"despot" poems
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to slake its upward ******
A single heedless step is enough
to breech that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless soul
who fails to guard his steps.
Fragile calderas also roil
buried in dark crevices of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in fiery pools
of self-consuming misery.
To dress and salve our wounded souls
we plant fertile gardens of reconciliation
with beauty, trust and charity
and kneel to gods of grace and solace.
But a despot’s practiced eye
knows how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot,
and reason has no district.
Friends and siblings - my flesh and kin,
this world is ours to lose or save
so let us seal well our Sacred Calderas
from bitter foes that stalk us from within.
July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
1334
How soft this Prison is
How sweet these sullen bars
No Despot but the King of Down
Invented this repose
Of Fate if this is All
Has he no added Realm
A Dungeon but a Kinsman is
Incarceration—Home.
8.6k
Great Caesar's ghost,
Hail dictating despot!
Overlord of Rome,
His soul still roams,
Big Julie's the magnate,
His motto still rates,
"We ain't dead yet!" Great!
All hail dictating despot,
Hail, great Caesar's ghost!
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 6:56 PM UTC
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to stay its upward ******
One errant step is all it takes
to breach that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless wanderer
who fails to guard his path.
Fragile calderas also roil
buried in darkest hollows of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in molten pools
of self-consuming misery.
To dress and salve our wounds
we sow gardens of reconciliation within
with beauty, trust and reason
and bow to gods of grace and solace.
But a despot’s studied eye
knows just how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot
and reason has no district.
Sisters and brothers of our flesh I pray
we find a holy and transforming alchemy
to convert our heat to light
and shield our sacred calderas
from enemies that stalk us from within.
July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 12:30 PM UTC
Feathered Fiends
by Michael R. Burch
Fascists of a feather
flock together.
Alternate:
Conformists of a feather
flock together.
I came up with the "Fascists of a Feather" epigram after Donald Trump repeatedly praised authoritarian "strong men" like Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong Un, Rodrigo Duterte, Xi Jinping and Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. Heroic Americans fought a war against fascism and many of them paid the ultimate price, so why is Trump giving comfort to the enemy of democracy?
The alternate version of this couplet was written first and won a National Couplet Contest sponsored by the Society of Classical Poets. The couplet has now been published in one form or another on the websites of major newspapers and news services like TheHill.com, Haaretz.com (Israel), Crikey.com (Australia), Cleveland.com (as the headline of a letter to the editor), Reddit Political Humor, and Humane Conservatives Unite Blog. Sometimes the epigram is quoted in reader comments, sometimes by the writers of letters to the editor, and sometimes within articles.
Keywords/Tags: fascists, flock, together, fascism, conformists, nazis, blackshirts, brownshirts, dictator, tyrant, autocrat, despot, totalitarian, cultist, militarist
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 12:48 AM UTC
I display my collection of skeletons openly on my wrist
Only employing their usage if someone carelessly insists
They jingle, jangle, clack
My bleached bracelet of many bones
Clattering and bumping into each other
Waiting for a black corner to call home
I wear my assemblage of dancing skeletons on my wrist
Dangerous they are
Besotted with madness
Sometimes I simply cannot resist
Taking one, two or perhaps three and giving them a toss
Calling secrets from their crafted tombs
Time, deeds and scars
Glittering jewels of a humans emotional wall
So if you see me with bones around my wrist
Cease your scheming despot take heed and desist
Lest I take another one of these skeletons and give it a toss
And watch your dreams descend into that they call
The long walk.
@ copyright Tammy M. Darby April 11, 2018.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 8:43 PM UTC
There’s a sage at the doorway
Negating affinity as a leeway.
He never spoke to me though he’s there
I shunned the thought lest I did care.
Grew up in envy
To those – they never saw right through me;
How I yearned for that man’s attention
And from others’ sage I longed discretion.
A battle occupied his thought,
A war seldom won, constantly fought.
For such warrior was taken abashed
Looked at me, ‘I can’t take you back.’
Grounded within me was the silence,
Left and right I sought for solace.
Never sure if could amount to anything in his eyes,
Until I found out he too was never sought off despite.
Desperate - in a sense
As I took hold of a pretense;
Had not the Divine stoop down to reclaim
What I had yearned for the sage, I blamed.
A treble in my throat croaked, “Father”
Despite holding grudge I never bothered
Spoke nor utter a thought in my mind.
There, I froze with teeth to the grind.
Truth encountered my despot idealism,
Tried hard to renounce the criticism.
It’s weight – truth only subjugated my hate;
“Love – unless you embrace it, cannot placate”
Fell on my knees, armor exhausted itself around,
Wrung over my shoulders arms of the One who found
Me clinging on the border of insight and despair,
Only His Will my broken, calloused heart molds into repair.
I glanced back at the sage, I met yearning eyes,
Sought he, his worth for me and found no despise.
All along, had I known, he too was a broken and contrite;
Would not I, received much bestow what is right?
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
From nation to nation
All around the world
The Ruling Class
Though many times outnumbered
By the rest
Sit bathing in the sun
In their Ivory Towers:
Born to Richness
Whilst millions of Poor
Just starve to death.
Hordes and hordes of people,
Without clean water
Or food
Or a stable roof over their heads.
No medicine, or Education, or Anything
That Costs.
Governments give “Aid” to other governments
To “feed the poor”,
But we all know what happens…
What we need is a “Government of The World”,
Or some Benevolent Despot to Rule us all.
Anything must be better
Than the impotent UN
Or these shambolic “nations” –
Puppets of Globalisation.
Revolution threatens –
It often does –
Until the rulers appease us
With token concessions
And brainwash us
Though The Media,
So called “Education”
And Religious Dogma.
When will we learn?
Where is Democracy and Love?
But, bound by Political Correctness,
Woe betide if we Complain.
The Cold War continues,
So all we can do
Is soldier on
For The Common Good.
Paul Butters
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 9:15 AM UTC
Reformation
Concentration
Discrimination
Segregation
Just a human rat race
Denied, denied
My passion gone
I cried, I cried
My whole life long
Mine
They trample on our men
And leave us in turmoil
There is no wind
The smoke lingers
Oh eagle fly high
Get away
Away from your once proud home
Neo played the violin
When they burned Rome
Not I
I can lead
Bold ideas
I know what I must do
Mine
My hatred
My blame
Put upon the stain
The stain on the beautiful white canvas
Take away
Dignity
Hope
Rip their homes apart
From the ghetto to the train
From the train to the gates
From the gates to annihilation
Yes
No
Fall back
Push forward
We shall not fall
My land
My world
This is the attempt that will end my reign
They won’t get the best of me
They lived in fear of me
And she’s coming with me
It is mine
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
The paths that lay ahead call
Singing harmoniously to the soul
A chorus of whispers like flitting wings
Opinions, unsolicited and unwelcome
The future is seen in logical deduction
Two steps down this road
Five steps down that
Some are well lit
While others sit in the darkness of the unknown
Eenie, meenie, miney, and moe
Life is ruled by a despot
Every choice, each minute decision
Made by one
There is no team in, I
Take a deep breath
One foot in front of the other
The options are limitless
Final say and fate accepted
There is no one to blame
When responsibility lies within
Change direction at will
Enjoy the unexpected
Each life a maze
Each with its own tyrant
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
be the cigarette that lets the Manchurian
candidate wear your socks to a job interview
because his are all piled in the corner of his
bedroom like a group of dead Kennedy's... bad
thought will never take you home again. the
good is found beyond your comfort zone, so
ride the waves, captain cherokee! *and when
the invisible hand of graduality cleaves you
from my marrow, there is nothing but the irk
of a waterfall beyond my cheek-bone, dripping
from the red corners of his chapped lips,
bleeding in the autumnal creek of Octoberish
winterfreeze*
the poem ended where it did, as my inspiration
faded into caffeine insanity and the cipralex kept
me MDMA'd to the glowing grave.
beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful ! ! !
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
Writhing slimy slick snakes of oil
Around the Gulf of Greed now crawl
What we sought will consume us all.
What before was venerated
Our pristine world penetrated,
****** bodies violated,
Writhing slimy slick snakes of oil
Changing the name and so despoil.
Gulf of America? Recoil.
A despot who's addlepated
Corrupt, old, and dissipated.
Land and water desecrated.
By writhing, slimy, sick snake oil.
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 12:19 PM UTC
My autocrat of a
cat
sat on the pedestal
and watched me type.
His eyes, slits, like
slivers of emeralds.
He took a paw,
licked it, and
washed his despot face.
He owned me.
I did whatever he
wanted.
He sauntered off,
then turned and
watched , as I
took liberty with
truth, for the
sake of
imagination and creation.
I dreamed last
night that he could
talk.
He just said two words.
"Beautiful lies."
Feb 13, 2023
Feb 13, 2023 at 6:50 AM UTC
Gilgamesh--two-thirds god, one-third man--was the despot of Uruk. He treated his subjects cruelly. To ameliorate this abominable situation, the gods create Enkidu, who was reared by animals. At first, Gilgamesh and Enkidu fight, but then become friends. They want to cut down a cedar forest that is off limits to mortals. The forest is guarded by a monster, Humbaba, who serves Enlil, the god of earth, wind, and air. With the help of Shamash, the sun god, the two **** Humbaba, then cut down the trees to make a raft. They float back to Uruk. Ishtar, the goddess of love, falls in love with Gilgamesh, but he rebuffs her. Angered, Ishtar asks her father, Anu, the god of the sky, to punish Gilgamesh by bringing down the Bull of Heaven that creates seven years of famine, but Gilgamesh and Enkidu fight and **** the bull. The gods seek revenge and **** Enkidu. Gilgamesh is forlorn, and in his grief begins to wear animals skins. He wanders through the wilderness. Gilgamesh finally meets Utnapishtim to whom the gods have given immortality, but he won't tell Gilgamesh how to gain immortality for himself. Gilgamesh therefore continues his travels, this time through total darkness, until he finnally reaches the sea with its beautiful surroundings. It is there that he meets Siduri. He tells her about his quest for immortality. She responds by telling him to abandon this quest and to learn how to enjoy the pleasures of what remain of the rest of his natural life. Men would die, but humankind would persevere. Gilgamesh is a changed man. He returns to Uruk and sees the city and its people in a different light. He will find meaning and gratification in the years he has left, and humanity will endure.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Apr 22, 2020
Apr 22, 2020 at 1:17 AM UTC
909
I make His Crescent fill or lack—
His Nature is at Full
Or Quarter—as I signify—
His Tides—do I control—
He holds superior in the Sky
Or gropes, at my Command
Behind inferior Clouds—or round
A Mist’s slow Colonnade—
But since We hold a Mutual Disc—
And front a Mutual Day—
Which is the Despot, neither knows—
Nor Whose—the Tyranny—
1.1k
I would crush the guilty like ants under my boot
I would build monuments of their sins and watch evil legacies tailspin
I have had enough of their moral muddling and murderous marauding
No more innocent blood will be shed, not on my world
War will be a fable told to children before bedtime
Those with hate in their hearts would have them forcefully removed
Those that have worked and toiled in pain will be given rest and reparation
Empathy will be the currency most desired and dispensed
I would seat the deserving upon crystal thrones and indulge their hope
I would slit the throats of those that speak violence and scatter their flesh
I have no desire for solace until all have received their karmic doses
Fear is an instrument of weakness, a **** fit for vermin, not my society
I'll make a great scale within my mind and weigh deeds done
Good people deserve more than the flimsy vestiges of past charity
They will see my face and recognize that swift justice is the only solution
They will see an acceptance of death if corruption overtakes my spirit
I would raise the slaves and groom them into kings
I would turn their ancestors’ sweat into red wine and diamond rings
I would lift their chins up to the limitless sky
To infinite empires waiting to be built
This world?
This galaxy?
Ha!
The entire universe will be a reflection of my design
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
A dismal despot, allowing distracting dimensions.
Another distant drowning accentuating dire directions.
Assimilated destinies detailing a dreadful downfall.
Accumulated disinterest destroying antique displayed drywall.
Abstract desires depicting abnormal - doper,
Destined attention deficit disorder
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
To those who speak against being 'rude': you are not a friend of truth or understanding.
You coddle yourself in a somnambulant daze,
Where the harshest realities lay deep in your soul,
And you walk away, as far from this dormant minefield you've lain,
Leaving the active bombs for others to stumble upon.
And they suffer because of your laziness,
Avoiding your task of diffusing these bombs that only you understand,
And you still aren't sure where the schematics are,
So the damage continues,
And you have become a despot,
Watching people die from your pointless violence.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
That time,
When the morning shook me awake with a new set of senses
Every pore opened leaving my old body obsolete and breathless
It was a great day, filled with glory and dried sweat
The sky would tell me tales of gore and criminal's scores
The trees sung of warriors that could handle any pest that crept
Sun and Moon would prance, ignorant of envious bores
It was a great day, rattled with sounds and prattles
Even gravel, had its mysteries of wondrous wandering
Waters simply grew a face, to smile of silent pondering
Grouchy and coarse the soils were, always whining of past battles
It was a great day, whistling secrets and flaunting immortality
At least that was how the wind would laugh, free and kooky
Fires did more whistling, between their cackles and endless dances
Then science was rinsed off the creatures to show the paths in their glances
Who was I to judge?
Woes of consuming spectra
Under despot rhyme
Then night had fell +
My eyes would dwell /
My hearts next swell =
Still a space to figure,
A time to measure:
The center of levers::
A fate for lovers:
A void...to test
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Naughty Lil Miss Fit,
Let me be your despot.
Makin sure it all fits.
Dress, you up; then out-fits.
Kiss you until your lips stick,
You're so wet; your lipstick.
Love sick, over your thick lips.
You Luvin, when I move like this,
Between your lips; you’re so slick.
With every lick; you ****
I lick, you move your tongue,
In spite of it, I bite,
For fun. Then, you, follow it.
Now, I’m *******
trying to swallow it.
Love your touch, but
I need your lips; as
your lips; need my kiss.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
The wounds of separation constantly weeping. Never healing properly because you keep picking and reopening the scars.
Biting and chewing until there's nothing left. Your self destructive, emotionally cannibalistic nature is apparent.
Everybody cares, right?
Why else would the constant lies and condescending suggestions be bombarded upon your already weary mind.
Even in theses recurring dreams you find no relief. For others dreams are fantastic things of beauty. For you they're as dangerous as yellow cake in the hands of the despot.
Constantly changing, pushing and detaching now. Starring into the mirror. Who is this?
Things we don't talk about.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Sheriff Joe Arpaio was convicted by the court
for picking on the immigrants of the Latino sort.
Relied on racial profiling and on intimidation;
A redneck cop who'd love to build a bigoted white nation.
Of course, this man loves Donald Trump and though he is a crook,
Trump has come through and pardoned him and got him off the hook.
So ***** the courts and rule of law that's there to thwart each hater;
This "law and order" president's a despot and dictator.
So if you are an alt-right racist, it's your lucky day!
El Presidente Trump makes rights and justice go away.
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
Tonight is the night of renunciation,
O weary heart, shed that person
In tears and sobs—
For moon is weary carrying the grief of world
Wane her a little forgetting your woe tonight,
Tonight is the night of renunciation.
O perturbed heart, untie the hinged boat from
anchor and sail away from hopeless dreams—
For stars are burdened with undue hopes of men,
falling and fading from sky, reduce their weight
Bidding farewell to those memories tonight,
Tonight is the night of renunciation.
O innocent heart, love is despot, so end these grieving
for a person’s absence—
For the air is sick and sad sailing house to house
Lower her sadness abating your loss tonight,
Tonight is the night of renunciation.
O withered heart, saunter in the lawn this approaching dawn
Born anew, listen the chatter and flutter of birds,
For the sighs of lovers have turned their song melancholic,
Sing loud, O heart, return their gayness
For they’re not meant to suffer for our melancholy tonight.
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC
**** You, Evangeline
I hated you in the seventh grade
When you were pushed on me at school
And broke my rib,
As I badmouthed you on the monkeyswings.
But quickly I learned
Not from mom or sister
That to be a man is different than
Hollywood and Disneyland
Nothing Loves, Actually; Forever calls—
Very quickly
It seems
That I go from adorable to expendable
Serendipitously,
With a bit of mandated mail
And affairs with Eros’ bureaus of State
Back then I played with chitinous bugs
Baiting them fluffy placentas
of budding trees
And stalked them back to their cave
Before I knew my felonies
But I was a baby,
A child—I never could have known what it means.
But of course I do,
I’ve seen
the running of the bulls
The utterance of men
They are angry and gouge *******
with cold vicegrips around their ******
And are kicked
Mercilessly
Spurned to wrathful affectation
To be murdered in the evening
With rapturous spectation
“But they are bulls!”
Of course they are
"These feelings are only natural!"
No man can equate
With the pleasurable temptations of the state
Not bird or bug or steer or doe
The only Hierarchy permissible
Is of the animals
And of that we hate
I don’t see you woeing
About that steak on your plate.
Or the Glue in the soles of your shoes.
Stroll a bit
Sniff the trees
Whiff the ********
When it’s in the feed
He runs in circles shouting, chanting
“Oye, Oye, Aye Piche Cabrone!”
As the solo mothers cut his lengua
for the starving Ninos
In an apartment complex
off Oxenhoof Lane
Where
Papi got iced
By I.C.E or the like
And the kiddies will never know what it means.
You’ll never know what it means
To be a bull
Muster your might for this—demand with laughter you die
I am an ant in the ever-washed hive
Of sterile kin who have no lives
They give for their queen or infectious despot with wings
Despite all the kindness they've given me,
I am not ready to be meat for the feet.
In every blade of grass I've faith
That no bird or sin will ****** me from my place
And into the sky or the unsatiated mouth of the various
Disunified highs
For now I share the toil and vitriolic
Callous
Jowls of those who hate themselves
More than me
And try to smile and bring food for the queen
But deep inside
I am an ant
And that is all you will ever see.
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 1:46 PM UTC