Long Throne Poems
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I sought the throne of honor high,
Where crowns and praises touch the sky.
I dreamed of titles carved in gold,
Of power, fame, and hands to hold.
But when I reached the mountain’s crest,
And stood where pride had claimed its best,
I saw a King—so pure, so meek—
Whose glory shone upon the weak.
His throne was not of earthly might,
But mercy’s flame and heaven’s light.
And there I learned, with trembling heart,
Where true exalted souls depart.
For higher than all thrones of men,
Is kneeling down before Him then.
The greatest crown one soul can meet—
Is dust and tears at Jesus’ feet.
The highest rank, the grandest call,
Is losing self to give Him all.
For glory blooms where pride retreats—
The highest place… is at His feet.
© 2025 Dennis Macusi. All rights reserved.
This poem is an original work by the author and may not be reproduced, distributed, or used without permission
There sat in opulent xanadu, the
demagogue of empirical hedonism,
his granary once fuelled regal reign of epicureanism:
gregarious, restive, much-awaited successor of imperial dominion,
neurotic, obstinate, was the cynosure of cynicism.
The eldest child of Duke and Dutchess of York, erstwhile Prince of Wales,
the proclaimed young heir, stood far from the course of sceptical euphemism;
The heir apparent had a historical encounter with Wallis Warfield Simpson by fatalism,
by wooing Wallis, the royal blood encountered, clangorous cynical criticism.
The resultant mayhem broke, the blue- blood became the bottleneck of idealism;
sagacious, was brooding strategies to be the prototype of unprecedented heroism.
The proclaimed marriage faced vehement oppositions:
encompassing : religious, political, legal and moral objections.
The outright denial to accept Wallis as the king's consort, broke the anticipated rebellion,
Edward's refusal to give her up, led to his final abdication.
When was quite apparent, he could not marry his beloved Simpson,
finally settled to rebuke the throne from etched imperialism as emancipation.
The man of the hour was then entitled "the Duke of Windsor", a transformation stunned the world and wrote an unprecedented statement in chronicle after abdication.
Edward VIII, once epitome of monarchism, became an ideal icon of asceticism.
A sybarite, turned commoner by deserting the successive chair of the british kingdom to wed his ladylove;
a tale of unprecedented impeccable loyalism.
The abdicator's epitaph on Royal Burial Ground, Frogmore,
is still bearing in indelible transcription,
the testimony of an uncustomary love saga of renunciation.
An epoch making transformation, decades have ever witnessed from iconic monarchism to transcendental loyalism:
through unprecedented renouncement
of the bequeathed throne
to array chronicle's unrivalled iconoclasm.
All Rights Reserved © SILPIKA KALITA
Tapping into our neurons
where only brain cells should go
Past dreams mean nothing now
unconscious thoughts just flow
An abstract realm of reason
touchpad signals unbeknown
Fires up, post-human imagination
our intelligence genes regrown
And so it's all written in code
old commandments redrawn
Binary replaces ancient Latin
age of replicants has dawned
Interfaced with artificial reality
and engaged to usb clones
We marry terabyte processors
reproducing ten billion drones
Reprogrammed ancient scriptures
floods overwhelm our homes
Heaven and hell's using robots
I-God now accedes the throne
By
David Kavanagh
As the dusk beacons
And the night commingle with the day
Confusion rented the air
It was an un-endless arrival of him we await
He it the one, King Solomon
Solomon’s Eve unlock her feelings
She wept and we waited,
For the King of the house who left
His throne to no destination
This King had little of Solomon’s wisdom
But shared more of his adultery
With his cup of wine always full to a fault
Drunkard was his middle name
All his fellow drunkard Kings
Had no clue of him
Yet, the night twinkle away
The In-law with the baby in her arms hissed
Two hours went pass the midnight
Still, it was a house full of darkness
His Eve unbolt more of her to me
As she sobs her way to sleep
“He his dead drunk again”
Shall we all sleep, less we loose our night
King Solomon is alive with no live
But drunk in the arms of a concubine”
Darkness exit, as the cockcrows.
Alayande Stephen T.
21st of June 2007
10.15am
In Iba, conceptualized for the scene at my friend’s place OSB.
Before the dawn could teach the city how to wake,
I found my face where old relinquishments still burned;
Each breath became the mason of the walls it chose to break,
Till silence knew the man whom suffering had unlearned.
One leaf upon a wintered tree revised the season's claim—
Love signed where time had long forgotten every name.
Then midnight raised a lighthouse in the chambers of my breast,
Whose beam sought not the sea, but all I'd left behind;
My shipwrecked selves came homeward, neither anchored nor confessed,
For every lost horizon had been harbouring the mind.
The future was no country waiting somewhere to begin—
It gathered like a coastline from the tides I kept within.
So now I ask no heaven for a kingdom yet to rise;
The stars inherit only what the steadfast spirit proves.
Each faithful heart becomes the grammar by which darkness dies,
The unseen shore toward which eternity still moves.
The universe remembers, not by thunder, throne, or flame,
But when one inward lighthouse quietly learns its Name.
I don’t need a passport, visa, or any identification,
When I am going to heaven.
No suitcase, or even toothpaste.
Everything will stay behind,
Because where I’m going I need nothing.
When the trumpet blows,
And we hear His call,
Up, up we will go.
In the air, we will meet Him there.
Open arms He will welcome us.
Don’t stress if you are left behind,
And look but cannot find us,
We will come back.
When the angels and saints and their King,
Come marching in, you feel the tremble.
When we hit the ground.
Maybe you will be our friend,
Or stand on the opposite end.
At the battleground of Armageddon.
With one snap of His fingers,
The war will be won.
Bye, bye to the prince of darkness,
Down, down, he and his minions go,
With all my Saviour’s foes
He will cast them into hell,
And take up His rightful throne, in Jerusalem.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem our new home.
Where all the saints and their King,
Will live in peace and harmony.
One nation we will be.
A new earth we will receive.
A new world order.
Confucius was confusing
speaking of tones in long
ago bones found in a stone
carving of sorts. A King
with legs too short playing
hot!kee indeed.
Hold my sky.the Scribe isn't falling....
It's Just, as described the Kitten
purrs calling eYes that are gleaming
in the Knight the light is beaming.
Speaking OSsilly.ations
about a pyramid and a
notion of motion reaching
for truth. Sitting on a
throne not really knowing
what to look for?
Hammers, Anvils that Stirrup Two....
They say CinderFella wears a glass shoe.
Care.the mirror doesn't smear the glue.
I can read a.head.board.too.
Lefty found a Foot.Note
Balancing act.on a Book
and took it. Seriously.
Strange thing art.ee.facts
They sing when ping.ing
Especially so when reading
The sWing. Reaper said
ree.pare. and we are dear.
reeding....
C.me near the Mall.Sue?
Hear us call.in your bones?
HOT is a spot on The One
and a flare in the air is a tOne.
reeds the same.spinning alone
aligns with a Lion a dog and
bone....
..."O0oWas this your toy?"
It's The Twi.light.O.z.O.ne
:)~ Now we're plaYing....
Know Vertigo Hear.
Form:
Living in the twilight of yesterday
Wistfully longing for a return
To reap the glory I once shared
For a destiny's child I was born
Then I grew up to be a king
Then on my throne I would sing
When I was the king
I thought of heavenly things
I visited the moon and resided in mars
Sailed the ocean with paddlers wings
Fought many battles, won many wars
On a white horse I would ride
Even got baptized in the river Nile
When I was king
When I was King
The bells would toll
What great tidings that would bring?
All would gather, young and old
To pay homage to their king
On char grilled venison they would feast
And drink the nectar of the brewers yeast
When I was king
When I was king
My queen would reign
In glorious harmony with the king
Just like the liver's hepatic veins
In tuneful melodies we would sing
And I in gleeful wedded bliss
Showered her with love,sealed with a kiss
When I was king
Now I am old and my reign is done
I recline in the glory of yesteryears
I reminisce of my past years gone
And patiently await the grim reaper's shears
While I bask in the happiness , the joys I sing
The memories, the times. when I was king.
I think they doth protest too much
Though they say nothing
For fear the noxious, noisy wind
Will leave its fetid stench on them
For perfume is but a piglet’s bath
A cloak o’er bloodied flags
That bid them “go and do your worst”
Your life is over, you are cursed
They protest those that protest them
A beggared chant verse sainted hymn
Defend the throne of gods unknown
That somehow they have voted in
For truth is hard and lies defile
The sweetest talk the demon’s guile
That leads us to the tipping point
Of corpses marching single file
Yet still they doth protest too much
With blue-lit, cardboard voices
Unable to accept the fact
Somehow these were their choices
At the cradle of my nightmares,
My future is a horror film,
I track my ghosts,
Like a junkie in withdrawal.
I am a true clandestine calamity,
A mass grave of silent suffering,
A candelabra of pain soothed by dirty money,
I hate the human race,
And I will never have a pet.
I am a loner addicted to silence.
I only write in the dark, to deathly sounds.
A mix of gloomy feelings,
I walk in the darkness of my imperfections,
My hands are no longer innocent,
Since I’ve handled weapons of war.
I am a child of the slums of the third world,
I know perfectly the orifices of misery.
Another damn sleepless night spent monologuing in the darkness of this cold room,
The devil covers his ears to the atrocities spilling from my confessions.
I’ve already used gunpowder
For a firework on the edge of legality.
I never agreed to sleep on an empty stomach,
I’ve risked my freedom since I was ten.
I’ve learned to walk among hungry beasts.
I’m already at war with my demons,
I know I’ll end up in the flames.
I know I have no right to trust a human being,
Being a slave to shine is impossible.
My enemies squat in my imperfect flesh.
I don’t smoke crack,
I don’t smoke cannabis,
I don’t snort cocaine,
I don’t drink alcohol,
I sometimes burn a few cigarettes.
I avoid psychotropics,
I’m not a poet,
Just a tormented mind,
Prisoner of infernal loops,
Where murder scenes repeat endlessly.
My tears stopped flowing down my cheeks
Since I saw my friend crushed by a logging truck.
I am an angry man with murderous impulses,
I commit suicide each time in this same nightmare that has repeated since my childhood.
I’m approaching fifty,
I’ve stopped meditating on the whims of the reaper,
I’ve stopped wandering in graveyards.
Let the universal force show mercy on my impure, tainted soul
By the poisons of lust,
I accumulate transgressions to have a throne in the furnaces of hell.
I don’t believe in paradise, but I know I’ll burn in the abyss’s celestial flames after my twilight.
A deep philosophical reflection in the ramblings of my delirium.
I hate the spotlights like those criminals on the run,
Too many regrets hidden in the closets,
A clean criminal record like the entrails of Christ’s mother.
I blaspheme to darken my divine fragment.