"serfdom" poems
typewriter rhythm
clacking away new beats
tempo exchanges
computer lab concerto
fair-weather phonetics
hunt and peck symphony
symbolic of the system
poking at inmates
pecking at the enforcers
attempting to gain an education --
floating above the ruckus
offering research aid
I sit at the desk seeking only to enlighten
service work for those
suffering servitude
serfdom
post-modern slavery
complete with subsidies
scamming the con-men --
white house looks best
through prison barred windows
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
I find myself sidewalking everything
So Silverstein was lucky to know where it ends
Will I ever be privileged to discover such a thing?
Too many trivial needs distract from its pursuit
But how am I to know?
When it's time, I only cared for my toys
The way the sheeple only care for their handouts
Do tell; if the Pentagon lays off 800,000 people
Will we know they're telling the truth about unemployment
When their words flow between mouthfuls
Of stolen fruit and gold
At the table of the elite
So tell me, who is John Galt?
I sit at a table with a mind that knows how to think for himself
And can't help but think this is the purest form of elitism:
Until at last the time has come
For the imminent end of all serfdom
Brought by the brawn of the brainy
How are we to keep our heads when the others ***** us over
Take our heads clean off to see the contents
Only the strongest can withstand the attempts to skew ideas
Upon who's minds the lying flies
Forced off by intellect
The simple last defender of God and liberty
Big Brother would have us not discuss such things
At times, I feel that we are the last in the world
So, tell me- if this paper is the last in the world, have we written something significant?
I've no doubt the world will see
The mistakes of society
Time then, will bring forth a new renaissance, with us as creators
And they, as the readers of some disconnected thoughts
Written at a time when the end of a page was a good stopping point for poetry, but not for the limit of government infringement on personal freedom.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
The public should be wiser,
our wealth controlled by misers.
Breed more sheep for the pasture,
bow down before the master.
When it comes to worldly knowledge,
you don't need to go to college.
Scare tactics promote the system,
tie us down in neo-serfdom.
An age in great need of regression,
back before the planets oppression.
We all get weaker by the hour,
lets rise up and take back the power.
So let us tear up all the concrete,
we will once again sow the Earth.
Rip the ruling class from their seat,
chaos will bring us our rebirth.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
In a classroom neat as a pin
the sixth grade social studies class
discussed serfdom in western Europe.
Young voices decried
the inevitability of life for serfs. They
espoused running away from the manor,
could not conceive of a lack of options. One
young girl asked if a serf girl could marry
the lord, if the lord really loved her.
She had been sold on an idea of
equality. Marrying a serf, I told her,
would be like a farmer marrying
a cow from his herd. The concept
was beyond her. Of that I was glad.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
bless this restlessness
as it is success
but a mess none the less
I confess
when wearing a dress
there is no guess
just bad press and distress
impressed?
the need for rest seems
incessant and persistent
yet I remain resistant
by playing an instrument,
one reminiscent of distant
enlisted men
transitioning
to some sort of agricultural
based life of subsistence
subservient serfdom
on poor farms in Tennessee
with plenty of hens running free
and a still out back brewing grain whiskey
frisky miss’s with pesky kittens
rub dainty mittens
smitten with ripping the
cotton-topped children’s
collars and slipping dollars to poor
babies fathers
while bothering loggers
robbing old codgers –
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC
There were thousands and thousands o'kids
Pushed down pits or stamped out in t'mills
Mekin theer bids fer freedom.
Aye...from the drudgery and slavery of serfdom.
Now I realise..all that they got was a sub standard plot..
..and two penny's to cover...their poor dead eyes
And in the parlours Ma cries.
It was the minimum rate from which..
..we still cannot escape.
The rasping and grasping maws..
..the jaws that still trap us in poverty and penury
It's time for the judiciary to alter the law
To give poor people more.
What the **** are they waiting for?
A return to the old ways..
..back to the old days?
I wait for the answer but suspect I won't hear
And wonder what year this can be
Or even what century.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
From formative years
To adulthood serfs-baited
Servants ill-treated
From their means
Of existence alienated,
It is with hatred
From- serfdom- of- every-kind
-the- newly -unshackled heads'
Formatted!
Though their much-lamented land
Has come back to their hand
Tardy,their mind proves not free,
That is why they engage
In a killing spree!
Worse still death to all, allies
Inclusive,they decree!
Although it sounds funny
They pay back gal
For received honey!
Also to cultural norms
And religious ideals blind,
Atavistic they slay
A woman and a child
In a way that is wild.
Oblivious for 9-months
They had a lodging
In a mother's womb
They want to blast it
With a bomb!
They want to shove in it
A spherical thorny wood
As far as they could.
Alive,they grill a man,
For idle or unskilled what
They can't do, he can!
In the name of God
Or religious sects,
Replete at this
Satan-released age,
They behead a man
Made in God's image!///
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 4:42 AM UTC
Munster was his name,
after Herman Munster
of TV fame cause,
he was so big.
But not scary, feral big,
just double dose of cat big.
He was predominately
sleek, shiny black,
with a white bib
and crooked muzzle,
like he had his moustache
painted on in a hurry.
Oh, and he had one white paw.
Poppajack used to say,
he had been caught by God
stealing cream.
Munster was sleek, sinuous
muscle,
he rippled when he walked.
In stalk mode he was, panther incarnate.
Albeit, dressed in a tuxedo.
In cat term's he was vain,
always preening, or finding
a vantage point to show
himself off to the best photographic angle.
But just occasionly,
if we were lucky
and the butterflys
were on the wing,
he would, kitten prance
like a pixie, at the birth of spring.
He was a hunter,
not of bugs and lizards.
A ratter of renown,
he could take a bird
from it's early flight
without a care.
I once saw him, come home
and drop a rabbit,
at Poppajacks feet, before
finding the evening sun
for a well earned nap.
Munster loved Poppajack,
with dedicated flair
would follow him about
the garden, bulter-like,
dignified tail, straight and tall.
They would parade
in regal state,
to check on the vegetable serfdom.
He was not a cat of lap,
but,would sprawl over Poppa's feet like,
black satin slippers
with a purring engine beat.
Majestic Moggy Munster, was felinetity in it's prime.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
They try to ****** you,
reduce you
to quivering mountains of jelly.
(well we won't have that,will we?)
While we're picking up dog ends
looking up our rear ends
they're
sending their sprogs off to Harrow and Eton
making more running dogs,
they think that we're beaten.
On the street where I live,half
of the residents don't live at all,
they vegetate,
a form of somnambulism,
some kind of mistake because the other half
don't give a frig,
this is the gig,this is the play
if you're happy or not they don't care,anyway,
they won't ****** me,
I am cardboard citizen and free,
under the rainbow and off the grid,
still got to bid on a house or a flat
and that's the way of it.
You try and you think that you're free but
you're numbered and name tagged and put in the queue
and all you can do then
is dream of a time when
freedom means freedom and not
medieval serfdom.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC
Who is to say-
old age is wisdom?
rather it's an
unknown kingdom.
The older I get
the less I know for sure
life is a mysterious continent
to live is to struggle, to explore and to endure.
Certitude, what certitude?
wisdom, what wisdom?
human intelligence is finite
the mind that's fixed on certitude is serfdom.
In the beginning nothing I knew
and at the end--still nothing
nay, old age is doubts and the
beginning of learning.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
i wouldn't complain
had i been given
satisfying
engagement -
but indeed, we're all bound
to the entitlement of serfdom
these days;
oh curl the toes and fingers
while i'll see your children
plough the fields of wheat digitalised!
i have no ancestry, no concern,
no bloodline.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
When we form a microcosm
Underneath the sheets
I am your peasant people
You give me the word kind
Little thing
I do not give you the word tyrant
Although
You were already wearing
Blindly
The crown I had given you
Kissing the brow
Granting mute fealty
Under an unrelenting sun
Out in a wheat field
Heart blistered
But a king's got to eat
Even if he doesn't know where the bread comes from
Do you still
Not understand love?
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
Who will write for you poems of the vanquished?
For history is a blend of anecdotes of the conqueror
The conquered ones are the wrong side of civilization
Hence why their civilization is never murdered
But in villainous feat of folly often commits ******
Thus, you are too wrong my brethren
Thus, you are too late my sisteren
For, why did you accept to be
In your present realm, of despair
In which you wallow in the mire
Of poverty and serfdom ?
Brother, you are too late for so sure
No one sings the poetry of vanquished minions
Perhaps with wonkish tincture of glory
Stand up and sing them yourself.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
Satellites, perfumes, smartphones and other gizmos
Then they forget the giant stench among them
Dwelling with them and moving with them
A monster with an insatiable appetite
A work of art some would say
It overflows from households and factories
Into works of Philosophy and literature
The sages that attained Nirvana in the midst
Of adulterated syringes and gross excrement
The New Buddha under the Garbage mountain
The Prince among the generations to come
Abounding in dialectical wisdom from distant worlds
Embodied in an era of savage monstrosities
Where heads are pounded with information
And hearts won over by shallow myths
Take me away from the world into excesses
Ungroudning my wretched appetites into sheer freedom
Garbage freedom, serfdom unleashed
A new religion emerges suffocating Ecological gods
Radically excessive backdrops for new sciences
We sing new songs as we ascend into thrash
We thrash and we rejoice for our destiny
The destiny of life over nature’s laws
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
The eyes glowed as she nodded
into the apartment. She’s been out.
She comes and she goes
as Prufrock once lamented;
all of that banal nonsense.
She always has things to do,
she only stays the nights,
worn out and turned on.
She begs it all from me,
the self, the mind...
It is all I can to simply
bend the knee.
I concede as man has
conceded since the first in Eden.
I write late into the night,
but not when her footsteps
echo up the stairs.
Not when she nods in,
eyes glowing,
lips silent and pressed tight,
legs, ears, fingertips;
all of the above moving vividly.
I have nothing to
do but sit. I have nothing to
do but wait.
She drags her mess in
with beautiful disaster
and I with eager anticipation.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
but not this.
I am not even a writer anymore
but a servant, a vassal.
She comes and is gone by morning
and the mess is left,
and the page is empty,
and the door shuts silently
but it keeps me from going back to sleep
all the same.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 4:37 AM UTC
16
You have lost your freedom
Because in your blindness you chose serfdom
17
Reason is boring
The heart likes to dance and sing
18
Life is about living
Not about winning.
19
Which do you prefer
To be?---a leaf or a stone falling on the surface of the water?
20
Do not sing in the company
Of someone who is in misery.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
I won't tell me kids about Santa Claus,
And you might ask "Why?", because-
Like the Easter Bunny and Jack Frost,
You lied to your kids.
You meant well, I assure you,
And convinced them of wishes and miracles too,
And things falling out of the sky so blue,
But none of it is true.
Now, we all decieve ourselves a bit,
And believe in the ritualistic skits,
And pray, or wish, or write a list,
But logically, its all horse spit.
So when my kids look under the tree,
For their generic winter holiday gifts,
They'll see it came from dear old dad,
And at that, their spirits can lift.
"But why," you ask, "won't you tell them about Santa?"-
As you look at me like i've grown an antler,
And I'll take a breath, and let it out,
And try to contain what I ought to shout,
The poor and the needy are-
Abused by the greedy,
And the evil corporate overlords too.
They can't afford fancy presents,
They're living like peasants,
Its a state of modern serfdom, yet to you-
You buy phones and new games,
For your kids, with no shame,
And they think nothing of Santa when-
The poor kids might get socks,
And go outside to kick rocks,
And wonder why Santa hates them.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
The wisdom of age is caged
By rage
By pages staged in cultural serfdom.
The youthful burnt by truth's
Supernova
Of time and its rotten fruit,
wisdom, hah
So you find me between
The rage and the explosion.
Gritting teeth beneath pain's expressed grief.
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 11:41 AM UTC
I am the peacock,
the beautiful bride
of the bird kingdom.
I am in no doubt
fairer than the ****
for I dwarf its pride
with feathers that stand out.
I am the Peacock
who desires serfdom
from the bird kingdom,
for I long to usurp
the title of king
from the strong Eagle
who soars atop
with its air-borne wings.
Though fit as fiddle
with an awesome strength,
gliding the sky's length
at a blistering pace,
yet dreaded for a face
that is void of grace.
I am the Peacock,
the elegantly clad.
Humans would be mad
to contend with me,
for shame you would see
if unclad they be.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 7:34 AM UTC
When the newscaster, he preaches for a war abroad with drones,
And why battle-hardened soldiers must shoot children armed with stones,
They say "Genocide? apartheid? No!
These are strategic goals."
Remember that their wrong.
When you've waited four more years and now finally you can vote,
And you've leafed through manifestos that your favourite party wrote,
They're now in power, but you're just as powerless and broke.
It isn't you who's wrong.
The seas they are a-rising and the temperature's so high,
That the forests are a-blazing and we know precisely why,
Billionaires build bunkers, leave the rest of us to die.
Remember that they're wrong.
In distant mines and sweatshops our nation reaps rewards,
The wheels of commerce greased by blood of poor people abroad,
If you'd rather see their boats capsize than make it to our shores.
Remember that you're wrong.
In misery you've toiled and with anger you have burned,
For security and comfort and some meaning, you have yearned;
If all this has made you hopeless, then forget all you have learned!
The union makes us strong.
By now you are a skeptic of the ideology,
That says serfdom and consumption's all there is for you and me,
The hope that felt like weakness, now's a stark necessity
'Cos the union makes us strong.
Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 5:19 AM UTC