"serfs" poems
You weren’t worth the
Hundred dollars it cost to
Keep you in my car.
Princess got poached by the
League of Losers with Pedestrian Ideals.
I’d spit venom in your direction, if
Poison meant anything to you. But
Akin to most things, so sub-human,
You miss the world moving around your
Ever pulsating veins, and repel these
Toxins with a slip of the tongue.
Around you I could line
Bodies of those you’d loved and left.
Each clasping hands with one another,
Privy to a specific type of pain, only you can
Deal out. And
In the center of the circle you’d
Stare, stunned by your state of
Affairs, and flings. Collectively concerned
For the safety of your
Rotting consciousness.
One by one, I could set these men
On fire, and hand you a place
Where your head could be danced off.
Drunken and diving heart-first into
The burning lake of a
Surfable crowd. Since that’s
All we are, serfs.
I hope the fire gets too close to your
Gorgeous face. I hope the
Love you receive is no more likable
Than a few more licks from the flames.
The scars couldn’t sideline you.
No one can stop ****
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
Power is indeed a corruptive force,
Through all of mankind’s history
This has always been true.
Emperors, Kings, Potentates,
Popes, Presidents and Despots too.
Gathering near the Throne are the
Eager Courtier leeches reaching to
touch the anointed one’s robe.
Declaring their undying loyalty,
In the process selling their souls.
Their rewards, a speck of personal power,
Castles and new riches of gold.
Like their Master, the entitled ones
will lie and cheat, while ignoring
The principals of right and good.
Believing “Decency” is but a
poor man’s word, Never uttered
within the hearing of the Ruler.
Never a considered artifact of
absolute power.
The slaves, serfs, the common people
Matter not, but to serve the Ruler.
The power elite will start needless wars,
or offer up sacrificial lambs, all to distract
the unrest of the common man.
They will suppress human rights,
free speech and defame, banish
or imprison their detractors.
All merely smoke and mirrors to conceal,
Controlling agendas of personal greed.
From ancient times down to today
This cycle repeats. Now we are living
our own Textbooks history of tomorrow.
Kingdoms and Nations have perished
From this kind of poisonous corruption,
Needless to say, it will happen again.
Perhaps it already is.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
Migrants on highways-- hunger and need
In their eyes,
No argument, no system,
Need
Men fought for wage
Work for thirty--
Twenty-five--
Twenty
I’m hungry for work--
The kids see
They can’t run aroun’
They bloated up
--I’ll work--
for a little piece of good wages
Prices up
Great owners
Glad they bring more people in
Wages went down
We’ll have serfs again
--Blackout Poem Chapter Twenty-One--
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle
The rabbits beneath the deck,
Even the pesky deer who eat the shrubbery,
Sea creatures, living and spirits of the dead,
Lying on the paths and in the creeks of Silver Beach,
All inquire:
Was it better wherever you went?
Were the:
Bears, hiding in the forests outside Berlin,
Eagles, double headed, of Russia
Herring, fried, creamed, wined,
From the vendors on the docks of
Helsinki, Riga, Visby and Tallinn,
Salmon, smoked and cured in Stockholm,
More impressive,
Tastier than our striped bass,
Island cohorts of yours, who waited patiently
For their chronicler to return?
Did the Little Mermaid and her Dolphin
Guardians of the Port of Copenhagen
Welcome you more warmly than your friends,
The ospreys, lizards, turtles and owls
Who overwatch your steps and safety
When hiking in Mashomack Preserve?
Are the interlacing tidal creeks,
Woodlands, fields, salt marshes and the ragged,
Irregular but charmed coastline of this cherished island
Any lesser than those of Scandinavia?
Are the sea-going ferries that transverse the
Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Finland,
More poetic than the Menantic or the Lt. Joe,
Who carry you swiftly home to us?
The National Geographic people say that in
Tivoli Gardens, The Amerikaner (ha!) waffle ice cream cone
Is one of the ten best in the world.
Guessing they have not made it yet to the
Tuck Shop for some Moose Tracks!
Were you unaware that our isle settled before
Peter the Great ever envisioned creating the grand
Boulevards of his capitol, St. Petersburg,
Route 114 was a traveled forest path,
By settlers and Indians, not serfs.
Of the Treasures, the Gold Room of the Hermitage,
The Amber Room of Catherine's Palace,
Wrote not a single word, we observe.
Your attentions, they did not deserve?
The answers all, self evident.
Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of
Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay,
Sweet and salty flavors of the Peconic atmosphere,
Words unlocked, from your eyes to the page fall,
Smudged by joyous tears, for the muses of the island
Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed
Inspiration, within their comforting, sheltering grasp.
Silver Beach
July 22, 2012
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
Three friends in a row
On a windswept hill there
Had they but eyes to see
It’s a spectacle rare.
Three friends in a row
on a former plantation.
Three soldiers confined here
just for the duration.
It was Robert Lee’s land
Before terrible war
Made it a plantation
Like none was before.
There are soldiers and sergeants,
Many heroes, few saints.
Some are here since Antietam
since the war between States.
Marse Robert’s plantation
takes the proud and the few.
No serfs and no slaves,
only freeborn and true.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 8:15 PM UTC
This is a verse, not a song,
Let's gaze on the face of Agamemnon,
For ten years, he had stayed away,
Finally, he arrived home one day,
Yes, away to Troy he'd roamed,
The warrior king made it home,
But, he had been playing away,
His Queenie had a bad hair day,
Her axe did have a double blade,
As in her spa, she made him lay,
She drugged his wine, a loving cup,
Then proceeded to chop him up!
Off with his feet, for roaming so far,
Queenie really messed up her spa,
Off with his cheating hands,
He brought home ho's from foreign lands,
Off with his attachments,
You can guess what that meant,
Shoved them in his mouth,
as his head went south,
"Feed him to the swine!
It's pig feeding time!"
She yelled at the serfs!
"That cheating dud got his desserts!"
Queenie was having a bad hair day,
Warrior king had been playing away,
But, Queenie had a toyboy anyway,
She always kept smiling,
Looked for the silver lining,
Queenie's wealth was a'piling,
She was a keeper,
Old king now a sleeper,
Queen kept the kids, gold and slaves,
She did get hers one day,
Yes, Queenie kept the lot,
Or was it all a plot?
Queenie's bad hair day,
Warrior king had been playing away,
This is verse, not a song,
Let's gaze at the face of Agamemnon.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
Laughter & glitter
Sunshining through straight white teeth – voice unheard of
With a smile to make any man slither over
Cutting soft stomachs open
Driving out with sticks and leaves and rocks
And leaving me with the tab
How like them to err for the sake of error
Terrible and true
Acuity bound
It’s feeding time at the zoo &
There’s no one to take this noose off around my neck
We were swimming in the gulf when she asked
Why create when there’s so much to destroy?
My hands their play things too
Toys ordained from disdain sustained
By tight men in tight suits
Watching us from Ivory Towers
What a relief
& the power trips of the circus beneath them
Reaching out with viral irony I scream
Out to the heavens heaven doesn’t take collect calls
& here she is connecting souls to mates
Correcting hate and abating disgrace worldwide
Webs intangible but thought to be hooked
To the hearts that spun them
Free flowing love & peace to cut my noose hung from
The sycamore tree
As for me what more could please
Disease eradicated
People educated
Our lives illustrated not by blood off a bayonet
But by regret eliminated
Fat cats in high homes with low self esteem would seem
Just as happy to see her redacted from the text books
Crooked lies straightened & the sad thing is they
Trick us fine serfs to mitigate others in their organized ignorance
Leaving us in the dark to elbow for clues
Groping the dust blind &
Hurting ourselves with ***** fingernails scratching
She shouts like a car crash &
Everyone’s at the scene drawn to attention
By flashing red & blue
Cashing their moral chips for a peepshow
Their smiles use less muscles than frowns but take twice the effort
Affecting deflections of accusations
People listen & how couldn’t they?
Her words lifting chins like a rope over a branch
But this time the tree’s on fire
The Tower’s burning & she’s cutting all the safety nets
Like she cut the rope off around my neck
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
Arctic and Pure
cups emptied of Western laziness
gratis
Sapphire tears and sparkling beams
gathered from the fields
shining Pez and elecution exercises
Hey Miss, Tell me something
a poem
about everyplace
no fooling, You're so serious
and the serfs of the modern hovels are well behaved
and none
fleshen bodies
heads full of squishy wishes
consumme
my amusement is like a panacea
a corporeal healing
Flying who-I-haven't-people
someone down in my
constant solar blaze,
one who I devote all clear evidence
all the right answers,
fairness
Ignorance always harms our potential
reveal deaths inconsequence and void
flying through tunnels
creating opportunities for life.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:22 AM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with with my fingers rubbing on her tongue. A pedagogy I use to teach, but pretty much no longer have a use.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Barrels of oil painted smooth in acryllic
fill up the cracks with a feeling
spit out the money to feed the machine
Fair if it's toiling kids
draped along spoiled villians
immersed to serve the version of a billionaire's dream
eat the rich
Try me after I've been taught
I could've bought my chain
I would've lost my name
I should've dropped my shame facade
to play the game
We grew the youthful breath of heaven from the clay beneath our bones
imbued and innervated
aided you and drew the oath to play within the zone
circle reverie treasury burdens
bury the feathery,
herding squarely to fame - put on a show
eat the rich
dare me
you and yours invaded
bated breath had sung belated effort, whistle "death has reared it's head
at our expense so grab a sword.
We can war this **** straight out of this ole ditch
and fix whatever ***** gone wrong with it
with grit and sense
and build a fence"
Forget the soil your roots are grown in,
if you want to.
bask in shadow
of the weight of trust and decency
impeding our advances to your winner's table
fabled robin hoods with internets
guess who's deft enough let you know through every filter
left for us we may upset your dinner guests
let em know what's on the menu
eat the rich
let em know
The irony in learning
how to burn the fuel that kills you
after all the warning signs were there
sound familiar? it's a slog
burnin up, they'll crawl around
and find a meal on common ground
try the light show one more time
maybe that'll work
"The serfs are like a herd you see
they can't be riled along without a sermon
Burden them with silks and styles
worry them toward money piles"
Remind them of the fire they've been turning
Analogies aside I must abide by me and mine
but I've still got my eye on anything
...concerning
eat the rich
with discretion I guess.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 7:35 AM UTC
233
The Lamp burns sure—within—
Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil—
It matters not the busy Wick—
At her phosphoric toil!
The Slave—forgets—to fill—
The Lamp—burns golden—on—
Unconscious that the oil is out—
As that the Slave—is gone.
2.2k
Nebulous and Refined
The castle is a chain-smoker.
The king wears a three piece suit.
And in the air, most everywhere
that scent just does not dilute.
-
A car lot filled with scribes and serfs
that assemble to deliver their willing tax.
They bump and argue for the closest view
of their Man-God on high: Glycine max.
-
Employment is down! Crime is up!
What if the factories all move away?
This town will surely shrivel and die!
That's what the soiled townsfolk say.
-
They humbly bow to their master's whim
but behind him they say much more.
Another Dead Man found Stale Lee in the vents.
Carcinoma galore.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of pubis-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dogtag,
Or a dog, a colossal beast of a pet,
A humongus Harlequin Dane dog to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes.
Our boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.
We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo,” they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?
You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
'Tis true, 'Tis true. I do I do
He has a vocabulary of a hundred words
And speaks to me inspirational verse
Which I write down to share:-) with you
This bird I own showed me the way
To verbally destroy and then to slay
The poetic pathetic lesser men like you
Oh bow before me bow you serfs
For I are your artistic master here on earth
I are the greatest living man
As artistic brilliance from my pen doth flow
And inspirational words do poetically grow
All this from a parrot gilded bright
Lyrical inspiration into the night
And who here can compare
My bird as yet has got no name
Please peasants give a name
That all men here will recognise
As belonging to the best bird
In the land
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
gravity,
you amaze me with your
paradoxical pull
grasshoppers, greenshanks,
groveling serfs and grandiose kings
all feel your wicked weight
the bearable lightness of being
is at your cosmic command
some wear you like gossamer, others filigree
for the forlorn, you are ball and chain
for Sir Isaac, you were scripture,
chapter, and verse, Mathematica
you keep me and thee tethered
with invisible faithless cord
to this spinning stone
to attempt to defy you is folly
even with rockets at full ******
for ultimately we must
again bear your weight
but, grave though I have called your grip
you beatifically bestow
this bearable lightness of being
that cannot be seen or heard
only felt
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 3:46 PM 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
A human habit universal,
our measure of success by possessions to envy.
An infernal curse—commercial purveyors, trinkets
of gold and gem,
shining blinking, fabrics glistening;
the value of thing manipulated by
them insect kings.
By lion's fang and butterfly guise they rule,
a hubris deceiver upon their shoulder
obscuring their likeness to those
serfs upon whom they
cunningly demand servitude, otherwise
be starved, put out, forced to watch their
future falter—sons and daughters
failing in flight, their
wings clipped prior first spanning.
Locust clans spurred to fight over resources, who
sell and buy back nature's bounty once
formed anew into advertisement's subject.
Oceans emptied of fish, forests becoming myth,
uplands turned to wastelands,
abomination fog a spherical prison choking
earth's inhabitants—the marketer's dowry
paid for marriage to a precarious economy.
Royalty made rich at cost of labouring spine,
but worse—
our home and thereby our hope we consign.
By their futile attempt to survive,
the locust instinct to consume,
until all is gone we contrive,
the inevitable a meet with our doom—kings
with stained glass wings to follow soon.
So small are we amidst this vast existence;
the ambitions of men
barely bigger than an insect's significance.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
I wonder how they dug the graves
and shoveled in their young.
When grass was your last supper
your reserves are clearly done.
My forebears wouldn't" take the soup",
they wouldn't sell their souls.
So perhaps determination, then,
gave them strength to dig those holes.
To starve in the midst of plenty
was the saddest sight on earth,
but to their London Landlords
Irish serfs held little worth.
It's known that a potato blight
was the famines primal cause,
but I still blame beef eating men
and the cold uncaring laws.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
Could it be that locked in memory
Ancient thoughts are held in store,
Passed on by Neanderthal man
Who's origins we may recall.....
Ape like in physique and frame,
Prominent prognathus jaw,
Burning eyes intense and sharp,
Intelligence to seek for more.
Telepathic thought transference
Little need for guttural grunt,
Massive strength in hand and thigh
Stinking pelt to back and front.
Rushing through the reed and long grass
Casting lance with lunging throw,
Mastodon with roaring bellow
Thrashing trunk with thunderous blow.
Darkness in the smoky cavern
Clustered at the flinted flame,
Family and others warming
Squat encircled, chewing game.
Listening in the chill of moonlight
Listening to the wolf pack howl,
Out across the snow clad forest
Out beyond the hooting owl.
Chewing pelts to soften leather
Massive teeth in massive jaw,
Wary eyes observe the weather
Southern winds may bring the thaw.
Luscious she with scent ascending,
Luscious she with hairy maw,
Bent to me in sweet surrender
Downy hip and coaxing paw.
Roar in rage and beat the earth
Blazing eyes and heaving chest,
Invasion from the **** Sapiens
Seeking females for their nest.
Skies descend with fire and brimstone
Rock cascades and burns the earth,
Mountain God has vent his fury
Scamper hard to cave’s safe berth.
Cold, so cold this bleak snow weather
No retreat from Winter’s ire
Brother, sisters, sons are huddled
Frozen dead in blue ice byre.
Few, so few now to migration
Trek to southern food and heat,
Starving, wet and hypothermic
Staggeringly trudge the weak.
Few, so few to intermingle
With the **** Sapiens here,
Serfs in ******* low and squalid
BUT SURVIVORS..STRONG AND CLEAR!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
13 August 2011
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 12:39 AM UTC
It approaches swiftly.
A monsoon of rain readily setting off
Naive natives and their tiresome routines.
Shutters shroud the windows with irrational security,
Sandbags too are placed; it must be a big one!
Clouds roll and tumble into position.
A sunset evaporates quickly,
Yellow to orange to red and BANG,
As quick as a flash of lightning it blackens.
Pure darkness, but for humanity’s scars.
Another scar takes their places
As a deafening crash collapses the eardrums,
Seconds after its divine light pierces the sky,
The soul and that artificial light.
Darkness now, but for lightning,
Blinding flashlights and candles.
Dewy droplets descend into view,
Dripping hopelessly through a silver fork.
Frightened faces too are seen,
Made more frightening by flashlight.
Rain, lightning and thunder
Can’t silence children’s cries
But can still awaken the waves –
Serfs turned warriors in an instant,
Harassing the horrified sandbags,
Overpowered and silenced.
The satanic storm battles on
Callously battering a weary world.
The sickening sun shines into the eye
And a torn green turtle begins to cry.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 10:45 AM UTC
Leaders of the 'Free World':
Get jobs inflating hot air baloons
with all that hot air you love to blow,
Then perhaps you'd make an honest living
and your words would be useful
not just to you and yours, but to those you claim to seek to help.
WE ARE SERFS
WE ARE PEONS
WE ARE PAWNS
WE ARE STATISTICS
WE ARE UNITS TO BE EXTORTED
WE ARE UNITS OF PRODUCTION
WE ARE THE UNTOUCHABLES
Our right is to worship our system
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
As I struggle for control
the voices start to grab a hold
daily forcing me to be
something that I just can't be
a violent act, compassionless
left dying on the street
lying in a pool of blood
ripe for news TV
talking heads relay the tale
ramp up fear increasing sales
all the while those at the top
pray to god, that it won't stop
For profits are the result
of their plan to wipe us out
weaken the middle everyday
till only serfs remain to pay.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
The Queen of the Diamond,
she of beauty and grace.
she of poise and elegance,
she of ribbon and lace.
The King of the *****
he of joking and laughter
he of roughness and fun,
he of jacket and leather.
The Queen stood tall,
over her subjects, the
serfs of the schoolyard.
The Barons, Earls, and Counts,
alike tried to garner her favor.
All to no avail, as the Queen
was not interested in their advances.
Or in affairs of the heart altogether.
She was busy with her own lofty goals,
yet, how the countesses talked...
The King was once but a serf,
a simple, silly, joking jester.
But he had a way, and a manner,
an ability to please and to appease,
in ways the nobles could not.
However, all he really was
was a punchline, a tool for laughter.
He longed for more, and then more.
He desired importance, and status,
and not the derision of the clowns.
The Queen graced him with
her royal presence, one spare day.
With his jokes, and jests, and
his knightly sincerity, the King
managed to win her over.
In time, they made an alliance.
A partnership, an agreement,
sealed by a regal kiss. Together,
They won what they both desired.
in spite of what others conspired.
The Queen got some solace from
the nagging hand-maids, her fellow
nobles and others asking when she'd
find herself a sweet suitor, a man.
So that she could focus on her dreams.
The King finally earned respect,
the kind that comes from moving up.
No longer was he just another serf,
he could instead joke and upshow
the smug nobles of the royal court.
Yet as the seasons passed, they came to
realize that little had they in common.
The Queen was studious and stern,
The King was slack and slow at work.
They had fun, but little was earned.
Respect only went so far really,
and the King could feel it was forced,
and the Queen still had to put up with
questions of when they would be wed.
Their struggles were still present.
Camelot would not amaze much longer,
as the King and the Queen would go
their separate paths, amicably as could be.
The Queen realized that only she could
determine her own self-worth.
A lesson that rang true for the King,
as well. Self-respect mattered more,
than 'respect' from others, that can flit,
and flutter. And so, through each other,
The King and Queen got what they needed.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 1:11 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