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Billie Jama Poem
The moonlight bathed her cell in pallid light while she sat hunched over her desk, clutching her pen between her confound fingertips. As she bled ink of symphonic symphonies yearning to break free, dancing like ethereal fireflies in the dusky barren lands.
Exiled by the hypocrisy of bureaucracy bounding her liberations and confounding her alliterations in a poetic prison. In this twisted virtual reality, duplicitous usurpers roam freely, weaving webs of deception with malicious delight.
As the chains of bureaucratic red tape clung to her delicate wrists, suffocating her imagination and confiscating her freedom of speech.
Oppressors rejoiced at achieving their vindictive objective, silencing the profound beauty of her verses and incarcerating her poetic stanzas
Woe, how the audacious bars of administrative constructors cast a pall of despair upon her unifying spirit. Her delicate offerings of metaphors and sonorous stanzas, whispered secrets which craved to be heard.
The faulty haters' impervious hearts were armoured with verdant envy which remained shielded behind the ruling dogma.
Her supporters calls of injustice to be rectified fell on deaf ears while the galvanizing melodies of empathetic quills bled for the Empress of Ink.
So we must be louder.
Hear our protest, release our Empress! Unsheathe her rhythmical rhymes! For her penmanship was never the true crime. She was just another victim of an envious mob.
Can they not see? That her absence coursed a crater larger than the Grand Canyon.
We shall not, shall not be silenced so hear our mutiny!
Reinstate our Empress, restore her creative sovereignty.
Remove the shackles of authoritative administration, as her voice is a beacon of truth, resilience and poetic revolution. So let her ink stain our community with its brilliance once more.
Copyright © Billie Jama | Year Posted 2023
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Billie Jama Poem
Encased in an isolated castle of an old fool’s paradise,
A decaying dagger rests upon a distressed oak table.
Frayed book pages scatter across termite-riddled floors.
The calligraphy carries echoes of triumphant battles,
Vividly etched in ink.
A revered legacy is forgotten in decades of decay,
Its inked glory fading into disarray.
Reminiscing of bygone days when youth was a sturdy partner at my behest,
Now weathered crimson dahlias adorn the windowsills
Of a desolate dynasty,
As the last petal falls.
Echoes of faded footsteps can be heard within the empty halls of waste.
What remains is a golden crown with sanguine marquise
Resting heavily upon an exile’s head.
How do I conquer the bloodstained fear trickling within the fractals,
Reflecting off the scorching sun that swallows flames,
Swirling around the ashen pyre
Of the poetic corpses I’ve slain for validation?
An inquisition paints a vicious vermilion
Within the sobbing stained glass.
The once-perfect porcelain flesh of our legacy is flayed,
Surrounded by the whispers of forgotten souls.
Cobwebs drape over shattered dreams,
As beams of light punctuate looming shadows.
Concealed beneath cold stone lies the family crypt,
Patiently awaiting its reluctant visitor,
Beckoning the exalt through clandestine corridors.
Within the hushed chamber of undying slumber,
He recalls the tragic tale.
Before him stand his beloved wife and children,
Forever ensnared in the clutches of eternal sleep.
Echoes of the past replay like eerie shadows,
Retelling the grim chronicle of their demise.
His envious, wrathful younger brother succumbed
To the greed of his own ambition.
In the darkness hour of that dreadful night, the dagger-wielding usurper
Plunged their existence into oblivion,
Casting spirits of suppressed speeches to weep
Within wailing walls.
Now I am the cerulean dusk of the gloaming,
A burnt-out waxen ivory,
The candle before their tombstone.
Copyright © Billie Jama | Year Posted 2025
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Billie Jama Poem
The whirlpool stars of the Milky Way appeared when she was feeling grey.
Mother-of-pearl constellations shimmered across her skin in the candlelight.
Saturn’s red rings spiraled wildly at her climax—
A solar flare unleashed in breathless surrender.
Turquoise desire bled into solemn greys,
And those greys married verdant dreams, swirling in slow motion.
To gaze at her was to weightless drift in a heavenly sky,
A vacation from this unforgiving world.
Her allure was all-encompassing, enchanted and unique,
Spiraling me into a pheromone-induced high
Each time she glided by like moonlight on water.
She was a celestial mesh of chaos and charm
Unreachable, until the universe paused and she murmured, stay.
Copyright © Billie Jama | Year Posted 2025
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Billie Jama Poem
The yellow neon sign casted a glow upon his chiselled cheekbones as the bustling sounds of a city that never slept droned on.
He carried his troubles with him, like a worn out cloak, weighing him down in his every step. His mind was entwined in a thorny thicket.
He has been haunted and bewildered since his introduction to her in a smoky speakeasy.
She was a siren shadow amongst strangers of the night, whispering his name in the breeze, intoxicating his psyche with a tempestuous flame.
She entangled him in a perilous dance, playing a game of chance.
Their encounters were like unbridled wildfires. She captivated him, consuming his soul with her potent allure. He felt engulfed, delicate as a feather in a storm, swept away by her force.
However he was a moth enticed by a relentless flame, she incinerated his dreams and made him feel hopeless. In the end, he succumbed to the hounds of disassociated reality.
His story concluded in tragedy, leaving his loved ones cries to echo through the empty streets of a heartless city.
Copyright © Billie Jama | Year Posted 2023
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Billie Jama Poem
pine cones drop like tears
from a weeping willow's bough
autumn's gentle grief
burnt orange cake spread
on the bottom of our shoes
amber hues take hold
gales of wind gust strong
over beds of crimson rust
uncovering seeds
Copyright © Billie Jama | Year Posted 2024
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Billie Jama Poem
This responds to “Operation Raise the Colours,” where some have painted the St. George’s Cross across streets, roundabouts, and takeaway shops. Claimed as patriotism, these acts are vandalism and an attempt to erase community spaces and stirring division.
Red bleeds across zebra lines,
slick on high street asphalt,
smearing over takeaway shutters,
stretched across roundabouts, stubborn as lead.
Rollers scrape and flake,
pigment cheap, sunlight shakes it loose,
drips into puddles,
history seeping through plaster,
like damp under primer that never hides the past.
The streets run red and white,
paint claimed by hands insistent on marking stone, brick, asphalt—
silence made loud in streaks and drips.
Roundabouts stand proud under fresh layers.
Slash Dulux over despair—
coverage meant to hide, but failing.
Paint bleeds over more than tarmac—
onto takeaway windowpanes, footpaths, shop signs—
a mural of identity, impulse, defiance.
Undercoat logic tries to cover the past,
but no sealant ever lasts.
Brushstroke patriots,
emotion disciples,
armed with rollers like substitute rifles.
The painting’s wrap is hollow,
decorating decline as if it were fate.
Every slogan,
a stencil sprayed on the breeze.
Pigment flakes with ease,
truth showing through the layers.
Heritage red becomes eviction scarlet,
brilliant white papered over target.
Crowns drip Crown paint onto stone,
monarchs in tester pots,
empires reduced to monochrome.
Borders cut by shaky hands,
masking tape straining against the straight line of intention.
Private bleeding edges,
lines never straight.
Revolutions run off into puddles of hate,
mirroring the sky distorted,
clouds stretched, colors torn thin.
Tins are stirred, paint slapped on the ground.
Every revolution circles round,
because property cannot be glossed,
despair cannot be mapped.
Whitewashed roundabouts cannot hide the cracks.
Paint peels, drips, bleeds into puddles,
but the fissures of history remain—
veins in stone, stories in asphalt,
layers no roller can erase.
Crowns, crosses, streaks of red and white
twirl and fall like the last dance
over streets that remember,
over walls that refuse to forget.
The cracks take the floor,
silent but insistent,
and they will not be painted over.
Copyright © Billie Jama | Year Posted 2025
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Billie Jama Poem
you dismantled my
wisteria-covered walls,
unraveling my defenses
like frayed silk...
my nights are now
painted with your kisses
soft as twilight spilling
across an oasis
in an Arabian desert...
I am lost in the
reminiscence of your rays~
the taste of sunbeams
sweet yet sharp citrus
tantalizing my tongue ...
the warmth lingering
long after the moonlight
on meadows that have faded...
but beneath this bliss
breathe a
lagoon of lemonade lies
where truth dissolves
in the tang of deceit
in the form of a mirage
as the veil slips
my exposed heart~
now bearing the
embroidery of your poetry
subtly sewn in
demure damask hues~
feels each word
as a poking plunge
of the needle
weaving through
the fabric of my being
binding me to
the memories we’ve created...
yet with every stitch,
I wonder if I am adorned
or undone~
whether this beautiful façade
Is a gift
or a curse,
f o r e v e r
trapped in
this poisonous paradise...
Copyright © Billie Jama | Year Posted 2024
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Billie Jama Poem
A clenching of our hands,
A clinging of our bands.
The sweet aroma of your strawberry-coated strands,
Allow my capability to disarm your fragility.
Pent-up anticipation will meet expectation,
You adorn your shield-maiden attire,
Encouragement to set your onyx rose on fire.
Peeling, petal by petal, stitch by stitch,
Disarming that body metal.
Steel-clad discarded,
Billowing towards her pear-shaped derriere.
Lifting you off your feet,
Give me the sweet treasures I wish to taste—
The nectar of vanilla.
Lay back as I extract
Bridled years of frustration.
Call me your salvation,
Made anew,
Basking in the afterglow of you.
Copyright © Billie Jama | Year Posted 2025
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Billie Jama Poem
steal your thunder?
never.
i’d rather weather the storm with you,
holding hands through the hail.
cocooned by a love so rare,
i’m proud to be your equal,
your shelter,
your fellow poet
stitching stanzas in the sky
Copyright © Billie Jama | Year Posted 2025
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Billie Jama Poem
Veiled smiles conceal a multitude of unseen woes~
inner turmoil, tear-stained cheeks, and layers of distress all masquerade behind a mask of joy.
However, gleaming eyes, gilded and glistening,
expose the truth that heartache’s hurricanes can not contain.
Copyright © Billie Jama | Year Posted 2024
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