"usurped" poems
*Blue is the boulder overlooking the bay
Loosely pocked by weather-worn stains
Unwavering guardian of all that lay
Enigmatic yet silently screaming its pains
Blue is the reflection dancing playfully
Laid generously by the twilight moon
Upon the vast canvas of the darkened sea
Elated ripples readily accepting such a boon
Blue is the halo encircling the moon
Lavish circlet gifted by the sun
Unnoticed by eyes that slumbered too soon
Evading the sands of time that run
Blue is the silhouette of a lone sailboat
Lurching and bobbing by will of the waves
Unknowingly catching the zephyrs that float
Eluding the fingers from watery graves
Blue is the man; perched upon the boulder
Lapping up the stars mirrored upon the sea
Usurped heart of his had never sung drearier
Ensnared by woeful wonderment...*
that man is me...
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
1736
Proud of my broken heart, since thou didst break it,
Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,
Proud of my night, since thou with moons dost slake it,
Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
Thou can’st not boast, like Jesus, drunken without companion
Was the strong cup of anguish brewed for the Nazarene
Thou can’st not pierce tradition with the peerless puncture,
See! I usurped thy crucifix to honor mine!
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the sounds are there, they come through walls
right around the corner
they're not visual, they're miserable and in need
they're equal opportunity exhibitionists
lovers of a family get together, taking everything in
parasitic and aware, destitute and stuck
but they're also there at the wrong time
the wrong time for the person who's alone
the wrong time for a person who's disconnected
because they want to be enjoying peace and quiet
alone
by themselves in an old house
with summer outside making its noises, crickets
trees rustling under a jeweled sky, the pinnacle of up high
breathing in the home air of cannibus, lotion and food
being disturbed is far from a thought, but unavoidable
simultaneously
because the house has a strange history
the basement floods, and the machinery kicks in
the mind ponders as the constellations wander
the nights grow and shrink, the body is dry, bone dry
the shower is turned on, soap, shampoo
lost in the mind on autopilot
until the spine stiffens
its without a doubt that I'm not alone now
a minute ago i was the master of this house
a minute ago I was naked in the hallway, smoking a cigar
now I've been usurped and I just want to barricade myself
in this house that I've live in for 15 years, now i beg for permission
to stay just one more night
I beg because how could I possibly fight
It's my conscious or the pontius pilate
I hope it's the former, because if not, blowout the pilot light
There's little hope for re-ignition or stellar recognition
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
I will disappear in fog and night
Subdued in sleep and surprise
Blinding lights
Overwhelming might
They will spirit me away
And charge me with my crimes
They will call me many names
And some I might be
But none will be my own
I will be a traitor or subversive
Or worse
Because I refuse to swear allegiance
To the police state
And fealty to the men
Clad in black
I will not submit
But they don't know
That I stole into the great hall of Valhalla
And took with me
One of their mighty spears
Usurped their valor
And took it back with me
Now they will carry me on my shield
Though my burning bier
Be but a lonely cell
And tonight I will dine
In the great hall of Valhalla
That place that still lives on
In the mind of men
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC
Wake up Nigeria whilst it is still day.
Your darkness thickens in the hot summer sun.
Wake up Nigeria from your spectators' fun.
Like a titan to the slaughter, your way
to financial hades might be certain.
Awake, or your future is uncertain.
Your teeming youth population languish
in persistent erosive social crimes.
Awake Nigeria from pain and anguish.
Your tragedies exceed your countless births.
Awake Nigeria, for these many deaths
reveal a corrupt weakened armed forces.
Awake Nigeria from your great slumber.
Your rank in the black world has been usurped.
Awake Nigeria, reclaim your number
one position by treading those courses
once trod, and never again to be stopped.
Awake Nigeria and discern the times.
Cease for good to be black gold dependent.
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 9:22 AM UTC
I will disappear in fog and night
Subdued in sound sleep
And surprise
Blinding lights
Overwhelming might
They will spirit me away
And charge me with my crimes
They will call me many names
Even some that I may claim
But none will be my own
Traitor or subversive
Criminal or defendant
Or maybe
Even something worse
But I refuse to swear allegiance
To the police state
And fealty to the men
Clad in black
I will not submit
Nor ever kneel down
Though they may lay me
On the ground
But they don't know
That I stole into the great hall of Valhalla
In deepest dark of night
And took with me
One of their mighty spears
Usurped their valor
And added it to my might
Now they will have to carry me
Proudly on my shield
Though my burning bier
Be but a lonely cell
It will be my burial
And tonight I will dine
In the great hall of Valhalla
That place that still lives on
In the mind of men
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
“You are the leaders of tomorrow”
They told us over and over
Right from the tender age of three
Through childhood and adolescence.
We have outgrown our youth
We are now mature men
We have come of age to lead
Just as promised decades ago.
At a recent gathering
Our leaders of yesterday
Stricken with age and power
And long overdue for retirement
Addressed us, saying,
“Bla bla bla, bla bla, bla bla bla…”
“You are the leaders of tomorrow”
That last statement jolted me awake
From his uninspiring, boring speech.
Then it dawned on me
We are a sleeping generation
We have long been waiting- sleeping!
When we should be leading
*Our greedy, power-drunk leaders,
Will die in active service!
They will NOT hand over to us!
Not if we sit and wait for them*.
I had a revelation that the “tomorrow”,
We were promised “yesterday”
Is fast becoming yesterday, today!
And while the Nigerian youth sleeps
His chance is being usurped by his fathers
Yesterday we heard this promise
Today we hear the same promise
But come tomorrow, we will be too old to lead
And our children’s turn, it will be.
We have been scammed of our future
By the very ones we entrusted them with
And like turns in a game of scrabble,
We have missed ours- forever!
Our leaders are old men
Who have no faith in youths
And come tomorrow, our children,
Will have graves to look up to
Because we would have no experience
From which to advise them…
And like an unwanted track on a CD
Our generation would have been skipped
By the geriatric push of a ⇒ button!
© Raphael Uzor
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
_Under smoldering red desert skies
Earthquake-like tremors displace sand
And giant gears pulling wide treads give rise
To a towering, onyx colored machine of man.
A scientific prophecy once foretold
That the oceans and trees could be killed
And in its toxic love of black gold
Humanity granted this prophecy fulfilled.
It used to warm our bodies and minds
But now, our sun is something to fear
Our lives and colossal machines combine
And chances of survival remain unclear.
For military rule has exploited
Our natural will to fight and survive
They’ve usurped us and anointed
Themselves rulers of the inside.
What’s left of our once great society
Roams the Earth in onyx colored arcs
Scientists try to return Earth’s sobriety
As we wage war for oligarchs.
Terrorism between 3 arcs ensues
As each believes the one to solve
The problem of an Earth abused
Will become ruler by forceful resolve._
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
A man must be knowledgeable, says God
For him to come in the presence of God,
He who has his male members dismembered
Or his testicles crushed whatsoever,
He shall not be permitted to enter in to the synagogue,
To worship Jehovah God of Israel,
says the deutronomical god of Jews
And today I am ill fated,
my testicles are crushed,
By the grenade thrown by a terrorist,
Here in Nairobi, an Islamic terrorist
Has crushed my testicles, in his guest
For the land of Palestine usurped by Israelis,
How do I worship you God of Israel?
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
The little Prince of Persia
Who's purpose is to depurse ya,
Dispersing suits, clock off time city worker,
Mark your card, inertia.
He's no mathematician or magician
But give him a dynamoment to take you to the cleaners,
cause this one's mean a!
Hellbent on humiliation he'll reverend run you to the station.
He's counting cards, counting on ya till your seeing stars, K.O, ringside seat whilst you get parred, po, poker face he'll drive you gaga!
So Loay and behold he might not be honourable, but he's willing and able to bring the last supper to this table.
He's not called Jack but he's a joker, in guise he tries to choke ya, draw the ace but it won't help ya,
cause you're a disgraced King
and you've just been usurped sir,
by that little Prince of Persia.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
Can we believe -- by an effort
comfort our hearts:
it is not waste all this,
not placed here in disgust,
street after street,
each patterned alike,
no grace to lighten
a single house of the hundred
crowded into one garden-space.
Crowded -- can we believe,
not in utter disgust,
in ironical play --
but the maker of cities grew faint
with the beauty of temple
and space before temple,
arch upon perfect arch,
of pillars and corridors that led out
to strange court-yards and porches
where sun-light stamped
hyacinth-shadows
black on the pavement.
That the maker of cities grew faint
with the splendour of palaces,
paused while the incense-flowers
from the incense-trees
dropped on the marble-walk,
thought anew, fashioned this --
street after street alike.
For alas,
he had crowded the city so full
that men could not grasp beauty,
beauty was over them,
through them, about them,
no crevice unpacked with the honey,
rare, measureless.
So he built a new city,
ah can we believe, not ironically
but for new splendour
constructed new people
to lift through slow growth
to a beauty unrivalled yet --
and created new cells,
hideous first, hideous now --
spread larve across them,
not honey but seething life.
And in these dark cells,
packed street after street,
souls live, hideous yet --
O disfigured, defaced,
with no trace of the beauty
men once held so light.
Can we think a few old cells
were left -- we are left --
grains of honey,
old dust of stray pollen
dull on our torn wings,
we are left to recall the old streets?
Is our task the less sweet
that the larve still sleep in their cells?
Or crawl out to attack our frail strength:
You are useless. We live.
We await great events.
We are spread through this earth.
We protect our strong race.
You are useless.
Your cell takes the place
of our young future strength.
Though they sleep or wake to torment
and wish to displace our old cells --
thin rare gold --
that their larve grow fat --
is our task the less sweet?
Though we wander about,
find no honey of flowers in this waste,
is our task the less sweet --
who recall the old splendour,
await the new beauty of cities?
The city is peopled
with spirits, not ghosts, O my love:
Though they crowded between
and usurped the kiss of my mouth
their breath was your gift,
their beauty, your life.
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i.
The atlantian theorists, of the Masonic order,
Wanted a new world, ****** indigenous quarter's;
They came by their ship's, to conceal native truth's,
Only coming for a plunder, to giveth satanic rule.
ii.
The warrior-painted faces, naturally painted by ash and red,
Sawest their shores, being broken by it's door's; mad-men in
Shiny silver, hand's open, yet were fed. Sachem prophet's
Bellowed the harbinger's long afore, now all hast come, these
aborigines weren't dumb; they prophesied this long before.
iii.
The wigwams, longhouses, teepees and lodges, were uprooted from their sacred ground's, the creator's meek were ravaged; as giant bones were taken while found. As hidden beneath the surface, the haut monde made none sound; playing dumbed with Gun's, they ran their fun, fabricating lies, under the America's sun. As tis they gave the world alibi's to be one, O' what hath they done; O' what hath they done.
iv.
First the viking, with dragon ship thunder
came to conquer,pillage and plunder
taking lives without a thought
unwary of the cruelty they wrought.
v.
Then pilgrim's progress seeking new land
would have starved if not for the "savage" man
onward, westward, did they go
killing for profit, pleasure little did they know.
vi.
Grandfather, earth mother and spirit of wild
they watched as the white eye usurped the child
and still, no lesson has been learned
the people grew fat, their culture spurned.
vii.
Most of the tribes are gone away
and America has come to stay
but in my native heart i yearn
to see the Indian nation return.
©Brandon Nagley \Wolfspirit duo poem
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Indigenous harbinger's revealed
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
*And suddenly he finds this--
the season of strange happenings
befall upon him.In Bangkok rains lashed
for three consecutive days without stop.
Huge pythons with strange markings
undulated over waves, that were roads
three days before.A stranger to the town
he feared the fury of river Chao Phraya
but this girl took care of him well,
and when rain paused slightly
she suggested they should eat out.
He left it to her choice, though never knew
much about her, say he was careless.
In that dim-lit restaurant, she said
most unexpected things happen certain days,
and what she said was really true.
She ate his past wholly, so quick
when no one noticed, it was truly smart an operation.
It tastes exactly like Thai cuisine she told him, as if pleased,
full of aromatic leaves of herbs.
He just sat like a zombie, would he understand
the meaning of that sabotage, ever?
As she whispered her words in his ears,
he wanted to contradict, tell her about
coconut milk, pepper and condiments
in which his memories of past were marinated,
like his mom's incredible curries
of fish from Kerala coast.
She pretended she didn't hear
all his memories of spice coast,
she had tactically usurped.
Then a doubt creeped in to his mind
"Is she a banshee, after me?"
She persuaded him to take a stroll
along the bank of Chao Phraya in spate
None would believe him later
his eye witness account of the girl
who ate all his spice land past
jumped in to Chao Phraya turning in to a big fish
and disappeared, never to reappear.*
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 1:49 PM UTC
He stealthily usurped his favourite poet's celebrated pen
Strove hard to write with a footing on the poet's ken.
In what resulted, others could only see an overriding yen
recognized patently as his; in this shady game he didn't win!
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
Fred occupies his chair, innocently enough.
Occupying his time by
Solving the crossword puzzle, racking his brain
for the answers.
So all of the letters fit together.
So every space is filled. The beauty of solved Enigmas.
Ten across. Opposite of faithfulness.
The fire consumes the logs. Contained Chaos.
The room is illuminated in frantic light
Emanating from the fireplace.
Flames prevented from yielding to their Natural
Yearning to Disseminate to whatever matter
Will accept them. Fred sits on his chair,
Innocently enough,
But if you look in those
Eyes of his, you will witness the Beauty of
Pain, la Douleur exquise d'amour.
Loving Someone he will, invariably, love and forgive.
A woman
Whose love has changed patterns. Changed
Directions. Altered. There is a string
That hitches his heart to that of his infidel.
His wife. He feels foreign blood impairing
Them. He knows her. Without her telling
Him anything, he knows the Lies in those
Eyes of her. Confirming his knowledge.
Ten across. Infidelity. Means unfaithful.
She walked in moments ago, sat on the
Usual chair in front of him. Fred’s
Heart aches now with the immensity of the
Heartache within his wife.
He feels her heart has been broken
By the same man who usurped her from
Him every Thursday. She would return
[not quite yet]
Home on those days, Disjointed, Distracted. He
Knew this was what Falling in
Love looked like. But today, his wife's
Heart feels different. Her Lover is
Absent from their blood. Fred no
Longer is
Obligated to pump the blood of his
Wife’s flame throughout his own body.
and yet, he feels sorry for her.
feels her suffering.
feels her pain more than his own.
He watches her face, the Sorrow in
Her eyes drinks the flames of the
Fire. Fred can tell she wishes she were
In the flames. Better yet, the
Blaze itself, free from her despondency,
The places her mind must be traveling to.
Fred is fully aware that she is contemplating
Unloading her triste to him. Not for
His own Benefit, to be Honest with him.
Only to assuage her Guilt, to
empty her conscience of
Bad Blood.
She is a sinner. She will sin
Again. No doubt about that. But.
His Infidel.
He cannot stand to see her...
His love...his life...
If someone is spread out before you
Seeking to surrender to Death,
You do not Simply let them die.
Especially if they share half your blood.
Especially if your Happiness is
Contingent upon their survival.
Fred’s wife has a ghostly look on her
Face and he cannot help but save her from
Her caustic thoughts, from the
Consuming pain in her very
Core.
and so he guides
her back to him.
just her wide eyes.
he knows all.
And He forgives her.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
Meteor streaks an onyx sky,
thoughts vaporize without a tail
Words have seized the winds,
usurped control from ideas
Page absorbs a mutant slang,
lines malinger with an attitude
Inspiration silhouettes reason,
unblemished by banality
Grant language mellifluence or
condemn the poet to monologue
Lost are themes, jewels of a lifetime
separated by melancholy vicissitudes
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 12:54 PM UTC
I came to you because I thought you would save me.
You laughed over the John Hughes quote
That now is a seminal classic
But I’m not sure because I don’t believe in it
Because I’ve never known it
or maybe it’s just you I don’t believe in.
I didn't have enough energy to actually make an effort to laugh
and pretend I was having a good time.
I would rather sink into you, slowly, like I would ((in a shipwreck or)) in oversized couch cushions.
and be usurped by ((cold water that wakes you up)) musty fabric
when it swallows us whole
and we sink to the bottom.
I'd only feel
your long arms around me and nothing else
I’d rather strip for you
Not to be naked but to take my layers off.
[You bore me, You shaped me, You taught me]
And then I’d try to not love you so that I could fall into you once more.
let the overwhelming overwhelm me (again)
until I forget the ongoing drama of the heart and the heart (a purposely neverending story)
[There are no words with which to describe thee:
My darling my love I need you beside me.]
we quote our favorite title page to our favorite epilogue.
An absurd story about love and blowing things up
Because really, (like hospitals and prisons)
it’s the same thing.
what does this night mean in the greater consequence of our lives?
Nothing.
I’m okay with that.
I’m just saying that.
[?]
Opportunity and random occurrence are just a farce
That we use to pretend fate doesn’t exist;
(it doesn’t, does it?)
Everything that matters seems too big to be real.
but I lived long before this, and I will exist ever after
one day I will achieve greatness
you will be forced to know me then
Since you won’t nor never will now.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 4:53 PM UTC
My precious
You become a beauty
Only when you languorously
Hug the waists of damsels as cincture
Countless are the times,
earlobes or ankles
Unadorned by you
Inflamed me
A plain a yellow thread has ousted you nowadays
When you swing from an ear,
It is indeed fascinating to watch
You have even usurped my sleep
As a nose-ring, through its keen glitter
Costume jewellery has replaced you too, many times
Still, my precious,
It is when you are pawned
That you become real ‘gold ‘
Like the revolutionary
Who become more so
By getting hanged
Like a soldier
Who become more of a soldier
By getting shot at the border
My precious, my precious
My precious pledged gold.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
Eyeballs return their messages
After the dial tone
You find yourself silent
What a milestone
At twenty six
You are still a ******
Useless burdens
Learn to surf
It combines love with gravity
Strategies and striated lines
Fingers align
We incline our spines
And elevate our torsos
Mind the gap
A fabricated rip in time and space
Figuratively awake
We speak from our hearts
Your long time girlfriend
Is now a victim of indecision
Start talking or you’ll lose her
More than ever she needs your strength
Your friendship, your lips and your touch
Control the rush
And give time a chance to unwind
Mindless fingers linger on her legs
Can we beg for more
Or will we get usurped by the corridors
Cartons of milk left in defiance
Send me your elegant negligee
I neglected to beg your pardon
You neglected to say you were sorry
Phone calls reach dial tones
And we remove the stones from our sundials
Calendars are timeless timelines
Wild like waves
We break free of enslaved isotopes
Compose songs and poems
And attempt to drink atomic gold
From fountains of power
Houses are all just boxes
That we store our souls in
Gardens are living visions
Virtues are numberless
Hundreds of spirits join hands
In parks and paintings
We partake in equations of healing
Save me from my longing
For loving too much is a curse
And purses fall like hexes
Placing dents in your dresses
We undress our fences
And select our neighbors
To dance with
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 3:25 PM UTC
To become aware of the single moment that needs interpreting
To be jolted from sleep between sheets creased in the tribulations of dreamscapes
Clammy hand pressed to neck you remember yourself
And before it slips and crumbles spiraling up to the cosmos it is captured
Pinch your eyes together and draw the cool water from the well
A friend’s arm around your shoulder; a sweaty smile, meandering through
The crowds of faces, each one drab and still, motionless for you
Tendrils of tenderness wandering o’er a body consumed in secret greed and corrosion
And the cheeky faced attached returning curiosity masked in love
Flitting up and down the stem of the one you knew to be yours
Yearning for her to open her petals and reward arduous labor
The repose of correcting ages of missteps and the satisfaction of
Correctly placing lost experience
Enjoying the rhythm pounded out by drums of progress, and then pacing
To one all your own
Reasserting brutal individuality in spite of legions upon legions of conformity
Then ironically setting the trend
Once seized, every vague trapping melts down weary head, past hunched back
Beyond knees bend to reach toe tip
Revitalized by the comfortable shade of your whole self, the parts unwanted, unseen
Usurped, intangible, inconceivable, and most illustrated purely glow
A self if surely sacked, a reanimated soul now softly speaks, and sexuality is assured in
Each slow step
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
Walking through oblivion.
Our minds eye filtering, interpreting, controlling our visual ignorance
Condemning and exonerating strangers through a transient green gaze.
Subconsciously filing them into a misjudged character portrayal.
Painting their personality with usurped traits of yellow, cyan and magenta.
Filling a blank canvas white.
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 6:12 PM UTC
Once upon
I felt the call
To take a midnight walk
And stumbling through
The misty streets
A voice began to talk
Fear not said ye
The angels call
I must have reached the Lord
But falling through
The gravel road
The stone and I’m the sword
The king of far
And futures will
Be beckoned by the light
With fist and tongue
He rules below
The tempting of his might
And yet we see
His gentler heart
Indulging in the arts
The king at last
Usurped from throne
The Jester’s reign then starts
The midnight walk
Turns into morn
And visions fade away
But jesters in
the place of kings
Will never go away
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 9:39 AM UTC
What of her glass without her? The blank grey
There where the pool is blind of the moon’s face.
Her dress without her? The tossed empty space
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away.
Her paths without her? Day’s appointed sway
Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place
Without her? Tears, ah me! for love’s good grace,
And cold forgetfulness of night or day.
What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart,
Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?
A wayfarer by barren ways and chill,
Steep ways and weary, without her thou art,
Where the long cloud, the long wood’s counterpart,
Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill.
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the words fluttered,
swung, swept, swooshed,
bemoaned, bereaved, bedazzled,
leapt, lauded, littered,
hovered, heckled, hiccuped,
made U-turns, took deep dips,
underwent saucy somersaults,
played like notes,
acted like songs,
usurped as oaths,
humbled as prayers,
slaughtered as killers,
punctuated, presided, presumed,
abetted, adhered, attacked
while the paper endured all with love.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC