the change in the wave patterns, currents
and their vast knowledge of birds and wildlife.
So don't be quick to decry Polynesian navigation.
Instead, descry its beauty, simplicity, nouse, proficiency and elegance.
A percentage of me has to hell been consigned
by the ever raging zionists' war machine.
To each livid soldier, a mandate is assigned
to uproot terror where multitudes are confined.
Torrents of explosives have swept my landscapes clean.
Churches, mosques, schools have all to mighty vengeance bowed.
Stricken mothers wail uncontrollably aloud.
Itinerancy pervades my horror stricken crowd,
whilst my kids toy with explosives, carnage and ruin.
Survivors will take shelter from snipers shooting
death balls and lead from peevish and portable guns.
Horror unprecedented the people outruns.
I have metamorphosed to nothing but a morgue.
Lice and bugs have infested hoodies lined with borg.
Disease and maimed limbs have no remedies in sight.
Let not the world be unmoved by my sorry plight.
Why must I this price pay for a thousand or more killed?
My morgues are beyond their capacity filled.
The deaths of innocents are nothing but unjust.
My once-populated streets have been turned into dust.
Ignorance is my joy when it is populated
Ignorance is my pride when it’s spread large
Ignorant people miss details
Far too obsessed with their fairytales
Ignorance is bliss, it is my saving grace
Ignorance of others stops one from being humble
Arrogance sprouts, its roots being sturdy
Heads held high, with wicked smiles
The base has erupted, so have the tiles
We look for low and then lower than low
We are afraid of high
What if there is higher than our high
Comfort becomes luxury, because ignorant others are
Our education is higher, so myths start to form
Ignorance of others we hold dear to our heart
Ignorance of others is my happiness, my burden but my best!