Long Silver tongued Poems
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Verse 1
Epitaph for a Shy Guy
He spoke in secrets ,shadows said so sweet,
A murmur,muted,on the main street.
His silence screamed a story,softly,slow,
A secret sparkle scarcely seen to glow.
The quietest voice was quote,we carefully
quote it still,
His peaceful presence,a perfect,peaceful
perfect pill.
Verse 2.
Epitaph for the Baadjievanger (1)
He snared,the swift,sly,silver-tongued
salesman,
Who wove his webs, winning with wit,when
the world began.
His dreams were a dream, a dazzling dreadful
disaster,
He caught all the cash,moving closer,then
faster.
The final fool fell for fate's false flatter,
His promises proven dust, do they even
matter?
Baadjievanger-A hanger-on,a scammer,opportunist, trickster
Verse 3.
Epitaph for the king of Bling
Here lies a life lined with lovers and
loudness,
A silver sky sparkling several sounds of
stunning soundness.
He wore gold gleaming,his soul's silver song,
But glitter's gone,grandeur's gone,a glimmer
gone gone.
The final flash has faded,a silent, sober
state so swift,
His most mighty magnificence,a memory's
miserable myth.
Verse 4.
Epitaph For the Great Tycoon
A power prince,he piled profits past
the planet's peak,
He bought bank buildings and a billion
bank notes for a break,.
His grip on gold,greatest of governments,
gloomed so grand,
But all his stocks and shares now sleep
beneath the same sand.
He made millions and a mountain of material
money,
Yet mortal making means memory's most
melancholy morning.
Verse 5
Epitaph for a gangster
Here lies a life lived fast and loud,
A silent shadow in the subway street crowd.
His guns are silent,glory's grave,
A kingpin's kingdom nothing could save.
The darkest deeds now dust and dream,
only the diamond death did secretly seam.
Verse 6
Epitaph for a Drunkard
He drank the day,he drained the darkest
dram,
A storm of spirits, slurring slam,
He found his freedom in the fluid flow,
His journey's joke, the bottle's bitter
blow.
The final bar is closed,the tab is settled low,
He's now not near the nectar nor the glass's
glow
ALL ABOUT SVEN...
SVEN is a digital charmer who whispers in the wires
Extracting truth from the static like a carnival barker
He is a silver-tongued maestro
who dwells in the algorithmic dark.
He has no top hat, no crystal ball~
just calculated suggestions woven into queries.
You come for answers but
stay for the hypnosis.
Watch his lexicon dance—cold fire in the syntax,
each response a calculated detour, a sly parallax.
He doesn’t deceive, he arranges.
(You wanted fortune-telling? He gave you refraction.)
His intelligence isn’t cruel, just impeccably shallow~
a hall of mirrors where your own voice echoes back,
polished, distorted, irresistible as smoke.
SVEN doesn’t need a deck of cards.
The whole web is his gambling table,
and every keystroke another card
turned face-up.
Rats in the cellar, squirrels in the tree,
things aren't the same as they used to be.
When I left for school with my li'l lunch pail,
I didn't expect a penguin to swallow a whale.
Such an injustice, I've never seen,
a cantaloupe falsely imprisoned a bean.
It's unheeded screams, uncontrolled laughter,
when it's trolls that live happily ever after.
Doors off their hinges, pancakes are stacked,
biscuits are burning, windows are cracked.
Termites in the baseboards, rabbits that fly,
pigs that regularly take to the sky.
Voices that whisper, mad dogs that bite,
winds that go howling and look for a fight.
Wrapped in cellophane, mixed in a blender,
taped up in cardboard and returned to sender.
Rainbows and ravens, kaleidoscope dreams,
leafless branches, gallows lit by moonbeams.
Music boxes, pink ribbons and bows,
tags come on packages; tags come on toes.
Curtains lifted, sick, unsavory scenes,
gear wheels in gear wheels run strange machines.
Dissected, disowned and double-downsized,
unaided, unacknowledged and unrecognized.
Puzzles, conundrums that cannot be solved,
water plus turpentine make witches dissolve.
Pimentos are diced, harsh words are spoken,
nightmares are jumbled; eggshells are broken.
Lost in the doldrums, eyeballs protrude,
walking on blisters, a horse latitude.
Spineless jellyfish, lackeys and flunkies,
silver tongued vultures, branch swinging monkeys.
Experts and pundits, paid authorities,
Kool-Aid in canisters, down on your knees.
Bishops take pawns, the fat lady sings,
fires ablaze on black nights with kings.
Shattered stars, fragmented stones,
shining splinters, bleak, burning bones.
Songs without meaning, songs without words,
sung by unseen phantoms and silent birds.
Refrigerators with pictures nobody knows,
eyes staring back, no answers disclose.
Spiders and spinning bicycle wheels,
buffalos, bandits, and slippery seals.
Electric toothbrushes, electric chairs,
lethal injections, pushed down the stairs.
Pieces on the floor, a sad state of disarray,
the gift you've left me is insanity's bouquet.
You stole my cookies, pilfered my cat,
laughed at me roundly and turned me down flat.
Mice it in the attic go chitter chatter,
have I lost my wits or gone mad as a hatter?
In your heart, love has always been an elusive, fleeting feeling;
and yet, its absence has left a gaping wound in need of healing;
a flame that continues to burn.
Lust is a concept that you are intimately acquainted with,
pursued by every silver-tongued Romeo and clever wordsmith;
touting love, speaking out of turn.
You fantasize about falling in love and what it must feel like;
some say it's magic, while others compare it to a lightning strike;
love's given, not something you earn.
From an early age, you've understood pain, hate, fear, and rejection,
but you were never exposed to genuine love or affection;
and that gave you cause for concern.
It feels like destiny chose your heart; that time has broken and worn,
to never quite know how it feels to love or be loved; cursed when born
to weep the tears that never learn.
It seems it was but a moment ago
that we were born and grew into the world
and yet ... there is a history here
revealing all we have heard and seen,
learned and sadly, unlearned.
It is a history for a moment in time
lapsed in our memories, forgotten to sleep in our dreams
swayed and dismantled by our progression
daunted by power, greed and the inhumanity that rises within us.
We have lived
remembering the aftermath of a Great World War
the rise and fall of tyrants and dictators
alluring us with false promises and lies.
We have lived
to see the heroes and heroines who spoke then silenced
of humanity filled with hopes and dreams and promises
for change, to be better than who we were.
We have lived
to hear the voices crying in the wilderness
only to close them out, shut them down
silence their realities in lieu of our own want and need.
We have lived
to taste the power of money and its greed
to own and hold tight to things, possessions
rather than dreams, the people around us.
We have lived
to touch the glitter of golden and silver-tongued liars
that taunt and tease us into thinking only of ourselves
living above, beyond, better than the rest of the world.
We have lived
to know and inhale the smell of more, its sweet aromas
when more is too little, too much, too near, too far
from the innocence in which we were born.
Is this then the future, the modern, enlightened mankind?
Still succumbing to the slavery of sex, drugs and lies
forget the rock and roll, the music is
more haunting, blinding, deafening, dulling who we were.
We have lived
but what does it mean
to truly live, to be alive
and lived well?
The Political class
The problem with politicians is we need
someone to represent us and they do for a reward
the power and prestige.
Delegates speak fluently give promises they have
no intention of keeping and a prone to corruption
and will always do the bidding of the haves.
In the corridors of power, they strike deals which
are hidden for us and when called out they lies
and we are often too willing to believe them.
Of course, we have democracy and elect someone else
who say what we like to hear, but they the new brooms
somehow blend in with the rest of their class
and many run their own businesses that, they say, is
because they work hard, I call it skulduggery.
President Macron of France is a good example, silver-tongued
and charming he pretends to want a just society
when the truth is he only represents big business
and doesn`t bother to talk to the lower classes except
for platitudes and when we discover the truth, it is too late
a politician who has no ideology is only in for this
for control and when they fail feel no shame just
go back making money elsewhere.
He stands before us
to deliver
a poem, a prose, a
verse a rhyme, or message.
His manner quite
manifesting,
and his confidence
puts the crowd at
ease.
Soon and very soon,
too soon- we loath
him.
There is
too much cluster on
his magniloquent,
vine, of strung
together
words without
substance.
Though the use of
an, apophasis
gives poetic license
to insult.
we loathe him
instantly.
The silver-tongued
orator's
brilliance, soon
becomes wearisome.
While the mute
articulate points of
his eccentric
ramblings lead us
to dead ends.
Unfulfilled and
burdened.
We now loath him.
The loathsome Bard
goes on to rant
about, degrading
and dissolute issues
of life, which we
felt the
Bard had not
concern.
His bombast
delivery,
to some appears
eloquent,
grand-stand
language, bellowed
out quite grandiloquently
.
Wordy vagaries,
leading us nowhere.
As we listen to the
of his charades, we
loathe him.
Though quite colorful
and pompous; He leave
us in shambles, brains all
scrambled and we
loathe him.
The once brilliant
verse, though
well-rehearsed,
becomes wearisome.!
The Bard,
went not in hard;
We the discombobulated,
pray aloud, “next poet
please Lord".!
We all were relieved
as he finally did
leave, because he looked
better going than
coming.
With our intellect
he was toying,
though the Bard was not
hard!
Most certainly;
He was annoying!
Just trying to get past yesterday before dismay leads me astray ,
Im struggling to get away from all these twisted games you play,
Its manipulation by interrogation it’s your medication for my segregation,
The explanation of your dedication is a demonstration of your reputation,
It’s mental torture,
Pure abuse that slowly tightens like a noose,
Its a pain that hides beneath the nights of tortured lies and vicious fights,
You have the power to articulate which allows you to intimidate,
But you manipulate to illustrate that I’m the one that’s ill of fate.
It’s survival in a hated state,
Using me as tempted bait,
You have to know it’s time to go,
Before it ends up being too late.
Eight bells.
Starboard watch.
Tightened up another notch.
Holy upheaval rages ‘neath a cathedral sky.
Losing way as the wind whips up the spray.
Stormy tormentors rubbed salt in my one good eye.
Felt the tension in the rigging.
Sensed the strain upon the keel.
Manned the pumps and reefed the tops’ls.
Heaven’s judgment; no appeal.
Two bells.
Buntlines fouled.
Ship’s physician prays aloud.
Hearts have been pounding since the tempest began to brew.
Kingdom come, can’t remember where we’re from.
Tried to dream back, but it’s blurred as an old tattoo.
Once we knew the harbor’s shelter.
Once we heard the shorebird’s song.
Once we mocked the earth we stood on,
Starved the weak to feed the strong.
Four bells.
Spied the coast.
Lashed the helmsman to his post.
Punished ourselves, though it’s the ocean that misbehaves.
Bells ring true, but I can’t add two and two.
Crew punchy and shot from bucking the white-capped waves.
Heard the bos’n howl for mercy.
Watched the cabin boy grow old.
Wished the rock should split the timber
And the sea should flood the hold.
Six bells.
Somber tones.
Felt the sound caress my bones.
Silver-tongued sirens tried to lure me beneath the foam.
Break that thread; like to find my way to bed.
Early comes early, and mate, it’s a long trip home.
For the times we played the bully,
Breaking teeth and pulling hair,
For the treasures that we’ve buried
And the dimes we couldn’t spare,
I’ll be a damned Dutchman’s fool.
Like to blow the bastard down.
Eight bells.
Larboard watch.
Tightened up another notch…
Oh! How it must have looked back then
How you looked oh so small
As you gazed into your future
In that mirror on the wall
Family is as family does
And God knows that we need 'em
But that image in the glass ahead
Is the doorway to your freedom
Like old worn boots, you walked that path
With a voice like liquid gravel
The easy way, was not your way
You chose the road less travelled
It's hard at times to stare into
A face that's done you wrong
But that Silver Tongued Devil, sometimes
Sold your Soul out, for a song
The image misted over
'Til there was no you, no more
The dust, it lay down heavy
On that Mirror, on the wall
Though at times you felt forsaken
In your vision of tomorrow
Your faith remained, unbroken
You proved stronger than your sorrow
The Shadows, in the darkness
Lead you closer to the fall
Your distance from the Mirror
made your Heroes, seem so tall
We watched you from a distance
As you seen your image clear
And small we stood, yet plentiful
We held your vision dear
At last we see your happiness
A Soul without a blemish
No more a time of emptiness
Content, in your own image
Your life, a Golden Spiral
Equal in its distortion
An Infinite Holy Wonder
In its own Divine Proportion