Long Torchbearer Poems
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mixed verse
The Pied Piper was our town's private eye.
He rode alone on his piebald horse,
kept his nose in everyone’s pie
declaring humble pie of course.
Piety overrode his able grace
when last fall, he alit in some cow pies.
There he earned a pie in the face,
free gift from our local magpie.
translated from the Geek (below):
Altogether armed, a tricky young torchbearer
strode our streets on his multicolored mount -
Our intrusive inspector, had a flair for abuse,
abject apologies too numerous to count.
One autumn, alighting in a field, offensive odor
rivaled his religious reek. Wading a stream
he entered the dwelling of a loquacious goose
who gladly greeted him - à la charity cream.*
*charity cream refers to the practice of throwing pies in the face (whipped cream sometimes shaving cream) to support a favorite charity..
It continues to befuddle my inquisitive mind
why many of you have attacked and maligned
vaccines, and have decided to become aligned
with other naysayers. Are you physically blind?
It's not amusing when false dogma spreads terror
Your claims are outrageous and uttered in error
Open your eyes to the truth, and be a torchbearer
instead of creating hysteria as a rankled despairer.
I'm not suggesting you wear rose-colored shades,
but stop throwing darts at hearts and live grenades
at those fighting for the right cause in the crusades.
Life or death is not a game to play like charades.
I wonder how you'd feel if one you loved had died
for refusing to allow a needle to pierce their hide.
Would you admit your theories had been cockeyed
or pig-headedly insist, "Vaccinations are unjustified."
Remove the cloth binding your eyes. Set yourself free
of lies sweetened with rhetoric, so we all might be
safer in a world that's not destined for its apogee.
Listen, if you refuse to see. Please consider this plea.
October 5, 2021
This or That, Vol 7 Contest - Hysterical Blindness
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Written on April 19th 2025 for Sara Jama's The Chaos in my Heart Contest
I am wrapped in darkness, crippled by the chaos in my heart.
Swallowing tangled foxgloves of regret, I spiral.
Into a hays of eerie memories of his lemonade lies
From the distance, the torchbearer calls—
His voice a menacing howl, summoning my soul to surrender.
He entwines my essence into an unforgiving knot,
Threading me tight—I am now but a trembling bead upon his unholy rosary.
My withered heart blackens to the point of no return,
As I sink into the bowels of Dante’s Inferno.
I bartered my soul for the illusion of devotion,
Fled to barren lands where my only neighbours are
Ravenous sandworms.
I am haunted by the person I once was—
She coils herself around me like a burial shroud.
I exist without pulse,
Denied the mercy of rebirth.
Trapped in a loop of hollow memories,
The love I gave now lies in ruin,
Charred and calcified inside the sorrow-filled marrow of me.
I loved him the way he demanded,
But freedom only came after the death of a thousand small cuts,
Etched in the name of us.
Now, I drift—
A shattered mind among broken poets,
All of us bleeding ink in search of solace.
Freely forming metrical mainstays
poetic occasion to phrase
the fairer and gentler sex,
thus the following turns of phrase
to bestow acknowledgement
regarding wonderful wise ways
of collective she who assays
to create safe/secure home/ hearth
as bedrock and fount of ample
maternal duties tiredly sashays
with keeping house receiving praise
the second Sunday each May, her
tired body sprawled on chaise
lounge, perhaps basking in solar rays
communing with Gaia, who whiz
bruiting with sky goddess
defying forecasters prediction, no slate grays
pose dampening effect on huzzahs
regaling torchbearer diploid as amaze
zing newlife, where loving labor pays
more than fine spun gold cherishing
offspring in her nurturing ways.
Paean dutiful daily deference, I dole
ensconced with pineapple getup
surfing the cyber sea, this hyperbowl
lee, yet deserved dignity deifying dames,
who bear brunt whole
ding potent biological reproductive role
de facto duty honorably decreed
tribute paid despite commercialized
money making hyped up rigamarole,
nonetheless yours truly accentuates sole
sans, progenitor of human race
saddled with disproportionate/ unfair toll.
Ancestral Whispers
In the depths of the earth, the roots of time stretch like pulsing veins,
Nourishing the collective memory with the fertile essence of our past,
And I, a poet wandering through forgotten eras, gather crumbs of wisdom from the sacred soil.
Magical animals dance in my dreams, fluid contours of light and shadow,
Their eyes glisten with secrets as old as the world, their tongues speak in lost dialects,
And in every wing beat, in every footprint left in the dust, I read the story of creation.
Solitude envelops me like a cloak of mist, here at the border between worlds,
Visions overflow the edges of my mind like a turbulent river,
Words are born from silence, fragile at first, then growing in power and resonance.
Death and rebirth intertwine in a cosmic dance, eternal and implacable,
My body is a vessel of transformation, my mind—a cauldron where ancestral alchemies brew,
From the ashes of the old self rises, a reborn Phoenix, the poet initiated into the mysteries of the universe.
The ecstasy of the primordial dance envelops my being, the rhythm beats in my blood,
Feet strike the earth in sync with the heartbeat of Mother Gaia,
And in the whirl of movement, the boundaries between self and others melt into a sacred union.
The tribe's work is silent prayer, hands united in common effort,
Sweat of the brow mixed with earth becomes the bond that ties us to ground and sky,
In every gesture, in every breath, we are part of the great ritual of life.
I look back to history and forward to the wilderness, a tightrope walker on the thread of the present,
My words are bridges between past and future, between known and mystery,
In my verses reflects the true measure of things, a balance against the ignorance of the times.
I am the keeper of archaic values, the voice that whispers in the roar of modernity,
Torchbearer in the night of forgetting, sower of dreams in the barren fields of routine,
And my poems are seeds of magic planted in the fertile soil of souls that still know how to listen to the whispers of the Earth.
School bullies will always call you names,
but would they if they knew I was your blood?
Maybe the insults would have stopped.
There would have been a lot less scraps.
I would be a man without unhealed scars.
If only my mum had not caught your eye..
Why couldn't you have been like Charles Darwin.
Taught me the difference between right and wrong.
Built me a tree house or shown me how to shave,
but you were no torchbearer for my flame.
I wanted to be as tough as you,
but my strength was trapped with fear.
Your anger meant, I was too afraid to ask.
Silently, I questioned your hypocrisy.
If only, you had not walked away.
Instead of blaming each other,
I wonder if we would have formed a bond,
but stubbornness tasted like bitter gourd.
If we took time to explain - possibly apologised.
Maybe, you would not have died without talking.
When love's bright colors turn shades of blue,
Changed by separation, where love will dream
A deep yearning asks the soul to pursue,
Cross eternity as a lonely gleam
Could its soft glister reach you in flight?
Would you hear my soul calling through the mist?
This torchbearer from love's endless blue night
That hungers for your touch I can't resist
When souls connect in this timeless meeting
Find comfort in its sacred bonds of need
To hold lonely times are never fleeting
And dream that this traveler will succeed
How empty the space not filled with yearning
To feel each separation with hearts burning
contest Gren's Evergreens #2
Unchained Melody
4/23/16