Tyrannical Rex

amy-leigh-barnard-SByb8Ch9XcQ-unsplash

Photo: Amy-Leigh Barnard on Unsplash

 

He believes he is perfect,

The Gods’ answer to fate.

And they can all now retire,

For they had taken the bait.

 

He’ll dominate every action,

He’ll defend every crime,

If it’s done to the benefit

Of his imperious climb.

 

He recruits many minions

Who fetch and carry his deeds,

For to him it is given

That they’ll kowtow to his creed.

 

He will squelch any protest,

He’ll ridicule any voice

That dares not speak his glory

Or demands to have choice.

 

He is crass, and he bullies

Lashes out at dissent,

Because to him it is treason

If people still seek consent.

 

He is cruel, he is shallow

He full worship expects,

He will break every branch

To feed his Tyrannical Rex.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Imperious at 123 words

Note: The photo of a (small handed) Animatronic Tyrannosaurus (T-Rex) was taken by Amy-Leigh Barnard at the Natural History Museum in London. No offense intended in the poem to the dinosaurs, extinct though they are.

After-Party

Prompt photo: Pixabay

 

They were going to put them there to remember, they said. To frame the recollections of the community, so none of what had happened be forgotten. That’s what they said.

It was meant as a memorial of sort, they said. A referendum of the eye. Intended to draw the faces upwards and lend a sense of a somber chaos, carefully controlled.

Perhaps it was all that. Yet it was so much more.

For the installation was also meant to keep the chairs out of reach. To take away the possibility of seating. To have people stand and look and move on, rather than linger or make themselves oh-too-comfortable. Again.

Because it was the idleness – those in power believed but did not say – that had led to the gatherings and speeches and protests and that weekend party-turned-riot. People got too comfortable in using public spaces as if those were a right rather than a privilege. They sat. They lingered. They huddled together and began to think they should have the power to decide how they passed their spare time, where and who with they sat. Mutiny, it was.

The police were sent to squash it.

And put all the chairs up.

 

 

For Donna’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt

Tempestuous Times

cmurrey clothesline Flickr

Photo: cmurrey, Flickr

 

“These are tempestuous times,” she said

And her strong hands wrung the laundered sheets

To squeeze out suds

As she would want

To push out infiltrated evil.

“I’ve seen hardship before,” she stirred

The linens

In the boiling vat,

Simmering the despair

Till it foamed and evaporated

Into bleached hope.

“Wrong does not last,” she rinsed

And wrung

And shook

And hung

The wash

Till it fluttered

Free

To dry,

Only the barest of stains

Still visible

In the sun.

 

Merriam-Webster’s word for July 30, 2018:

Tempestuous

This post continues the blogging challenge in which Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day, serves as inspiration a-la the “Daily Prompt.”

Want to join me? Feel free to link to this post on your blog, and/or post a link to your blogpost in the comment section below so others can enjoy it, too. Poetry, photography, short stories, anecdotes: Go for it!

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“Follow” me if you want to receive future prompts, or just pop in when you’re looking for inspiration. Here’s to the fun of writing and our ever-evolving blogging community!

 

Wrong Tracks

 

Never Again5 OfirAsif (2)

Photo: Ofir Asif

 

There is harm in the air

Infants caged

Children scammed,

There are guards

Bearing guns

Tearing babies from arms.

Those before us who fought

For the hunted, the hurt

Weep in graves

As the country they served

Mutates to enact

Inhumane acts

On the wrong tracks.

 

 

For Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Trains and Tracks