"imperial" poems
The all seeing iris imperial city
The swiftest of stylus this side of the ‘sippi
The trippiest spittin’ Promethean hippy
Conspiracy theorist of eeriest verse
The despotic hypnotic black flag bearin’ Hearst
Still immersing myself in a poverty trap
As I grapple with lack of fact check cashing crap
Cryogenically frozen emotion vibes flowin’
From out my funk bunker boombox
Overthrowin’
Your global dominion opinion with ease
Shootin’ breezes with Tirailleurs Senegalese
I’m the kid wicked picket sign paintin’ Tom Sawyer
The ill eagle Taino privilege enjoyer
Still swoopin’ in mean on each **** I make clean
Pick the bones dry of serpentine oil green dreams
Then I bury what’s left of your money machines
With the pharaohs of old’s latest pyramid schemes
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
*towering gently overflowing with heightened awareness
subtle hints of blade’s keen glittering chiseled edges
untamed rugged surface powerfully averts gale’s acrid tempest
vigor pulsating that doth persuade the cloud’s reflections
if i shall not again embrace a meager glimpse; a demure echo
of thine towering mounts my soul shall ever suffer
my spirit soars with e'er one glance of thine majestic presence
replete with reminiscence seasons stir and beg thine tender mercies
to house the changing leaves at dusk of autumn’s auburn portraits
and give birth to crystal snow cascading peripherally in winter
which melding into spring then begs thy bluffs to cover
in soft amethyst of columbine blossoming first light of summer
‘tis not paramount to scale high aloft thine peaks in escalation
for small sheer glances stamp forever with imperial impressions
and ‘tho i’ve traveled ‘round and savored nature’s varied essence
none can compare thine evergreens laced in aspens nuance
my breath is gone and shan’t return ‘til in thy shadow casting
i stand and look upon thine hallowed face the rocky mountains
©2016 janetaylor
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
It's coming through a hole in the air,
from those nights in Tiananmen Square.
It's coming from the feel
that it ain't exactly real,
or it's real, but it ain't exactly there.
From the wars against disorder,
from the sirens night and day,
from the fires of the homeless,
from the ashes of the gay:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.
It's coming through a crack in the wall,
on a visionary flood of alcohol;
from the staggering account
of the Sermon on the Mount
which I don't pretend to understand at all.
It's coming from the silence
on the dock of the bay,
from the brave, the bold, the battered
heart of Chevrolet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.
It's coming from the sorrow on the street
the holy places where the races meet;
from the homicidal bitchin'
that goes down in every kitchen
to determine who will serve and who will eat.
From the wells of disappointment
where the women kneel to pray
for the grace of G-d in the desert here
and the desert far away:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.
Sail on, sail on
o mighty Ship of State!
To the Shores of Need
past the Reefs of Greed
through the Squalls of Hate
Sail on, sail on
It's coming to America first,
the cradle of the best and the worst.
It's here they got the range
and the machinery for change
and it's here they got the spiritual thirst.
It's here the family's broken
and it's here the lonely say
that the heart has got to open
in a fundamental way:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.
It's coming from the women and the men.
O baby, we'll be making love again.
We'll be going down so deep
that the river's going to weep,
and the mountain's going to shout Amen!
It's coming to the tidal flood
beneath the lunar sway,
imperial, mysterious
in amorous array:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.
Sail on, sail on
o mighty Ship of State!
To the Shores of Need
past the Reefs of Greed
through the Squalls of Hate
Sail on, sail on
I'm sentimental if you know what I mean:
I love the country but I can't stand the scene.
And I'm neither left or right
I'm just staying home tonight,
getting lost in that hopeless little screen.
But I'm stubborn as those garbage bags
that Time cannot decay,
I'm junk but I'm still holding up
this little wild bouquet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.
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We open our minds to expand to the times not to pretend there is some end to confine the limits of prime; we defend to remind to dance to the trance we redefine to enhance not to surrender to chance.
We open our hearts to embrace the new space-time transparency, interdimensional race as we become united and one, open to truth we exhibit ourselves as one infinite youth, gifted and new, eternally pure evolved to endure no end to potential, perfect and cured.
We strengthen our bodies and build on each other we love ourselves and love one another we grow and mature and extend to our neighbors but as we think deeper our expansion is greater our planet is one and our galaxy peace to the opening worlds we bring wisdom and ease we do not enslave or deny or deceive but we share our pure knowledge our light and belief.
We raise up our souls beyond science and physics to evolve beyond consciousness confinements and limits our imperial nature shifts to emerge from the boundaries of body and smallness of Earth we expand our perception to include all dimensions from previous eons to future inceptions.
We shift our new world from finite to light, universal, infinite, natural, bright we embrace the day and welcome the night to work with each other to be perfect, upright, to evolve our new planet, our galactic mindframe to expand from micro to cosmically aimed to unlock the portals to open our brains to evolve from old gears to interdimensional spheres uniting creation without hesitation pure as clean water and deep meditation.
-Ryan Christopher Brandes
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
596
When I was small, a Woman died—
Today—her Only Boy
Went up from the Potomac—
His face all Victory
To look at her—How slowly
The Seasons must have turned
Till Bullets clipt an Angle
And He passed quickly round—
If pride shall be in Paradise—
Ourself cannot decide—
Of their imperial Conduct—
No person testified—
But, proud in Apparition—
That Woman and her Boy
Pass back and forth, before my Brain
As even in the sky—
I’m confident that Bravoes—
Perpetual break abroad
For Braveries, remote as this
In Scarlet Maryland—
11.6k
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe
nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?
Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today
Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah
Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)
over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology - well, message me asap
wow there really is a Saskatoon!
the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin
see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)
ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea
gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
315
He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on—
He stuns you by degrees—
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers—further heard—
Then nearer—Then so slow
Your Breath has time to straighten—
Your Brain—to bubble Cool—
Deals—One—imperial—Thunderbolt—
That scalps your naked Soul—
When Winds take Forests in the Paws—
The Universe—is still—
10.6k
1:11am:
in my lungs you breed a pale disease
you are even in the air I breathe
3:29am:
heart in half chasing electronic dreams in technicolour screams
your claws in my teeth as I drown out my whims
3:45am:
and all the nights I spent lying in the freezer
and all the little lies we wasted telling each other
and even as you left I had not come around
I was the reckless wrecking havoc on wicked ground
4:59am:
last night I was flying around
dazed and dazed and dazed all over
awaiting my jewelled crown
adorned with the prestige of an empire
even in a new cage I could not throw you out
5:27am:
even as the sun rises surely troubles stay the same
even if you came back now I would gladly play your games
even after all this while all the daze you left me in
still you are imperial and my grailed heart it shakes like porcelain
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
again, madness!
one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?
why?
must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:
“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”
no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!
your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.
the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.
here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>
But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:
*”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.*”
A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out
these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.
<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.
a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC
I fear none but see all,
My dragon comes when I call.
I control the elements upon my mind,
As they swirl within time.
I stand firm and tall,
Waving my sword in the wind.
My world is only a war,
As I fight to win.
No orders can tell me what to do,
I am a General of Skyrim.
My home is of bravery rest,
as my skills everyday,
are put to the test.
You fight for what you believe,
You die with dignity.
Honor boils in your veins,
As you try to fight free.
Freedom rings when a Warrior stands forth,
He or she shall be,
A savior to the world.
Within the World of Tamriel,
I am an Imperial Soldier,
And a Female.
Anyone can be a warrior upon strife,
Even within this war,
You can be right.
Join a side,
Choose your path.
You shall be victorious,
And will deserve a Warriors Death.
Challenge thy dragonkin now.
They will await your arrival.
Upon your dragon,
Shall become thy trial.
Tempest waves within the skies of Tamriel,
As the Dragonborn comes,
To the World of Skyrim.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 9:44 AM UTC
You don't need the smoky colored quartz dangling in your hair,
Or the liquid rubies painted onto your soft lips,
Or the powdered gold dusted onto your eyelids to hide the look of pain.
You don't need the silver buttons strung up your shirt to make your aura seem pure,
Or the perfect pearls around your throat to tease and allure,
Or the obsidian skirt hugging your thighs to add the finishing touch.
You don't need the diamond blade to make you bleed imperial topaz onto your marble floor,
Or the laxatives made of howlites to cut your figure thin,
Or the breast implants made of danburites to make you seem attractive.
You are worth more than the emeralds that people compare your eyes to.
You are worth more than the sapphires that make up the water in your body.
And you are worth more than the taaffeites that compose the air you breath.
You are a perfect angel without the expensive things.
Just sing sweet lullabies of the truth and be yourself,
To ensure you live in a beautiful reality.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
1577
Morning is due to all—
To some—the Night—
To an imperial few—
The Auroral light.
6.4k
Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
8.2k
Not one corner of a foreign field
But a span as wide as Europe;
An appearance of a titan's grave,
And the length thereof a thousand miles,
It crossed all Europe like a mystic road,
Or as the Spirits' Pathway lieth on the night.
And I heard a voice crying
This is the Path of Glory
5.7k
A Silence stirs within the people,
As the King anoints his knight.
The man of righteous renewal,
From the very start.
So it began,
His journey across Tamriel.
Searching for a way,
To save his people.
Armor of White,
Spear of the dragon.
He comes to fight,
Those who oppose him.
His only distraction,
A fair maiden.
With lips of ruby,
Hips of curve.
She can ****** anyone,
Then rob their home.
She sneaks within the night.
Only to serve.
Nocturnal the Daedric Goddess of the Dark World.
Evergloom shail it be.
When they cross paths.
Each night they meet...
So goes the Son of Skyrim,
Being tricked.
By the anointing Imperial.
Mother of the Pack.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
O Fan of white silk,
clear as frost on the grass-blade,
You also are laid aside.
5.2k
Begot Intentions can impurify
Unsolicited Charity does attempt
Even much as a Pickled Song can try
Bites back at you; And bills you for Contempt
What now the Rage of Imperial Process
Punishes the Dreader to stock and refill?
Nowadays you stick to perform your Best
Later on you sit by the Window-Sill
Still, check this Stubborn Loyalty in me
Then decide if Ignorance you forgot
My Words mean Truth; Even if Force-Believe
Just to show your Radio, the Model-Lot.
Still Deaf, eh? Even when the Snake has cast,
Flashing films on such scales you know will pass.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
I don't ask your permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have almost no clue
my mental torment,
headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay my kind of bills
a man has a job.
Feed you family.
Protect and serve.
do it well,
there is no acceptable excuse.
none.
was supposed to be easing on down,
slipping under.
come so far, my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition.
the legs, knotted shoulders,
body aging faster than I can write.
the doctors only give me
if's and unless's,
contingencies in order
to die a little slower
warped, reversal of causality,
the older I get,
the more mouths to feed.
tough, this unexpected situation,
a nine lives time survivor,
do it again?
defraud myself,
living like I can afford
to write,
with courageous reckless abandon,
when earnest is deadly
and Lady Luck gave me the finger.
simply amazing.
eyes, constantly tearing,
nobody notices.
Do not ! Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
this well, just got dregs left,
drudgery ain't potable, or even
worth drinking.
need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
not one object on this planet
want to posses or be possessed by.
Monday wrestle with strife,
star in my reality show once again.
now, deny reality.
Do not!
Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
my voice is stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
hush me not, for tis true,
write on for an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered,
after decades of trying.
poverty exposed,
a life unmasked
for what it is worth,
or not.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Sing a song of Tajmahal
a fine nazm or a ghazal
Of this landmark for lovers
Ah, a lover's edifice
Complete with medieval bowers
It's a Mecca for tourists!
Tis sensational, tis exceptional
tis truly a touristy place.
Watch the shimmer of its magnificent marbled dome
Moonlight or sunlight, it glimmers of imperial chrome
It's ironical then
that though Indian-Arabian I am
I haven't yet been to this touristy place
It is truly as they must say, a lover's shrine
a place where hearts duly incline
They find it steamy
I find it dreamy
Oh, I've got to see for myself this touristy place.
Each of the marbled minarets
conceal such romantic secrets
for lovers to silently explore
to admire and to adore
A place human lovebirds couldn't ignore.
Ah you've got to visit this touristy place!
Two famed lovers lie in the legendary vault below
and the stream too it has a romantic flow
It's a lovers haven and paradise on earth
Even dead passions there undergo a rebirth
Ah, rekindle my love for you in this touristy place!
Extol I may this awesome imposing edifice
A greed for pure love is perhaps better than avarice
Löng live the legend of Shah jahan and Mumtaz mahal
Long live love and love like a Moghul
so forever we have this monumental grace!
Yeah take me my luv to this touristy place!
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 2:11 AM UTC
****
Frock..
Flock.
Bock!
Bock bock bock!
Mother mother bock,
Mother mother bock bock
Mothercluck mothercluck
eggsh eggsh eggsh
1 2,
1 2 3 Crack!
Eggs eggs cheese,
Baking biscuits
Frying spud
Mix'n roux
Squashing beefs,
Squashing beefs beefs beefs.
Rolling patties,
Flipping bacon.
Who eat the bacon?
We eat the bacon!
Roll'n patties-
-uuuh yeah, let me get a bacon'n'egg
In'a'tick little man.
I'll put that **** in my pan.
If the thank you doesn't show,
You can owe me blow me-
Imperial March ringtone
-Checks cell and ignores call-
"Who was that?"
"What? Oh,
Just another annoying memory."
-OH!
My kitchen love!
Ovee Ovee Ove-n
I think I wanna roast-ya toast-ya!
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
I'd always thought you were just a pretty face
a beautiful smile gone to waste
hooked on drugs
and lost from love
I'd always known you were a runaway
I'd always thought that you were a tease
'till I read those words that terrified me
because they were incredible
and beautiful
and they were written by a runaway
You're so close to perfect
and I'd tell you why
but right about now
you're probably high
a beautiful disaster
you're like a slant rhyme
and no matter how hard I try
I can't let myself get away from you
you teenage runaway
I want to run away with you
Shame on me for assuming you weren't smart
now i'm dodging the danger, the poison darts
'cause you're so close to everything
that i think i might need
Shame on me for writing this song
it doesn't feel right, and I know that it's wrong
and i wouldn't dare to believe
that what I dream could be a reality
you're so close to perfect
and I'd tell you why
but right about now
you're probably high
a beautiful disaster
you're like a slant rhyme
and no matter how hard I try
I can't let myself get away from you
you teenage runaway
I want to run away with you
I don't understand you
but I want to
and I want you to know
that I don't give a ****
what you do when you're alone
because I don't want you to be alone
You're such a mystery
you've got a hook on half of me
I'm not sure what i'm seeing when our eyes meet
but i'm praying, i'm praying that it could be
the chance i promised i'd take one day
You're so close to perfect
and I'd tell you why
but right about now
you're probably high
a beautiful disaster
you're like a slant rhyme
and no matter how hard I try
I can't let myself get away from you
you teenage runaway
I want to run away with you
You and your contradictions
you imperial affliction
you teenage runaway
I want to run away with you
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
Every daughter is born of royalty
To rule and serve in lineal descent from God
But Claudia from her island of mist
Was borne away to Rome in captive shame
With her father in chains, herself in chains
To speak for their people, to speak for peace
Before the emperor, who in hearing them
Gave freedom to himself, and a crown to her
Though hostage far away from her girlhood home
With love she captured imperial Rome
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
I was born Of a broken family.
Surviving on the skills,
You taught me.
Now I stand in the valley.
Beside the red stream.
Awaiting the arrival.
Of the Dov.
My daggers twirl in my hands,
As I dance with zeal.
Brave but reckless.
Because of youth.
I await thy path,
I must pursue.
The journey ahead,
Will be new.
I am Imperial,
Daughter of the wolves.
My home was Solitude.
Skyrims Capital hold.
I travel this weary path,
Adventuring beyond death.
I doth not fear you,
Dragon of hearthfire.
May my path pay,
The debts of my partners.
They deserve better,
Than the blasted Jarl.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
I am lovely, O mortals! Like a dream carved in stone,
And my breast where poets are bruised to the bone
Formed to inspire each in their quintessence
A love as eternal and silent as essence.
I unite Ledaean pallor with a frozen heart,
I scorn movement for it displaces my art,
A riddling sphinx, on a throne in the sky;
Never do I laugh and never do I cry.
Poets, at the feet of my imperial pose,
Which I seem to adopt from statues grandiose,
Will consume their lives in studious indulgence;
For I have, to enthrall those docile paramours
Pure mirrors to enhance all beauties evermore:
My eyes, my large, wide eyes of eternal effulgence!
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC