Hyperborea Anew

Poem By Rod Mendieta

The lucid rant of the jester
Meeting scorn from the king of old
A crown thrown into the furnace
To forge new shackles of gold.

The Left and Right throngs
Suckling each other's marrows
For the benefit of the "third man"
Awaiting in the shadows.

The children of the tiller man
Plucked away like ripe plums
To the most angry beat
Of a thousand tum-tums.

A pall of white ashes left
Where the green orchard stood
Proud towers topple overnight
Dancers wiggle brash and lewd.

The old Viking gods
Brought to their knees afar
Scorned for their proud bearing
And beheaded with a scimitar.

A dwindling tiny sparkle
That will not be put out
A small miracle in the making
For new bards to sing about.

And the world goes round and round
As a newborn sun shines bland
And tender shoots break undeterred
Through crisp Hyperborean land.

Comments about Hyperborea Anew

There is no comment submitted by members.


Rating Card

5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of MENDIETA

The Land Of Plenty

The old sturgeon held his fishing pole
Sitting well away from the busy shoal
Right on the pond's mossy bed.
He swung it once, swung with might,

Fortress

Yours is wondrous Poetry
Laden with the ripe fruits of emotion,
The lustrous layers of your longing.
One should only very carefully tread

Airy Dogma

A word of caution, my friend
For it pains me so to see you
Raising castles with flimsy sticks
And fanning the flames of hope

The Island Of Your Smile

Oh, indeed it'd easier to abdicate
And walk out into exile in a cove of silence
Than to raise a bridge of words
And steal over the ocean of your indifference.

Her Kisses Drink Me Up Slowly

Her kisses drink me up slowly
Her mouth sipping keenly
Then playfully holding back,
Her moist lips thirsting,

Gratitude To A Black Bird

Black bird perched on the eave
Croaking a dissonant note amidst
So many Nightingales
Are you aware of my gaze?