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Joseph C Ogbonna Oct 2021
To what shall I liken thee?
An angel in realms above,
a mermaid in Oceans beneath,
a costly stone in the fiercest
contention sought for,
or even a costly diamond in the
earth's elusive epicentre buried?
Your beauty is a turning point
reference in your amazing book
of chronicles.

Napoleon Bonaparte
An imaginary love note to Josephine de Beauharnais(1763-1814) from Napoleon Bonaparte(1769-1821)
Joseph C Ogbonna May 2021
He that trod upon subservient Europe
with the imperial guards' fighting prowess,
did himself and his heartthrob the empress,
entrench thrones jointly owned by their hookup.
He that caused guns to rage on Europe's plains
and cannons to thunder on Egypt's sands,
sent hussars and mamluks to distant flight.
He usurped crowns for his dear siblings' gains,
and enthroned loyalists to head vanquished lands.
But was banished for good from France's sight
after a stunning loss on Belgium's plains.
Napoleon Bonaparte 1769-1821
Lice H-P Nov 2019
Tourists of Babel atop Primrose
Hill selfie themselves, ahem-
selves begging pardon via a system
of smiling encryption. Backdropped by the awful
cityscape, inhabitable
vases, gimcrack gazillionaire ivy-
skiving skyescapers, towers
of Baby
-bel, other architectural handcreamery
floating over the facade forest. But this is not the
brow of fashion for zeitgeist refugee l/ me, cord
blood golem bard from Norwich. Omitted,
unmentioned Ovid born in Tomis.

Anointed by absent (le neant) lightening,
netted by hauntological fronds, despite
hiding out for a daytrip amid the gross neon light
source of this nation. Little do the Yentobs
jogging off wine pods
suspect
I'm Bat-Banksy! Little do the Chinese students imagine
the Gaetan Dugas of X-Man AIDS slinks nondescript
amongst them, l/ a pest
in the street full of men.
Parallelweltseele on Shank's pony
does little really ; introverted manque Boney
an accretion of sensation by reading.  

Here is your mission should you come to accept
it: your own Joycean
torrent of neuroticism will dieball you, l/ an
emigree crispybit
in the corner of the lips of an otherwise fit
speeddate.
So I hone the stream of lowselfesteem, project it & dieball
Primrose poseurs l/ a lichwake
lynx. O Keats-spore carrier of Kett's hate,
helterskeltering l/ spirocletes. Yet they know so little,
little do they know I'm conspicuous
as Armageddon's last cop, w/ his phosphorous
badge, Mad Max panda, phasers on racist.

O conspicuous as a hyalescent skeleton
or a blanched shadow,
a blushing sadist or a moonlit sumo.
But I could administer closet osteopathy
to my own assassin I am so sneaky.
I don't produce an *** from a ukelele case
here upon this populous Primrose pisgah,
where the quidsinferno of Yentobopolis
lights (the gross neon light source
of this nation) will later
glarebrush globalist lego Babylon-don (still quaint
to Shenzhen speedhead scholars). I exfiltrate:
spy sped from the common of Mammon.

So mistigris melts back into the deck,
but not before I spray black alp bullets all
over this Faber-rattling montmarte of general
Camden fandom, vashion fictims & the Shenzhentobs
on their own undercover ops.
Tho' fear not: provincial shard on my shoulder
is just
a neckmounted knifethrower
of contemptus (mah niche!) mundi, courageous glowers.
Well I shake my histological, microsociological fist,
my Norfolkian neepy neaf, at the nonesoblind as those
admiring the pythogenic yuppie skyline thru Primrose-
tinted specs.
Jillian Jesser Nov 2019
I've never liked my name,
so I tell you to call me Josie.

The O, an arc over the roses of my childhood
the garden in the front yard
where I fell asleep listening to Ravi Shankars' sitar.
Slipping, dead to the world, among the night blooming jasmine.

A beautiful thing.

Tonight,
future uncertain,
the stone weight of your head, adrift in dream on my hip,
feels a comfort to my blues.

A beautiful thing.

Napoleon for his Josephine,
can feel
the breath that you leave heavy on my thigh.

A beautiful thing.
Mark Toney Oct 2019
Napoleon Bonaparte
1769 Corsica is where he got his start
One of the greatest commanders in history
His manner of death a 200-year-old mystery

Napoleon played it close to the vest
With his armies he was always the best
But 'twas nothing he could do
When he met his Waterloo
Lived his last few years under house arrest

Napoleon drank the water and headed for the loo
He did nothing different than you or I could ever do
Be kind to your skin and protect your bone-a-parts
Remember that's where good hygiene starts!
8/8/2019 - Poetry form: Clerimerick Couplets  (A hybrid form composed of a Clerihew, Limerick and 2 rhyming Couplets. The Clerihew has been described as the literate cousin of the Limerick.  So I thought, hey, why not get the cousins together for this one!   Then two rhyming couplets showed up to the party and voilà!  - Waterloo Clerihew 23-Skidoo! - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Joseph C Ogbonna Oct 2019
The canons thunder,
the rifles rage,
and the horses
like swarms of bees
storm the plains
of feudal Europe.
Her princes tremble
and willingly
capitulate.
Prussia's undoubtedly mine
from Bavaria to the Rhine.
Russia's dreary wintry plains
will be where my scepter reigns.
Italy is my inheritance
as Portugal dreads resistance.
Without the sword i'll woo Poland
whilst to her knees i'll bring England
and kingdoms of the British isles.
French civilization and styles
will dethrone Europe's old order
as our ideals expand further.
Napoleon's European conquest
Myrrdin Aug 2018
I weigh 1/4 of a blue whales heart
I am as tall as Napolean Bonaparte
I am as old as Oprah's Book Club
When I do not like myself
I think of these things
And suddenly, I look very different.
nmo May 2017
"Stress is caused by being ‘here’ but wanting to be ‘there’"
that's how a German author defines stress.

I read this quote
and write it down
in that tab I open
secretly at work
to avoid being
seen by my boss.

That tab,
that lives like a refugee,
like everything I like.

Buddha whispers to my ear,
-Attachment is the root of suffering-
with his funny accent
-The richest man is not he who has the most, but he who needs the least.-

I call into question
my arms race
against myself.
That cold war that started years ago
and never ended.

Yahve sets a
bush on fire
on the park
and talks to me.
He talks about
the promised land.
The same land he once promised
to Abraham,
to Isaac,
to Jacob,
to Moises,
to my grandparent,
to my parents.

And I then remember,
I am also a part of this exodus.

-the end justifies the means-
I repeat this to myself,
like a mantra,
trying to convince myself
as I see the parts of me
being left in the path.
The goal blends
into the horizon
like a mirage.

I see how other boys
come closer.
They are younger,
and run faster,
and better.

And I once was
one of those boys,
ready to run for days.
Privileged.
My parents ensure
my path has less rocks
and that my wall
(that wall people who run long distances know)
was lower and softer.

I see the corpses in the path
of the persons who weren't even able to see
the end.

My life is a constant wanting
to reach those lands
while I hate the desert
under my feet.
Sarah Michelle Apr 2017
Port Au Prince is also the color of the French Riviera
I remember Napoleon's failure
and how it felt to be banished from human touch
I can still hear the grandeur
I can still see the monument I made for myself
I miss Paris, I miss that kind of love
Port Au Prince is the color of *triomphe
Andrew T Apr 2016
When Napoleon walks into my house, he doesn’t shake my hand
Instead he nods, clears his throat, and says my other name, “Thien.”

“Chu,” I say. He sniffs the air like a K-9 from Denmark,
presses his lips into a line, like one found on a blank page,

like one found on a mirror, and like one found in McDonalds.
He smells the smoke from the Marlboro lights on my black-Tee shirt.

I reach into the pocket of my trousers, searching for cologne:
Tommy; ocean; breeze. It’s lost. I mutter, “son-of-a-bi—”

Chu stares, tries to punish me. I want to laugh, want to shrug.
“Anh-Thien,” says a young voice. I close my eyes. And see my cousin.

— The End —