Long Viceroy Poems
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Written: December 30, 2025, for contest sponsored by Tom Woody |
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I chose {Amy Winehouse} as the tragic figure to honor: brilliant, gregarious, recalcitrant, luminous, and undone by the fire that made her unforgettable.
Amaranthine Girl (A Tribute Song)
You walked the stage in chiaroscuro light,
a chatoyant soul who prowled through every night;
your voice—limpid velvet with a wisteria ache—
could rake the sky mist clean with every note you’d hold.
Behind the winsome grin, the weltschmerz took its claim,
your threadbare heart still doggedness in flame;
and though the world adored your sacrosanct refrain,
You bore a burden no applause could ever tame.
(chorus)
Oh, amaranthine girl, you sang beyond the pain,
Your luster never wilted in the dismal rain;
Though hubris and the hecatomb kept pulling you apart,
Your song remains ubiquitous—engraved in every heart.
Verse 2
You wore no tiara, yet you ruled the smoky bars,
a viceroy of sorrow underneath the broken stars;
your laughter—genteel, gamesome—masked the acrimony,
an erroneous joy and grief in faultless harmony.
You tried to evanesce the ache that writhed inside,
but fame can be a fickle, inimical tide;
and though your muliebrity shone bright through every fall,
The foofaraw around you built a Barmecidal wall.
(Chorus)
Oh, amaranthine girl, you sang beyond the pain,
Your luster never wilted in the dismal rain;
Though hubris and the hecatomb kept pulling you apart,
Your song remains ubiquitous—engraved in every heart.
(Bridge)
Spasmodically, the cameras flashed, officious in their chase,
Their meretricious palaver tried to strip away your grace;
Yet even as the world grew loud, your voice stayed halcyon,
a sanctity of truth no blatherskite could prey upon.
And when the final cloudscape dimmed, your light did not evanesce—
It lingers redolent in time, a sacred catharsis.
(Final Chorus)
Oh, amaranthine girl, though the night reclaimed your flame,
your melody still rises—never ossified by shame;
and yonder in the quiet, where the sky and sorrow break,
Your song keeps beating unabated in the world’s collective heart.
Gaia in white flame burns
Yaldabaoth himself spurns
A second cycle turns
The Golden Age returns
The first-begotten son
Comes down from heaven’s sun
Barbelo, Armoured Queen
Look gently at this scene
Of Christ’s birth long foreseen
In this iron machine
Hearts of iron will melt
Hearts of gold will be felt
Hearts, gold and meek
Will rule from the word’s peak
Valis will rule and speak
With the lute of mystique
This birth in mystery
Will be our victory
As Polloi rules here
The first child will appear
Clearing the mist of fear
Every past sin and tear
Will be washed away
Clearing a narrow way
The world soul will rain down
Hedera all around
Lilies to make a crown
Acanthus for renown
Myrrh, gold, and frankincense
Without any expense
All goats will return home
All blind cobras that roam
Will be under death’s dome
Miles under farms and loam
Sheep will not fear lions
Men will see aeons
In the stream of Dead Sea
He’ll become a man free
Oak trees will weep honey
On every wild thorn-tree
Grapes will turn Persian plum
Gold will be the plain’s sum
But iron will remain
At sea, war ships will reign
Wars will bring pain
Walls will cover the plain
But when you will grow up
Gaia will drink the cup
Please, come soon, in our plight
You, the viceroy of might
The globe bows to your light
The earth and the blue height
Beseech you to be set free
From Yaldabaoth’s dark sea
You, our lord and brother
Child, smile at your mother
Speak words from the Father
If your lips will not stir
No light will bless your wine
And wisdom shall not shine
(Gnostic poem based on the ancient Roman Virgil's fourth eclogue, often interpreted as foretelling the birth of Christ)
"A man convinced against his own will, is of the same opinion still".
It used to be
two opinions
two paths
two ideologies
Two Choices
Day and Night,
Men and women,
Boys and girls,
Fathers and mothers,
Rights and the wrongs
open and closed,
gain and loses,
Lovers and the haters,
Good and evil,
Rich and poor,
Foolish and wise,
success and failure,
learned and unlearned ,
The living and the dead,
The willing and unwilling,
The thankful and thankful,
fruitful and unfruitful,
Righteous and the unrighteous.
the truthful and the Liars,
Then came
The "Vaxxed" and "unvaxed".
the sane and the insane,
Then they had a problem
as Nations bow to Socialism
and President becomes Dictators
and pharmaceutical made the world a Lab
and the media as viceroy
compel us by repetition.
The Wuhan experiment concealed,
A cunning craft, deliberate, devised.
A multitude, unwitting, marked as prey,
An agenda slowly unmasked.
The air grew thick with engineered fear,
Ideas forged to crown a viceroy of control.
“Mask up.” “Keep distance.” “Isolate.”
Thus began the reign of measured command.
Servants of the people turned to tyrants,
A chorus of unlearned voices in authority
Sudden experts in unseen sciences,
Breeding speculation without end.
Puppets stood as figureheads,
Echoing dictates to lesser thrones.
One continent acted, another imitated,
And others teetered on ideological cliffs.
Even distant lands bore the weight
A pressure felt like knees upon the neck.
Africa, cast as a waiting consumer,
Led by compliant and weakened hands.
Autonomy of body dismissed,
Leaders eager in their zeal
More devoted than doctrine itself.
A cure proclaimed for the unbroken,
Euphoria bottled, a patented promise.
Names were given like rites of passage:
Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, Omicron
Each a chapter in a calculated tale.
Profit saw its moment and seized it,
Shielded by laws from consequence.
Masses, unknowing, became the trial,
While the poison crossed all borders freely.
No sanctions. No reckoning.
Even as the architects gathered in celebration.
Dissenting voices swept aside,
Silenced beneath the weight of narrative.
Casualties mounted in quiet numbers,
While institutions aligned in silent accord.
A fragile illusion of safety endured,
Signed off by those unversed yet compliant.
The gullible stood in endless lines,
Welcoming the swiftest remedy ever known
An experimental vial dressed as salvation,
A gift disguised in polished deceit.
History’s warnings cast aside,
Reason surrendered to fear.
Humanity, stripped of its questioning mind,
Chose the needle over uncertainty.
Division followed swiftly:
The vaccinated cleansed and accepted,
The unvaccinated branded and confined.
Then came Omicron
A turning tide, defying design,
Unraveling the script as demand declined.
Billions amassed in silent gain,
Lives reduced to collateral cost.
And in the end, a quiet refrain remained:
No apology. No justice.
No recourse.
You cannot sue.
Written: November 20, 2025,
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We began as all combustions do—
a spark in the petiole of dusk,
Your voice is a mellifluous matchstick
against the grate of my solitude.
The air, thick with sky mist and serendipity,
tasted of carotene and sapidity,
and I, a rakish viceroy of yearning,
proclaimed our sanctity sacrosanct.
You wore your laughter as a radiant tiara,
and I, with slipshod hubris,
called it eternal.
We built a hearth from threadbare promises,
fed it with panegyrics and panacea,
raked the embers with doggedness
and called the smoke a symbiosis.
Even the nimbus above us
seemed to burn unabated.
But fire is a jinxed harbinger—
Its gospel is catharsis,
It's an altar, a hecatomb of touch.
Desire writhed into demand,
and the sanctity we once revered
became a palimpsest of blame.
You began to prowl the periphery,
a lynx in the cloudscape,
while I spasmodically clung
to the quixotic catchphrases
we once whispered sacred sacraments,
The luster dulled.
The wisteria wilted.
Our love, once amaranthine,
became a dismal quagmire
of somber glances and saccharine lies.
Even our silences had a sartorial weight—
tailored to wound.
Watch you disappear,
a nimbus ensnared within a beacon of light;
without your idolum, soul drifts in stillness
I endured it with profound dimness.
Humiliation woven into each witness.
Now, I sift through ash—
seeking a trace of what we once were:
a shard of sanctity,
the verve of vehemence.
But everything that hovers is the strange,
A haunting feeling of our split,
a deep, empty chasm carved out
in the codex carved in my rib cage.
And yet—
in this ruin,
this catharsis,
I find the quintessential truth:
that love, akin to fire,
is not meant to last—
only to metamorphose.
Written: December 10, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
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Ice is the ubiquitous viceroy,
a sovereign of silence,
Its crown an amaranthine shimmer
that mocks the sanctity of warmth.
The mountain breathes in chiaroscuro,
shadows ossified into marble frost,
while man, brittle and breviloquent,
offers a panegyric of footsteps
that vanish spasmodically into drifts.
There is no gregarious laughter here,
only the weltschmerz of wind,
It's inimical howl a hymn of acrimony,
It's persnickety teeth gnawing on bone.
The slope, a declivity of despair,
slips beneath boots with fickle quixotry,
and the body, once gamesome,
becomes a tristful husk,
a mondegreen of strength misheard by fate.
Yet within the stillness,
terms versus mere generic
aspects in multiple segments.
evoking the scent of lost shoes.
revered in their fragile blossom.
Man kneels before the ice,
not to abase,
but to find synchronicity in its stillness,
to view beyond its meretricious glitter,
to hear the palaver of silence
and understand:
the sanctity of frost
is the sanctity of self.
A godless mass afraid of Death,
though unfettered by rebellion against God.
Uneasy calm imposed by modern gadgets,
global alarm from nations once revered,
A surge of pestilence from the east
trans-versing the cope of earth,
undefined yet named,
A demon unleashed beyond proud science,
The Vain research for a cure,
speculations of empty brained Politicians
and the unending hyperbole of the media
increased trepidation for the unseen,
helpless physicians like simpleton
consenting to the foolery of Politician
defining cures by a mask,
promising relief by sanitizers,
Stay home, isolate and increase your depression by loneliness,
Freedom now mockery, liberty a lie.
compelled by their reset to change the order for another.
Billionaire proposing vaccines,
untasted by the speculators.
Yet the surge unrelenting they say',
is their imposed masks not cure?
Is the sanitizer not a relief?
the pestilence is resistant to their vaccines,
another mutation in Boris Britain they say,
A mockery of their solution,
the speculation a mere phantom.
Ignorant men as viceroy for the unseen realm,
global manipulation of a cult,
A stage for the Antichrist.
Summer crept in
slow, steady steps within,
dogged pacing of hot and humid days
mixed messages of spring slipping away
and summer waiting to climb
patient on the edges of space and time;
a butterfly, a gypsy moth, luna and imperial
others more plain and beautiful most ethereal
but when the time and temperature are just right
the multitude of butterfly kissed light
calls monarchs, morning cloaks,
and swallowtails to flight below the oak
a thousand species throng
clustered and separate floating along
when the flowers blossom and grow
wings of the butterfly flutter and flow.
The time of butterflies multi-colored palettes crest
the age of beauty's sweet undressed caress
an age unmatched, unprecedented
our temporary visitors and residents
their beauty, awes and delight
preparing for their southern flight;
winging in and lilting out like graceful eagles
Eastern tailed blues, white admiral , viceroy regals,
the list goes on as if a meditation
calming floating with little hesitation
the oranges, reds, sulfured tigers and swifts
ride the breezes and windy lifts,
here and there appears these natural gifts.
The keepers of the flowers’ secrets arrive in their season
Monarch, viceroy, red-spotted purples, given a good reason.
They bring fantasy and delight to the lilacs and bleeding heart.
Keeping their confidence is what they do so wise and smart.
Faeries and bumblebees try to get in on the confidence action.
But they end up not learning anything to the tulip’s satisfaction.
You see, the zebra swallowtails and orange sulphurs too.
Know how to keep secrets from the likes of them, me and you.
We hide in the meadow, and try to not look interested at all.
In swoops the great spangled fritillary, landing on lilac so tall.
We lean our ears toward the garden, acting nonchalant and lazy.
Fooling not one monarch or zinnia, delighting the lilies and daisy.
The tirade of the tyrant
Has subdued the trident
Gloating over the viceroy
It's the blood and sweat of
victory.
The subdued voice of defeat
Veiled in unapologetic defiance
Shedding secret tears of what could
have been?
What would have been in the hood
It's the defeat drenched in blood and
sweat.
The table is set for dinner,
Choice meats, mutton, chicken beef....
This is a parade of victory for the price
Of blood and sweat of the masses.
The meat is gorging on, the flesh is stuck between the teeth
A pain in the mouth, transversing the whole
polity
The bodies of the dead nationals crushed
A vivid reminder of the price of victory
Of shed blood and sweat.
(Written on the 15th April 2015, after the 2015 Nigerian Presidential elections)