A Queen by the name of Marie Antoinette
Member of the Eighteenth-Century Aristocracy Set
Told the peasants 'Eat cake,' then tossed them some crumbs
They tossed back a knife with a note ~ 'You die, you bum'
Little peasants gather fuel.
They stock their homes and gather goods
For they are getting ready for winter's rule.
For so in the deep woods,
Winter can be cruel.
There is snow, cold, and ice that doesn't melt.
The village is swallowed up by the reign of the frost.
Bitter and brutal elements will be felt.
The warmth will then liberate what was taken and lost.
The peasants will rejoice as they outlast what the winter dealt.
Year after year,
Poor peasants endure this savage test.
The worst of the elements will test their fear.
Then the earth revolves bringing warm comfort and rest.
Now the righteous spirits can rest here.
12/3/20
Quintain-Sicilian Poetry Contest
Emile Pinet
Who doesn't dream of dashing knights, nobility and power?
Fortune, fame, and glory are the ornaments of the past.
What family would not trade the humble cottage for the tower?
To shed the wretched sackcloth and sleep in silk at last ...
But hear me now, you spineless scum, my fathers were all peasants!
German and Czech farmers without a hint of kingly clout.
Generations passed; they toiled in the presence,
of dark, and grime, and poverty, and cold, and fear, and doubt.
And like the age-old Ithacans, they managed to survive,
How are you not jealous of their simple, quiet strength?
While kings and queens were stationed so as to greatly thrive,
My fathers and my mothers had to travel o'er great length,
To continue my ragged family tree down to when I was born.
I kiss with pride the gnarled roots, to which my fate is sworn.
Written for Ancestral Roots contest, sponsored by John Hamilton
You see us everywhere you go
Every corner of your street house our offspring
Every bridge in your city has become our refugee camp
We are the people you call peasant
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
You see us at the entrance of your estates
You see us at the gate of your beautiful companies
In search of what our mouth will feed on next
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
Our gradually fading skin
Now a sweet companion to the midnight moon and afternoon sun
We are the ones without homes
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
When bridges become forbidden by the law
We opt for uncompleted buildings
A few of us get lucky when it rains
And shield themselves under cars
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
We are the ones that beg for the remnant from your table
We are the ones life has just not been fair to
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
We are the ones that get poorer while you get richer
We are the ones that scramble for the leftover at your feast
We are the ones that fight for your used clothes
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
Peasants and Kings, in heaven are the same.
The angels and God do not continue man’s game
of separating the classes based on wealth or by birth;
There are no differences in heaven as down here on the earth.
Souls do not reflect the color of one’s skin.
Beyond the pearly gates there is no religion.
But then, the souls who make it there know this lesson so well;
Those who were prejudiced by differences all are in hell.
Kings always rule
princes always marry,
jewels of royalty
always glow through
castle windows
feasting and feasting,
plotting the next war scheme.
the poor smell the duck, the
gravy.
peasants dream of
beheading the commander
souls onced plan to unite for a
cause larger than themselves,
that day is lost
now we glorify their
stuffing feast
the feel of fitting in with them
makes you warm inside like a
shot
of whiskey.
you are connected with the
fame and fortune; but never
invited to a ball
tuning into your idols,
forgetfull
they have no recollection of
who you are.
time is wasted on a
meaningless mirage
keeping the peasants happy,
with their half eaten chicken
breast
Pitter patter on with perfect ambiguity
Knowing only the knolls of the knave
Brave, brave sir, mam, beware
Aristotle to Aristocracy, I dare
Peasants pair and say thou prayers
The dusk-walker approaches
You are now, the forgotten little roaches
Peasants of the Playbook
You’re peasants of the playbook
Yet you think you know the reason
For the failure of the team
That does the best it can this season
And, massing in the mews
You’ve raised the mewl to a mew
Questioning the mastery
Of a coach as good as two
By what method do you meter
The mettle of this man
He coaches and he councils
And he does the best he can
With material you’ve provided
He’s positioned at the mandrel
Where he hammers out their character
It’s more than you could handle
Your mantle flounces flutter
When subjected to such folly
Your seething is better served
If you’d support the coach, by golly
It’s then we’ll see the sextant
Guide the gridiron guild to glory
And add a happy chapter
To this teams’ historic story
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