Long Rome Poems
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Feint faint "Fake" no nor'easter
If putsch comes to shove,
aye ain't no doggone fraidy cat
nor chicken little
fearing coup d'état,
yours truly simply
risk averse, and more exact,
he stays sequestered
within these four walls,
cuz tis safest inside this flat
always... mein kampf,
I remember when fertilization begat
after nine months in utero...
ah dat womb dar full habitat
i.e. uterus cradled humanity, whereat
teeming bajillions primates
peopling planet Earth
couples made lovey dovey after spat
(which species among
other flotsam and jetsam),
got shot out (think) analogous
muzzle loaded gat
excellent marksman aimed
then squirted packed heat hot
as summer temperature
gets within Gujarat
recorded courtesy, thee
oldest functioning thermostat,
albeit microcosmic primordial vat
testy sea men don
(May comb hairy
gah great again) conical hat.
I surmise proto humans
especially storied hall
(conjured in Peer Gynt
by Edvard Grieg
of mountain king)
trumpeted, tooted thwacked,
and announced presence
courtesy posterior primal mating call,
which vibrant cheekiness heard all
around the mulberry bush to Gaul
hmm... maybe e'en hot air
inspired Marc Chagall,
while sitting atop porcelain throne,
nonetheless scandalous
rectal blasts methinks help explain fall
of Rome, whereby noxious
generated silent but deadly nauseating
noisome pall mall
felled friend and foe alike
analogous on minuscule
scale to Chernobyl
level 7 nuclear accident
also linkedin, when
Polar Vortex doth stall
across avast swath planet Earth
forcing quick thinkers to marshall,
what (mathers) matters
such as... antique pinball
machines worth a mint,
a to install.
Art, is worlds of splendor,
Calliopes of sight and sound,
That stimulate our senses,
Expressing life profound.
Art, is visual texture,
Space, shapes, and colored lines,
Its tones and measured values,
Of every imaginable kind.
Art, is Michelangelo,
And his Creation at Sistine,
Kandinsky at the Guggenheim,
Pablo Picasso at fifteen.
Art, is melodic singing,
An opera at the Met,
Or orchestrated performance,
Of audible storytelling silhouettes.
Art, is Sarah Brightman,
With Bocelli accompanied,
The New York Philharmonic,
Woodwind, brass, and tenor strings.
Art, is famous people and places,
Resonating with artistic flair,
Paris, Rome, Broadway, London,
Ginger Rogers, and Fred Astaire.
Art, is how history captures,
A nation’s cultural appeal,
Toward things its people value most,
Their morals, ethics, and ideals.
So he began spinning her the most beautiful golden yarns
trying to dazzle and impress
none of anything he laid bare appealed to her
It was then he turned and said
he would create the wrath of Hell upon her cursing
each foul word striking
The emperor dashed at her
he felt beneath her
commanding his guards to put chains around her neck
they then threw her in the deep waters of the Tiber
The order was carried out to his very word
cast into the murky waters
God sent two angels to unfasten the anchor
took her straight to Heaven this gripped me with awe
how pure something beautiful is with love
She cries in our sorrow the joy of a rose
The emperor dragged her through the streets of Rome
shot at with a shower of arrows
I was dying she said her beautiful words
I fell into the sweetest sleep
she was cured when she awoke
the arrows turned and struck those that rained them down upon her
The emperor began calling her a magician
thinking to himself the actions of fire
would destroy this enchantment
that for me was a story of all stories
Heavenly spouse with He who placed the crown
of virginity upon your head
holding in His hand the palm of martyrdom
standing side by side with the elite in Heaven
She smiled this day when she appeared telling her story
entering into the glory was Friday
the third hour after midday
The very same hour
Our Divine Master expired
She is now a princess of Heaven forever shining loves light
filled with her beautiful colors
halo all dreams and hopes in loves prayer
Always love is a Heavenly mist of light
stripped to the bone forever shines golden bright
after writing this I went for a walk and for some reason the sun began brushing
warmly my face I could feel the deep gift of love stored deep inside
what a treasure to behold flowing through the veins warm glorious love
Pride was my downfall never saw the face hidden behind this mask
kissing humble I knelt at the lords feet
weeping begging his grace
I lost everything yet one smiles inside peace
darkness is just clouds within love always so pure when the light is complete
King 'Enry of The 'Ouse of Tudor ruled merrie olde England, the mighty and the meek.
'E was quite obese in 'is elder years and threw 'is weight around - so to speak!
'E governed from 1509 'til 1549 when 'e expired and began 'is eternal bourne.
Though 'e slept around a lot, nary a male heir for 'is regal throne was born!
With virgin maidens and other guy's wives, 'twas a promiscuous life 'e led,
Though 'e eventually wooed a strange assortment of royal wives to 'is bed!
'E 'ad six of 'em, which would've left even the most virile of men in a daze!
'E soon tired of each and 'e dispensed with them in various and sundry ways!
Both Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard were destined to lose their 'eads!
Catherine of Aragon and Catherine Parr died of mysterious causes in their beds.
Jane Seymour and Anne of Cleves died from natural causes it is said as well.
'Twas rumored that 'Enry played golf as bells tolled each of their deathly knell!
'Enry got in a spat with the Pope of Rome which resulted in 'is excommunication.
This involved among other things 'is cavalier attitude in matters of domestication!
'E got in a towering snit and formed the Church of England as it is known today.
This 'ad all of not so merrie olde England in an uproar but 'Enry 'ad 'is way!
'Enry ruled with a fist of iron - serfs and gentry as well learned to toe the line!
'E died due to an old jousting wound and 'is fondness for food and wine!
'E was only fifty-five when in Windsor Castle 'e was laid out in repose.
'E was sent on 'is way with great pomp and ceremony as the olde saying goes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 15 in Deborah Guzzi's "Sista's Bloody Sista's" Contest - October 2010
Epilogue: The Voice of Rome
CHORUS:
The years roll on, and men ascend and fall,
As waves that break upon time’s stony shore.
Yet virtue, like the sun, doth never set,
Though clouds may veil her face from mortal eyes.
We saw the tyrant crowned in purple pride,
And saw him cast to exile’s bitter wind.
We heard the sage rebuke with tempered flame,
And watched his seed take root in youthful hearts.
Now one who sat beneath his olive shade
Doth wear the robe once stained by Varro’s hand.
Temptation knocks, as ever it hath done,
Yet wisdom speaks, and he doth not betray.
O Rome, thy soul is not in marble bound,
Nor in the clang of arms or Senate’s cry.
It lives in minds that hold the law as sacred,
And hearts that scorn the lure of fleeting gold.
Let every age remember Lucilius,
Who taught that power is but a trust bestowed,
And that the highest rank is servitude
To truth, to justice, and the common man.
So ends our tale, but not its living flame.
For though the actors vanish from the world,
Their deeds endure, inscribed in memory’s stone.
And Rome shall rise, if Romans still be wise.
If one could change the meaning of thoughts
as if all winds suddenly shifted towards them
contesting Nature's forces, making them
agree with their idiocy, but how true this would be?
Character is that mirror everybody avoids
not to see their real image and pretend all is well;
I pretended quite a few times and I corrected my wrong,
the voice of conscience points out faults,
listen to it and be a better human who will tell
the next generation to fight alone, not in a chaotic throng!
Who feels worthless and switches to another faith,
is not promised anything that makes him great,
he betrays himself in the face of hard truth;
deception is practically everywhere:
whether one turns left or right!
it's confidence that pushes one to the limit and unwind;
be more courageous than Spartacus and dare,
History is a teacher, bear that in mind!
Character is that mirror we are afraid
to look into and admit our guilt,
before rising your fist,
consider mercy before God
and Man; Brutus was , his quick hand
made him do a horrible act.
He stabbed Caesar in the chest,
his hatred ran deep, his knife very sharp;
even Nero was evil, he burned
Rome while he played the harp!
The bright lights of Paris have lost their sway.
The old ruins of Rome have crumbled away.
I’ve wandered through cities far and wide—
But, it's Venice where my heart yearns to abide.
My heart lies on in a Venice maze
floating among its waterways
where gondolas glide in salty air,
and it's romance that drifts everywhere.
I stroll over bridges that arch over canals,
laughing with friends and lovely old pals.
Where lights flicker their secrets sighs,
shedding blues wide aside in wavering eyes.
I love the bustle of St. Mark’s square.
The swirl of crowds, so free from care,
jostling along winding narrow streets,
savoring all kinds of on-key treats.
Every night is ablaze in a carnival gaze
Cafes alive with music, in a candlelit haze.
The art and the culture in myriad displays,
enchanting the heart in so, so many ways.
My heart lies on in a Venice maze
floating among its waterways
where gondolas glide in salty air,
and it's romance, that drifts everywhere.
At dawn, the locals are the first to arise,
gathering in bakeries under pale skies.
Sharing a coffee, warm croissant, and a chat
before drifting off to work, at this and that.
Ferries slip through the lightening hue,
whispering to rhythms we all once knew,
past the leaning palazzi in faded golden blue,
where time spins old tales in shadows all askew.
The living craft of blown Murano glass.
The art at a Venice Biennale's night class.
The iconic Venetian masks all on display
in the lovely culture woven into every day.
My heart lies on in a Venice maze
floating among its waterways
where gondolas glide in salty air,
and it's romance that drifts everywhere.
*Image of Julius Caesar by QDT.
The Ides of March
Spun spells pummel our Earth ... as a Sun scanned absence swallow,
vacuumed blues taxes light once deemed eternal ... plus righteousness,
escapism from existence ... edges evacuation,
Birth ere the latter days ... ventured the laurels that were Rome,
the incarnation of iniquity ... masquerade innocence,
like clovers and thistles ... lure eyes above the common grass,
Furtherance besought ... midst tossed bone for multi contentment,
parades that paralyze souls ... usurp minds to sweeping abandon,
celebratory hails the seasoned ... emblem of power,
The gods and goddesses' palms of warring pulse ... 'tis peacetime,
nonetheless ... tributes adorn the temples of Mars in abundance,
'tis time of awash hands of mere grimes ... toxic suffers freely,
Citizens housed upon Palatine ... the triumphant hill,
felicitations honorable legions ... protectors of Rome,
promissory constants ... declared Remus per Romulus,
Roman Senate played a chess game ... Caesar kept them in check,
every move was scrutinized ... made vulnerable and powerless,
autocracy trumps democracy ... seeds gangocracy,
Plans are planted within plans ... schemes are shrouded inside schemes,
the beast entrails read ominously ... Spurina forewarns the marked,
timely debts to be paid in full ... matters to be settled,
At the Courts of Pompey ... the assembly awaits for him,
armorless donning senatorial garb ... metals pierce a man,
till mute ... last recalls *haruspex, "Beware the Ides of March".
*Haruspex; reading of omens from the entrails of sacrificed animals. The subject of Shakespeare's title play came from his thorough accounting of Plutarch's writings.
2022 March 30
*1st Place*
This or That, Vol 11
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2022 April 22
*HMS; 14,16,14 syllables per x 8 stanzas
Brigitte my love
Our Country suffers of many debts
The people are restless
Whatever shall we do love?
Ah Macron, we must think past the cookies
The solutions are complex, answers evasive
Let me speak with Marie Antoinette, she shall know!
Queen of Navarre, By god we shall be saved!
Marie, Marie Antoinette our people are restless
Our republic is in debt. these are crazy times!
Whatever shall we do?
I am fed up, allons-y
Ah fear not, if they have not bread!
Let them eat Nutella!
Lower the prices
Nutella for the masses!!!
Marie, are you sure? very very sure of such things?
Oui oui, on with it, my father was emperor of Rome
Nutella will calm the masses
Come here Nemo. taste, see even Nemo is tres happy now!
And so France lowered the prices of Nutella
Thus began the nouveau French Revolution
Riots in the streets, brawling in the magasins
The uprising has began, we want our Nutella for free
The masses rose
Nutella for all, Nutella for sans prix
We are all somewhat fou for Nutella you see!
And so the masses fought each other for Nutella's liberty
Nutella one and Nut Ella all!
I swear to your Brigette
We should have given them Macarons!!!
People remain civilized with cafe and cookies! n'est pas?
Emmanuel my love, fret not
The revolution shall be quelled
Qh I have the perfect person for this
He shall restore order to our dear republic
Prey tell Brigette? Who could do such a thing now
Riots everywhere, the masses fight each other daily?
The streets are not safe
There is a shortages of Nutella now, we are doomed cheri
Non non mon amour, I shall call Alizee
She shall sing us out of the terrible mess
She is the mistress of Doug McMillion
This man can save us all!!
Brigitte, who is this man you call Doug?
Why Emmanuel he is the president of Walmart
He has squashed many Black Fridays rebellions
He shall save us all!!!!!!
From these unruly unsavory Nutella shoppers!!!!!
Vive la France!
Vive Alizee
Mange ton macaroon mon cheri
C'est ton droit et ta liberté
Translations
Allons-y = Lets go, pronounced similar to Alizee
Magasins = Stores
N'est pas is written on sound should be "N'est ce pas"
Mange ton macaroon mon cheri = Eat your macaroon cookies my love"
C'est ton droit et ta liberte = Is your right and your liberty
Black man, do you remember who you are?
Before temples were carved from stone,
before books whispered borrowed truths,
you were already divine.
You walked with spirit, not religion.
You read the stars and the rivers,
you spoke to the wind and it answered,
you heard God in the thunder and
saw His face in the lion’s gaze.
But now—
You kneel before foreign names.
You pray to faces that do not reflect your own.
They gave you their gods and took your land,
gave you a white savior and stole your soul.
How can your liberation come from
those who bound you?
Abraham is not your ancestor.
Jacob never tilled your soil.
David never danced to your drums.
Why then do you chant their names
and forget the names of your grandfathers?
Why do you reject your lineage
and embrace the chains that erased it?
They told you to forget your ancestors—
called your roots evil, your spirits demons.
Yet they revere theirs in books and statues.
What hypocrisy blinds you?
Spiritual suicide—
that is what you commit, daily,
when you abandon the sacred drum,
the sacred tree, the sacred fire.
When you see your oppressor’s god as your own,
you will always kneel beneath him.
How can you rise
while worshiping your captivity?
Wake up, Black man.
You are not lost.
The ancestors are waiting in the wind,
in the waters, in your bones.
They whisper still.
Remember your gods.
Remember the rhythm of your bloodline.
The power is not in Rome or Jerusalem—
it is in the dust of your homeland,
in the echo of your grandmother’s voice,
in the prayers said with bare feet
and a pure heart beneath the baobab tree.
Reclaim your spirit.
Reclaim your throne.
The world rejects you
because you have forgotten
how to speak your original name.
Speak it again.
And rise.