Peasantry Poems

Nowhere People

Friendly user, you're so kind
When you stop to look around
I am standing right behind 
Like your shadow on the ground
We can't see us, we are nowhere 
Its the largest realm on earth
None of us dreamt to be there
Still we're nowhere from the birth 
We don’t know us, yet we are
Superfast to fall in love
And it lasts till morning star
Comes to shine from high above
Gone forever, we return
Everything looks quite the same
Since we left, no one concerned
What we are and who’s to blame
Nowhere people, you’re the nation
Of enormous quantity 
Frankly, all the population
Of the digital peasantry

BAMBOCCISTA van laer

small
  & minute
trivial
  in size
      &stature
puppet-like
    low life
rural
   peasantry
dislayed
history
in
jest
  of
     their
        day

The Devils Hue

I saw it longing for sovereignty and cynical toward chastity
I heard it unleash a perpetual claim
Let the swarthy be disdain
Subtle while shape-shifting our Constitution toward heavy discontent
I saw it force peasantry with disenfranchisement
Those disparaging eyes holding contempt for our very soul
I saw it most jovial when mayhem was in vogue
A phenomenal being wishing to hew the innate from its bough
I saw it reap and not sew
Hands of talons, satiated in blood
Dragging the wounded through mud
Its power was a noose called capital
Forever it will deride morality as if laughable
Red in hate, misery blue had white become
The Devils Hue

Barren Insight

I know
I do not know anything
yet I think

Thoughts are traveling 
this sense to that sense
roundly, like the oval earth 

Cultivating hybrid judgment 
now work of peasantry scrivener

Garden after gardens of insight
now barren pasture of tricky light
attracted many but sighted blind
 
One beautiful butterfly attracts 
thousands of bees to flowers garden
without honey who can quench the thirst!


-27.01.2021 Chattogram

Indirect

You say that I only can see the bad parts. You can tell by the rhyme that I wrote. If food you call good, was all that it should, why'd it have to be shoved down my throat?

Suppose I should tote

a dead scroll or an apochraphyctic lamb skin. Apocalyptic man skins, get walked on like crudely made danskins, and ever presence ever yields to ancient peasantry in fields. Will we ever get a shield from that son?

Will standing laws, or laws of nature, sanitize a mind set to statutory rape her, when she comes to my Mom's house in shorts?

Sanctified codifications, waxed melodic like the Haitians, remove the curses I hurl watching sports.

But what of the blade, be it metal or not, that slices skin, and pierces the chest?

Slice an apple open, and shove a hard candy in it. The harvest is over, and new winter soldiers shall propagate indirect witness.

Monarchy

last year's unplanted
milkweed pods are 
weighing happily 
not on my chest
of drawers but
my bedside
end table

beginning
to open on
their own even
oddly because the
only something that
might be soil is my must
be dirty bedroom allowing

them to reign and roam free
over dust tumble weeds and 
dandelion peasantry both
blowing in a draft's breeze 
around my room but the
regality can be milked
out of this weed

and and or but at
some time i think
i saw peripherally
black and orange
as my door hinge
spoke in a creak
that they were

here with me but 
when i woke was i 
a man dreaming 
that i was a butter
fly or a butterfly 
dreaming i was 
a man

Chineke Haute

she said he was a hoffknocka
a proletariat sort of peasant.
more so a woff doff casscul
a simon descendant of peasantry
he found comfort in poverty.
she refused to help him:
her brother whom
she loved as a child: but she
found it easy to walk on him
as an adult.
those whom you love
they all love me.
they despise you
they look to their world and hate
the fact fact that you are in it.
she makes him suffer
and has made his labor harder
she stands among those
who wishes him to be poor
that it's easier from her position
she sings dew-lay-mi in the night
might those who are in different to her
find comfort in helping him
endearing these positions
to generate nexting
from a new veiw
might he become n Ellitistic person from his
new found comfort
build
enbolden
and to empower

Tell It To the Mountains

Tell it to the mountains
tell it out loud that the world might hear
Wax up the steep and rugged hills, journey the valleys and fountains
tell them! oh tell them now that they are near

‘that there lived the casted stones
Let the world hear of their silent voices
‘though may come as echoes
Yet, in peasantry they live and make such loud noises

The worthless pearls have found their worth
they sought for noesis and were answered without delay
Tell it out loud for
the son and daughters of lay men are now of great names

Tell their success story
Tell them it’s not all irony.

©Emmiasky Ojex

Droppings From the Table, Part 1

The image burns within
my brain of an 
old medieval hall,
remembered from childhood
picture books.

The food is heaped
upon the board,
the shields are on the wall.
The lords and ladies
round the groaning table
flirt and watch the fools, 
the one in the silly hat,
and the others huddled
against the walls.

As the eaters of the banquet
gaily proceed on in
drunken bloated revelry
they display their earthly faults, 
with arrogance, 
to a huddled mud stained peasantry.

The bottom of the hierarchy, 
in the shadows serving, or
shut outside the door,
hope to get the garbage
leftover from these bores.
But before the lords and ladies leave,
to pursue their flirtations in
exclusive privacy, the hounds
are let in to lick the floor 
and eat the droppings and the gore.

Finally the fools from the shadows 
and the huddled groups outside
are allowed into the abandoned hall
to lick the plates, 
to glean whatever
greasy scrapes and food
have been left behind.

I think of this scene often
as I read the daily news

Money -A Cruel Agent 1

Browse through the history
Money is increasing industry;
Let it be business or peasantry
It is omnipresent mystery.
Everyone for it see palmistry
Ready for money do idolatry.
Money make man go to optometry;
It has capacity to test sociometry;
As without it there is no entry.
With main, welcome complimentary
For development of our poultry
In which we live and do sentry
Our future which acts on ministry.
Browse through the history
Money is increasing industry.

Encyclopedic

Wobbling wizardry waves wonderful wandering wilderness. When a beef cutlet equals two minus one h q it is said to be the time if the mountain rise. The mountain rise is a pagan peasantry. The origins span from the birth of the moon. It is time to grab those slices of bread to put with peas on a bus journey. It is time also to wear a sponge hat. Great isn't it. But the ludicrous notions of a multi tasking infestation of an sarcophagus is neither a shred of a word or a slice of a sentence. To be spoken with is subject to much change and charisma creates calm. Good. Wave not a vaporised bean bag at this time for attempting a tango on an escalator is inappropriate and not the way forward. So eat ninety boiled eggs whilst reading a sliver of truth. *** encyclopedia z

Shock Doctrine

We battle and quibble over numbers,
twenty, or forty, or fifty-three percent.
The bottom squeals as the beast still lumbers
over their desperate bodies. Screams will rent
the air that no one hears because all fight
for their own small crumb and piece of turf.
Paperwork splatters blood against the light.
The casualties mount and the suits will laugh
at fools eating their own. They too well know
that the greater the battle among their minions
that much greater the profits that will grow
in their hands. No need for shared opinions
of how the peasantry has been bullied,
none seem to notice that they are enslaved.

Beauty Curse

Itoro, most gorgeous of all
Blonde long hair, dropped through spinal
Brown bulgy pupil, her stare is a call
Ruby tender lips, her word is final.

Men craved for her pleasantry,
Her aura makes the devious act honest
 Elegance conceals her peasantry,
Dressed in a golden smile like a goddess.

Itoro longed to fall in love someday
But men dreaded her brilliant looks
Around her they flocked all day
Yet no appetite to eat what her heart cooks.

A too-good-to-be-true kind of lady
Every man’s dream, no man’s reality
A beauty admired daily, 
Yet a friendly hostility.

Itoro’s beauty was an exquisite curse,
Robbed her of her secret desire
Her goodness earned a wicked purse
Wishing to be born again, she needs a love-messiah.

Robert Burns P Is For Poet

Robert Burns  - P is for Poet.

Intro- Rabbie Burns stated on his deathbed on 27th July 1796 that he did not want the Awkward Squad i.e. Scots Military firing a tribute to him at his graveside.Burns wish was not granted and he died with full military honours with thousands lining the streets of Dumfries, Scotland.

At the graveside the Scots Military fired three volleys as the dirt was shoveled into his grave.


P is for Poet

Peasantry pulled by independent thoughts
Posthumous plaudits, academics besot
Penury not privilege, to which you were born
Poor ploughman's son, sowed our new poetic dawn

Prescriptions for passion and artistic artillery
Paradoxical pilgrim in heaven's distillery
Poetic pied piper, peat-fuelled injected ink
P is for poet, from your chalice we'll drink

Persecuted profile, diagnosis was death
Painful, your passing, blood in your last breath
Pistols point skywards, as Awkward Squad fire!
Pageantry and pomp as dying wish expires.


RIP ROBERT BURNS.

Robert Burns P Is For Poet

Robert Burns  - P is for Poet.

Intro- Rabbie Burns stated on his deathbed on 27th July 1796 that he did not want the Awkward Squad i.e. Scots Military firing a tribute to him at his graveside.Burns wish was not granted and he died with full military honours with thousands lining the streets of Dumfries, Scotland.

At the graveside the Scots Military fired three volleys as the dirt was shoveled into his grave.


P is for Poet

Peasantry pulled by independent thoughts
Posthumous plaudits, academics besot
Penury not privilege, to which you were born
Poor ploughman's son, sowed our new poetic dawn

Prescriptions for passion and artistic artillery
Paradoxical pilgrim in heaven's distillery
Poetic pied piper, peat-fuelled injected ink
P is for poet, from your chalice we'll drink

Persecuted profile, diagnosis was death
Painful, your passing, blood in your last breath
Pistols point skywards, as Awkward Squad fire!
Pageantry and pomp as dying wish expires.


RIP ROBERT BURNS.

• Short Peasantry Poems
• Famous Peasantry Poems
• Best Peasantry Poems
• Read Peasantry Poems
• Long Peasantry Poems
• Peasantry Quotes