"fiefdom" poems - Hello Poetry

*song shadows soul and mirrors will we ever see clearer sweet life oh the fragrance the righteous mind un-sees the danger so many soldiers so many women are all of our fathers really little children move swiftly into the windy recesses the mind regresses all the time damp and wet the owl cries so long tomorrow farewell goodbye dunk your head in liquid splendor i am tender as the snow pouring down from heaven’s fiefdom morning's hunger is dissipated by moonlight kisses and salty lovers salves of calendula upon our skin swim in juicy wonder listen and dance with thunder the fireflies swim through burning skies making arcs and triumphant cries what a silly blunder all the noise and all the cover hiding your heart in violet garments streams of satin in your slumber stroke the liberated arrow weave the gardenia’s shadow streams of consciousness and beauty looking into eyes of human strategy human shadows start to suffocate us instruct the timber plundered strumming humid arias looms of butter start to melt svelte and spelt slews of wealth heaven's belt is loosely tied striated like the mind grinding hind legs selves neglect entry fees sleeves of grass embrace strands of ice with a lover or two on the side*

0

Apr 30, 2017

Apr 30, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC

ganesha-michael-shapiro

Fragments

*song shadows soul and mirrors will we ever see clearer sweet life oh the fragrance the righteous mind un-sees the danger so many soldiers so many women are all of our fathers really little children move swiftly into the windy recesses the mind regresses all the time damp and wet the owl cries so long tomorrow farewell goodbye dunk your head in liquid splendor i am tender as the snow pouring down from heaven’s fiefdom morning's hunger is dissipated by moonlight kisses and salty lovers salves of calendula upon our skin swim in juicy wonder listen and dance with thunder the fireflies swim through burning skies making arcs and triumphant cries what a silly blunder all the noise and all the cover hiding your heart in violet garments streams of satin in your slumber stroke the liberated arrow weave the gardenia’s shadow streams of consciousness and beauty looking into eyes of human strategy human shadows start to suffocate us instruct the timber plundered strumming humid arias looms of butter start to melt svelte and spelt slews of wealth heaven's belt is loosely tied striated like the mind grinding hind legs selves neglect entry fees sleeves of grass embrace strands of ice with a lover or two on the side*

54

Totalitarian menace refined, tailored pants bleed malignance and fear. What stalks the passage, normally? Tear off my clothes, with subordinate cruelty and tortured fiefdom from the sun invading damp alleyways and musty cement corridors abet you enthroned on that sidewalk stump. I curb, the habit blindly happenstances about yore salty ruins we yodel, indiscriminately.

0

Jun 1, 2011

Jun 1, 2011 at 2:22 PM UTC

sansara-justinovich

The Hydrant

Totalitarian menace refined, tailored pants bleed malignance and fear. What stalks the passage, normally? Tear off my clothes, with subordinate cruelty and tortured fiefdom from the sun invading damp alleyways and musty cement corridors abet you enthroned on that sidewalk stump. I curb, the habit blindly happenstances about yore salty ruins we yodel, indiscriminately.

17

Love is in ruins Kneeling for mercy Strangulated hopes Fiefdom of tyranny Silent weeps of soul At the altar of Love There is remorse Stranded humanity Devils show no remorse Love is in ruins

0

Jul 19, 2014

Jul 19, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC

amitav

Love is in Ruins

Love is in ruins Kneeling for mercy Strangulated hopes Fiefdom of tyranny Silent weeps of soul At the altar of Love There is remorse Stranded humanity Devils show no remorse Love is in ruins

10

In New Brighton, in the Wirral they gently laugh at anyone who thinks the Beatles could be bettered Still to this day I think The Big Three's " Some other Guy" was the better version. In Stoke, dear Staffordshire they apportion YMCA mentors to the homeless teenage kids who haven't yet navigated the logistical hub of the new Potteries, yet can only dream of open spaces where weeds will flourish Trentham Gardens being one. Each of us would agree there's a nuance in self preservation, only recently carried to extremes by the vitriolic of the late Summer Riots whose fiefdom cry "preponderant re-distribution" turned England over.

0

Jun 11, 2012

Jun 11, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC

topaz-oreilly

Messed up England

In New Brighton, in the Wirral they gently laugh at anyone who thinks the Beatles could be bettered Still to this day I think The Big Three's " Some other Guy" was the better version. In Stoke, dear Staffordshire they apportion YMCA mentors to the homeless teenage kids who haven't yet navigated the logistical hub of the new Potteries, yet can only dream of open spaces where weeds will flourish Trentham Gardens being one. Each of us would agree there's a nuance in self preservation, only recently carried to extremes by the vitriolic of the late Summer Riots whose fiefdom cry "preponderant re-distribution" turned England over.

22

I saw the situation I can read the look better than most I sense beyond the obvious You need attention You need the affirmation The structure is built the mortar appears firm. Yet the simplest action Removes whatever you consider stable Shatters the foundation. I wont strike it is cowardice It is the belief That commitment to quality will be rewarded. it is thinking believing that once i repair that which is wholly incorrect broken and in need of repair ... Belief that in your fiefdom the world is sensible Should I know that of the fairer *** ? That I will be attracted to That which I perceive and see Yet ultimately will never correlate. I crave I yearn to touch That which I build Honestly all things begotten of my mind. Yet so slowly I must come to the understanding I look too deeply

0

Feb 22, 2010

Feb 22, 2010 at 5:58 AM UTC

benjamin-valenzuela

cowardice

I saw the situation I can read the look better than most I sense beyond the obvious You need attention You need the affirmation The structure is built the mortar appears firm. Yet the simplest action Removes whatever you consider stable Shatters the foundation. I wont strike it is cowardice It is the belief That commitment to quality will be rewarded. it is thinking believing that once i repair that which is wholly incorrect broken and in need of repair ... Belief that in your fiefdom the world is sensible Should I know that of the fairer *** ? That I will be attracted to That which I perceive and see Yet ultimately will never correlate. I crave I yearn to touch That which I build Honestly all things begotten of my mind. Yet so slowly I must come to the understanding I look too deeply

28

I joust myself into jovial life Jocose tatterdemalion and stygian salaciousness Umbrage abrogating merit like swamping locusts The mammoth chip on shouldered kids starving for life I'm waiting on purgatory, and I'll wait for you with knives out Cemetry of the artist stubbed beards and pubescence in the Phoenician Lands He said she should have left the house Tomahawks can still cut the vineyard, make my loquacity into beer-tap poetry Flowery, murmur, kumbaya, kalimba de la soul and all thoughts aside You're hoping music brings the song to my speechless heart Your dance sounds light the motionless night, only the tapping of starry footsteps Hob-nobs, more and more, knobs of heaven's doors open to every hippie with angel hair Crossing the wires of substrates Sonatas and partitas can be lugubrious, yet, elegantly examined Nocturnes, from the centuries Of ten old centurions Came down to the Colosseum Gladiator enthralled the chariots of fire I was with ten ants, burning under the microscope Tenants of this Roman Empire Fighting for your rights Fighting for the people who cannot fight For the weak, requires peace and understanding Shiny, homeless people lost the soul to the drugs and marijuana smoke under streetlamps stretching to infinity This earth is an orchard of flowers Slightly plump in the middle, it's mother nature Not zaftig, it has latitudes and longitudes Lavish life, garish fiefdom, stretches across the bent imagination of perverse minds Looking for a kiosk in the peak of red skies that do not know blood and aggravation New Year's Day, the cyka cry Mother Russia and SOS Shooting flares into the sky To reach so low, and to reach so high Shouting slogans, written by the poets Passion, prejudice, sensibility, comradery these are metiers of poets Secrets strewed across the bloodless sky Wishful thinking tantamount to head in the clouds The clouds have different shapes and size, the fire of the greater existence lends us words in thoughts

0

Aug 21, 2019

Aug 21, 2019 at 1:01 PM UTC

aditya-roy

Bloodless Sky

I joust myself into jovial life Jocose tatterdemalion and stygian salaciousness Umbrage abrogating merit like swamping locusts The mammoth chip on shouldered kids starving for life I'm waiting on purgatory, and I'll wait for you with knives out Cemetry of the artist stubbed beards and pubescence in the Phoenician Lands He said she should have left the house Tomahawks can still cut the vineyard, make my loquacity into beer-tap poetry Flowery, murmur, kumbaya, kalimba de la soul and all thoughts aside You're hoping music brings the song to my speechless heart Your dance sounds light the motionless night, only the tapping of starry footsteps Hob-nobs, more and more, knobs of heaven's doors open to every hippie with angel hair Crossing the wires of substrates Sonatas and partitas can be lugubrious, yet, elegantly examined Nocturnes, from the centuries Of ten old centurions Came down to the Colosseum Gladiator enthralled the chariots of fire I was with ten ants, burning under the microscope Tenants of this Roman Empire Fighting for your rights Fighting for the people who cannot fight For the weak, requires peace and understanding Shiny, homeless people lost the soul to the drugs and marijuana smoke under streetlamps stretching to infinity This earth is an orchard of flowers Slightly plump in the middle, it's mother nature Not zaftig, it has latitudes and longitudes Lavish life, garish fiefdom, stretches across the bent imagination of perverse minds Looking for a kiosk in the peak of red skies that do not know blood and aggravation New Year's Day, the cyka cry Mother Russia and SOS Shooting flares into the sky To reach so low, and to reach so high Shouting slogans, written by the poets Passion, prejudice, sensibility, comradery these are metiers of poets Secrets strewed across the bloodless sky Wishful thinking tantamount to head in the clouds The clouds have different shapes and size, the fire of the greater existence lends us words in thoughts

37

awhile, a time ago, wrote: “the oven's writing warmth, still faint discernible, giving off the aroma of heated ink, upon a skin-smooth page..” <> my words returned by the commentator-in-chief: “Tells me why the best part of my time with her was spent in the kitchen.”^ lay fallow my emotive, a response due catalogued but unfulfilled till today, oh hell it is a moody way, partly cloudy day, raining in between sunny brief teasing episodic. perfect. for the mixed mood, a melancholia of innocence with a dash of a salty, self-reflective hazing, choosing careful words when I write without clear direction, you want to rush outside, get set up, and then surrender-retreat inside to the comfort zone, the hearty, all-involving, kitchen where the ink is always kept on warm on the glass topped oven, and the dripping-coffee-machine never shuts down, at-the-ready stale crackers in the cupboard, and all these writing utensils at the two-handy, when she comes in, and with a quick surveying, kicks me out, to make us accoladed good food, with these words: “*my darling only love poetry man, render unto me, this captaincy, my fiefdom now, and herein are kept my ingredients and tools, whe my words are secreted.” You mistake the warmth here as a necessary condition for thy composition, but not so, the warmth required travels in the hearth of the body, get thee to the nook, to the sunroom, or our bed where I catch you prepositioning conjunctions to join weeping verbs, adjective so riotous their beauteous is stolen by God i’m the fall, thoughts worthy of becoming verses and stanzas, the exclaim the wonders of thy perspective, thy goodly nature, thy odor of freshly stirred vocabulary, an alluring stew in a new *** surrender this cooking place to me in order that you might chef a new creation, half mine, half yours, all ours.*”

0

Jul 13, 2020

Jul 13, 2020 at 10:24 AM UTC

onlylovepoetry

The best part of us was...in the Kitchen

awhile, a time ago, wrote: “the oven's writing warmth, still faint discernible, giving off the aroma of heated ink, upon a skin-smooth page..” <> my words returned by the commentator-in-chief: “Tells me why the best part of my time with her was spent in the kitchen.”^ lay fallow my emotive, a response due catalogued but unfulfilled till today, oh hell it is a moody way, partly cloudy day, raining in between sunny brief teasing episodic. perfect. for the mixed mood, a melancholia of innocence with a dash of a salty, self-reflective hazing, choosing careful words when I write without clear direction, you want to rush outside, get set up, and then surrender-retreat inside to the comfort zone, the hearty, all-involving, kitchen where the ink is always kept on warm on the glass topped oven, and the dripping-coffee-machine never shuts down, at-the-ready stale crackers in the cupboard, and all these writing utensils at the two-handy, when she comes in, and with a quick surveying, kicks me out, to make us accoladed good food, with these words: “*my darling only love poetry man, render unto me, this captaincy, my fiefdom now, and herein are kept my ingredients and tools, whe my words are secreted.” You mistake the warmth here as a necessary condition for thy composition, but not so, the warmth required travels in the hearth of the body, get thee to the nook, to the sunroom, or our bed where I catch you prepositioning conjunctions to join weeping verbs, adjective so riotous their beauteous is stolen by God i’m the fall, thoughts worthy of becoming verses and stanzas, the exclaim the wonders of thy perspective, thy goodly nature, thy odor of freshly stirred vocabulary, an alluring stew in a new *** surrender this cooking place to me in order that you might chef a new creation, half mine, half yours, all ours.*”

16

Here he comes, Red the *** Asking the cosmos directions to where the ramblers are from. His bright pink nose is smart and weird. Intoxicant residue in his wiggly orange beard. He's not saddled with a fiefdom, Or boredom or wifedom. He's not embarrassed when he's alone so he laughs loud and cries. Nobody frowns if he fails when he flies. Wandering he provides us while he's manic and magic. He records the experiences in the Encyclopedia Akashic.

0

May 16, 2015

May 16, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC

brujo-alligatore

The Contributions of Red the ***

Here he comes, Red the *** Asking the cosmos directions to where the ramblers are from. His bright pink nose is smart and weird. Intoxicant residue in his wiggly orange beard. He's not saddled with a fiefdom, Or boredom or wifedom. He's not embarrassed when he's alone so he laughs loud and cries. Nobody frowns if he fails when he flies. Wandering he provides us while he's manic and magic. He records the experiences in the Encyclopedia Akashic.

10

A sudden realisation, revelation came to light. The grass isn't greener on the other side. He travelled across seas and desert sands. If only he knew, he had been watering barren lands. The seeds won't sprout and the roots won't sink. Nothing he did, will ever amount to anything. His boots were worn out, blisters and toes showing, But he trudged, in the dark, sandstorms blowing. Teary- eyed, sand granules rained fierce on his corneas. Wandering blind, accompanied by his own fears. Buzzing in his ears, he no longer hear what's dear, But what's clear, he gave up on ideals and ideas. Cause they are not real, mirage in the heat wave. No corner that he felt safe, so he began to dig graves. Hid in one, till he was found by a bedouin chieftain, In that instant, he be doing fist feints, Caught off guard in an unfamiliar fiefdom. Like a ****** in the university of Princeton. He didn't need assistance, but he definitely needed help. Like a she-wolf, lost, and looking hard for its whelp. Not soulless, just a soul lost, for many moon days. With His saving grace, he prayed he will be soon saved.

0

Jun 5, 2017

Jun 5, 2017 at 1:42 AM UTC

Bodowzski

Lost

A sudden realisation, revelation came to light. The grass isn't greener on the other side. He travelled across seas and desert sands. If only he knew, he had been watering barren lands. The seeds won't sprout and the roots won't sink. Nothing he did, will ever amount to anything. His boots were worn out, blisters and toes showing, But he trudged, in the dark, sandstorms blowing. Teary- eyed, sand granules rained fierce on his corneas. Wandering blind, accompanied by his own fears. Buzzing in his ears, he no longer hear what's dear, But what's clear, he gave up on ideals and ideas. Cause they are not real, mirage in the heat wave. No corner that he felt safe, so he began to dig graves. Hid in one, till he was found by a bedouin chieftain, In that instant, he be doing fist feints, Caught off guard in an unfamiliar fiefdom. Like a ****** in the university of Princeton. He didn't need assistance, but he definitely needed help. Like a she-wolf, lost, and looking hard for its whelp. Not soulless, just a soul lost, for many moon days. With His saving grace, he prayed he will be soon saved.

22

What happened in Tuticorin is no less than a democide, the state snuffing out lives whom it supposed to protect. The reckless and depraved disregard for the lives, brought out the ugly and monstrous side of the state. The state is taking the lives of its own people, to give 'ease of doing business' to its tycoon cronies. To enable them to grab lands, flout environmental norms, violate labour laws and to usurp the natural resources. People gave up their lives and achieved martyrdom, to protect the 'ease of living' of their fellow humans. To let them have a breath of fresh air and a gulp of pure water, and to enable them save their natural resources and environment. Democracy is no longer ‘of the people, by the people, for the people’, it got hijacked to become ‘of the 1%, by the 1%, for the 1%’. The neo-liberal spaces ever expand and public spaces ever shrink, till the society is transformed into an oligarchy, into a tycoon fiefdom. Tycoons campaign finance the politicos to get ease of doing business, people queue up and exercise their franchise to get bullets in return. This is the time to reclaim our democracy and regain our lost power, the only way out is democratic deliberation and political confrontation. Let's set aside, cricket, soaps, celeb gossip, reality TV and selfies for a while, and spare a thought for those who breathed their last fighting for our rights. Let's make sure that the lives of those who fought for clean air won’t go in vain, by showing that we are the masters and oligarchy is only their pipe dream.

0

May 28, 2018

May 28, 2018 at 12:42 AM UTC

v-ramachandra-reddy

A Tribute to the Martyrs of Tuticorin

What happened in Tuticorin is no less than a democide, the state snuffing out lives whom it supposed to protect. The reckless and depraved disregard for the lives, brought out the ugly and monstrous side of the state. The state is taking the lives of its own people, to give 'ease of doing business' to its tycoon cronies. To enable them to grab lands, flout environmental norms, violate labour laws and to usurp the natural resources. People gave up their lives and achieved martyrdom, to protect the 'ease of living' of their fellow humans. To let them have a breath of fresh air and a gulp of pure water, and to enable them save their natural resources and environment. Democracy is no longer ‘of the people, by the people, for the people’, it got hijacked to become ‘of the 1%, by the 1%, for the 1%’. The neo-liberal spaces ever expand and public spaces ever shrink, till the society is transformed into an oligarchy, into a tycoon fiefdom. Tycoons campaign finance the politicos to get ease of doing business, people queue up and exercise their franchise to get bullets in return. This is the time to reclaim our democracy and regain our lost power, the only way out is democratic deliberation and political confrontation. Let's set aside, cricket, soaps, celeb gossip, reality TV and selfies for a while, and spare a thought for those who breathed their last fighting for our rights. Let's make sure that the lives of those who fought for clean air won’t go in vain, by showing that we are the masters and oligarchy is only their pipe dream.

24

mopoke the mournful call mopoke of the boobook owl as she ekes out an existence for her and her chick mopoke fair warning to, house mouse and field you have entered my fiefdom. now are you prey to feed my fledgling fold mopoke mo..poke..mo...poke from my aerie mopoke my eerie calls, defray my diminutive size, my too cute name. my chocolate feathers and startled gaze. mopoke i am owl warrior queen MOPOKE

0

Apr 2, 2014

Apr 2, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC

betterdays

boobookery

mopoke the mournful call mopoke of the boobook owl as she ekes out an existence for her and her chick mopoke fair warning to, house mouse and field you have entered my fiefdom. now are you prey to feed my fledgling fold mopoke mo..poke..mo...poke from my aerie mopoke my eerie calls, defray my diminutive size, my too cute name. my chocolate feathers and startled gaze. mopoke i am owl warrior queen MOPOKE

24

Is being called “silly” really an insult? Does it warrant an official call to apologise without one moment taken to consider that the accusation may have merit? Might we be so concerned for respect that we risk being out of touch with a few home truths? Is it a problem to be questioned? Can we maintain confidence in ourselves whilst allowing our colleagues to make suggestions that may be equally as good.. or.. dare I suggest... better?? Are we risking the power of discourse in the fight to protect our “patch” or our “fiefdom”.... I don’t wish to fear the answers and hope we can exist to challenge and respect simultaneously... creativity is stifled when we don’t allow other angles to be considered... Pride should not need to feel threatened... maybe we should aim our daggers at self-preservation.

0

Mar 1, 2021

Mar 1, 2021 at 5:56 PM UTC

rachel-f-freeman

An assault on Pride?

Is being called “silly” really an insult? Does it warrant an official call to apologise without one moment taken to consider that the accusation may have merit? Might we be so concerned for respect that we risk being out of touch with a few home truths? Is it a problem to be questioned? Can we maintain confidence in ourselves whilst allowing our colleagues to make suggestions that may be equally as good.. or.. dare I suggest... better?? Are we risking the power of discourse in the fight to protect our “patch” or our “fiefdom”.... I don’t wish to fear the answers and hope we can exist to challenge and respect simultaneously... creativity is stifled when we don’t allow other angles to be considered... Pride should not need to feel threatened... maybe we should aim our daggers at self-preservation.

8

Europe my realm and my prized possession, I instill in thee our novel ideals, for your feudal laws our conquest repeals. Our boisterous wind of emancipation liberates Spain from draconian inquisition. Of the proud Brits' stupendous earning power, an Egyptian campaign would rest the case. I have made subservient Austria to face defeat and lasting capitulation. By sheer divine providence, I soar above my Italian inheritance, bequeathed by Papal authority, and placed in custody of my viceroy. By my might, I brought to subjugation, the recalcitrant fiefdom of Russia, and the resilient kingdom of Prussia. Not even Portugal dared resistance, with her weak army debased like a toy. But in sudden flight, and rare sobriety, her sovereign lord bowed to abdication.

0

Jan 20, 2018

Jan 20, 2018 at 8:25 AM UTC

Ojiogbo41

Napoleon's Europe

Europe my realm and my prized possession, I instill in thee our novel ideals, for your feudal laws our conquest repeals. Our boisterous wind of emancipation liberates Spain from draconian inquisition. Of the proud Brits' stupendous earning power, an Egyptian campaign would rest the case. I have made subservient Austria to face defeat and lasting capitulation. By sheer divine providence, I soar above my Italian inheritance, bequeathed by Papal authority, and placed in custody of my viceroy. By my might, I brought to subjugation, the recalcitrant fiefdom of Russia, and the resilient kingdom of Prussia. Not even Portugal dared resistance, with her weak army debased like a toy. But in sudden flight, and rare sobriety, her sovereign lord bowed to abdication.

20