Poetry

Foreman At Forty-Five

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This man, has he never tried his hardest?

Wonder, has he ever given his all?

Have we never before sighted his best?

Was it only bravado, luck, and gall?

Each day we doubt the strength of his next strike,

Ignoring him and what he may have done.

Waiting for his ego to take a hike

And punishments of time and fate to come.

Worrying not how we shame and name him,

Has-been and forgotten and drab old bore,

Prideful with bliss he’ll climb into the ring

Hoping and believing he’ll win once more.

So confident his best still lies ahead.

Within his heart, a champion till dead.

Almighty Time Machine

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Pondering awesome potentials conducting masterful plans,

Who’d operate but the Beasts of Power?

We could only be damned.

If marvelous futures fate magnificent machines to life,

Good men must sacrifice.

Destroy them.

Permanently without remorse.

Useless to repetitious Man,

Presume them parcel to insidious and hidden plans.

What good is time travel?

Rectify horrible wrongs saving millions?

Saving lost loves?

Nonsensical babble.

Lying promises to mindlessly blind masses allowing monstrous creations.

Promises as purposeful as scraps on a tank factory floor.

Only obvious explorations shall these devices explore.

Make creation comfortably fit into a blasphemous blueprint.

Dictatorial controls like those experienced never before.

Beasts, powerful imbeciles, are arrogant.

Destroying humanity’s story securing selfish plans,

A temporal game of whack-a-mole dousing fires before sparks are born.

Worse,

Incentives smarten idiots but lure evil fully maddened.

Tinkering horrors will more rapidly happen until a timely disaster closes Man’s door.

Under magic thumbs,

Man is a slave hopeless and tragic, never realizing his fists.

Warn brave souls who would foolishly challenge Created Almighty.

Oblivion.

Instantly forgotten.

Never remembered.

A forfeited right to exist.

The Beasts of Power crowned Masters of Fate is a fate truly fearsome.

Beware of these heathen machines.

They are the final graves of our freedom.

Old Fate

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Gazing at Fate’s powerful piercing eyes.

Envious, I have no vision to share with Him.

Always longing for His sight over hidden horizons,

I fight on damned to fight myself.

Foolish, callous and triumphant I will charge

For an unattainable ultimate victory.

‘Oh, Fate. What do you see?’

I seek His vision.

Man dies to know.

Has died a million deaths.

Shall die a million more.

What further price can be paid than the endless pain we two have sewn?

‘Respond, Almighty Fate!’

————

‘Silence!

Hear, finally. Not hope.’

If a choice, kindly, not even to enemy would I be known.

To be certainly condemned by certainty?

I, powerful to him, would fear that destiny.

But damned Man’s bold stupidity still nags me.

‘Learn. Cursed fool.’

As I have said before.

Man does not know that he can see

But I cannot share his vision.

I am a relic, limp and blind.

Just a folly of ancient yore.

‘Old friend, it has always been

Freewill is King 

So beg of Fate no more.’

Awful Poet

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One truth to remember

And by now you should already know it.

I am a really awful poet.

For instance, one crime of mine

Is that I must try to rhyme.

I know I shouldn’t do it so much

But I always need my poetic crutch.

Clearly, I am not great

Like those named Poe, Shakespeare or Yeats.

Or any of those who provided us

With so many vivid escapes.

I cannot follow rules.

Don’t like em.

And I have terrible, terrible syllable construction.

But what can I do?

I care not for its function.

My poetry is not for their test.

I would not care for their pretentious grade,

Anyways.

It is not for some job.

I am not looking to get paid.

You don’t need to tell this amateur

That he’ll never be sharp like them.

Trust me, I get it.

But darn it, they began somewhere.

They were not scribbling in air.

So I will continue to do it.

And I will do it for me

Because it is what I please.

But more importantly,

What I want you to see

Is that you should try too.

So pick up that pen

And give it a go.

And forget all the rules.

Forget those stupid, constricting, elitist rules.

They’re for the birds.

None of them matter

Even if they call you a fool.

Cause the one thing I know,

What I found out fast,

The one thing I will promise to you:

Poetry can be your freedom

And that is a greater truth.

Sheeple

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Sheeple, Sheeple, Everywhere.

Baaaahhh!!!  Is all that I hear.

Conventional wisdom thinking

Contrived from contrived fears.

And ignorance, of course.

We must never forget

That ignorance and fear

Are the filthiest of friends.

Well armed with these farces,

Sheeple will often spout

Lying slogans and mantras

Like obedient trout.

Sheeple don’t think or wonder

Or question how and why.

You can lie to their face

And they will pay it no mind.

The lie can be anything.

Doesn’t matter anymore.

It’s whatever the pleasure.

Even the weather or more.

Long, I’ve had a question.

The answer I fear I know.

When did they start lying?

My lifetime or long ago?

The more we search history,

The more we dare explore,

The most telling secret is

They don’t teach what they taught before.

Wise men often try to tell

To sheeple conditioned and tame

That Power has always lied

And Power is always the same.

Orwell was not a prophet.

Not a foreseer but a sage.

He didn’t describe his future.

He was describing his day.

Yet what he knew of Power

Sadly, will never change.

The enemy of men like Orwell

Is our enemy still today.

A foe that shall remain

Lifelong companion to us all.

A battle not to win or lose

But the battle to stand tall.

Never squander your resistance.

Do not be sheeple or a slave.

Cognitive dissonance and pain

Are the only benefit it pays.

Greats like Orwell root for us

To mold the world to our desire.

To challenge the authority.

And live with courageous fire.

So think hard, question everything.

Never fear what they might say.

Or, be condemned forever

To the same fate day after day.