"commoners" poems
In time you’ll recover and absolve
push those scorned impressions aside
hammer down the jaded edges
and sing
that delightful commoners song
the one you sang so well
in what seems a lifetime ago
You really had it you know
that fiery disposition and nimble cunning
those butter chords and derelict style
we could see it -- we could all see it
it was all it took to turn the evening tide
(and rile that buck fever)
heads bashing
tongues lambasting
middle fingers high
and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen
There were no rules
when it came to your survival
no textbook rally or common bond
no structured songbird or bravado stage
you either made it, or laid it
“life by the ***** Mr. Poppy would say
a kaleidoscope of dreams
with rich colored imagery
hardened artisan seams
in a carefully woven motif
But something got lost in the needle point
something sinister and distorted took hold
the quirks and street genius
that were your lifeline
gave way to grunts
and squeals
and chilling night crawlers
the colors faded quickly
to a cold confining grey
There was no grace in the new world
no retribution or switch back
no salvation or accorded finale
only edged platforms of blackened steel
that kept you cased
in a silent vanquished cell
shivering cold with fear
night without day
all in the shadow of death
But time heals all
and the polish sneakers
and open sores are long gone
(though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain)
indeed the falconer beat the widow maker
this go around
and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again
and if it does you’ll see me
standing hand on heart
with that old verse in hand:
he ain’t tainted
or silly,
and most certainly
not forgotten…
he ain’t loony
or fixed,
or a product of his self-doing…
he’s just a straight shootin’ guy,
who had the most of it
figured out
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Dig the ground,
Deeper & broader,
Large enough to accommodate,
And peacefully lay us,
The commoners to rest,
Without causing any disturbance,
To the Clout-clad looters.
Don't rest till you collapse lifelessly,
Into the mud extracted for digging,
Digging their trap deeper enough,
Deeper enough for all the clout,
'Cause you wouldn't even want,
Their zombies to be turn-out,
Escaping out stark naked,
Out in future to plight,
****** and blight,
Pester and fester
The future generation.
Oh but do we not know,
They will survive and flourish,
Indian or Russian or American or British,
The clout will always be there to suck/eat,
**** blood and eat meatballs,
Why they will survive,
And why the civilians suffer isn't riddle.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
The Orions, mysterious forces who contacts the witch,
When She is ready to be sworn,
In secret they teach Her how much the soul is rich,
Some think they're are Goddesses, Spirits or even Norn,
She studies all truths in secret,
Energy is always knowledge,
But due to humanity's key weakness,
Their own Truth, Potential, they can't acknowledge!
She studies Magik and Spirituality,
Nothing more commoners hate: a shining light,
Knowing witches didn't win often in history,
Alone She stands, alone She became bright.
Yet one day The Orions appear,
For the Witch is now ready,
She becomes Wise, all fears disappear,
The Illumined path she travels; Perceptive and Steady.
Truly when you are truly yourself,
You see life's true beauty,
And the Witch is forever blessed,
One day...
She will join the Orions, Becoming A Witch for Eternity
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
As he stepped into the ring,
Everyone his name did sing.
They wanted him to win
The title, for the commoners.
The title in his last fight.
He was out of practice,
His reflexes had slacked.
Gloves, boxers, guard, did him justice
There was something which he lacked.
Lacked in his last fight.
Before he could hear his favorite song,
Followed by the nerve-racking gong.
He had a look around
To catch a familiar sight,
Have a look at her before his last fight.
He checked the stands,
Then glanced around the ropes
And before he had given all hopes
He heard a familiar sound
Right before the first round.
Go hubby go! Punch him left and right!
She screamed with all her might.
Putting a smile on his face,
And then he boxed like an ace.
Winning the title, just for her.
The title in his last fight.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 10:51 PM UTC
I exhale.
As I fade from this life, I’ll float into the next and to eternity. I am so deeply enveloped in this world that I dissolve into all the others. My body will decompose, and I will exist again as a new collection of atoms.
I suppose through delusional, philosophical excuse I am connected to this world. And I suppose that stardust constellates and buries themselves in my bones. So I must grow in dimensions greater than height, width, and length.
But the veins of this new world are thin wires of cables and in complex codes and formulas are sent to and received by another motherless machine. Although, I’d rather break these wires and create a spark that can be felt rather than seen.
Let me ignite a craving under the continents and satisfy a spark that cannot be replicated by plastic or manipulated into energy. Let me feel the pressure of the world and the thick atmosphere that caves my posture. Let me once more feel by the fibers of kings and commoners that lace through my veins.
The world is deteriorating and has been left so deprived of life’s ecstasy that it is now hollow and I can only hear my own echoes.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
I am the oak bent or' and aged
That once stood brave as natured raged
the lines were drawn the battle staged
and man with time compassion caged
I am the field scarred by each track
that shared the weight of soldiers pack
and too felt pain from shell and flak
and those gone forth no more came back
I am the breeze scented with death
as noxious gas inhaled as breath
sent young men blind without the f
and yet their leaders ears were deaf
I am the rain washed or their blood
and roused the poppies from their bud
to honour all whom fought for good
but died before they ever should
I am the cross the epitaph
the stolen kiss the chance to laugh
when young men walked the broken path
of anguish and the aftermath
I am the note that says beware
tread lightly here with tender care
for fresh eyed boys with features fair
bore arms for you now your weight bare
I am the oak with shrapnel scars
that guides their souls to waiting stars
where commoners prop up the bars
toasting their faith with three hoorars
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
Birds chirp, the winds blow,
And as the sun sets, we give the day a bow.
Clean Colorado accommodates commoners from Lincoln's Land.
We've ditched the silt and the sand;
Stranded in a glimpse of a possible past, here I stand.
Elated by elevation, tranced by trepidation,
the group's gaze encounters a misty haze,
Followed by copious amounts of precipitation.
Pick up the pace; though we won't win the race
To the dry car and a full case.
Hell is the home of a heathen's heart;
Heaven holds promise a bright new start.
Existence on earth extends only for so long;
For now we're here, soon to be gone.
Early mornings shed light on a promising day;
Late nights cast spells we drunkenly obey
Perched in a chair by a growing fire,
the consuming flames ascend higher and higher.
Ignited embers blown astray,
Trails of smoke follow its prey.
Back on the highway.
Homeward bound, the only sounds
Are the stories and gestures that say
Not what we lost, but what we found.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 10:27 PM UTC
A child without water,
a rich man drinks his coffee.
A father unable to provide,
a rich kid gets a new car.
A mother lies awake, body ravaged by AIDS,
while the Hollywood hills expose their costly ills.
The dream of equality is nowhere to be found
while the lives of the many are repressed and pushed down.
Executives and suits lived gluttonous youths
while a father works to death to fill his children’s mouths.
There is a solution to this problem of society,
one which the telethon celebs won’t give up quietly.
It doesn’t involve guilt-trips on TV.
It doesn’t need attention constantly.
Socialites shouldn’t seek their own satisfaction
if the only result is our continued inaction.
What is really necessary, what really needs doing,
is to get out there and get ourselves moving.
It’s the work of us commoners
that will fill up the bellies.
It’s the donation of the middle class
that will educate young ladies.
The revolution of giving needs to be started
or else who will care when our own lives grow stunted?
The world all together relies on us all
to give out our hand and make our brothers stand tall.
It’s these simple acts which will strengthen the pillars
of mutual respect for our society’s sisters.
So don’t wait any longer for a celeb to rise up.
It’s these people below them who’ll fill up the cup.
No debutante or heir can fill every belly
by thinking of their pride and unearned glory.
Never before has it felt so right
to be the common man, helping a peer in his plight.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:16 AM UTC
we did not Dye in vain!
by michael r. burch
(from “songs of the sea snails”)
though i’m just a slimy crawler,
my lineage is proud:
my forebears gave their lives
(oh, let the trumps blare loud!)
so purple-mantled Royals
might stand out in a crowd.
i salute you, fellow loyals,
who labor without scruple
as your incomes fall
while deficits quadruple
to swaddle unjust Lords
in bright imperial purple!
Originally published by The American Dissident
Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!
Keywords/Tags: royal, purple, imperial, Tyrian, Byzantium, porphyry, swaddling, clothes, porphyrogenitos, mollusks, sea snails, royalty, kings, lords, emperors, popes
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 4:35 AM UTC
If you found it Buggersome that I Cry
Yet keep the Tears which solicit the Rain
Those were really yours; Apart which I lie
Would cower the Deed which summons the Pain
And Pain - this un-needed - turns the Ego sour
Then from Wise Mouths state Abandon precise
Normal for Commoners in Easy Hour
To shut the Door by Frustration concise
Then, do forget the Elder's Timeless Thought
Of Partners nurture from Time's Honour brew
That, you see, Instant Pimps' Deception caught
And turn Gold Devotion to Sin a-new.
Perhaps if She subscribes to your Profile
Would you Consider; That your Truest Smile.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
There is a weird
And not so wonderful fetish
Particularly British
Common
Amongst commoners
In the United Kingdom
Although the aristocracy
And royalty
Are seen by all
With eyes to see
To have behaved
Abominally
Tortured and twisted
Enslaved, enchained
***** re-shaped
With bloodstained hands
The entire planet
Sending ordinary
More innocent
English men
To do their ***** work
Their dastardly
Disastrous deeds
As slaves of knaves
Through common British eyes
These horrible people
Are placed high upon
Holy pedestals
Romanticized
Idealized, Idolized
Canonized
Perhaps there's some
Vicarious thrill
Exercising
Enforcing
Power and evil will?
But the hand no pleasure gets
When, through rubbing, wets itself!
Sean Hunt
Windermere January 1st 2016
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
The Muted Commoner
You don't see them,
......Just past them......
Speak but unheard,
perforce, thus, muted,
against their will
blogs bread unread uneaten,
poem orphans better than us,
vine ripened unto death
Truly dare you say I/you the better?
Shamed heat, you spit,
outed, no penance offered,
non granted,
the forgivers are muted too
**so this be your charge,
so this be your salvation:**
free the mutes from the trance -
exhume, exhort find them
in the back pages, then
acknowledge that we are all
Muted Commoners.
find the poem unread,
revive it with a read, a heart,
and then you can speak your
Peace.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
A price that’s in the men shoes
He’s unclaimed and well schooled
Act his rhymes n’ mimic his friend too
Make him understand our sweeter shoo
Blend to been online with his touchy tools
Then play him around n' bring him to us too
Wherein he'll crave more for our added duties
A pleasure to bend n' subdue his struggling pities
And so you try to get me for all the monies n' fame
Hoping that my heart do cringe to the gains and aims
For in most man’s heart lies some greed n' impurities
But that testimony was short-sighted n’ less accurate
Dunamis and poverty - a borrower, the lender's slave
An experience to fail my rapture; a shameful swing
Which my hands cannot say – an immoral beauty
Whom my lips can not welcome; the school
The teacher - the minister
A princess n’ a bling
A frog as a king
He’s handsome
By gender
She's beautiful
in slander
A prince
An offender
A princess
The slanderer
The princess and a king
A soldier n’ a fling - a queen who’s ashamed
The offer that topped the shelf of supreme
That's us, both upside down and unclaimed
A soldier n’ a queen - a coward, a shame
The prince and a fling
A miss
A glamor
A mister
An amour
Unashamed
With clamor
Unmoved
By hammers
A miss in a glamour
A mister in an amour
The minister and a king
The majestic of single shoes
Who's keen to sense a moral beauty
Who sees the world as an interesting chaff
Dominate n' commoners; a sense of duty that
All must claimed from their individual combat
For in most men heart, here lies love n’ cruelty
To flamed the hearts n’ dance to pains n’ strife
So I sought to seize the life of love and Faith
To pursuit a walk of dreams n’ less blemish
Where little is important than odd duties
Like turn me around and teach me you
Teach me to see another man’s shoot
Make me enjoy that creepiness too
Shade my mind and my drink too
Cause I’m unclaimed n’ uncool
A vice that's in a male shoes
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:33 PM UTC
If every noble cause,
Is mocked by the commoners themselves;
If every good inference,
Is taunted and berated relentlessly;
If all one gets by trying,
Is being brought down using the name of almighty himself,
Then
I don't wanna be good in this world.
If every selfless devotion,
Is only to be taken granted;
If egoistic attention,
Is all that deserves love;
If love is no more,
Than a squabble and a source of hideous pleasures:
Then
I don't wanna be good in this world.
If procurement
Has become more important than the heart;
If anxiety,
Is something people use for diligence;
If sympathy and sorrow,
And not care
And ONLY care
Is what one uses for getting love;
Then
I DONT WANNA BE GOOD IN THIS WORLD.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 12:39 PM UTC
*Electric Fire
Liquid Desire
Purged Mists
Lost Restrains
My mind was born in dark abysses
From destructive rebellion inside of me
I see the world in colors of traitorous death
I can feel a brotherly hand of the devil
I've thrown off the shackles, shackles rounded by the thorn
I've killed the weakness, weakness designated to commoners
The covenant signed in childish ignorance
Broken as a fruit from paradise garden
I've entered the palace of free hellish elites
Living behind a grey, wormy nest
I've cut the umbilical cord, an umbilical cord filled with venom
I've thrown away my memories, cursing all the past.
20-05-2015
02:55 AM*
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 9:42 AM UTC
Corruption
is an overflowing
abundance of inadequate language.
As few will fathom
the misleading of those in lead,
and those who think they see
may be mislead;
even more than those who don't.
Our ends
are never the beginning
madmen are not our conquerors
but instead the folly of commoners.
It was our lack of a auspicious aptitude
that begets us to lament
even the foggiest of concepts
beyond our notion to conceive even simplicity.
It was only eager creatures
that yearned for the world to be theirs
so instead of uniting the kingdom;
we were segregated into classes
and left without language to communicate.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
Between
Black and White
Right and Wrong
War and Peace
lies the
Gray zone the
Blurred line
Middle ground
Limbo
No boundaries between
Good and Evil
Moral and Amoral
Thin ice and
Solid ground
No safety net to prevent slipping into extremes
No caution signs or flashing lights to guide our steps
We live and die in a
Fairy tale with alternate endings penned by
Politicians
Media moguls and
Religious fanatics who
Convince us to
Choose from a stacked deck to
Win a fixed game
Compliment us on our finery
tho we are threadbare or naked
We live in the land of the free where the
Rule of law applies only to commoners
Opportunity comes with a price few can afford and
Everyone has the
Right to work and the
Right to be exploited
You might be dwelling in the kingdom of surreality if….
Conflicting images are presented as harmonious
Opposites are blended to form bland
Ugliness is sugar-coated and swallowed whole
Love and passion interfere with success.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
A young man with tattoos
walked in to the café.
He examined two chairs
at the empty table
in front of me.
He cupped his chin with one hand.
He silently compared the older chair
with the torn, dilapidated seat cushion
to the newer chair that still had a black metallic shine.
He picked up the beaten chair
and carried it to the table behind me
to join his friends.
That’s how we define ourselves,
our class, our place in the world.
Some people believe they deserve
the best seat in the house.
Others believe themselves second class,
commoners whose insecurities run rampant.
We do it to ourselves.
No matter which seat we take,
every one of us
knows love and hate.
We all fight and struggle.
We are all unique.
We are all the same.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
....this poem is dedicated to our fellow-poet here at HP, Marisa White...
Corax versus Tisias
(1) CORAX PRESENTS HIS CASE
Sirs, you most esteemed judges in all of Syracuse
most revered in all of our Greek world
I, Corax - known fondly, no doubt, as The Crow -
charge this man Tisias my student in rhetoric
of a mean trick against me, his teacher; he is a cheat
He entreated me often to teach him the smooth Art of Persuasion
the Perfection I had shaped in Rhetoric
And I agreed, after due consideration, prompted by my sense of duty;
and it was agreed he would pay me only if he wins
his first case in our esteemed courts
But Sirs, mark you well his treachery -
for having learned of me my 5-Stage Movement in Persuasion
he then has refused to take any legal case in court
so he would never have to pay me my due
And so it is now I have forced him to court;
and so I trust, most Honourable Judges, in your wisdom
If I win the case, I should naturally receive all payment;
if I should lose the case, Tisias wins, and so - logically -
he should pay me…Ah, I submit myself to your wisdom
(2) TISIAS PRESENTS HIS CASE
Sirs, it is most true I was taught by Corax
but I have not kept away from court deliberately
but of fear - for I have no confidence in the rhetoric
he has taught me
For all he taught me was reliance on flattery
which I know, Sirs, never moves you
And so Sirs, if I should lose, it is I who should be paid
by the terms of the agreement;
and if I should win, in spite of his poor instruction,
then it is I again who should be paid for I win then
by my own naturalness
and by your aversion to flattery
(3) THE ESTEEMED JUDGES MAKE THEIR DECISION KNOWN
“Kakou korakas kakon oon”
which translated in the vernacular, you commoners, is:
“Bad Crow, Bad Egg”
Case dismissed!
Throw the Crow and its Egg out of this Revered Court!
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 4:40 AM UTC
21 Guns which blast together,
To show respect to the martyr,
In a ceremonial military salute,
Make noise to fewest residents,
To the patriots they do salute.
All the 21 times the guns blast,
In unison and to show him respect,
The irritable residents find it nonsense,
Cursing the governments for wars,
In unison and in an undertone.
Their criticism is more of war,
Of aristocracy & government,
Apathetic are the commoners,
But to them the peace matters,
Feeling more loyal & patriotic.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
The hair
The eyes
The teeth
The skin
The body
Commoners pay so much attention to it; Number one priority
One hair out of place
One eye color gone wrong
One tooth gone crooked
One blemish living on your skin
One disproportional body part
Your beauty is now shattered; To be forever ordinary
Pay attention to their actions
Pay attention to their humor
Pay attention to their likes and dislikes
Pay attention to their thoughts
Pay attention to their feelings and goals
The power within us all is strong; Question is, can you embrace it?
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
No, there is nothing quite like
the unadulterated scenes of politicians
as they scream,
like children, when lightning flashes.
Playground politics rule
our great nations!
Beware of pickpockets, in our city streets
dark and bleak
no smile shines here,
why have hope when the trade off is fear?
Don’t get me wrong, not everyone is mean
How should i put it…
Some are just keen?
So steal from the rich to give to the poor
refuse to accept
that new passed law
offering free ice-cream, in the House of Commons
be sure to read the sign:
We don’t serve commoners.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
She was waiting,
Waiting for her prince charming,
The boy on the white horse,
Waiting to hear the horses galloping,
Waiting for the loud cheer
of the commoners to alert her.
But the poor soul,
She didn't realise that there was no such things as happy endings,
No such thing as a prince charming,
No such thing as a saviour.
Because everyone runs away from darkness.
Everyone goes for angels,
No one stays for the devils.
The poor soulless girl,
Waiting for nothing but death.
A sad, tiresome, lonesome,painful
Curse.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC