"roister" poems
Up went the roar of the crowd,
Ascending, volumes above, beyond
The everyday murmur of pestering silence.
A futile struggle to withstand its force,
Like a vast wave, rogue and raging,
Slamming nature, a slap in the face of feebleness,
This crowd roars…
Not anger, not anguish, or grief,
But a prideful scream of declaration;
The masses make it known, and known again,
Fists raised, pulverizing the air to a beat
Of human design, of togetherness, of solidarity
In the fight for those like us, a howl,
This crowd roars…
Stampeding feet berate the beaten earth,
Invigorated legs supporting pounding hearts,
To a beat, rolling with the flow,
Energy infusing the soul, encased in flesh, bone, and blood;
Marching onward, forward, processional strides
Declaring and making it known with battle cries,
This crowd roars…
Shouts of proclamation echo the strident resistance
With thunder, earth-quaking, walls crumbling, chains shattering
With thunder, dancing against the discordant system;
Proud warriors raising flags of protest
Amidst the roar, roister, and riots, rising reactionaries
Refusing submission, declining resignation,
This crowd roars…
Bounded together, by blood, by common cause,
Mingling masses of forgotten arise with a vocal
Outcry, intense, pulsing from the core (of us)
Like an infestation, infuriated, a torrent swarm (of us)
Flowing upwards, eroding all obstructions.
Declare, proclaim, announce, request, demand,
This crowd roars…
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
He sat there looking on,
The one million mile stare,
As still as if he was drawn
Or maybe just in prayer.
Across the entire world
His mind would race.
His thoughts would unfurl
As his mind would quickly pace.
How do you catch a prawn?
Or how would be get home?
The last chopper from Saigon,
The great civilisation, Rome.
All the world was his oyster.
But why not anymore?
For while his mind did roister,
Time had crept out the door.
At this time everyday
He was able to be free.
On the outside he was grey
While inside he could flee.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
butterfly with eyes on wings
feigns appearance of predator
fools the bird that flying sings
of crunching grubs as creditor
clown with plastered face and grin
jovial and facetious,
masks the dismal depths within
pretext of roister specious
the solidness of form material
cloaks the inner truth
the vacuous space of air ethereal
that fills the world in sooth.
authenticity is hard to come by,
that's this world's DNA,
but that don't mean we shouldn't try
to be as honest as we may.
Nov 25, 2021
Nov 25, 2021 at 5:15 AM UTC