Long Reigns Poems
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In the realm of deceit, some souls reside,
Gullible hearts, fertile grounds for evil to abide.
As they sit, concocting chaos, their minds astray,
Weaving webs of wickedness, night and day.
Their slumber's filled with visions of malevolence and spite,
Their waking hours, a pursuit of perpetual fight.
Peace, a distant memory, lost in the haze,
As they revel in the suffering of others, in endless daze.
Conflict and war, their cash cow, a source of delight,
Problem creation, their bread and butter, shining bright.
They shun the problem solvers, silencing their noble voice,
Ensuring their crafted chaos reigns, without a choice.
Even some spiritual leaders, tainted by this evil stain,
Participate in this nefarious dance, with steps of shame.
The inventors of software, viruses, and antiviral might,
A cycle of destruction, fueled by greed's insatiable light.
With humanitarian gestures, they blind the masses' sight,
While killing by proxy, in the darkness of endless night.
Nuclear weapons, a destructive force, aimed at humanity's heart,
Vaccines, a tool of oppression, targeting the African part.
Is there not a cause? A reckoning to come, a day of reckoning's might,
When posterity arises, to demand justice, shining with new light.
Why prioritize personal gain, above humanity's collective cry?
Consider the greater good, before the final goodbye.
SWORNLOVERS IS A STORY
ABOUT A BEAUTIFUL QUEEN
WHO IS MADLY IN LOVE WITH
A PRINCE THOUSANDS OF MILES
AWAY FROM HER.
ON HER 21 BIRTHDAY SHE IS SUMMONED TO
COME TO THE PALACE OF DULDRUM IN THE
BEAUTIFUL LAND OF FLOWDOOR, THEIR SHE IS TO
MEET THE HANDSOME PRINCE TULTOV OF THE
KINGDOM OF GILDRED.
THE ONLY THING ABOUT MAKING THE TRIP SHE HAS TO GO THROUGH
THE EVIL NEITHER WORLD WHERE THE EVIL WICTHQUEEN DEVILISHA
REIGNS. DEVILISHA IS IN LOVE WITH THE BEAUTIFUL PRINCESS, AND WISHES TO
KEEP HER APART FROM THE HANDSOME PRINCE. ON THE TRIP TO THE GILDRED KINGDOM, THE EVIL QUEEN BECOMES AWARE OF THE TRAVELS OF THE BEATIFUL PRINCESS. SHE AND HER EVIL SORCEROR ( WHO WISHES TO BE HER LOVER AND KING OF THE NEITHER-WORLD, BUT IS CONSTANTLY REJECTED BY THE QUEEN) CONJARS UP A POTION THAT MAKES THE TREES OF THE FOREST INTO WALKING TALKING CREATURE. THEY BLOCK THE SUN, AND AND CAUSE DAY TO BE COME NIGHT, THEN THEY CAPTURE THE BEAUTIFUL PRINCESS AND HER TRUSTY COMPANIONS. BUT FORTUNATLY FOR THE PRINCESS, A BEST FREIND IN THE WORLD, A CHANLING FINDS THE POWER TO CHANGE INTO A FLYING CREATURE, HE FLY'S TO THE HANDSOME PRINCE'S CASTLE AND WARNS HIM OF THE PRINCESS CAPTURE.
Everyday reigns as sure blessing from God
commencing on a gracious great Sunday
joyously filled by worship-praises' nod.
Faith greets “good morning” that hails glad Monday
along the Lord’s wondrous mercy and might
extending to uphold hectic Tuesday.
Wednesday does glow through Christ’s radiant light
while Thursday is fruitful by His bounty
to share willingly around bliss’ delight.
Friday’s culminating activity
exalts well the Saviour’s omnipotence
completing Saturday chores so plenty.
Midst the Creator’s loving persistence
everyday is triumphant* existence.
*Psalm 92:4 For thou, LORD, hast made me glad through thy work: I will triumph in the works of thy hands.
April 22, 2019
10th place, "Anything You Want - New Poems Only" Poetry Writing
Premiere Contest; Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke; judged on 4/23/2022.
She is a masterpiece of wild contradiction,
fuse blown by a wick, of litmus tongue in your senses-
her moods shifting chameleonic shades everything at once
in candle wax trick or residue residing nowhere.
Heart's firework pinwheel blown
by a wish everywhere
and summoned without lips service-
to neither Hades, Avalon nor Loch Ness, lore.
In her magic lies a silent non disclosure appeasment,
a benediction like a life preserver of electric feel.
Her trinkets are cursed idols, in a pool of profoundness laid- imply at your feet, dewly spilled.
She sheds jade droplets of faceted
watershed moments,
strings them like pearls
to loose your balance on your
precipitated emotion.
She is "in the field"- set of runged abominations-
of a fools notion.
Jade droplets of faceted conglomeration
bathed of precipitale- emotion-
swimming your head like electric eel.
She is a storm brewing inside a jewel,
vagabond bauble non descript versing of
evident residual haunting your soul to steal-
new horizon, taunting virgin territory, with infatuation, lightning.
Underwritten page of felt covertly, subtly everything hunting, seasoned overtly sensory heightened display.
Moraed morals, moreover-sustained
of overlay fonting the atmosphere
cover paged as she wears where she lays.
The sky, a distant dream in the ocean of her gaze,
Wind stripped bare in a pool of borrowed
rhymes swimming your head in amaze
as we scramble for the right words to parlay
in her charms way.
In her voice lies a silent romance
leaving more questions than answers in her wake,
as her moods shift, atelier 'steem-roller,
like runic winds
of intolerant display, mind, screen-controler.
Touchstones in a pool of profoundness,
sun ray sing song at hand after the reigns.
who's got a tourniquet?
the world bleeds out of her limb.
she's anemic. the ship of world peace
has sailed; existential chaos reigns supreme.
recourse to arms now the go-to solution
for nations at loggerheads. bellicose,
sanguinary; they're way past handshakes.
who's got a tourniquet?
the world bleeds out of her limb.
just how friendly are the skies nowadays?
bombs now and then drop like confetti,
leaving rivulets of tears, sorrow,
and horrific bloodletting, all the while,
captains of complacency keep mum.
who's got a tourniquet?
the world bleeds out of her limb.
the side of death falls a brooding shadow.
innocent men, women, yes, children, too
- collateral damages of war - bombed
to oblivion; their dwellings reduced to rubble.
what's the endgame to this monstrosity?
who's got a tourniquet?
the world bleeds out of her limb.
as the stiff collar of cold indifference
tightens to an asphyxiating noose,
chin-stroking heads of state seem lost
in confusion; many have turned a blind eye.
oh, what to do? is this a new normal?
who's got a tourniquet?
the world bleeds out of her limb.
Man cannot surpass dying—
He cannot live past his own death.
Power fades and falls. Like the tide,
It disappears. "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings, "
Is that not what Shelley's traveller said?
Yet, this infamous statue—a pillar of prowess—
Fell too, just like any other man. For power
Cannot live beyond a man's death. Immortality
Is false; a facade. Nothing can outlast nature
And time herself. Yet, the irony is palpable, for
Rameses II himself may not have survived beyond the grave,
But Shelley's famous poem is still known and read.
Shakespeare's own Romeo and Juliet is still beloved and cherished;
Even London by William Blake is still relevant today.
Is this not immortality? A creator living forever?
But reigns and empires and eras come to an end,
Just like these poets did. And, though we still hang on to their work,
Their influence is not what it used to be.
I had a quarrel with my own life
I didn’t want to divulge it to anyone I knew
It was then I met the one who in many eyes,
Had sparked feelings of sympathy or contempt
Confined to a wheel chair in a hospital room
Amid the smell of death and disease,
He looked so resigned to his fate
With a rare gleam sparkling his eyes
Convalescing after his sixth surgery,
Still having bouts of excruciating pain
What made me drawn to him, I cannot tell
Later I met him at his home several times,
Still on wheelchair, crooked and disfigured,
But with what stoic nonchalance,
He accepted his condition-
Cerebral palsy, a disease affecting all his limbs
He said it was after years of questioning
That he had learnt to take on his disability
It broadened his understanding of suffering
Giving him deltas of new insight...
He knows now, the stars would be brighter
Only with the light completely blown out!
Even when the ground falls beneath his feet
He finds a way to rise up from the ground
With every step he takes, he feels it better than yesterday
And waits for tomorrow in anticipation
Because he has made it today!
Sure he reigns as a true hero, stirring a spark
In the ash covered cinders of my heart
July. 28.2022
~Placed First~
To Honour my Hero Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabisoon
Fred Seegmiller
1871 - 1907
You never met a man who loved my town.
As I much as I did.
Coming here in ’90 by the train.
It nearly killed me, but I stayed on my knees.
I prayed and prayed I would not go mad.
For 15 years I played the organ.
In the magnificent church on Bailey Street.
I played the passions of Bach and the soothings of Handal.
And I served refreshments in the churchyard.
One night in Mid March
After services had concluded,
Rebecca walked into my life.
She coyly received my flirtatious wink
And a family of five was the magical result.
For twelve years I moved lumber by horse and reigns,
And drove the wagonload to the flowering homesteads.
I worked hard, prayed to God
And never forgot to kiss my wife goodbye.
I lived on the end of Olive Street.
Hidden by tall Elms,
Inside my house with the white shutters,
I brought two of my brood into this world
And I watched one leave it in the winter of ’99.
It was in that same room,
The one in the back by the myrtle tree,
That I too tasted death.
I had the cancer
And it was eating me like a cannibal unconverted.
And now I am dead and buried in Clark Cemetery.
And my living soul longs to spend just one more minute.
Just one more minute
As a dying man.
My soul is not dead.
My soul is not sad.
Let me sleep now.
S.A.D. ( Seasonal Affective Disorder)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A grey fog shrouds the land,
it suffocates my soul.
Depression falls like the rain,
pulling me into its hole.
No spark of sun nor glimpse of blue,
grey is all I see.
The sky, the earth and myself.
The grey is inside of me.
Winter blues, it has a name.
Aptly fitting I'm sure.
As I sit here sadness reigns
and begs me for a cure.
Come out, come out, come out and play.
Ignore this weather, unkind.
Push the darkness far away.
At least out of your mind.
Easier said than done that is.
The grey reigns over all.
So as the rain falls to the earth,
likewise, my teardrops fall.
~~~~~~~
24/03/2016
You heard it right, old people make love
Doesn't end at a predetermined age
We love until that Man upstairs calls us
With your parents it's still the rage
When I was a very much younger lad
Thought it died when people became parents
Bickering about this thing and that each day
No time for those intimate moments
What I failed to see behind closed doors
The spark that remains through the years
No matter the age, love still reigns supreme
So you young people, have no fears
Trust me, have I ever lied to you before
Well maybe a little white lie now and then
But about love and the older generation
Well no way, wouldn't even pretend
So breathe easier my very young people
I'm a prime example of endurance
Been making love almost sixty-five years
Still do when I get the chance!
© Jack Ellison 2013