"lorded" poems
For in the algorithm of their minds lay deep strategies,
But it's a maze to a sepulchre,
a colonial mind with many rooms,
where other men are lorded to their satisfaction
For they stand in the courts, and declared to be like children
their smiles far from sinister,
but their minds create a haven like hell to those around,
though they decorate the sky like the western sun, they burn the roses with their palms like the Libyan desert sun
For their dearth of love, they carry out vengeance on the free spirited, they carry a ******* staff of justice,
they are the town criers declaring who ought to be colourful,
they crown the underserving and deserving,
their tongue a tidal wave of envy,
slander chokes their breath, loneliness fills their temple,
hatred distills their roller coaster pain.
Now I understand why roses wither,
But even the crumbs of love in these cactus hearts
will be taken away.
- Ola Bajo
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
You'll always be twenty-three.
Always.
And that kills me.
You were older than me.
Now...
******* the futility of it all.
******* ******* it all!
I wish that I could punch a hole
in the world with my words and
find you.
I wish you knew.
I just wanted to tell you..
I just thought you needed to know,
at least once before everything is
broken headlights and crushed
tomorrows.
Blood and pavement and a median.
Crushed glass and a world
standing hollow without you.
I wish you knew.
I think I loved you once.
Think.
Coward.
I need to find you some days.
**** this tired world and it's
arbitrary thefts.
Your name should have a million hits a day.
You should have been...
My god how brilliant you were.
Like a jewel and like a genius.
You should have been forever.
I guess, in a way, you are.
You were a part of my life,
and a much bigger part than I ever would
have had you believe.
Did you know that? Had you figured it out?
Perhaps not.
A year since. Fifty-two weeks.
More in fact.
It was May.
Day after my brother's birthday.
******* it.
You were older than me.
October to my November.
One month that you lorded over me.
One month.
You'll always be twenty-three.
Always.
Forever.
Now...
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 12:11 AM UTC
Tears tear upon my ears and ring with distance resounding now
Two years.
5 days hence your 36, and I've done much to move on.
Burned the bridge with greek fire, slashed tires and bombs. The blaze I burned a pittance compared to the fire raging an inscription upon my soul.
Oh how I've learned my capacity for destruction, exhausting my ambition to scupt my sephiroth by the injustice of it all.
The pain. Would never leave. Couldn't. Shouldn't. Would not. Yet waned with each severed thread held in place by that pact. Trickling like a trickster.
I feel as If the widower now, black against even abysmal shadows, drowned out by thoughts of quicker deaths than one sought out by my shallow cuts & hours drunk to numb this, my greatest loss. Lost for words I stumbled deeper in the mines of hades, time changing by months or days.
What kills a man can be any overabundance, but you killed my spirit. It was I who offered the sacrifice. stupidly, but you I name liar. The deal was not kept, could never be, yet after dying deaths daily, my weeping heart wept, hated and forgot hailing new depths forsaken each breath taken away from me vying to make this make sense.
I'm done.
I want it back.
I want the fuel to live life unkempt and uncertain, laughing at the impossibilities lorded over those too weak to withstand the pressure and my rebelious will to keep fighting fate.
It's not too late, still I feel I've aged a decade in 2 years
Only now, waking to see the sweet nap given to me as punishment for lying under the timeless tree.
haunted no longer
By the visions of a
Wraith.
Dec 7, 2022
Dec 7, 2022 at 5:08 AM UTC
Some once called him a Grand Old Man,
Others called him a slime,
You couldn’t get a consensus that
Was even, all the time,
For some kow-towed to his money, while
Others fell by his sword,
His life was overall sunny, while
His victims quailed at his word.
He lorded it over his children,
He ruled their kids with ease,
A sullen look from beneath his brow
Would bring them to their knees,
His will was forever changing
As solicitors came and went,
One day he’d offer a mansion,
And another day, a tent.
When he finally died he was stony broke
And they wondered where it went,
He’d always been abstemious
But the money had been spent.
He left all their lives in ruins with
Their expectations gone,
A couple of ramshackle houses were
The only things they won.
There wasn’t the money to bury him
So they left him where he sat,
Up at the head of the table in
His black, beribboned hat,
He glared at them as he’d glared in life
One hand on the table-top,
Where he used to tap with his finger
As if it would never stop.
Tap-tap-tap on the table-top,
Tap-tap-tap it went,
His eyes bored into the back of your head
As if to say - Repent!
And people scurried, this way and that
To divine what the tartar meant,
The grim old man in his black top hat
Who ruled to their detriment.
They left him sat and they locked the door
Didn’t go back for a year,
Til the eldest, saying ‘let’s know for sure,’
Returned with a tinge of fear.
‘He might have stocks in his waistband there
Or shares hid under his shirt,
Or cash stuffed in his beribboned hat -
He treated us all like dirt!’
He ventured into the dining room
Where the grim old man still sat,
His eyes a-glare in the year long gloom
From under the brim of his hat.
But as the eldest approached him there
The finger began to tap,
A steady rap with a note of doom
That would curdle blood to sap.
So Toby dived to the tinder box
And he leapt up with the axe,
His face as pale as a ghostly tale
But determined to attack.
He raised the axe and he let it fall
Severed the finger there,
It skittered across the table top
As the old man fell from his chair.
The stocks were stuffed in the old man’s hat
The shares were stuffed in his sleeve,
And so much cash in his waistband that
They said, you wouldn’t believe.
But still he’s locked in that grey old house
For they found it wouldn’t stop,
That severed finger that skittered there
Still taps on the table-top!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Tearing through bodies to refresh one...
a raw timetable end to end.
Verily said unto--
sleeper-words activated as
healing agents.
The milky bulbs of elbows
protract, as hands cradle
the back of a head.
The newfangled dreamer
has caught a way.
Somehow has given him/her
someway--an incendiary
stronghold lives to praise this:
one-more-time.
The menagerie of him/her is
rounded up and rounded off...
their flickering numbers profess
animalia half to hell, half to heaven.
A tilt to left or right to actuate
more or less of.
As in so being lorded over by
what passes their perimeters...
hands a hell, a hell--a heaven,
a heaven.
For what's astray passes through
itself in stages...tearing through
bodies to refresh one...a raw timetable
end to end.
Moment of overexposure compounded...
the sleek pulp draped over the
shoulder of night and day.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
I have lorded over all since the beginning of time.
Everything that ever was; All of creation is mine.
Can you not tell; Can you not see the signs?
Building the human body to withstand the test of time.
I breathed life into the stars; I gave birth to the night.
Upon my whims, I created the days and also the light.
The oceans, the lands, all were built by my hands
To all those that have seen, you have seen me at my best
My thundering abs, my rock hard pecs,
My simply irresistible mortal flesh.
I have choirs of angels singing to me at every meal
Heavenly tunes ringing out in all directions,
At my palace daily is the place to feel,
The love of god, the splendor of my will
I gave you, as man, free will to do as you please.
But an emerging trend has developed, it seems
Lately, I feel unsatisfied answering your needs.
Groveling, bent at the knee
You beg and plead for help from me
To save you from devices of your own making
Constantly breaking your own laws
Constantly taking the lives of those around you
Some may attest, even persuade themselves
That I do not exist; Living simply as a myth.
Hearing & Preaching my arch-rival's tales,
Of Sin & Corruption on massive scales.
Then answer how my work is seen
In the human body, down to the humble bean?
I send you my last regards
A message from on high
In hopes that you aren't ALL retards
Get your world fixed right!
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
This is the house.
Ruled by hostility
that still believes in slaves.
This is the house,
walls held up by arrogance and
false bravado,
lorded over by a tyrant with
ammunition:
bullets and berating.
This is the house,
cloudy day and night
despair billowing
from the dragon king.
This is the house
that would drive a saint to drink.
that drove a girl to cut.
that will driving the sanity from it's offspring
from walls held up with hate alone
This is the house that *** built.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
frailty
in beauty, as if that was the way it was supposed to be.
with hollow bones, like sparrows, just a stones throw away
if she was wicker, someone paid a hefty price.
and the bed sheets smelled twice laundered.
thin and devoid of meaning.
such a silly thing,
that moved like wind and breath would sway her
willow tree, that one
bent over in eternal weakness
like a daisy, wilting
but how she lorded over all the thoughts of men like a sovereign
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
They've defrauded us
Lorded it over us.
A reason for divorce?
but of course
what do we do?
We,
like sheep in a zoo
put more pennies in their pound as they
pound us deeper and deeper
into the ground.
I'd love to be a banker
I wouldn't be a canker
on society,
I'd be generous to a fault
open the vault
become a philanthropist,
miss out on my bonus
give back the onus
to where it belongs.
Pipe dreams it seems
just smoking away
while bankers make hay,
they say,
even as it rains so shall we pour,
money makes money and money makes more.
My money under the mattress
is still worth more
than it would be locked up
in the banks that
we seem to adore.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
just write through every thingle bad feeling you'll ever feel in your entire loife. my grandma died but i can write it out and feel better and remember the good times. my lip hurts cuz the dentist burnt it with his tools but i can write it out and realize it looks like a huge coldesore and its fun to bite. my job is a diabetes factory lorded over by monkeys who love the smell of throwing their own poopoo but i can write it out so now its actually a place full of individuals who struggle to express themselves and therefore have to express themselves in the only way they know how, which is by exerting power, and so exerting power in itself becomes something of an art and some people's paintings are like throwing up through a straw onto a spongy canvas. there is that sort of art, that the masses can appreciate and find fun to look at, and then there is the art that goes unnoticed.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
Lorded
The mad writer licked the crystal
To get a sale
This he got oh yes
Bought an atomic
And sent it to Putin
By 1st class post
May 7, 2023
May 7, 2023 at 10:42 PM UTC
I lived on Heavenly Lane
And with me I brought a demon
It lorded over and corrupted
Completely
Why it followed me
I can’t say
But one night
While it was sleeping
I killed it
Or at least I tried
I’m not sure now that it
Well…
It was playing possum
When I awoke
It sat at the food of my bed
Drinking something
And laughing wildly
Sticking on itself
Things made for other people
I smiled
And hugged it
Then it passed out.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
Alan had stood at our open door,
Shaking and white with fright,
First he was speaking to Eleanor,
Then had a word with Dwight.
‘What seems the problem,’ I said to him,
(My name, by the way, is Bill),
‘Haven’t you seen it,’ he said to me,
‘It’s moving, McAvanagh’s Hill!’
I went to the door and I looked on out,
The hill seemed to still be in place,
On closer inspection, it seemed to me
It had moved to the south, a trace.
‘It must be a trick of the light,’ I said,
A hill is a hill and can’t move,’
‘But look at McCafferty’s,’ Alan said,
‘It’s settling down in a groove.’
And true, but McCafferty’s roof had moved,
It used to stand up on the height,
The moon would come up just behind his roof
And highlight his house every night.
His house had dropped down the back of the hill
Or the top of the hill was too high,
‘Now isn’t that strange?’ I said in a muse,
And Dwight said, ‘I wonder why?’
The rumbling, grumbling started that night
But deep in the earth, underneath,
And Eleanor came in a panic to cry,
‘There’s movement, out there on the heath!’
We ran to the garden, and under the moon
We could see the heath starting to tilt,
As slowly it moved, and then it became
The rising front side of the hill.
Alan ran home and brought back a gun
He said, ‘I feel better with this!’
‘You think you can stop it by firing a gun?’
‘At least with a hill, you can’t miss.
There’s something behind it, something so weird,
A hill can’t just move by itself.’
Then Eleanor suddenly burst into tears,
‘The Devil’s come into the Dell!’
We didn’t get very much sleep that night,
We took it in turns just to watch,
The nearer the movement came up to our door
The more Alan knocked off my Scotch.
We felt the first tilt of the house next day,
Our porch was beginning to rise,
The hill loomed above us, and leaning back,
The house pointed up to the skies.
McCafferty’s house had quite disappeared
As it slid down the other side,
While our house was on the way to the top,
It was really a question of pride.
McCafferty lorded it over us all
As long as his house was on top,
But now he came racing along, was appalled,
‘I order this movement to stop!’
‘I know you’re behind it, you’ve conjured a scheme,
What set this in motion, Bill?’
I shrugged and I mentioned that my hands were clean,
‘It is, after all, just a hill!’
‘My real estate value just fell through the floor,
I’ll sue if you don’t move it back!’
‘Then go for it Buddy, there isn’t a court
That can order a hill… See you Jack.’
We’re sitting in clover, our house at the top
Of what was McAvanagh’s Hill,
For once it had moved, it suddenly stopped
And now it’s the Hill of Bill!
McCafferty sits down the hill in a glade
And he rages at everyone,
While Alan’s deluded, he swears at this stage
That it stopped when it noticed his gun.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
if i was the rain,
then he was the storm.
but when life was cold,
you were the warm.
he was cunning and charming.
a boy made of dynamite.
nothing is out of reach
once it is in his sight.
his pull is strong
and he loved me like a firework.
his display was a beauty
and he lorded it over you with a smirk.
but when the last bang sounded,
the show was done.
just like a sparkler,
a million pieces came from one.
a burnt, discarded thing
lying on the ground.
he had his fun.
he didn't need me around.
but you, you found me.
through the ashes
you saw my spark
and my soul, bright in flashes.
he burnt me out.
you made me shine.
you saved me from the debris.
you called me "mine."
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
I hear whispers in the walls
Chuckles behind the curtain
And now the ghouls have made their calls.
A gnawing doubt, cold and certain
That shadows stole away the light
My heart grows cold, a heavy burden.
This house now stands as a blight
A monument to some great fall
Lorded over by this wicked wight.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
Finished in time to show.
No one, any one, me, at least I see,
I said
life is worth the wait,
to be lived this way without a care.
-- forgot one care
that one I got from Eric Burdon,
heavy, when I was fifteen…
"Lord, don't let me be mis understood."
Do friends have liege relations, value-wise?
If you never were lorded over, can you
grip the handle on the phrase,
uttered long ago, many a witness have reported,
Henceforth {Jesus H. Christ apreachin'}
I call you not servants;
for the servant knoweth not
what his lord doeth:
but I have called you friends;
for all things that I have heard of my Father
I have made known unto you.
It is no secret what words may do
this is how I pass my time to you,
use it right as you see fit,
consider life this gift, there's no price
Dec 24, 2020
Dec 24, 2020 at 5:04 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
She
crept through the spyglass and into my eyes where looks passed between us that made us both blush,
no rush, she said
somewhere inside my head and the evening lit up like a firework bursting way up in the sky.
I couldn't die a worse death now if I didn't taste her lips how I have longed for this moment to come.
The sun rose before we had satisfied, what she said was true and to me who has lorded over a continent, if ladies are such as can be islands to me could see that this maybe was indeed the fine lady I had spied through the spyglass so long ago.
Many years at the oasis have caused me to kiss many a more toad and this new road I rise on is the road I set eyes on and with good hope in my heart I go on.
It's a parable,
A take on misfortune and the men who die too soon and a true love that pulls through in the end.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC