One language connects the world

Two languages create confusion

Multiple languages lead to war.

From fire-lit caves to marble halls of Greece,
the tongue has spun its thread through war and peace;
each line a seed, each word a fire-forged blade,
to carve the truth no tyrant’s hand can fade.

The ancients claimed that verse was breath of gods,
a bridge from mortal mud to golden sods;
it shapes the air, it bends the mortal ear,
turns grief to stone and love to something clear.

It bears the whispers, secrets wrapped in rhyme,
a message crossing borders made by time;
the Greeks called it the breath of gods and madness,
a sacred chaos—beauty wrapped in sadness.

The pen becomes a loom where thought is sewn,
in silk of metaphor and blood of bone;
it lifts the weak, it chills the tyrant’s might
and gives a voice to throats once choked with stone and blight.

We write to burn a map of time’s vast sea,
to bind our ghosts, to name what yet may be;
to paint the beats beneath the human skin,
and catch the storms that rage too deep within.

For poetry is a secret, mirror, flame,
it crowns the nameless, gives the lost a name;
it tears the veil between the now and then,
and calls the dead to walk again.

From ink to tongue, from ear to eye,
it teaches how to live before we die;
no single truth, but many, woven tight,
a human lantern in this endless night.

They keep no jealous watch,
nor plot to cross each way.
He walks in robes of gold at dawn,
she drapes in silver’s sway.

He drinks from drifting clouds,
warm hands in mist and flame;
she whispers to the scattered stars,
and calls them each by name.

The stars are patient eyes above,
that glimmer, blink, and know
they watch when sun comes flooding in,
and when the moon must go.

They share the sky like quiet friends,
passing in gentle turn;
no envy in their changing light,
no shadowed wish to burn.

If only we were made the same,
to share this earth in peace
no wars to scorch, no hearts that break,
no cries that never cease.

To look above and learn their way,
how harmony is spun
to move with love through all our days,
as moon and stars and sun.

Oh, but to love this great land
beautiful, whole
I grieve for what you have become,
your proud embers now shallow ash.

Once, your hand extended care and love
What has become of you over these fallen year?
overrun by tyrants and thieves,
looting these fine soils for selfish gain.

Where is the hand of care?
Your hand now grips the throats
of every honest man, woman, and child,
choking hope and dreams from every mind and soul.
Bodies toil through day and night
to feed your ever-growing greed.

Oh, land of hope and dreams
where have you gone?
Who is this that steals the souls of so many?

Leadership of fools
you dealers of incompetence and corruption,
unworthy kings upon thrones of gold and myrrh,
chariots laden with coin you did not earn,
waited on hand and foot in castles of stone, feasting while your children starve
while people drown in debt and lost hope.

You take and plunder
raising your keep with each day
while the land lies unwatered,
its fields dry,
its people hungry
as your bellies swell.

Thieves and convicts have stolen
what once was proud.
You live on the past and call it fairness.

Oh country of mine,
why do your arms no longer hold me with care?
How can we be the victims of servants
who know only how to destroy, loot, and lie?
Incompetence knows no bounds among you,
yet you walk without shame.

If you fell to a breeze that blows in from the north,
how could I defend you,
when my own people have done more harm
than any bringer of peace could do?

I cannot pledge loyalty
to systems that oppress the innocent
to what has become broken,
fallen to the wills of evil men.

Oh God of this earth
how could you let this great land
fall into the hands of plunderers and liars,
those who breathe corruption
and silence truth?

Freedom does not live here.
Mothers cry for their lost children,
fathers are gone,
streets lie empty under the glare of lamps,
for none dare walk that road.

They say this land is not mine
but I come from your soil,
born of your dust.
How can any man claim ownership
over what was never sold,
but created?

I see how evil hearts poison you,
Oh country of mine.
Your rulers speak with forked tongues,
weeping only when the world’s arms withdraw
and your tables grow now bare.

Oh beautiful land
when will it end?
When blood slicks the streets?
When the sky burns,
the ground shakes,
and bodies scatter the fields
where no seed will grow
and the soil runs red?

What happened to freedom?
To building a future
for those yet to come?
Now they steal from the unborn
and blame the children for their fathers’ sins.

When will peace and prosperity return?
When will your arms hold all
born of this ground?
Foreigners come to plunder,
kings dine on wine,
and I wonder

Is God watching?
Why dont you answer my prayers
or cleanse this land of corruption and hate?
Will He bring unity among its children
or must the hand of peace
come from distant soil
to bring order where none exists?

In the woods where fireflies kiss the gloom,
Where hearts float soft like sweet perfume,
She walks in red, a queen unsaid,
Mistress of the forest eternal bed.

Crown of gold, hips of sin,
She draws the wolves, she pulls them in.
They growl and prowl on hands and knees,
For just one whisper on the breeze.

Her laugh? A charm. Her stare? A spell.
Her touch? The kiss between heaven and hell.
And oh — when she pouts, the stars fall down,
Just to light her wicked crown.

She sways in a scarlet leather dress,
Tight with hunger, stitched to impress.
Its curves conceal her secret scripts,
Heart-shaped tattoos on blood-red hips.
And when they stare, too long, too near
She binds them fast with cuffs so dear.

Her wrists gleam red — enchanted bands,
That tie down takers with trembling hands.
She pulls them close, then lets them drown,
In moans that echo underground.

They come in tens, they leave alone,
Their hearts turned dust, their spines like stones.
She calls, they crawl, no will, no wall
They rise, they chase, they beg, they fall.

One by one, they lose their name,
Tamed and burned in passion’s flame.
For just one taste, they lose their soul,
She takes the part that makes them whole.

She don’t just rule — she plays, she wins,
She dances barefoot on their sins.
And when she winks, the world gets loud,
She’s got them barking, proud and bowed.

Her dress is tight, her hands are bare,
But no one dares to stroke her hair.
Unless she lets them — then beware,
She rides them down with primal flair.

The forest sparks at her command,
With glowing embers in the land.
They float like stars around her trail,
Each one a man she made grow pale.

Takers take, but takers pay,
Mistress Red don’t play that way.
She’ll ride your pride like a cursed parade,
And leave your lust in her forest laid.

So if you hear a sultry sound,
Deep where nymphs and roots are bound,
Think twice before you kneel and frown
She’s got a crown,
And always down to go downtown.
She’ll strip to bra and scarlet gown,
Then ride you raw and wear you down

A Poem about Montego Pet Food

Montego came in a bright, proud bag,
Promised wagging tails, no hint to nag
But my dogs, they coughed, they cried, they spewed,
Farts like storms, and bellies skewed.

Diarrhea flowed like a nightmare flood,
Vomiting streaked with fear and blood.
Scratching madness, skin on fire,
Eyes gone dull, their joy expired.

I dug through pages, found the same
Other hearts broken by that name.
Many cries on Hello Peter’s floor,
An forums stacked with sick dogs’ galore.
Mould in chunks, worms in the feed,
Fed to dogs with careless speed.

Some said it killed, and watched them fade,
Yet Montego smiles like they’ve been played.
Send your complaint—they’ll feign surprise,
Act like truth’s a sudden guise.

But scroll the forums, read the thread,
It’s all been spoken, all been said.
So tell your friends, your neighbour too,
Skip Montego this product they’re selling you.

If the store still stocks that sack of lies,
Turn your heels, let sales demise.
Because fur-babies trust in YOU..
And Montego’s food is not what I choose.

Run From the Small Fires
Do not let fickle minds smudge your still water.
Some carry only mirrors,
so they may admire themselves
while pretending to measure the world.

They duel for the crown of a thimble,
brandishing rules like rusted keys
to a door that opens onto nothing.
They will spoil the wine of your words,
turning the vintage to vinegar.

Do not linger in the marketplace of fools
where voices are loud,
but the wares are air
and the applause is the dry clap of moth wings.

Smile.
Wave.
Swallow the ember that wants to leap from your tongue.
Better a silent oath under your breath
than the long scrubbing of their smoke from your skin.

Avoid their hands
sticky with the tar of self-importance.
Avoid their feasts
a table heavy with arrogance
but starving of truth.

Wisdom sits in a cathedral larger than pride,
its spires lit by questions,
its stones carved by humility.
Those who dwell there
have no time to throw pebbles at passers-by.

So run.
Run from petty brawls and papier-mâché crowns.
For to argue with a donkey is to bray in chorus,
and to wrestle a bull is to be flattened beneath it.

Leave them to their puddles.
Your river has farther to go.