Long ago, through the ancient sands of time,
it was prophesied that a boy, gifted in rhyme

and meter, would rise above his earthly age
and begin a new era, dispensing his sage

words to all that sought his wisdom.
It would be a different society, a new kingdom.

I. On the Day of October 20, 1854
 
 Arthur was born in a manger
 his father wasn't present and it couldn't get much stranger,
 but I heard he was the savior.
 The written word flowed through him
 and he was dangerous
 came to us
 with the trust
 in his bust
 and the muscle to hustle apostle
 of the written word.

 "Have you heard he isn't human?
 That wise men brought him
 nothing, but rum and cumin?"

 I'm not saying his hearing is supersonic,
 that is body is nothing short
 of anatomic,
 that he didn’t lose, live, love, breathe,
 and smoke the chronic,
 but he did it all with such ease.
 Is it ironic
 
 that a baby,
 confined inside of a womb,
 would be predestined and would save me?
 I was thinking that just maybe
 the people he will save will shun him, misbehave, “he

 should not be appointed to the throne”

 “When he's through, we’ll be here all alone”
 
 “I hear you can make a magic powder from his bones”
 
 Uhhhhhhhhh
 Such thoughts are for the fools and for the meek.
 -Hold up.
 The child speaks,

 “Goo”
 “Goo”
 “Ga”
 “bppphhhhhit”
 “ah”

 “No, I’m just playin with you”

 "Five seconds out of the womb
 and I’m killin’ it.
 Give me ten years and I,
 I will rock your shit.

 From the look up on your faces
 I can tell my introduction,
 was a little too abrasive.

 Let me break it down,
 smoothly.

 I just got here,
 but I’m on the level.
 You all on edge,
 I think your ledge is beveled.

 Think it’s getting better,
 pleasant weather,
 and the feather
 in your cap
 is rhythm;
 that same hymn
 they’ve sung the last
 five hundred years
 or so.
 It’s gotten old.
 Contemporary culture has just got to break the mold.
 But

 does it take
 a messiah to try
 a form you’ve never heard?
 No, all poets
 can sow this
 if they have got the sacred words.  

 But sometimes
 it takes years just to break through.
 so you
 got to
 have some faith in your boy king.

 I’m not saying it will work for you all:
 the short, tall,
 the big, small.
 We just have to hold till they fall down.
 
 And when they’re falling,
 the fall,
 is of their way of life,
 which is no wonder it’s under
 the threat
 of my preverbal knife.

 I think I’ve pandered enough
 and slandered those in trouble.
 My latin masters demand
 I go to bed;
 on the double."

 (whispered by the prophet)
 I didn't make it on my own due feet.
 I pled the muses, “use me
 and I'll write your meet and greet.

 But as the golden child sleeps
  I hear my conscience, conscious,
 and I don't deserve this wreath.

Poetry contest 2009, social network for writers

poetry

Last updated 330 days ago by JayS