Archive for the Poems, Rhymes, Riddles Category

Lullabies – Sleep Songs

Posted in Poems, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Song Lyrics & Analysis, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on February 24, 2019 by Drogo

Sleep Song by Drogo

 

My mind is almost gone,

I don’t know what’s going on.

Lulled by a lovely tune,

I will be asleep soon.

Some way, some how,

I am going to the land of sleep now.

 

Good-night.

 

*

 

more to be added when im awake….

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Turn Back Time In Your Mind

Posted in Poems, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on June 23, 2018 by Drogo

You can turn back time,

the kind that’s in your mind;

remember back to when you were happy,

loving nostalgia is not just sappy.

feel the feelings, desire the emotion

memory is like a magic potion

find how the actions affect your mind

relive the experience in your own time.

Walk down the steps in the sunshine

sleep in the hammock under the pine

sit on the dock in the moonlight

meditate until your mind feels right.

-Drogo

Creative Process: Vanity vs Self-Esteem

Posted in Arts (Design & Performance), Multimedia Communication, Philosophy, Poems, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Psychology, Song Lyrics & Analysis, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on June 6, 2018 by Drogo

listening to how i sang as a kid gave me the freedom i needed to try more with myself. I like half-poetry, half-chanting free-form songs for my voice; if i can focus on singing it how i want without caring about other instruments as much it is easier to sound ok I think. if i dont have to match every note exactly to something else, it becomes way easier. sort of like singing to a child, ‘professional stress’ is not a factor, we just use the voice we have as pleasantly or as silly as we want.

recording studios are really not better than just recording something meaningful, quality aside. since emotional quality doesnt depend on sound standards that are relatively the same. either way its someone pressing record, and then anyone can change it around later. vanity is funny, because if we dont want to look at ourselves in a mirror, it is usually because we think we would feel worse, however that means that by not doing it we are being more selfish to feel better, because we are afraid of not being good enough for whatever. Like when we dont want other people to look at an image we dont like of ourselves, when we think the image is not as good as we are, we are being vain. It is probably more humble to not be so concerned about how other people feel towards us either way.

the effort to record as in pressing record is not really a big deal. People make a bigger deal about how often they listen to themselves, superstitiously as though as many times as watching anything else will make them insanely vain and jinx their talent. society gives you a stereotype of how we should look and sound. I think thats the problem for a lot of people. Plus people tire of things easily, if they think they are getting nothing good out of it.

Self-esteem to want to listen to yourself, look at yourself, and learn from yourself is not usually the same as extreme vanity to the point of narcissism. The term narcissism has been over-used recently, like the word ‘creepy’, because we are all realizing how common it is to not understand things we see in each-other, that we consider different regarding ourselves. Some people are more sensitive to things, or caught up in psychological complexes than others, but really existence is a psycho-somatic mystery for all of us, even the ones that think they have solved it.

Be confident when you feel you need to express yourself and defend your work! If people do not like it, at least you were true to yourself, no matter how much they think you failed. Retrospect combined with empathy is actually how caring and considerate people judge things, not the history that psychopathic dictators think is justified in the name of ‘might is right’; this is usually a bigger problem than most of us will face by our own common whistling however.

Aeyla Goddess 13

Trump the Grump, A Christmas Story

Posted in Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Politics, Rhymes & Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 1, 2017 by Drogo

a Christmas Story about a mass visit to the White House to create a Vacancy!!!

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the streets,

protesters were stirring for some fortuitous meets.

Grumpy Trumpy was up late scrooging in the White House.

Trump the Grump lived to strike terror and fear into hearts,

and to molest boys and girls on their vulnerable parts.

With his Trumpets and Grumpets he had an evil Tax Plan,

to defund the poor and take away their last pan.

He was rich, and the rich needed all;

they needed money for War,

Slavery, and cake for the next Ball.

Trump was so busy destroying every humane agency,

that he did not realize there was one big Vacancy!!

To him government was bad it was evil,

because it would make the rich serve all the people.

The White House is a palace for the Emperor is it?

Well Trump would be getting a Christmas visit.

The clock struck 3 am, as people began to gather ’round,

they kettled the secret service and flowed along the ground;

men and women and all people in between,

knocked on the windows with faces mean,

Trump the Grump peed his pants

and sent out Pence to do a dance.

Sick of fake news and the fact that they lied

the crowd made sure they were both crucified.

with a last gasp of evil, Trump the Grump died,

and they distributed his toys far and wide.

The Sun came up at the crack of Dawn,

and all the people partied upon the lawn.

trump-carol

*

Parable of the Bountiful Tree

Posted in Environmentalism, Poems, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on November 20, 2017 by Drogo

Please consider this, you who are wise:

If a man has a fine tree, which grows high, all the way to heaven;

and the tree’s branches reach out over mountains and seas;

and none can doubt the fertility of the soil,

and it produces succulent fruit every year

with the autumn rains and the spring rains,

and people come in hunger and in thirst,

will he not feel responsibility for the tree?

and guard it against greedy or jealous people?

to multiply the thick boughs of fruit from its trunk,

to increase and tend its mass of branches

the man’s heart will live within the tree.

– Dead Sea Scrolls

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Who will resist the King?

Posted in Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on September 30, 2017 by Drogo

Liberty Poem

 

Who will resist the King?

When he orders your money be spent on weapons to kill?

Rather than health or education

Who will resist the King, when the King comes calling?

Who will take to bended knee, when the King comes calling?

Who will bow down, and humbly offer their neck,

rather than follow dictated orders?

Who will refuse to obey our sovereign lord,

who claims to have won the right to rule?

When he cares for no one with less money?

Who will resist the King?

When he issues the order to arrest your friend?

Who will resist the King?

When he orders to arrest your brother or mother??

Who will resist the King?

When he orders to arrest your lover.

Who will resist the King?

When he orders to arrest you???

[ Audio Reading of the Poem ]

[ Audio Reading of the Poem set to Music (O-Fortuna) ]

trump and P

Poe’s Source of the Raven?

Posted in Poems, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Rhymes & Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on October 3, 2016 by Drogo

“Col. John A. Joyce,
Sturtevant House.”

New York, July 4th, 1878.
My Dear Colonel: As you requested I send a literal translation of ‘The Parrot,’ a poem written by my grandfather in 1809, for the Art Journal, Milan, Italy. He was an etcher and writer for the paper.
‘The Raven,’ by Poe, was taken almost bodily
from ‘The Parrot.’

Who is the plagiarist?

Your Friend,
Leo Penzoni.”

The Parrot

by Penzoni

I sit and pine so weary
in midnight sad and dreary.
Over long forgotten volumes
of historic love-lit lore;
And while winking, lonely blinking
I thought I heard while thinking
A rush of wings revolving above
my oaken door,
“What’s that,” said I, disturbing my
melancholy sore —
‘Tis my lost one, sweet “Belmore”

The frosts of wild December invoke
me to dismember
My tired and tortured body on this dreary,
dastard shore,
And I trust no waking morrow
Shall rise upon my sorrow.
With all its hideous horror that now
thrills my inmost core —
For my brilliant beaming beauty,
beatic, dear Belmore —
Lost, gone forevermore!

The rustling purple curtain waves
in and out uncertain.
As weird wizard voices croaking
sardonic laughter o’er and o’er;
And with startled heart still heating
my lips kept on repeating —
“Some spirit seeks an entrance through
“the window or the door,
“Some ghostlike, lonely stranger
knocking at my chamber door” —
“Simply this, and nothing more.”

Startled “by this ghostly vision, with
desperate decision
My soul exclaimed, “sweet madam,
pardon I implore.
Yet your face it shone so brightly
and your footfalls tripped so lightly.
And you came so slighly stealing to my
rustic, artist door —
‘Tis a wonder that I heard you; wide,
open flung the door —
Horror, blackness, nothing more!

Loud into the blackness calling with
heart beats slowly falling.
With haunted dreams of doubting no
Artist felt before;
But the vision quickly vanished and
all but silence banished.
And I only heard that heaven-lit, love-lit
word “Belmore” —
This I murmured when sweet echo
answered back the word — “Belmore” —
Barely this and nothing more!

Startled hack so lone and sadly, my
soul revolving madly.
Once again I heard a rapping more
impulsive than before;
“Come in,” I kept repeating, and from
the door retreating
To the window, that I might the
curious nooks explore.
While my troubled brain endeavored to
reveal the noise, explore —
“Gusts of wind and nothing more!”

Open wide I flung the shutter when
a Parrot with a mutter
Flew into my lonely chamber as it
did in days of yore.
And it seemed to be quiescent, somber,
and evanescent.
As it sat in lonely grandeur above
my chamber door.
Perching on the bust, Minerva, above
my oaken door.
Perched and blinked and nothing more!

And this croaking bird is leering,
demonaic appearing.
With feathers ruffled ragged round the
countenance it wore;
Though thy beak he like a carrot, you
surely are a Parrot —
Croaking, grumbling, screeching Parrot
from some sandy tropic shore;
Tell me now thy devilish purpose
on this red, volcanic shore —
Cried the Parrot, “Nevermore!”

How I sat depressed, divining to see
some silver lining
Through clouds that hung around me on
this vile, detested shore.
And my soul with grief was haunted
while there I peered undaunted
To hear a bird with crest, and word
above my oaken door.
Bird or brute upon the marble bust
above my chamber door —
Utter name of “Nevermore”!

But the Parrot perching sadly on the
marble bust spoke madly
As if this dark, weird word was his
only stock in store;
And he merely croaked and muttered
While he preened and snapped and fluttered,
As I grumbled, growled and uttered —
“trusted friends have gonie before,”
“Soon, oh soon this bird will leave me,
“as sweet hopes have gone before” —
And this bird shrieked “Evermore”!

Shocked and stunned hy such replying,
can it be the bird is lying.
Or is it willfully determined to he a
babbling bore;
Yet, perhaps it knew a master whose
life was all disaster.
And sorrows followed faster than was
ever felt before,
‘Till the echoes of his sorrows, sad re-
frains forevermore —
Fearful echo — “Nevermore”!

Yet the Parrot still is screeching, to
my seared heart sadly preaching;
Defiantly I faced the bird and bust and
gloom, and door.
Till on the carpet figures, wrought
up into cold rigors,
I frantically demanded what the bird
meant by its roar.
This horrid, raving, somber, ruffled
bird of the days that are no more
Meant in screeching — “Nevermore”!

There I sat in mortal terror, de-
nounced by many an error.
With the Parrots flashing eyeballs
piercing to my inmost core.
And I mused there, deeply pining, weep-
ing, crushed reclining.
by the curtain’s silken lining and the
lamplight glinting o’er,
Beneath its mystic radiance shining
o’er and o’er —
Roared the Parrot — “Nevermore”!

Then around me whirled a vision
from the land of the Elysian,
And the air within my chamber fairly
shimmered on the floor,
Wretched Devil! who hath sent thee
to a land where no nepenthe.
Or solace can be given for my lost
and, loved Belmore
Sure I never can forget her, ever
present, bright Belmore —
Growled the Parrot — “Nevermore”!

Parrot, prophet, thing of sorrow, is there
yet for me a morrow
To linger any longer on this sin-
cursed, stormy shore;
Shall I never know a pleasure en-
clasp again a treasure
On this damned, detested, dastard and
this lurid, shocking shore;
Is there any peace or pleasure, oh, tell
me I implore —
Croaked the Parrot — “Nevermore”!

Croaker, Dastard, Word of Evil, Prophet,
Bird or Screeching Devil!
By the stars that shine above us
by the God that all adore.
Tell this soul, whose hope is riven,
if in some celestial heaven
It shall clasp an angel Beauty, who
is known as rare “Bellmore,”
And entwine his arms around
her, my ethereal “Belmore” —
Pipped the Parrot — “Nevermore”!.

Horrid bird! I shrieked emphatic,
and wildly, loud, lunatic,
I flung the pratting Parrot through
the night’s dark, shoreless shore.
While its gilded feathers fluttered, in
the darkness still and muttered —
“I’ll not leave thee, doubting Devil, but
“remain above thy door —
“Sink my beak into thy trembling
“heart, and torture more and more” —
Shrieked the Parrot — “Evermore”!

And the Parrot still is posing,
winking, blinking, dozing
On that marble bust, Minerva, Just
above my oaken door.
And his hellish eyes are beaming
Like a Devil who is dreaming.
While the sputtering, fluttering
lamplight paints his shadow on the floor.
And my soul-lit spirit writhing in
that shadow on the floor —
Dead and damned — “Forevermore”!

(Signed) Penzoni.

THE END.

*

Note: This source was ‘debunked’ as the artist and publication cannot be verified; and the ‘translation’ has rhyming words which would not have rhymed in Italian. It would have taken a talented poet to find words in English that rhyme as well as the original words in Italian, and also mean about the same…. which is not impossible, but certainly doubtful upon meditation.