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For I am death, the personification of pure evil, The grand godfather, of legions of unnumbered generations. Behold thy disciples, baptized beneath my crimson waters, Of blood. Then reanimated as the living undead, in mine own image, These are my forsaken children of the Night. Kissed by the angel of death, I'm resurrections insurrection, Spawned in hell a creature devoid of heart or soul, yet do I Exist, biting at the exposed throat of humanity, leaving it Drained completely dry. Does not the white lily turn ember red, within this the Valley of damnation. My throne is a black coffin gilded in golden refinement, Residing beneath the wooden lid, the beast sleeps, Waiting to be embraced by the darkness of night. Slowly, emerging from mine cryptic mausoleum, I'm famished for the taste of the living essence Of mankind. A gentlemen reaper of the fallen, deeply do these Fangs penetrate into the soft flesh of humanity, Tis a dark blessing's supernatural gift, have I been So given, to take life then to restore it. Raw beasts of instinct, clinging to the ethereal Moon, that hangs above illuminating this, Our unholy abyss. Welcome to a shadow nation of the unseen, Whose roots extend backwards, to an older country's Unconsecrated soil, called Transylvania. On mine legacies crest, a red dragon with talons Extended reaches out, grappling for powers control. For I am Dracula, born of royal blood in life, But in death I am a king, let these castle walls Bleed on forever, and the hounds of hell, Sing outside my rod iron gates. But beware mortal flesh if you so enter, For I will enjoy every trespasser, Whom dares to venture within my Sacred territory, with a fiendish smile Upon my hungering face. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
The Lobotomizer honed his dark art with an apathetic heart and patience. First, he earned a fancy Masters degree, a quite secretive, hush-hush diploma in psychological advertising. Then, covertly sponsored by Henry Ford, the Lobotomizer flew overseas where he became good friends with the Nazis. Mengele offered a substantial wing -- when it came to experimentation, the Angel of Death was the reigning king. After the Allied Forces came on strong, the Lobotomizer slipped further East to become a student of the Red Beast. The iron-curtained, cold-war Frankenstein, taught the Lobotomizer many tricks, including high-frequency hypnotics, how to travel through electrical lines, and even surf the beams of satellites. Yet his travels were not nearly complete, since the Lobotomizer knows no bounds with his insatiable appetite. He crossed the borders of every nation, gaining more insightful experience. He passed through many laboratories, leaving behind countless horror stories; leaving behind legions of empty minds. Finally, in the fall of Sixty-Nine, the Lobotomizer returned back home to his motherland of the brave and free, to commence his lobotomizing spree. By the hundreds, thousands, millions and more, the Lobotomizer plied his ill trade, beaming himself via optic fiber, satellite dish, cable, and antenna, right between the eyes of his audience, until the nation's vast majority was left drooling, dull-eyed, slack-jawed and blank. Nowadays, nearly the entire globe can feel his dark probe in the frontal lobe. The blue light flickers off walls, day and night, as most people have given up the fight, allowing their minds to be bought. The Lobotomizer is not finished, for he continues to push his prison towards the remaining wisps of free thought. 2014 Subliminal Remix, July 30th, 2014 (10 syllables per line -- The original version was written on February 22nd, 2012) +/-
Along the mountain pine valley did the Iron Horse roar, A steam belching black demon, burning red hot coals Within it's steel belly. Speed's hell bound creation, driven by greed's insatiable hunger, Faster, faster it moves at acceleration rush, to Achieve manifest destiny's final arrival on time. In the distance hear another lone whistle blow, spitting, And spewing with brimstone's gray smoke. This indeed is the devil's train, carrying the forsaken, To the depot of no return. With a half empty payload aboard, Satan makes a deadly Judgment call, stoke up those engines boys, ramming Speed if you please. Made man beasts are these mechanical monsters Of destructions, lethal death weapons, chained Down to the steel rails, and iron pikes. Ebony stallion's racing against the winds, As redden sparks sizzle and bite at the crisp autumn Air, bellowing fumes poisoning the night. The engineer of the 10; 15 out of Tombstone, Checked his pocket watch, speaking impatiently, He did so yell out, come along fellow's, we have a Schedule to keep, and we've hours behind in our dead line, So let's pick up the pace. Now the devil's train came out of know where, With hell's supernatural master at the wheel, Heckling, and laughing, relishing in the carnage's Utter calamity to come. On a lone chewed up mangled piece of track, Lies wreckages debris blood, flesh and twisted metal, Lain stewned for miles beside the wild wilderness. Broken bones, and sheared off limbs, weeping mother's Cradling limp, lifeless bodies, crying why, God almighty Why? But the lord and heavenly father, had nothing to do, With this unnatural disaster, nay the devil had many Empty spaces to fill, and his passengers list was lean. So he leveled the crimson ground with his dark gavel, Taking souls at high velocities supernatural speed, For this is the devil's ghost train, and it is so Hell bound. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
In the heart of the blackest abyss, down, Down, in fathoms deep crypt, where light Does not penetrate, and the structured protective hauls, Of men, are crushed beneath pressures massive Weight, of the oceans deepest depth. This is truly inner spaces aquatic zone of the Unknown, a realm of stilled silence frozen In the icy currents of the barren straights. Where prehistoric giants dwell, amongst the Tidal flow, ambush predators, forgotten beasts, From long ago, living krakens whom devour All life, hidden within their dark domain. In Poseidon's mighty anger, the waves answer, To his fists of fury, hurricanes wrath of vengeance, Gives birth to the perfect storms rage, Vessels rise and than fall in the tidal surging Waters. Nay do the sailors cry out to the Lord God on high, For redemption's salvation, but the sacrificial altars must Be appeased, by flesh and bloods sacred offerings. Summons does the mighty lord of the seven seas, To release the last of the ancient Leviathans. Two thousand hands, of a thousand dead men, Heave and pull at the tethering heavy chains, To this devil of the depths cage. From within interments vaulted keep, Captivities living spawn from hell, is Unshackled and released, to reek havocs Devastation above. An aquatic spider, a maritime widow maker, Flexing and in-flexing, its body's motions, Towards the surface, in pulsations rhythmic Orchestrations, the gray giant is ready to strike, With its killing arms extended wide, to grapple At its unprotected prey, to engorge itself with All living matter that it surveys, within its icy reach. As bubbles shoot upwards breaking the waters Surface, suction cups and talon claws are drawn Outwards, aligning his eight legged tentacles of bone Crushing death, behold the Giant Squid, instrument of Lethal torture, a living killing machine from the fathoms Deepest depths. For it is the beast, the true essence of evil Incarnate, and none survive its destructive wrath. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Marquees bright, and neon lights, where crowds line up for movie night We're holding hands, we're in 'The Strand', red velvet carpets guide us in Popcorn smokes, .. drinking cokes,... cracking jokes with Bing and Hope Lamour's along, in her sarong,... With luscious lips, and cigarettes, She fills ashtrays with smoking tips, and tosses guys like poker chips 'Movietone' intrudes with news, which puts us in somber mood Third-Reich goosesteps march again, ... an evil presence in the wind... Cary Grant , (a news reporter), loves his girl, and his typewriter "His Girl Friday", plot is witty, sometimes crazy. But Cary loves this ditzy lady.... William Powell and Mryna Loy..., Asta barks, and finds a toy, ...a ploy? a clue?,.... ...an earring gold. The mystery is clearly solved.-- A crimson sun, is rising cold! Movietone in black and white,... graphic scenes, where soldiers die Another night, suspense on chart. 'Correspondent' , Joel McCrea. Saves Lorraine, and claims the Day. BUY WAR BONDs !! They'll pave the way Bogart, Bergman bring to light, a valiant flght , within their grasp Airline ticket, in her hand, they must part, and do what's right, no questions asked ---- It's movie night, but you aren't here, a troopship took you far from here Allied troops are moving tanks. I wait for you..God give me strength I'm in the Strand, within the dark, there's no one here to hold my hand I'm all alone...........I heard the news....................You left it all in Anzio _____________________________________ For Contest Chopped III Sponsored by Craig Cornish 11/23/14
Dead men tell no tails, or so the winds of Destiny's say. On judgment hill from on high, Voices do echo downwards, as the Noose does sway, back and forth, on the Hangman's tree. These gallows, of oaken branches, act as tethers, Shackles, holding the forsaken, souls prisoner. Ghost phantoms cling, to it's rotten limbs, That break beneath times endless rampage. Regrets fallen horsemen, of the old west, Stand guard, sentinels on horse back, Wearing a tarnished tin star. God's law keepers, are branded, sworn, By their honor, to protect even after death, The gates of heaven, from this spawn of hell. Beware evil desperadoes, no mercy will This the lord's posses show unto you, For these riders bare a different mark. A silver cross of justice, given by The Almighty's hand himself. Say thy prayers, all lawless men, For on this day, does the rope tighten, Around your neck, there is no reprieve, No salvation for evils deceit. Hell bound are thou, the devils breed. But beware, there is no escape, From this grave site. At dawns first light, as it spreads Across the western horizon. Know that yee, are one of many spirits Doomed, to be weaved within the Tangled limbs, called the hang Mans tree. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Looked at the outside of steel window Around in the dark, awesome feelings into the mid-night air What the news was brought in the feelings! Eyes of the orphan cat was flaming on the corridor. Waiting for the light in the window Dark vision comes down into my eyes by cycle-weariness Down from one circle to another circle in time-blindness Who stands here, the Islamic old man! Frustrated vision! History of terrorism was carved on his burnt body He wants to say something! A white-complexioned Christian young man stands into the neighbor circle, Surprised eyes! White-skinned history was printed on his blood-stained body He wants to know something! A dark-colored Hindu boy stands into the third circle, Illusive vision! History of third world is awakened on his envenomed body He wants a little smile! The old man, young man and boy are coming forward from the circles Great distance... Near ...in front the room... Who are you? No reply They disappear into the tuberose equipped black and white photo of my father Dad is smiling, I am senseless! Tears are dropping from the eyes of our cat on the corridor. SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
Our dark founding father, of American literature, A sinister beacon of darkness, lighting the way Into the darkened abyss of mankind's soul. Within the galleria of madness, he is the Grandmaster of the black ink, and it's Written words of terror. In thus the shadow realm, does his spirit Still roam, on the cutting edge of fear, A fine thin line, is drawn between reality, And fictions illusionary world. Life's a shunned, abandonment's creation, The lord's misbegotten son, embraced The night's cloak, in it's power His only salvation unto history's Remembrance, is found a truth's Justice and notability's respect. Loves passionate compliant servant, Dashed against the rocks of life itself, Broken and damaged, he rose above The waves of poverty, and the under Current of tragedies broken Heart. Some may say he wrote from the after Effects that laid, at the bottom Of the bottle. Or afterfeeds drug endued comma, dulling The emotional nerves concept between Right and wrong, the social exceptionable Norm. But we care not what others wish to believe, For we honor him, those of us the dark poets, As the father whom lead the way, between Light and dark. Dearest Edger Allen Poe, the legend, the man, A spiritual dark representative, with pens quailed Ink at his command. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
written on time's page with finite syllables of dust he spelled my heritage from earth to sky along an umbilical line of faith we fluttered from the lips of fingers fully form for purpose written on an invisible calculus that bring monarchs where birth mark lingers and salmons somersaulting sluice and streams turtles, penguins, and herons white wings netted in design with nested tabula rasa mind I have an argument against the beginning begotten from a bang before atom or element I have an argument against force and natural laws at work without mass or embodiment for embryonic gravity or forces weak or strong I have an argument that the singularity could not become more than fragment of energy again if a single atom explode its forces flocking away from fusion for energy fission to explode a theory flimsy as spiders web dethroning my majesty gulped in primeval slime unlinked history from love minimizing the particular time of our becoming on ships that met the stagnant eyes of swampy thoughts … shuddering in vain the whip cracks louder than pain - and on our black blistered backs … crumbling soils in desertification threw some syllables skywards for mercy starvation winds with sickle clouds of rain they lie again ... leaving us without inheritance for all our labors, lost, and grievance what bang can buck the strain and bring us broken souls to glory again?
Woke up to a new life in Egypt I was young not more than seventeen years Adorned with gold and precious stones My body was in the shroud of silk and jewels in my hair I sat on a throne as a Queen My name was Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile During the day I lay on the silk cushions and dozed in the shade of palm trees Beautiful men and women kept flitting around me with all sorts of temptations Fed me all sorts of fruit and cold drinks When evening came, it was time for romance As Queen I had many to choose My choice was of course: "The greatest men of Rome" Julius Caesar and Marcus Antonius Why choose one when I can have two? On a long journey down the Nile with my love Julius Caesar, I was forced to make a choice. But a choice one must take...and the choice was that I gave birth to a son and Julius Caesar was the father My love life was not popular my husband was killed and I was no longer popular It was no longer a life of happiness and joy No, it was war and national mouming and I would not live anymore 18.03.2012 A-L Andresen
Out of love foretold in thousands secret raptures from the old Illusions coves for their powerful voices A place where our ancestors once walked Where trees listening and disperse seeds of hope Creation marvelous portrait About the harmony - it is said that it can develop strong band It is a reality that can compare with the wildest imagination Ancient villages built of marble and stone Wind chimes a rhythm that beckons Mystery melody that asks us to join 13.11.2014 A-L Andresen :) Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Many times the ocean has saved Nippon, pearl of the sea, an oceanic symbiosis a speck in a fecund see. The dikes of man such miniscule plans to hold back the tide. The throngs, each and all crawl across the thin skin of volcanic soil or rise with in the hump-backed alps of remnant cones. Yet, the sea rises to reclaim its own scour the pallet of man, refine, burnish melt, reform. With pen and sword kanji drawn, samurai born with knife and bone entrails torn, honor tested tested by the hand of He, tested and found worthy. The children of the Divine Wind rise above the tsunami, as one, unbowed.
Beware, out-Lander for thy tread on the sacred ground, Of Louisiana, guarded by the ghosts of the Mississippi, And here the dead tell know tails, of the living's returning, After adventuring into the darkness of the night. Rattle them bones, sister voodoo woman, Black magic's high priestess, cast asunder the Ivory teeth of the white devils, across the streets Of old New Orleans, behold the ancient city of lost souls. Hidden beneath the glittering mask, of La Carnival, It is the celebration of the dead, my friend, and faceless Figures, do toss the beads of evil, to the lustful Crowds gathering, for Mardi-Grad's extravaganza. Phantom walkers, without names or emotions, spirit stalkers, Roaming the old French quarter, seeking to catch the Innocent traveler unaware and unprotected. A wall of realism and illusion, thin is the veils that divide Light and darkness, sheer vaporous mist of transparency, Existing in this the forgotten realm, where southern Comfort invites the living to visit, but never allows them To leave alive. As the flickering rays of twilight fades, swallowed whole By the spectral invaders, the creatures of light seek refuges, Holy places, as the church bells ring, calling unto the innocent Make heist to salvation's shelters of grace. In he city's center, lays a dry leathery organ, sunken And misshapen, feel the rising, the awakening of the Heart of evil emerging, its veins arteries made of Cobble stones brick, thus are the webbing's of streets leading, Unto the deadened heart, metamorphosing it alive once more. Slowly bloods spiritual essence rushes through These ethereal veins, reaching this source most Evil, it owns this city of lost souls, unto the tolling Hour of dawns first rays of light, crossing the horizon. Red bricked buildings lay side by side one Another, in a design of Gothic manipulation, feeding Stations made cozy for the living and dead to reside Within, as the crimson curtains blow freely from the Inside out, welcome my friends to the French quarters, The threshold's crossing, between life and death. Hear the low thumping of the Jamaican drum, Mixed with African tongue, chanting in rhythm's Echoing breeze, softly spoken in whispers are the spells Of misfortune, a vow's crimson promise, written in blood Long ago, a demonic pack made between the spiritual native Inhabitance and the dark heart of the Cajun Bayou. On bloods throne the Grim Reaper does so sit, next To his bride, the Queen known as Mrs. New Orleans, Both laughing in tandem, with the musical chorus In this requiem of the dammed. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Quarried, and carved from our earthen mother's skeletal Backbone and under belly, were the Moai solid rock deities, Stone guardians of Easter Island. A mystical place, a harvested paradise, but nothing remains Of the people whom built this land of living statues, except For these harden faces, looking towards the ocean, as if in Wait for their native worshipers to return. Sit and listen my friend, to the whispering in the wind, Do you hear the low humming sound, rolling across The rocky and jagged surf. It is the Moai, calling unto the five raw elements of the world. Let us live again, to walk among the heavens vast Divides, and to feel the winds breeze at our faces Once more. Slowly the ground shifts and moves, rumbles and Quakes, lightening splits as thunder strikes against The harden ground, nature itself has heard them, And answers their wishes with life anew. Shedding layers textures by depths degree, piece by Piece, stone turns into gravel, rough rock is smoothed, Hued by mystic incantations spell, brick becomes Bone, and nature answers their wishes with life anew. Living giants pull themselves up out of the earth, Shaking away debris's leavings, and thus shall Stone breaths, inhaling freedom's fresh air at last. Behold the living god's of Stone, guardians of An ancient culture lost unto time itself. But at dusk's fading sunset, the spell is thus Broken and slowly these giant figures take Their places once again, melting as if it Never happened, yet the humming still Lingers echoing across the ocean. For stone God's never forget, and waiting On Easter Island do they so sit, monuments To a people whom disappeared without a trace. But their deities shall call unto them until One day they'll return, and then maybe Giants again shall walk this earth in Celebration, to feast amongst their people Once more. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Pubescent class trip, and I became enamored with impossibility Vanishing verdigris yet cosseted the L'Auberge de la Paix,* a work-in-progress Floorboards slowed gawky treads with furrows. Ten feet above, death-row cherubs surrendered frail wings, a plaster molting advanced by workmen too eager for the plucking (the curse of romanticism is to perceive the imperceptible) Home was a bungalow with suburb secrets, while the hostel's curving staircase openly tattled on former hosts and guests who had perfumed stale conversations while carrying dance cards. I could almost hear each half-note baluster and that treble clef handrail, so smooth, orchestrating encounters by the front door, Bonne nuit, mon amour Once, a Grande Maison owned by une l'artiste, then, a hostel for students in the core of Quebec City, the building charmed with its soft dishabille, stripped layers of faded wallpaper, pooling; the pong of fresh paint and sanded wood hustled the dame into the times with ever-going modernization Dorm rooms pouted I was not interested in the tours with their corpses of cannon balls, toy soldiers arranged on miniature plains of Abraham, narrow streets echoing with battle cries, remnants of a lost sovereignty... the war of 1759 Why leave those thousand phantom pleasantries, dusty sofas and freedom halls, air hockey and air guitar, new parlour games Upstairs, bunk beds awaited roommates or daydreams and creaked somewhat like nagging history But romance was a trompe l'oile, a fading fleur de lys, and I can easily recall the coy throes of noisy pipes, closet confessions, and giggling, blameless nights when ghosts dusted every shifting wall, altering even moonlight * Written Aug 24, 2014 *The Peace Hostel, Quebec City 31 rue Couillard, Latin Quarter, Quebec City Grande Maison – estate Une l'artiste – an artist
Wrapped in fog, in a reservoir of dreams She has weathered each season, with a mystical scheme … On a wind-swept shelf, silently sleeping Where secrets are guarded and are hers for the keeping Looking out at the tide, where the white gulls are sweeping In her moldering courtyard, where quadrivial paths meld, Among ancient arches of an old Spanish style Names locked in history, many stories revealed Etched in the headstones, where angels have dwelled The cracked marble fountain with polished ligures, Above the church doorway, vines are withering, bare Aloft from the steeple, are the four watchful eyes Looking out to the sea, and the deep crimson tide Three vestige bells dangle from loft, overhead Their voices are quiet, with pericopes spoken Soft hymns of doves, fill the rafters, instead From crumbling ruins, bricks humbly laid There are shadows of saints...and moss covered jade A weeping old willow, with leaves crackling dry I drink with my ears, and listen with an eye Of all those who prayed, for those who passed by Unbelievable echoes, the tolling of the bells Making sense of the senseless, I can hear what it tells Giving voice to my feelings, and new hope to my eyes A peace in my heart, where the holy grail lies Are heard in the voice, in the church of blue tides ____________________________________________________________________ For The Contest Sponsored By Shadow Hamilton "Any Subject" Using Words: unbelievable, mystical, ligure, pericope, reservoir, quadrivial, 7/22/13
Are you educated? Have you injured heart? Have you purified brain? Do you believe in truth? Are you alone? Do you seek problematic truth, solvable truth, real magic? Are you a secular person? Do you believe in democracy? If your answers are YES... You have poetic mind. You are the reader of poetry. You are the real minority in the world. Keep patience. The earth is moving. It is proved that new history is created by the minorities. SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
Cocooned in orange plush, obscenely safe, in false cinematic twilight, light leaping out of nowhere, dizzying the frozen yet titillated onlooker. The popcorn-crunching crowd have eaten myth. Beached siren, your seaweed ropes - drowned umbilicals - attach you to the seabed's vast placenta. Your rusticles drape you like a sleeping shroud. The knife-edge of your bow; the knife plunged into mud. A spherical light fixture sprouts a sea pen, snaky-fingered: a poignant Medusa. A high-button shoe rests close by. White ocean crockery, ghost porcelain - appurtenances of a sunken pelagian people. Your silt bed, more than two miles below, private even now, refuses to yield its virgin treasure still. A valedictory message, torn from a pocket calendar, forced into a cold clasping hand - a desperate flutter of paper. Strobe, a marine rapist, raking the ocean floor; invasion of the depths below. Your one-way virgin voyage, inescapable. The night was a still pool of indigo. The berg glided silently by, lethal as a shark's fin, with terrible finality. The pinprick stars - flowers of light - averted their eyes respectfully.
This disconnected intellect of society in retrospect Is nothing but a retro spectrum of colors. Gold chains and disco lights, Black, white, and grey faces, red Adidas stripes with no laces Cardboard boxes unfolded on concrete streets Where the founding fathers of modern culture would meet And write our Constitution by moving their feet. With a spectacular repertoire of flashy moves And a deep reservoir of verbs that mingled with words in the mind's river That flowed from the banks of lips as the first freestyle When style was really free. Not compromised, chopped up, glamorized, marketed, processed, pasteurized and then subliminally delivered as a shrink-wrapped, shiny medium of bad ideas. Back when people actually had ideas, Not just the regurgitation of pre-chewed vomit music. The DJs cooked up beats in their basements Just crack for the bass-heads Denied treble 'cause trouble was all they were faced with. There was music laced with dope, and dope was good. The evolution. Darwinism of hip-hop. You know what I mean? Of course not 'cause these young bucks would rather spend fifteen dollars on 50 Cent Then spend fifty cents on a education. Flagrant, our testimonial to a religion that's pagan We pray to money, pray to greed, pray to fame, pray to succeed And denounce life when we pray that our bullet hits its target. The Boogie Oogie became the Boogaloo And the Electric Slide met the electric chair. Time is money. Money is life. Life is a game. I invest Monopoly money in the New World Clock Exchange To collect interest in fate and become disinterested in buying my life back. My soul is currency, currently spent on reverting from the current state. Back to when sex was more taboo than a smile Back to when freedom didn't equal censorship Back to when love for family didn't negate the fact that times change. Back to when the Big Hand spun backwards two seconds too late. And minutes were miniscule and minute, hip-hop was rediculed Not because it was demeaning, but because it represented Revolution. An occurrence that has come and gone with the wind. My name is Hip-Hop O'Hara and I am in love with Civility Wilkes. Reverend Run preached gospel, now he rolls in his grave If musical revelation is impossible, than who will be saved? The essence in lyrics is kept underground in a cage. Struggling to survive like illiterate slaves. Reaching for freedom, which lies on the next page. Free the music.
My father's abeng blew up my mother's womb And I was chained there Nine months in darkness drinking blood Longing for my resurrection from the tomb Longing to break the chains Holding me before my birth to a carnal earth Longing to stop him pounding Pounding on the door of my bereft eternity I carrying the weight of him already The weight of them against the gravity Of my life. My wings folded Longing wield sword edge of flight against the sun I burdened to undo what already is done Have no finality here. Look at me like an eagle flying in the sun Blood dripping from my talons when the flight is done O let me cleanse the world again In the red flood that alters pain. One day I was born screaming for a cause I could not take kindly to tradition Slapping black and blue a baby's arse ... laws Must have been broken to beat the innocent Unless it is a crime to come into this earth To carry so much legacy From maroon history to Jesus Christ, blacklisted Like my my forebears: Shaka Father of my grandfather's mother, My other grandfather, Accompong warrior Slain between the stones of Holland Estate and Mountain Bridging the way for fleeing slaves I come Cudjo less, Nanny less, merciless Carrying on the war of generations Calling no more for repatriation but reparation Of human rights, human dignity, and racial sovereignty Where Africa may find again its concord Without false treaty and flimsy accord Raping the Congo of natural resources and life I come, the bushing through guinea grass Tumbling kingdoms with wisdom and knife. For this I was born, beaten at birth Given resurrection from the night of earth. My father sought to be civilize Recite poems of Britannia's might and lies And I, I was singing with the night Reading a long history of pain to make write Of my own proclamations, to declare I shall not bend my knees, nor walk in fear Where death measure us in dust And vampires and conquistadores lust For El Dorado buried in my disgust. I am a man, and I will make my monument of truth Upon the gravestone of the brute.
In the dusty cobwebs of my inspirational mind, I've written volumes of scripted details, pondered Epic thoughts, and let mine imagination roam the Fields of complete abandonment. A wild child of freedom's reckless spirit, I'm dived Head first into the untamed wilderness of the human Stratosphere, seeking beyond the unknown country Of the mental unconscious mind, then free fallen into The waves of insecurity, rescued by mine own self Sustaining life preserver, called survival. Line by line I've written into my life journal, leaving a Legacy behind me worth preservation's finest gilding, Bound are these pages of mine existence with love, Tenderness, and freshly cut rose petals, of remembrance. Reflected in the cover of my life book, are the joyous Faces of those whom loved me beyond words of Expressions comprehension, without emotions tears For they celebrate my life, not with sorrows regrets But with prides respect and honor. Through hell's fire I've rambled and traveled, being Tested by friend and foe alike, but I've lifted myself Beyond the flames of reality, bathing within the warmth Of a divine faith of loves power everlasting. I've been given the spark of the eternal, it breathes Within me, it drives my spiritual being, to over come Ignorance, intolerance and ambience sloth of spirit. At times I've been tempted to dance, against the flame That flickers in the night, teasing me, taunting me, To choose wrong or right, but mine feet stood stead Fast, yielding only in my secret world of dreams escape. Yes I've mused amongst the fantasy realm, Flying, soaring into the abyss of illusions mirrors, Clashing as a bird smacking at the glass of reality, But I've awakened wiser, a soldier better prepared For the battle known as life. In this journal I bequeath all that is the best of myself, To those for whom I've touched, and in memories moments Of stilled realization that I've gone, dare let no tears blind Thine vision let no words of sorrow spill from your trembling Lips just do me the one last favor for which I ask of thee, Simply look upwards, and smile. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Atacama, Eden of winds, flower of abandoned rocks and of sapleter, homestead of flamingoes and geysers, and above all , below an azure sky, mountains are carrying on their tops ice of the past. Old villages tell us their stories, Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu, carry in their canons life, water from deep below let flowers and vegetables grow. Chiu-Chiu, oasis of the desert, a green spot, surrounded by fragments of history with the colour of orange, red and brown, embedded in fragile foam of salt and hope, the history of the Atacama. Still alive in their churches. Fragments of an ancient culture reflecting on the surface of Río Loa. Like ants – far away, dispersed in vibrant light some Vicuñas are looking for tranquility and forage. The geysers of El Tatio send their hot water into the cold and pure air. How pacient the Atacama is with us, slaves of modern times with the desire for paradise with the dual face of history and hope. Salar de Atacama, show me your cracked and wounded face, your wrinkles of solitude. Far in the distance the chain of volcanoes, with towering Lincancabur, and its shouldered knapsack of crystals and ice, holding its splendour towards the sky with the colours of lapis lazuli and light agate. Toconao, the ruins of Quitor greet you, dormant since ages they narrate the history of the Inca, of their last refuge and their last battle with Pedro de Valdivia, who came with his men to break the bravery of Inca soldiers with thunder and destruction. The waterfalls of the hot spings of Puritama shoot their water into the air with the colours of rainbows, drawing delicate faces of life on dry sand and charming stones. The wind from the mountains carries songs, flute music, ancient tunes, stories of salt, gypsum and clay to the Valle de la Luna, to let it remain calm and unchanged with its eyes filled with dust and stones in the eternal canto of earth. Atacama, heart of the North, plant of wind in the song of history, you make the day sound and rock to sleep the nights, lonely between the arms of the mountains and the Altiplano.
It afflicts king and queen alike. Brought to the castle by the master of infildelity. He moves smoothly from one to the other. He swiftly takes them as is his right, he believes. Only to have his fill from the fair maiden to the sullied trollop. He sees them all equally in his adventures. He spreads his curse from one to the other. It robs it's victims of their eyes and senses. Over the years, it slowly degrades their intelligence and lives. It can bring down the greatest Empires if given enough time.
I am like Cleopatra embraced by serpents many fear always trying something new and dramatic with my hair I am like Eva Patrón growing up with a painful family getting lost in movies thinking of my own hypnotizing when I speak First lady of Argentina meeting you, after death would be a treat a nervous habit, of nibbling on my jewelry the similarities, between us gave me a sense of foolery I am like Wilma Mankiller Chief of the Cherokee Tribe for ten years fighting against Native stereotypes despite such distress enemies did stress promoting to 'be of good mind' you were a leader, of your time an advocator for women that they may grow up and become chief as a child, you wondered the forests, like me not the streets I am like Aung San Suu Kyi wearing three types of flowers in your hair feeling at times like a 'splinter of glass, sharp, glinting power to defend itself against hands that try to crush' winner of a Nobel Peace Prize, for courage, was a must I am like Catherine The Great a love to laugh, coffee, and feeling compelled to always fill abandoned blank sheets of paper you were a Royal Russian Empress,with not one red drop of Russian blood and her people, were blessed to have her I am like the Queen of England longest royal lifetime in history strong built, from a miserable childhood toughened her this is no mystery preferring candle light to electricity handwriting over typewriter and poetry I am like Indira Gandhi dreaming to live as she did riding elephants and having tiger cubs as companions your own Sikh security killed you, the story a sad one secret dreams of being a writer angered, by the imbalance of power between men and women listening to beat poets like Ginsberg as a great Prime Minister of India you were heard and understood I am like Rigoberta Menchú drew the worlds attention to native Indians rights, because of you your goal, to be a drop of water on a rock dripping in the same spot, eventually in the world, you may leave a mark wearing many colors 'because it gives you life' insisting men and women be equals you fought this fight to relax, as I do writing poetry into the night I am like Joan of Arc French Military Heroine burned at the stake at just age nineteen known for keeping your cool even on the battlefield being a courageous and inspirational rare jewel Legendary Lady Leaders I salute you
Telepathic messages dancing in front of me Energies left by thousands of freed souls Their train stopped at Birkenau,Auschwitz Sickening stench of burnt human flesh.. ..lays heavy over the consentration camp recognized even when the wind blew away from it Like some new mountain range They rise themself up from the ashes Shaking the dust off.. The once deadly gaz has gone out Cremation ashes has turned to cold leftovers Nevertheless their spirits lives on They`ll find their own way out Out of the relentless Nazi camp Into a world with pure freedom No greed,hunger or merciless regimes Nor any blasphemous,persecuting religions All humans raised above hate and inequality 2 million humans met their fates in Birkenau,Auschwitz 6 000 per day..some days twice as many From the ashes of Auschwitz.. ..comes a cry for us to learn from history A.Ertsland November 30th 2012 In memory of those arrested and sent to the Nazi consentration camps 70 years ago. November 26th 1942, 530 Men,Women and Children were chased onboard the German ship "Donau",to meet their fate in Auschwitz,Birkenau.By the end of WWII a total of 759 Jews had been deported from Norway to Nazi concentration camps.Only 25 survived...
Before the blast in April's darkened sky. . . before the electrifying surge of insurgency - when trucks and tanks were used to block the roads, and when men and even boys were sought to aid in one malicious purpose. . . before the rampant slaughter - the raining of machetes down on flesh and bones and the cornucopia of corpses left like butchered carcasses on highways, nearby houses and in churches. . . before the plundering, the rapes and mutilations and the exodus of thousands to death-infested camps, there were whisperings - insidious and portentous to the ears of the wisely suspicious - and a voice on the airwaves spewing hate. Before it all, there was a brewing of resentment of a people with a history of poverty and of transitory freedom and capricious politics. And through it all, with such grave consternation, governments debated. . . waited. . . . . . . and waited, playing with semantics while thousands dead became the hundred thousand, and three long months - unrivaled for its number of atrocities - came to its completion. Seemingly, peace has been restored and punishment stingily doled out. Time moves on . . . except for half a million for whom compassion by the world was spared.
Singing praise of past lives with the dreams of swastikas and rose-tinted spectacles floating through my head. One moment, a Polish Jew, the next, an Aryan German - dual reflections held in the iron gaze of a predatory raptor and the sharp-angled, six-pointed star perpetually spinning, reopening wounds which the weeping Roses of Sharon cannot heal. I held you in my youthful arms, serpents rising from the secret codes of my loins, and I worshipped you as an old, universal lover as I penetrated your dark womb; a sanctified temple of Angels and Daemons. Initially we prayed to the inverted graves sliding through oil-slicked skies, so young of heart and mind we were. Our love was purified in the hellish Axis-kiln paralleling the flames flickering against our skin. The vessel of our love shone like glass, cooling off to less dangerous levels in the forgiving breeze of empathy (aside from the fact that when I watched you move, the world stood still for me). And then we wiped away the green grins from the glass. We became one pulse, the Jew and a Nazi teaching each other how one should not pray to 'him' alone, for both phallic powers are needed to light the spark of creation: "Our Father AND Mother who art in Heaven(after), hallowed be both thy names." Male and female energies breathing life into each other, fusing together like slightly distorted transvestite, Siamese twins. We wanted to stay in our fleshly pleasures, but our minds spread wings. Taking flight, ascending smoothly within turbulence, we transformed into golden light, moving invisible objects with our thoughts, removing shackles, opening secret locks, figuring out who was who -- who were the real Jews, and who were the true Nazis, who were the Angels and who were the Daemons.... ....who were Daemons and who were Angels. +/-
Of dust, of dirt; suspended, lost, remarkable. Of no merit; forgotten, under the tall trees. And bury him; No accurate history serves. Under cross; buried in sand, buried in dirt. His face will carry forth, past this miserable state. To birth, to die; forth not. Behold; of man, of earth. Of dust, of dirt; suspended, found, frozen in time.
~2012 New Berlin Remix~ Rapid Eye Movements cruise down the Autobahn, driving dreams of soldiers slaying the wicked Beast in the East, seeds hidden in the cuff links returning home for the victory parade. The victory parade of the new millennium is a mirage, as desert sand blows through the desolate streets of Basra, spray painted slogans of 'Aryan Nation' scrawled across crumbling walls. High level Terror-alerts scroll across the Fear o' Dome, breeding paranoid glances of commercial-class passengers flying high above barbed-wire compounds: camps of cells in solitary confinement, centralized secret service agents unload the next set of trains. "Son, do you forget all that we sacrificed?! Have you lost all of your respect? Okay, so maybe the Feds became brainwashed by the Reds, but this is for our freedom and safety. This isn't about racial impurity, but our Nationalist Socialist security!" "You are all mixed now anyway, doesn't matter if you are female, black, jew or gay, we must unite together as a nation, proudly wave our flags, fight our common enemy! This enemy is trying to disintegrate the very fabric of our free society!" "Son, why can't you just see?!" "Son, can you not see! Not see-notsee-notsea-notsi-notzi natzi-nazi-natzi-notzi-notsi-notsea-notsee-not see!" ____ ....cold sweat. I wake-up from a horrible nightmare, remnants of images floating through my head. Something about flocks of carnivorous sheep, and rabid wolves for shepherds? Jumping out of bed, I quickly look in the mirror just to make sure. Everything looks as it should. Lawnmower growls in the background, sunshine leaks into the room adding a warm touch to reality. Through my bedroom window, I spy the neighbour's Iron Eagle weathervane goose-stepping towards the east. Everything appears normal, here, on the corner of 4th Reichstag Blvd. .
Pieces of history We clutch to our chests Life changing Heartbreaking Devastation These events Which seek to crush us Do not For they hold us together Making us stronger More firm are we In our resolve To be one nation Under God Indivisible
John Millais, today I pose, frozen, just for you - a blank canvas, your lonely soul-saddened muse. Love me with the iridescence of your inspiration. I can be whoever you want me to be - Beata Beatrix to Dante Rossetti. But to you I am Ophelia, and we are alone. Allurement to your compulsion to create and paint; ever patient, never late, though this ice-shimmery water slices my nicety, has me tingling hypothermic-faint. I breathe fragrant big-bloomed flowers; hydrangea panicles glitter in my lungs like starburst pinnacles. Water-mirror reflects back crystalline light, this fern-feathered pool. The flame-copper fronds of my hair unfurl in your fantasy; my beauty bends like a lily to softly kiss your canvas, your brush caresses my curves. I hope your fame remembers my reality, and how my vision camera-caught your creativity. On the glacial, arctic wastes of my wasted mind, blanked by laudanum, whitened by nauseous opium, colour-clouds burst, water lilies open starry pink hands in a pool of jewels. This cold clutch is finally unclenching. My stillborn child, that crib-cooled one, light-cradled, thaws the bone-biting chill, reclaims me from this dream-drenched prismatic pool. *Lizzie Siddal was a model for the Pre-Raphaelite artists
An earthen gray memorial stands alone against A rugged desert landscape, built by the mortal Hands of the faithful. No bells do ring, in the churches steeple, but in the Heart of Texas it's sounding message can never Be silenced, remember the Alamo. For the fighting men of valor's honors sacrificed, All for liberation's call to freedom. Listen to their whispering voices, traveling Across the tangle weed dunes, and harken unto Them, never to surrender even after death, do They fight for country, hearth, and home. These pioneer men whom built this nation's Backbone, carved it out, with steeled bowie knife Sharpened edge, and musket balls powder's flash. Gathered here, for one last hurrah's gallant stand off, To the victor's gaining everlasting immortality. Gallantry's brave, shed their dearest blood, sacrificing Giving everything they had, including life itself. Cannon thunder bolts roar, as lightening rods raw force Striking against mortars harden walls, yet the Spirits of bravery strong, did not yield, or raise The white shield of surrender. Keep thy black powder dry, lift your rifles high, But don't fire men, until you see the whites of Your enemies eyes. Under the hailing of gunfire's smoke, did hells Storm rage, both sides dying for their country's Beliefs right or wrong. Death's battlefield littered with fragments deceased, A graveyard left unattended, wars unfortunate Fallen, became salvation's tribute to behold, in the distance A tattered flag, still waves in the winds of freedom. Bricks of defense, shattered as if made of glass, Debris spewing outwards, towards martyred legacy's Champions, killing many before they hit the ground, Receiving remains of the valiant dead. Oh in the heaven's trumpets did herald, these Courageous souls, welcoming honored soldiers, home wards Unto God's boundless country, for these explorers To discover the horizon's endless divides beyond. Prisoners living, taken by horse and rider were forced To bow, beneath a foreign banners alien flag. Yet even than their American hearts didn't waiver, Until the swords steel severed life, from the fleshes beating Drumming from within. But the last warrior yelled a rebels battle cry, And as he fell with his last dying breath, Yelled out, Remember the Alamo!! BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Hoist the sails and head for the west Sail me away from this Godforsaken place Away from poverty and hunger Atlantics unpredictable anger Waves foaming intensity Can not stop my journey towards the west Navigate me west to the promised land Hoist the sails and head for the west Split yo sail I see land in sight My family I left behind To seek my fortune in the promised land My happieness I never found The light keeps me alive The light that never goes out Love for the family I once left behind Must be expelled by my survival instinct From craddle to death My fate is sealed Just a few thoughts about how much millions of emigrants had to sacrifice for a better life. Some managed to be reunited with their families again..while others met their fate along the way
The Silence of War Behind the Curtains of a church window Men in Prayer, orchestrated by sweat and Lice Find relief from snipers gaze Beside the cross sits the last candle Flickering precariously, searching for sanctuary from the wind But the wick is near the end And so are these men The Harvest of War is almost in For this is November 1918. The German guns call like the song of the Siren Irresistible, for only the dead will hear New orders to cross the Sambre-Oise Canal Another postcard for Historians to write. Machine gunners scythe the ranks Gone the Irish regiment, clover for the beast I take shelter behind a splintered Oak Tree Once magnificent, A survivor of Natures glory Now a hideous spectre to man's intervention. I wait here with Wilf my captain Waiting for death to find me The mud beckoning for blood, The Canal red like the River Sticks A feed for tomorrows Newspaper. A groan from wilf, his eyes start to dim Fear brings the Lord's Prayer to my lips A last haven for my soul to cling I watch his spirit fly away, As the words fade from my voice Like so many others on this day of carnage Wilf, my friend, died November 4th 1918 Yet another contribution to this dark harvest, Another soul for god to tender. A statistic, a casualty of war, To be remembered generically A wreath to share with a multitude of lost darlings, Another photograph to fade on the mantel piece A piece of History for a grieving widow to dust In the ranks of the dead Angels count our losses What dreams did we lose? What voices were made silent? What books were never written? And how many tomorrows gone, Lost in the darkness of death? Under this oak tree, fading from memory A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken too Unspoken truth in unspoken poems Silent to mortal's ear Another casualty of war A feast of wisdom for angels to keep? For His words were far too much, for the hogs of war to stomach. His poetry made silent by country's shame, Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean said the generals Only now, through peace can we learn The voice of one soldier, How I pity humanity For silence is a killer Democracy, and justice its victim, And the inevitable Silence of war will kill us all. Footnote On this day November 4th 1918, Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal, 7 days from Sanity One of England's Finest War Poets.
On Independence Day I declare independence from American imperialism. I declare U.S. out of Iraq. And while I am at it the C.I.A. out of the business of supplying murderous thugs with rifles and uniforms along with the strategies to extinguish democracy in Haiti. I also call for the pullout of State Department funding in the not so secret overthrowing of the fair and duly elected President of Venezuela. On Independence Day I have the right to say we need a new policy. Therefore, I call for independence from oil. I call for windmills and solar panels and cool looking hybrid cars getting 100 miles to the gallon. I am tired of chanting No Blood For Oil. On Independence Day I look to a nation involved in war for war's sake war to simulate the economy and make our leaders look great and call for a different fate. I declare our politicians give up corporate sponsorship and live up to this great nation's highest aspirations. Freedom from illegal occupation. Freedom from propaganda and torture. Freedom from criminal actions on sovereign nations. I declare transcendence. I declare we live up to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness for all humanity. I declare world independence from monarchies, theocracies totalitarianism, oligarchies and otherwise puppet regimes. And I declare we all share these inalienable rights. Including the right to assemble organize and form unions. Protect the health of our elders newborns and the environment. And I refuse those who would deny blacks the same rights as whites by suppressing their vote with twelve hour lines in the blistering cold. Let us all have our say! And while I am at it give the poor a megaphone on mainstream talk shows let their voices be heard in the court of public opinion. I declare freedom from billionaire owned media conglomerations. Let independent democracy infiltrating the television. Thus let us all speak our truth and be protected from the tyrannical majority and those empowered by the muzzle. I declare that our forefathers envisioned this and much more in the age of enlightenment. So that one day every one of us on this magnificent planet regardless of class or culture national and religious origin sexual persuasion or gender would be endowed and empowered by an independent yet universal human rights agenda. Dean Walker
Beneath the fathom's deep, in wreckage's graveyard Of the forgotten, here the broken bones of ships lie still, Covered in a forest of seaweeds greenery. Corrosion steel hauls ripped wide open, lay against ancient Wooden beams from vessels voyages, of long ages distant past. Faded names, render no clues reference, for the maritime detective. But tragedies lost vessels, did ride upon the frothy foam, And spray above, sailing the big blues timeless tides. Nay Poseidon's toll ti's payed in sailors flesh, melting Humanities dreams beneath his drowning waves. Beauties fare, and proud are they, the crippled, Swallowed whole by the aquatic storms avenging rage. Mercy's mere-angels weep thus, for the mortal souls lost, Guiding them towards their spiritual resting place below, And welcoming them unto their fathers kingdom beneath, The abysses darkening depths. Torn asunder is mankind's well hued craft, shattered Into bits pieces, large to small, a glittering shards Rain of destruction. crashing into the muddy bottom, Of the under belly of the sea itself. Deaf are the silent cry's of men, whom leave only Bubbles streaming upwards, as their last epitaphs Tribute for thy existence. The devil's gardens, swim these black waters, Turning them crimson red, sharp toothed monsters, Feasting upon carrion discarded left overs. Dark figures, phantom creatures, lurking just below, The briny surface, awaiting for the Poseidon's next victim, To join the graveyard of ships. Faded are their names, forgotten titles, as the paint Peels, on the once majestic vessels. Now they remain wreckage's ruins, abandon to the Mercy of erosion masterful hand of destruction. Hear the sounding clanging of bells, whom ring in Silences of troubled waters abode, it is the cracking Of doom, beware thy young lad, he whom seeks fortunes Favor abroad, for only fools test the might of the sea, Against thy own grit and survive. Thus thee shed a tear for the fallen, dear lad, For no other will on the dead's behalf, in thine Cemetery of the graveyard of ships. no passages Return tickets are given. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN SPIRITUAL-HISTORICAL 02-03-2914
I wail lonely in your distances as endless trestles travel I Know I was here I was present on your horizons, present in your town Come, ride with me Come, keep me from obsolescence, keep me alive Without you Within me I am meaningless, blind For how can I see, and, yes, Who can I show, If not you... if not you... if not you
A symbol of respect, pride, and strength, not to be ruffled, wadded, or soiled, to be folded, unfurled, raised for all to see, as in going into battle resounding victory. Not to be tattered, torn, or burned in effigy, rather a symbol of hope to those in bondage, of hate for those who seek to enslave, of patriotism to those who guard fiercely, enshrined with those who died for liberty, entrusted to each generation to decide its fate, to be the most loved or most hated, to be seen in every city, state, and on foreign soil, wherever seen, America is found. No other symbol rises above or would be allowed, representing freedom, recognized the world round, a powerful adversary to an enemy a gentle giant to those who are represented. A symbol of red and white, with fifty shining stars on a field of blue, call it a flag, in reality it is you.
"Once very near the end I said, 'If you can -- if it is allowed – come to me when I too am on my death bed." "Allowed!' she said. "Heaven would have a job to hold me; and as for Hell, I'd break it into bits." Oh God, God, why did you take such trouble to force this creature out of its shell if it is now doomed to crawl back -- to be sucked back -- into it? ~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed ~ __________________________________ The division should be acute, the before her, the with her, the after her, Yet there is this constant rattling of doors, though they remain locked, in theory. I think of her as gone until I turn a page and read a passage of pompous dialogue and she returns, My Joie de Vivre, entertaining me with that puckish wit, unabashed. She smiles in the dusk with crusading colours that bend dark horizons, changing clouds unexpectedly. What was I before Joy*? Content, pleasant and productive. But was I alive, aware of Life, its blissful rhythms? Irony defined: the heart which awakened stone no longer beats. Finally, I understand. Lessons are sharp things which infect both fresh and aging amputations. What do I do with this knowledge? It is like learning a language that is no longer spoken, a long monologue unbearably forlorn, painful. Faith dismisses hauntings, yet she does so in daily degrees, oh, the sweet ghosts that peer from those notes, my name underscored in margins. Why is there only one glove in the sewing box? Agony hunts me in the garden. Perfume almost, but not quite a match. Some rooms have snares. I dare not open a kitchen drawer. Pain waits there. The specter of my former self, a staunch gent, so sure of Heaven's role, that cold bloke follows me in the shadows, land of man's rage and despair. There is no pretty death, no words can comfort the ravaged left behind, There is no poetry in our departing; I only pray there is Godspeed in mine. *Written Nov 4, 2012 Joy Gresham Davidman, American poet, and C.S. Lewis, English writer and Oxford scholar, were good friends and married solely for the purpose to keep Joy in England (contested). But love came, as it has a habit of doing, when least expected, after Joy was diagnosed with terminal cancer. There love was true and deep, and her death shattered Lewis. His book, A Grief Observed explores his anguish and a Christian's questions which arise during times of suffering. The film, Shawdowlands, is based on the biography, Through the Shadowlands: The Love Story of C. S. Lewis and Joy Davidman. Lewis died 3 years after Joy. The above poem is a conjecture on my part, as no one can truly know what lies in another's heart, alive or otherwise.
The feeling of your touch I know it in the brush of the wind The heat of the sun Sweeping down on my skin A reasurrace of a hand on my shoulder A tear wiped away As it fell from the sky I know much about you Like your cowboys and indians And the nights we would dance a pow wow in the night lights stars abrasive against our hearts rubbing off the smudge and dirt To say im proud would be an understatement Our heritage may lie beneath the pavement But in our hearts and in our words The feathers still fly Howling wolf, and I
The Sowing Upon the wind feasted hillside The jagged edges of used rocks swell With the fatless skin of babes and wenches Below a field of blood, no less a Flanders Field A continuous swell of rape roll like waves In the pallid squalor of leaking huts wooden tales tell The scars ironed in the backs and inner thighs The voices crying with no listening ear Blood shines bright in moon's glow sons birth upon the fields For eons it seems men stack rape like barley and wheat Small ones soft ones and inexperienced virgins too Daughters bled away dignity men their respect Born work and ravished in the fields Where is their medal of bravery Today the summer sun washes over the fields Each ray eclipses the dark memories of sin As the sons and daughters rise This poem was written for Joann Grisetti's Copycat contest through inspiration of Debbie Guzzi's The Sowing, one of the Greatest writers here on the Soup
Belove, my dear friend Stand by my side For I shall not cry My sins, will go over the earth Mountains shall depart Father, I'm talking to you I remember, dreams and memories Times my soul was lost in the valley And in your arms In moments I open my eyes I see your shadow on my curtain Feel your spirit above my head Feel the wind and sense it's you Daddy, listen I'm speaking to you I never had a chance, to tell you Give me your pain Let me carry your weight Drown your medication in my blood Papa , listen to my thunder I was only fourteen In another state Hearing, cancer was your case Yet, it was a little to late The day my ears heard Your soul went to rest Dad, come in this soul Listen to my thoughts I will never forget your face My dear friend I will keep you in my dreams Daddy I will treasure our memories Papa I will always remember my soul in the valley Dad I will know, you are my father By blood Dear friend By communication Angel By protection Belove, shall always stand by my side For, I shall no longer cry Only stand by your side In a beautiful lifetime Love, Daddies little girl
They come from a different era where patriotism is a just cause they would fight for the true blue never mind who was right or wrong they stood staunch and egos proud their chest out, backs straight and chins up they come from an old style of thinking I fight today as my father and grandfather did too. fighting for an eye for an eye tooth for a tooth I will die to serve my country even if its a lie if you try to invade our land we will come and conquer you we are defenders of the truth but the old timers forget and the young ones have a narrow point of view there was a time when the immigrants were Irish, Italians and jews racism was rampant and that hasn't changed Christians today still preach 'Jesus is savior they say repent your evil ways pushing their rhetoric just like the roman empire did amazingly America seems to be doing the same history seems to repeat itself time and time again war, religion, oil and what we perceive as freedom we invade again and again and call it defending democracy yet the intelligence comes from spies and other governments because they have shared interests in different types of policy they all carefully choose their words because one slip of the lip could trigger war as it has happened before todays war on terrorism is a campaign designed to instill pain and un-trust to drain our resources from us And our leader claimed up front this is not a religious war yet he paraphrases from the bible we'll get those evil doers you see bush fooled our religious leaders too. he used their belief in Jesus he tricked 'em all just to get their vote he claims he's a born again Christian and this Christians embraced him holly but then one day bush spoke to Jesus and asked what to do with Iraq Jesus responded Invade that country Now dont get me wrong Jesus was not about war he taught of peace, love and compassion however his message has been twisted and turned over time and history shows the hands of Christian religious leaders are always bloody because they twist the truth to control dictatorship is always the goal Bush had been plaining war before a judge handed him the seat on his first day he signed a bill into law prevent any criminal charges against him
Our dreams begin to open on the ninth floor of the Marines Memorial Hotel. Clean tombs equipped with all that is needed for a weekend to die for. Guests view what they can see at their level. Flags wave from rooftops of skyscrapers, like spring flowers praising the high winds. Below a jungle of souls in hypnotic allegiance flow past concrete fields choked with roads. Fatigued, dormant dreams weakly climb praying to continue, to go on, Hoping to recognize silence as it sings a sacred invitation to follow the fire of morning. In our room we listen to the television flicker between old graying movies and a war in Kosovo. At the window we have the luxury to turn away. . . and witness the massacre of our afternoon. Hail stones bullet the sunlight, day bleeds pools of darkness. Night falls to the light Colors resurrected in our hearts glow triumphant, emblazoned with life. Who do you tell what your heart sees? Who would believe the sound of it? Oh Love, Oh Light-- "Please stay with us, for it is nearly evening and the day is almost over." luke 24:29
The Letter DEAR Marlene, Sweet heart of the dead Adored by generations not yet born Marlene we love you. Your beauty burned the wings of JFK And brought big John to his knees. For your love, was meant for more. You shocked the World with a velvet kiss An elegant truth in a sea of Fools. It took one voice to start a War, One bullet to unite false prophets One woman to speak out. You ostracized the Nazis for what they were. Stood tall, through treason Did not follow, Hitler's Spell Chose to Love America s freedom instead. When Reapers scythe came Song and Compassion was your shield. It Gave comfort to the damned as shell and mortar pound Your words a respite, from the fear And your beauty, a reminder. That love awaits the Soldiers return. Back to the German farms and the English meadows For love knows nothing of war. You witnessed holy sacrilege, Saw blind disciples fuel the reapers fire Both sides, in the name of god, Oh how heaven must have wept Marlene you dared to question religion, For Your soul could see through the flames, While others perished in mortals Pride. You Asked god to review his plan. Only you, Marlene could do that Where have all the flowers gone Your message to Humanity, But the Heinkel and the Spitfire Flew too high to hear And the flowers of youth All Eaten by silent sheep, and taken to yet another slaughter. Yet be proud Marlene For Your echo awakened a new generation to peace, Although lasting peace is like true love, so hard to find, But never the less, a goal we devote our lives to. Some countries have found their Peace While other search. Humanity is still a child in these matters, And war still goes on When will they ever, learn, when will they, ever learn. Try to forgive us, Perhaps the man upstairs, Really does have another plan, Marlene Dietrich, At least I'm sure that Eternity Will be a far more beautiful and interesting place With you in it, and I look forward to meeting you. Love Steven xxxx Footnote to this poem JFK relates to her affair with President Kennedy Big john relates to her affair with John Wayne The Velvet kiss was the first lesbian kiss on main stream cinema 1930 Marlene was bisexual. The line where have all the flowers gone and when will they ever learn comes from the song forever associated with Marlene Dietrich. Brief Biography Born 1901 in Germany First film in 1920 Became American Citizen 1937 Awarded Medal of Freedom USA 1947 Awarded Legion of Honor by France Died 1992 in Paris.
Today I stole my neighbor Jasmines growing over the fence I was too vulnerable to resist Since the foreclosure of my first garden. Any fence makes good neighbor Alright, But don't you see Trees and flowers will not stand it They keep hanging over Littering my primordial joy With fruits and blossoms As if to pay Whatsover flaming sentinel that prevents My eating from the tree of life again So I walking there Seduced by the naked scent of air Recovered amidst the gushing bloom Of jasmines hanging over the fence A memory of nights I shall not own again And crushed by my mortal sense Of spiritual penury Before the white innocense of a flower A reached up As if to pick something no longer there And in a moment of desire For good I, some evil, by choice accomplish For my neighbor shall seek the gushing bloom And find they are fewer there I stole my neighbor's jasmines today.
understanding hearts is what the world needs to today in its tangle of broken dreams. dreams are what life is made of america expounds as we never stop to taste the sweetness of the corn that fills our bellys. "make a bigger, brighter step for all mankind." WE WHINE. yet we never appreciate the ones we have crushed in our climb. "we will be the first in every nation", we exclaim...... forgetting that the first usually dies earliest in most every game. by janetta 1982
Thundering down Olympus Treads Ares The battle master Ashen Piceous clad Against midnights cloak Returning human spirit To the heavens For upon drowning Within his crimson gaze Do we understand That in faith Lies divinity Note: In Greek mythology Ares is the God of War.
Only silence dresses her rigging now To the call of the bosun's whistle Her hatches now stand locked and secure Where long past sailors once lingered She is the last of the old frigates Moored in the shallows of Charlestown Board her and hear her echoes of valor Haughtily anchored her colors humbly fly No blemishes on her hull show her battles Her carronades still sit silently waiting As she floats mythically at ease For a moment I can hear the great moans Her keel and sailors cresting Atlantic waves To Captain Hulls orders to come about And charge on the enemy ship Guerriere On her decks I feel the plight of her dead Hearing stories of centuries old bulkheads Astounding feats of a morose pride To have brought their foe to capitulate Now she stands tacit though ever grand And still on her decks and deep in the bowels The mighty spirit of U.S.S. Constitution dwells A monument of endurance softly whispering "Lest we remember long forgotten sacrifices…"
Star strung like Bette Davis Sundays marathon watching and sitting in tears Wrestling emotions which calm and confuse us Confound us and move us beyond golden years Broken like black and white vision fuzzy and stationed with grey rabbit ears Lost in commotion which break and betray us which bullet gun lays us compounding our fears.
Walk does he not the specter of death, His saith raised high, even he himself has had Enough killing, on the battlefield of Gettysburg, Satan screams, stop sons of men, truly war Is hell on earth. Time's spiritual voices cry out, as the wind Blows through the tall over grow grasses, Of this Pennsylvanian State park. Injured spirits, roam as phantom soldiers, Seeking salvation's reprieves preservation, From their damnation. On the Devil's Den reddened rock, centuries Still stand guard, knelling sharp shooters, Fire at will, as the drummers beat, at rhythm's Death march. Gun powers burnt smell fills the air, As the loud canons echo in the distance, Mayhem's discord has left destruction's Bloodshed, these numbers estimation Of flesh and bone, are guessed yet it's Resolution unknown. Blown are the horns of Calvary's call, Reinforcement's sacred hesitating for aid, But none come to it's deadening's sounding. Mourn do the orphan's of war, in their fathers Name, so they do weep in sorrow remembrance. A war-ravaged companion, lead by freedom Seekers, the end to release bondage's salves, Stain our great country with it's own blood. Brother against brother, two flags of belief Striking each other, north vs the south, Behold it was the American Civil War. A revolutionary uprising of idealism, That all man have the right to be free, And live without the chains of oppression. It is in this haunted place, at cemetery ridge, That the final battle lines are marked in Bloods deadliest charge ahead. Many souls still serve here, never shall They know the light of peace. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
It amazes me how much man has evolved Yet, How little he has learned All around the globe Millions die of disease and starvation While the ever so intelligent creature known as man Spends millions upon millions of dollars every single day Killing each other Instead of finding cures for the ill or feeding starving children Oh sure, we dabble in those efforts But we are committed to killing each other Governments all around the globe Spend most of their money On their armies Either to defend or attack Their enemies Supposedly, the most intelligent creature on earth The intellectual creature known as man If I may go so far Mans commitment to war and killing Goes far beyond any one mans term in office It goes far beyond any one mans lifetime It goes far beyond any century or any one era From beginning to end, top to bottom East to west, north to south Red, yellow, brown, black or white Our commitment to killing each other Is undeniable How can a species that is smart enough to split atoms Creating weapons that will kill millions Still be stupid enough to do it? And now I see on the science channel That man has now devised the Platonic beam A beam of light that just disintegrates the target in an instant At what price you ask? Well I don't know but I reckon if we diverted that money To say solar energy projects They could probably put a solar energy system On every home in the world for free Thus solving the energy crisis Not to mention food in the icebox and medicine in the cabinet Because of course when you create such an amazing new weapon You need an entire new type of ship to deploy it from Thus is born the next generation of war birds They jettison into space Then go into super afterburner (A jet engine minus oxygen) Which they said would reach like 20,000 miles an hour So you could shoot halfway around the world Disintegrate your enemy And be home in time for supper I believe when speaking of politics It's not a National Crisis It's a Global Epidemic
All bow low unto Pharaoh, Queen of all upper, and lower Egypt. Hollowed halls echo thy name, Nefertiti. Cast red sails towards infinity's, Swift currents. Nile waters part steadily Anubis guardian of the dead, Receive thus living deity. Let sacred alters burn bright, Light sacrifices ashen embers, In thine honers reverence. Beneath desertions desert ruins, Lies etched upon mortar's stone. A royal tomb bearing her, Majesties, Unspoken name, Nefertiti. Golden saddles press against, Mortals realm, Behold a phantom goddess, Brushed ageless, By times untarnished memory, The pasted reveals truths, Magnificence. Through redemption's flame, Two scepters crisis cross, Within beauty's touch. An ancient throne has, Been reclaimed. Raise great sphinx, from Your sacred resting place, Shake free fetters sandy mane, Breath once again, His might's roar harold's, Her return. Soft winds blow against, Freedoms breeze, Exposing a glittering figure, Standing tall, Beside the great monolith. All bow low unto Pharaoh, Queen of all upper, and lower Egypt. Hollowed halls echo thy name. Nefertiti. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
The past I am a black prince Who use to rule over a kingdom But now my people and me are enslaved Force to pick the white mans cotton I see my brother and sisters Being whipped and branded like cattle They think we are cattle So we are treated like cattle But my people dream and sing of the future Where we are free from our shackles The future I am the black preacher Who has been freed from his shackles But now fighting for our rights So my son and daughter Can go to a pool and not be separated By the racial line. Or when they go outside to play They don't have to worry about the KKK Trying to hang them from a tree branch That is the reason I fight that is why I want equal rights For there can be a better tomorrow The better tomorrow I'm the son of the preacher Who was the grandson of the black prince. Here saying that enslavement and segregation Is over An now the only problem remains is The fact that we are killing each other Over money and women This makes no sense Have we as a people suffered enough? Have we shed enough blood? So I ask you Put the gun down spread the word Tell our brothers tell are sisters that the 300 years of enslavement and segregation is over We have our black president We have the power To show the world that We as a people are united
I remember the dream of Austria As the war for me was finally closing High in my turret upon the Sherman I entered this mountain paradise at last Until I reached the earthly gates of hell Within those eyes I found despair That spark of life long dead Their hearts filled of solitudes poison Muted voices no longer calling out Thousands of souls starving for hope Existing amongst corpses who had lost it Now just shadows of the once proud Crushed by tyranny simply because they "were" Empty men drifting about lost in a miring haze Praying for the peace only death grants So very few seemed to hold onto humanity They had nothing to fear because all was lost As I stood at the hells gates called Mauthausen In that moment I found the truest of evils Under the threshold of Hades a toxoid of hatred Not truly comprehending what my eyes spoke Numbed in fears I never knew subsisted within me Standing frozen I wanted nothing more than to run As the shell of that crying man fell in my arms I am haunted by his words…"godheid bedanken" My faith transfused giving him a moments hope Within those high peaks of the songs of paradise I lost my soul at the gates of a concentration camp Every night since I hear his voice thanking God He called us the wrath and thunder of reckoning But…I was just a boy with rifle searching for a respite
Cattle rolled tracks Straw sacks Migrants rode lonely Lonesome rhythm in sound Landless –
Here I am, man From where, the soul reading did ask Trace me... this pinkish soul, with straight and twisted blotch of hair; from Adam fool ! Then Solomon did love, at the least, seven hundred wives From about this, condemned world, I did come
Profound silence felt and revered, stirring an awesome emotion, which stillness repeals whenever brightness shines; and the primroses' scent spreads the delight of the mild season. What do the stars tell a lover's heart...palpitating in tranquility, amid shadows that advance with the pretty fireflies? Dream, and reprieve from the loss... hoping that love doesn't lay at rest, but chooses to celebrate 'till after the evening, and tell romantic tales. The invisible crickets chirp, somewhat awkward to the ears, I'd rather hear the coos of the owls, which are richer and more harmonious in sound, but where are they in this darkness, unless they are mating in the willows of the lake? Our blanket is spread on the wide Sheep Meadow, with a superb view of those Manhattan's skycrapers, towering over us as sentinels in castle's towers. Juliet wanted to taste this freedom, embracing and kissing her handsome Romeo, not fearing anyone intruding in her paradise, unwilling to leave anytime soon; and unruffled, she would continue to love him. What do the stars tell a lover's heart? Accept the lovely rose that he offers you, and adore it, because it has no thorns, to make you bleed in despair; Sing with him a beautiful sonnet that Shakespeare wrote for his lover who crossed the Atlantic ocean, when ships took months to reach America's shore.
How I wish I could go back To when I didn't Have a care in the world. I wish for the days I spent running Barefoot in the grass Laughing in the summer And eating icy cold popsicles. I want to be free again, To not have to think To go and do as I please, Ride a bike As fast And as far as I can, Or swim In freezing cold waters, My cheeks turning purple, My lips tasting salty. I wish to sit on a hill With my childhood friends, And eat cherries by the bag And draw on the sidewalk With an ice cube. How I long to relive my memories, How I long to be young again A carefree kid, in the hot Augusts of summer.
If time heals all, what heals time? For it cannot be changed, its burned into history, burned into the fabric of time like a scratch on a track. Time can make us feel regret that we did not use it the best we could or it can make us rejoice remembering that good moment in time. It is a fickle thing that most will not appreciate until it's gone. I myself have had more pain than good, but does that count as bad time as it made my character and is the reason I have this strength and insight on life. So I don't believe in or good or bad moments in time, its all on how we look at it and use it going forward. The most important thing to remember and learn from the past is that we ALL make mistakes . . but only a fool repeats them. Yours Fraternally TIME
The Polynesian pearl of the Northern Pacific, A glittering paradise gleaming in brilliance, Set float amongst the oceans clear waters. A beautiful jewel reflecting in the different Shades of aquatic blues. The winds of peace blew in this tropical Nirvana, until the ruler of the far east, Thrust down his mighty fist of power, Against the foreign invaders. From the land of the rising sun, did The red dragon awakens, blazing with a Fires smoke, scaring a nations flag, For generations to come. It's scared wings as silent as a Tiger, stalking in a thickets tall grass, Of disbelief, it pounced without warning. The American flag did spread out in Protection, over top a sleeping harbor, Lulled into a dreaming state of world peace. As the eagle did lie at rest, the sons Of the red dragon struck, at it's farthest Point edge of it's nest. Setting it's kindling to burn and sink, Beneath the waters, of histories swift Currents. The bird of freedoms liberation, now Alert defends it's territory's, by talons Claws, and sharpened beaks bite. Driving the dragons brewed backwards, And reclaiming it's rightful perch, on The stage of destiny. But the pearl lies tarnished and broken, Cracked forever this once Eden, never to To be a child of innocence again. Only a white momentum stands to mark It's loss, she weeps the Polynesian princess, For what has been done can never be undone. A pearl necklaces of peace, torn apart by two Titan's nations hatred, now it is nothing but A broken strand and she is a prisoner, Caught In the choke hold, of power between The two of them. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
"The budget should be balanced, the Treasury should be refilled, public debt should be reduced, the arrogance of officialdom should be tempered and controlled, and the assistance to foreign lands should be curtailed lest Rome become bankrupt. People must again learn to work instead of living on public assistance." Cicero , 55 BC controversy over government nothing new Civil War? oxymoron in a country divided, there is no civility protestors fume on Wall Street Tea Partiers toss their caffeine into the mix Federal Reserve makes unauthorized loans but to whom we do not know states debate seceding from the union families learn to live on budgets countries spend what they don't have why don't we learn from history? "Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's" is there anything left for us? look to Cicero and sages of the past Plato and Socrates will set the disenfranchised straight too *Entry for Brian's "Anywhichway" contest
I am just a figment of your mind, You create me, and perfect me, I become your every dream. I am just a wind that is passing bye, I carry no emotions, only stories, That my Ancestors whisper to me. I come and I speak, Like the White Buffalo of our tales, Here and then gone. I lend my essence to heal, As the rain does for the land, Though I could easily destroy. I am just an image in the smoke, Dancing as the [Ga lv quo di] pipe, is passed from one to another. I am just the beat of the drum, The call in the night, As you dance around the fire. I am just the feather of the Eagle, And that is all that will be left of me, A memory of a dream.
Laying in your crystal coffin I look at your eyes Eyes that died ages ago What could you have seen in your life? Were you a king? Worshipped as a god Honored with gold and jewels Were you a slave? Beaten and tortured your entire life Worked to death in the name of your god Were you a farmer? Raising food in a desert Trying to farm in acres of sand Did you have enough to thrive? Were you a merchant? Selling oils and herbs Or did you sell women for the pleasure of others? I look into your eyes trying to see your soul But there is nothing to see So I can only imagine I can only ask Who was this man in the crystal coffin?
Can you hear me? Can you hear me now? I'm squeezing out between Pink Floyd and Willie Nelson, a generation in the middle of right and wrong. Will you call me? Will you call me now? I haven't gone deaf, even if it seems that way. I'm just caught in the aftermath Of everything I can't control. Squeeze it now friend. Squeeze for all it's worth. You only have to worry about today. Tomorrow's orange juice can wait for your arrival. It's simply now! It's simply today! Will you challenge me or leave me to beg for your leadership? C'mon you legend! Can you hear me? Can you hear me now?
They say I must sing Through sunset dripping blood And despite the broken wing Of the bird fluttering Where the boy had left it innocently Sling shot wounded to die They say I must sing Say I must make the fourth beat The important thing And I want to know why should I bleat Only after I have felt four lashes I want to know Because as a child the drop-pan man sold numbers Making me know numbers had a owner They belonged to someone And that someone said four was the number of blood And blood is the price of freedom And the song is the memory of things Things I do not want to forget Things I file in the subconscious for a rainy day Which must end for children to play I love the songs we use to sing The mento fife playing While the folks clap Mosquitoes and flies sapping the flesh Parasites the flood left behind I love the mento song That they grow in Sunday morning digging songs But I do not sing that rhythm now The harmony is broken in me For I do not know, cannot tell Why the fourth beat intercedes my hell.
Lord, I hear Selma And I see them coming one by one Your dusky children with their dusty seat Walking until they can get a seat At the front of your glory Lord, I know the trumpet don't sound the same For Gabriel not blowing tonight He is in a prison cell Waiting for the chain to fall Like tears from the mind of children Among the tares, among the tares Gabriel showing Martin the map of heaven And he telling him sweet Jesus, to lay down his burdens By the river side We will not board again The underground train with cargoes of pain He telling him sweet Jesus, the Lord will provide A ram in the ticket If he put up the sword A man die must the way he live Such a paradox here The tragic morning on the balcony For peace was all he lived by And just over some garbage they did this thing O Lord, that is some nasty hearts But I dreaming still For only in dream the reality goes away Only in dreams the bleeding ends Only in dreams this land gives me peace Only in dreams my children Still can see the mountain top I dreaming about love Don't wake me up Because I am tired and need my rest My soul been marching too long Trekking in the coffled gang since Benin Marching up the ships' plank Marching around this Jericho, this Mississippi Looking for the stones of my father's tribe Looking for stones that marked the place Where I must crossover This raging river of our history This awesome monument of forgiveness we have This longing to say, brother, It is a good morning not to die And wipe the tears from his eye And justice though it comes in the night Will shine like the sun everywhere A long, long time Before the lion eats straw with the lamb
Author Note: I wrote this after the Address last night as my take on the transparency of our government. Where does the white go when the snow melts? It becomes transparent, for all to witness its passage from one form to another? It will never again have substance or be recognized as what was its original state. Transparency, doomed to mix with unsavory elements, no longer a brilliant white, rather, becomes covert. Covered by dirty slush to be stomped throughout the halls of government, to be spread around under the guise of openness. Soon, will become invisible, no longer a nuisance, transparent, to forever be squelched by power and corruption hiding behind closed doors, where transparency is not allowed, where truth becomes lies, where is hidden.... where the white goes when the snow melts
chaotic uprising of humanity milling throngs in their intellectual stupor search endlessly for beans ... and stuff. murky faces masking minds that compete for favors. races crash in harmony of wanton pick-up desires as love ceases to exist. blaring music battles pinball machines to rankle dope shattered nerves. coffee blotches tables and chairs of putrid green. the floor rises up with suffocating scents. open twenty-four hours a day welcoming night souls. The Hot Dog Palace a farcical palace where hot dogs are terrifying and the Man can maintain his scrutiny of creation.
Those walls of my captured annals falling By steel leviathans devouring my solitude Capped blasts dropping the once proud structure No longer is a mans home his palace Histories cowboys are the future's vagabonds Their ranges of ranches a dying lot Borders now shrinking as the rooms collapse Giving into the fear of the outside world No one is really who they appear to be Stowing and stealing all for a free ride The trust in humanity a long extinct idealism Falling in flames from the final battles bullet Yesterday's judgment is the hope of tomorrow If the sun may ascend to the songbirds cry No promises of integrity to hold onto justice While the carrions crawl the balances edge Holding within that which disaster has taught Building upon the hangman's piety To breathe for a moment the sweet water of utopia With every falling grain of the hourglass …Time slows in the winds of obscurity
O, I love my dear boy So dearly and so blindly I will give him my blood And life if God permits so He's so weak and sick So pallid and so tender But I know he's an umbrella of snow In the wide-brimmed form A rhyme, a loft Almost in the spelling of my own world.
I know all the stories that she'd told she been livin in lies she knows shes doin wrong.All i know is she need to do right. I can't keep oncryin momma s do it just please no more fights. I tell myself that she will do better, momma we are a family ain't we supposed to bo together. What happened to our happy fun. Every since that doy violence but more guns. You used to give me hugs what happened to all the kisses, all the good times yes we allmisses.We can forget abut it momma thanks to you. You can't play me nomore i'm not a little fool. I try so hard but why can't you stop. One day i just wish you will and IT gonna drop.
As long as various people run various nations There will forever be war What the world needs is one leader A common man who believes in the working class As well as the Lord Instead of one Nation under God Lets make it one World under God And just let each individual decide what he or she wishes to call that God So I here by nominate our dear friend Vince Suzadail Jr. The first candidate of the new world order He seems to have the best Political views I've heard And I think he alone could do a much better job Than all the leaders of all the nations are doing At least I'm certain he couldn't do any worse And that way all the super intelligent people devising ways Of destroying our world Could find something more constructive to spend their time on Like raising a crop or milking a cow Saving a child or helping elderly with their needs There are plenty of folk who need a hand Lets all start offering them ours instead of cutting theirs off I'm just a simple man My actual world is very small My family, friends and neighbors I love you all and hope you know I'll do anything for you I can There is no malevolence left in me I know how to make and use a shank, zip gun or small explosive But I've learned not to For I've learned to think with my heart and soul They do a much better job than my mind I just wish the great minds of the world Were smart enough To figure out what I have And learn to love with all of their hearts
From the Mediterranean Sea to California Extraordinary green trees grown since ancient times Oils and fruit, branches of peace
You Played with my emotions You Played with my life you took away the only thing i ever seemed to have you used me and even abused me you left me blinded and hopless you betrayed me and rejected me forgot the love i once gave you Now days go by and i sitll remember why cant i just seem to forget you why does your name run through my brain I dont know bloddy tears seem to slip they drip and fall and even poor down Your name is not forgotten now that i've brought it back to reality i dont need you i never did this was all pointless it was all just a wast of time i will love again just not now but forever i will stay true to myself
There is a man, with a crooked tongue, he rambles on, about things, needing to be done. I can do this, I can do that, now really sir, I smell a rat. Nothing is so simple, there are problems ahead, I still remember, what the others have said. I cannot follow, I have a brain, don't pee on my future, and call it rain. Out of control, everything is wrong, the flood is coming, and it won't be long. The rim of the skillet, is getting mighty hot, don't tell me it's cool, when I know it's not. Carved in stone, so long ago, are the only words, we need to know.
Rebuilding America My little Jenny and me Remembering a time When Laurel And Hardy Brought such classics to T.V My Jenny asked mom can you see me Just cruising home in a big jelopy With my Feathered Friend Buddy Perched on my shoulder and you Yelling Smile Your On Candid Camera That had to be such a Jungle Fever back then Think I liked it better When you used to sing to me That I'm A Big Girl Now Just Putzing Around here with my last 10 poems But Love to watch Old Classic comedies on T.V. with Jenny And Trying To explain to her about Cinema
You see my face and you see my expression but you don't know the real me that i'm protecting. You don't know that behind these eyes that a little girl cries every night, you don't know the half so why are you desperately trying to label me with some brand that I would never wear. If you'd look a little deeper into these pearly browns you know that I am not just a cover you have to take time to read the book to really know me. You can't just skim the back or listen to what other people say because yeah I might be talked about but unless you dip into the pudding you will never truly know why. Maybe if you looked a little deeper you'd see someone trying to keep up in a endless race. I keep on moving but it's never any good I guess I underestimate myself or maybe I just need someone to give me courage. I see the surprised look on your face and all I can do is laugh, I bet you didn't think that I had so much depth, I better you never realized. So even if it's not me your interested in, please let me teach you one lesson. You can see some much more behind the eyes of a girl than the cloud of makeup hiding her face. In a girls eyes you can see her insides, her deepest fears, her insecurities. Behind these eyes is the magical side, and if you can look into them first then I know that your confident and well worth the struggle.
I believe this is a word of advice or warning More than it is a poem I don't even know where to begin To express the things I feel How deeply I believe in my understanding Of what's to come As well as What has been As I watch our Government Scramble To solve our nations problems with money As did all the great Empires in History That has crumbled before us My heart bleeds for the people Who have no concept Of how to grow their own garden Raise their own beef Fish, hunt and live off the land Which to be quite frank is about 90% of the population What is going to happen when the people Can no longer feed their families Out of the local supermarket Because when they go there All they will find is a sign that says "Sorry out of business" Ponder this for just a moment if you will 800 hundred billion may as well be 800 trillion Because the simple fact is None of it is even worth the price Of the paper it's printed on And by the time our Government prints that money out It will be even more worthless than it is today BECAUSE THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY To reverse the wrath of God And that is through prayer And I don't see Congress Falling on their knees Begging for mercy Before they start to argue about which idiot has the best idea To fix what their intelligence has already destroyed "ONE NATION UNDER GOD" One of my first memories of what I was taught in school History---------Repeats----------Itself Every Empire that considered themselves above the wrath of God "GOD HUMBLED THAT ASS" (Pardon the Language) And guess what Were next
Eyes of confidence Naïve and hardened Advancing on the battlefield Eyes of anguish Discovering the horror Spent upon the blood of war Eyes of hope Peace in reprieve Hold fast to victory's color Eyes of benevolence Engulfed within anguish Rueful to the melee's victims Eyes of regret A human understanding Shoveling over another grave
Hidden spirits motherland, destructions chosen horror. Decayed barren grounds, ravaged territories dilapidation. Debris leftover magnetic fields, crawls nuclear poisons contamination. Ruins graphics stand strongly obscure.
The greatest man in history is Martin Luther King A man who opened up our eyes, when he said, "I have a dream." It's hard to imagine now, in time, a segregated nation Not everyone had equal rights, unless they were caucasian Seperate restaraunts to sit and dine, and seperate water fountains We saw the world's greatest leader, with the power to move mountains He spoke with courage and with pride, as he stood afront the crowd All eyes gazed upon this man as he sang out mighty and proud He wasn't afraid of consequence, he never feared that he may fail The steps he took for all mankind is written in History's trail If he had given up, life would be different for you and me What if the world was black and white, how would it really be Martin Luther King preached of fairness and equality So that one day every race would come together, be set free No matter blood or relation, everyone be brothers And we'd all walk hand in hand, no matter what our color Martin Luther's dream came true, he united every race And he is the foundation of our congregated base
April 12, 1861 the cannons could be heard for miles around, the war had started,that led both sides to a long and hard struggle. Why was this site chosen to start the fight, it may have been that this fort was not prepared for a battle of any kind, a shortage of cannons, and other weapons, hardlyl gave them any chance to defend the fort Abe Lincoln later in his most famous speech, said A Nation divided cannot stand, which is a true statement. The Civil War was to become the bloodiest war in our history, before the firing on Fort Sumter it was an unknown place to most of the people, now it stands out as a major landmark in our country. wrote 4-12-11
Those shackles against him His legs that do not run But rather crawl To his kingdom's goal Those shackles; they bind him To the endless stereotypes And profiling Those shackles; you'd never guess Who put them around his legs It was the men in their suits Put yourself in his boots It's the shackles, the curse Of the skin our men were born in They say his demeanor will never change They seldom let us in the banks They shoot us for commuting Then we take to the streets At times I think we can't be like them We live life without cheating If their gun isn't in hand Then we'd take a beating Then there's the shackles, the curse Of the attitudes our men are forced into They make him chase the money But not work for the money They hang drugs in front of our noses They handle us like jokes As if we're not human too Those shackles against me My legs that do not run But rather sprint To our kingdom's goal Those shackles, they try to bind me To the endless stereotypes And profiling Those shackles; you'd never guess Who tried to put them on me It was the men in the suits Now put yourself in my boots.
Essence of salt and waves crashing The World of the Sea has a heart Careful not to offend thee ~ The spills of oil , nuclear waste Drilling and mistakes, Man infused sewage and waste The capture of Fish while Dis guarding a life of a Dolphin The Sea and its very Mystery is crying as all fish dying Is there a place and time where we stop and love what was given The Heart of the Sea not to ever be underestimated For when sadden great wrath will fall in sequence with wind Water and Wind can create its Heart broken fiercely without mercy What have we done to create this disharmony It is not hard to see as Tsunamis and Hurricanes such as Katrina unfold It is the Heart of the Sea Broken , The heart of the Sea Spoken We hear her Heart , we feel her wrath , The Heart Of The Sea ...this Heart cries This Heart is angry , will we take responsibility ?
Mysteries revealed and mysteries solved Events past and present Biology, archeology, astronomy and physics A world of discovery Old or new amazing buildings Spaceships, first man on the moon The robots who would take over our jobs Natural disasters such as tornado or flood Immerse yourself in history Was, Napoleon Europe's problem child Was, Sankt Nikolaus an historical person Can we make a journey through time The past meets the future 04.06.2013 A-L Andresen :)
Mankind's greatest accomplishment... is death.
its all for you right
Now let us forget foreign captains And Conquistadores myth That colors the morning exuberantly With exotics wars and phony fathers Like a fine lady strolling along a rotten street I have tasted lemon And though I wince at my tongue's Sharp reaction I value the tart worthiness of vitamins And the aroma of the blossoms And the bee like workers singing While the flowers fall Like stars littering my eyes. I cannot see again Your extroverted flair flashing By the country paths Where the horse yield to your mastery What else was a boy to do Tired of the Irish legacy Tired of plantation life Tired of the little elementary school That made Britannia into another Bible For the masses of the suffering world What else was there in a small island To hold twenty one years of restlessness I can see why the waves Washed you onto other friendly shores The Pan Amanian dandy The tongue upon the Cuban candy And then there you are Staring at Wall Street shriveling pain Licking the candy out of the store again Your tall mane of hair Billowing the against the Blue Mountain The man has returned Captain of the storm in nineteen thirty eight And there they were The Harts, the Hills, Henrys, Coombs Isaacs ... the whole plethora of our light Shining at the edge of night But not you, dietician, Hunger was no miracle here No you, money changer, lender and userer Good interest is taken from the bank of fear Not you, tired of the Irish despair You knew Denham had no purpose here Your were the voice the workers would hear You were the hero with chest bared My father felt the system's rock And felt wounded and scared The hand of change was on history's clock You who dreamed Federation first And then destroyed it for the gravy pot Was too small to staunch The empire's collective curse You cave from dungeon and cage singing Winging from Ward To chief among the murder of crows And when you flew away from it From the by-election to the Federal Parliament And when we were dvided You rose on it We are just a lonely island in a crowded sea The rivers vomit mud Red with bauxite, and the Prime Minister Rose like an eagle And we love you still today For it seemed you were not made of common clay You were the noblest of the Clarkes Ovations feathered you to fly Blinding the sun's blinded eye The greatest of the stars Inventor of self, en-nobler of dust.
All Bottled Up Bottlenecks are one thing driving down the road Making one late for work is another Cumbersome, slow and an all time low Containers made from glass have their ups and downs Mostly downs we're told Their poisons kill aristocrats, the poor, poets known and unknown Highs and lows are surely going to come From bottles filled with rum At first a happy swirling drunk Becomes laid out sad and dumped Delicious wine waits for me when I get home The matter is getting beyond the cork and glass Such troubles are these things Bottles simply have no class and make me wince To obtain the treasure there within I have to use the cork screw But bottle with evil intent conspires with the opener Will not help me or comply to let me in What's the use? A hammer will have to do Other bottles from long ago held potions, magic, and snake oil brew Fluids ran wild in the old west causing more deaths than cures for sure And no one had a clue it was the containers that they used When shipping bottles made from glass I have to label "fragile" and send them 1st. class The ebb and flow and pour from every bottle Illegal in Prohibition times Caused many alcoholics to cry I guess that was a crime Consumers today can fill their glasses free from thought From decanters, jars and urns that carry their own weight Someone with a bottle will always be around though To hit me on my head for something I might say And if the bottle breaks, someone, (I'm guessing me), will have to pay 5/19/14 Slamming Battle Round 2 contest
Stone Mountain should die today. Tomorrow would be fine. But that raft of traitors eulogized, defaced Would remedy an abuse of time. The betrayers that love it still Are awash from the American current. The tattoo of turncoats on that hill Long abuse our country's spirit. Stone Mountain must die fast and sound By dynamite, acid, or hammer. That sad rock knows its whole bestrewn Will solve shame to God that raised it. It was granite first, bigoted statement second An emblem of lawless, unresolved Reconstruction. The stone cries out: Fuel the worst in men? Release me now, come fast my full destruction.
I sit in my easy chair with its back to the picture window in my living room facing the TV monitor watching the world flash by over and over in different reiterations until someone turns my electricity off
A deluded and deranged miscreant. Rode in a rented Ryder truck, Sadistically opposed to his government, He delivered a two-ton bomb. After parking the fateful vehicle, With time fleeting and fuses lit, He fled to his car, Parked, not far away. Hearing the explosion, he made his escape, With a gleam in his eye. One hundred sixty-eight victims died, Leaving countless loved ones behind. April 19, 1995, A date that lives in infamy. The guilty one was caught that very day, And eventually paid his life for the reprehensible deed. The Oklahoma Ctiy National Memorial Now graces the ground Where the Alfred P. Murrah Building once stood. A lone American Elm tree Survived the blast, A symbol of resilience, And the will of mankind. Hopes of closure for the victim's families Followed the perpetrator's death six years later. But closure will not fill the empty chairs Left in the footprint of the building.
Sparkling, empty blue sea sails break the distant horizon first one then two finally three ships making way toward unsuspecting shell-gatherers brown-skinned and naked on the hot Caribbean sand Had they known they could have feigned friendship Then slaughtered them all in the night Burned the great ships and been done with it. At least for a while
Leaving the last days of August memories of the sea waves crashing Tides that leave shells broken to find ~ picnic memories ~ fireworks night Birthday cakes sparkle ~ sunburns under a sage kissed dessert Moonlight The Summer reminds us of happier days scents of coconut oil and lime reminds us all of what is yet to come ~ The rain comes down hard crying for all souls lost and left behind The birds fly in perfect form reminding all of the September storm begging for history not to repeat ~ ~ In war no wins only defeat ~ two beams of light straight to the Heavens stay through the whole month of September they remind us to listen silently we stand still For the city lives and breaths left with loss many questions unanswered remain ~ Leaving behind August entering Septembers fears ~ I love this poem because it reflects on the past and the coming month in remembrance of history that took place September 11th 2001. In a way it is a oxymoron . from passionate summer nights to the fear embraced in the month coming :)
I remember the heavy round wooden tables Built low to the ground, Just right for kindergartners. He would always sit close. I didn't notice. Out-of-doors on the playground was a giant oak. He made me an acorn pipe, then taught me how. I made lots of acorn pipes, giving them all away; Even his. He stood quiet with little fists pushed deep in his pockets. But I didn't notice. The sun was golden Shining through high windows Down on the low round table, Particles of dust dancing merrily on the beams. He handed me a present, And as the royal blue paper with tiny pin stripes Crossed the sun's rays The stripes lit up like diamonds. Gently opening the paper, Careful not to lose the sparkles, I could feel the whole class watch. I was embarrassed. Inside was a book about a velveteen kitten. She was black and feminine. She wore a pink bow, And she was fuzzy to the touch. I treasured that book. As time went by I rubbed the kitty's fur Until she was loved slick and smooth. I don't remember saying thank you. I'm sure I did. Surely the teacher would have reminded me; There in front of the whole class. Over four decades ago - yet - The memory of that special gift is as clear and bright As was the sun beam that day. And I would like you to know Jimmy Wilson; That I noticed. Note: An old kindergarten memory to share with you. Written about 22 years ago.
Laying on the wet grass Admiring the all knowing stars Every night they call to me And we continue the never ending story Sharing the history of our universe
Who am i? Where am i? Only a stranger in this little world. With no country, no home. With all this confusion, with my head spinning around Trying to accept the fact that I am a part of this. But no matter how hard I tried. The truth is I can't fit in here Who am i? Where am i? Only a stranger who is trying hard to fit it. My Anger needs a reason to blame it on I will not try to fit in no more I don't care, why should I? I don't look like you, I'm not the same. Who am i? Where am i? Only a stranger who is trying to fit in. I'm happy, Yet a little sad But, My heart just cannot accept the fact that I became some1 New My name says so But my face says no Who am i? Where am i? Only a stranger who is trying to fit in. No matter how I tried, No matter how hard I did I'm not a part of here, I'm not a part of this My home is where my heart belongs I can't change this fact In this country, I'm only a stranger So why wouldn't you take me back home. No matter how well I fit, My heart will have it's hole. A hole that never will be refilled Till you take me back home.
My Sarah When I looked at you last week trying on your new boots Those almond eyes sparkling at something new, a gift I saw my little pink girl, a princess, playing dress up again Your long hair draped your high cheekbones Life still a game, tinged with drama and theatre As you look for fun in all your pursuits! A player in life with a passion for cooking and music You have become a kind, loyal, vivacious young woman Self assured, grounded with a love of tradition I looked at you and felt an overwhelming pride. Sunday's child is ' bonny, blithe, good and gay' they say Befitting my Sabbath girl, a model child of few demands Your bedroom a vast sea of Barbie and friends A Passion for story-time and books Your Dutch life with Irish sea-touched roots, You are a real continental A great scholar with degrees in Law and Psychoanalysis You have found your true love with Luis, a Spaniard As you both prepare to leave the Emerald Isle I wonder at the achievement of you!
Oh, how I miss the dead… ... the softness in their voices That I cannot recreate, the warmth of their silence Where now only cold remains; And I know, oh how I know That they are long gone And I have been long removed From those fuller times But still, when I feel around my heart I find that it is missing things Parts long lost and dearly missed, And I sit here feeling fatally incomplete And I know- that I can never be whole again. But I still miss the dead, And I miss the times When I never knew That I would live on Missing the days when I was whole… -So I still miss the dead And the times when I was not hollowed by loss Living every day with a lighter heart So far from the times when I would never be whole again. And now, so far removed from fuller times, These few missing holes they let in a chill wind And somehow, these missing holes they leave my heart heavy And I know that it will grow heavier yet, But I dread That when I am lost I die not just incomplete But empty- Empty of all I could yet lose.
Promises Not Kept by Chuck Keys As leaves flow in the breeze, Change. Peanut butter needs jelly. Water can taste dry - alone effortlessly. Color is a difference. Superficially superficial. A little boy lives without ... - Fearful. Tearful. Cold without a roof. My mommy isn't home, Job searching in disguise. No. Heatless And brrr, cold smiles ... anger heartache. Daddy, what daddy? TV was stolen, again. Willy got cut up, bad. Spend money on me, not war, Nothing changed since Martin Why? I'm hungry. Oneness. © Charles H Keys, 2010. All Rights Reserved
Beware young lad, tis the dawning of thy demise, For the water witches screams, are carried on the Winds breath, of the tidal waves hurricane. Be-she, the banshie of the fathom's abyss, treacherous Mistress, beguiling temptress, enslavement's captive, Whom belongs to the sailors devil himself, Thus she announces her masters arrival, Known is he, as Davy Jones. Aquatic demon, the soul feast-er, appearing perched Upon the four masted sailing vessel, a seething fiend, With ivory white fangs, red piercing eyes flash against The storms rage. The predator to prey ratio, delights this beast, from hell's Deepest pit, it's relishing laughter, does chill the mariner, To their very bones within. Atop his ghoulish head, arises bullish horns, to drive The undead, beneath the seas watery realm. Fly swiftly, all seafaring men aboard, for the dark wrack's Shadow, mars thy voyage, for death's imitate sacrifice. Crimson gloves, do hold a set of golden keys, to chains Shackled locks, behold phantom wave stalkers. Lost souls of the forgotten, servitude's salves of the Murky bottoms depths. Treasures locker keeper, within the heart of the sea, Does lie, a cold guardian stands watch, over it's Precious contents, bound forever as persecution's Divine punishment, from Poseidon, the great Lord of the seven seas. Answering their captain's hailing, the soulless crew, Climbs aboard his ghostly craft, heading ever upwards, To the unknown beyond. Accursed windjammers, cutting against the rough surf, Emerging as a seaweed covered derelict, it charges forth, Riding upon the edge of the ultimate storm. At fates spinning wheel, Davy Jones hands are set steadfast, Awaiting the newly undead, to join his brackish crew. The living pray for mercy grace, salvation's angels Save us, pleading on knees bent low, Oh Lord Almighty, Hear the sailors voices, crying out in sheer terror. But the devil dues must be paid, for other Mariner's safe passage. To night behold the tolls collection plate is passed, And is served by evils blackest hand, nay it's filled Not in gold, but instead ti's flesh to the living bone. Served on a silver platter, to none other then Davy Jones himself, listen to his echoing laughter, Filling the chilled air's darkness, Than plunging beneath the briny depth's below. Nothing remains but a legend's myth or so It is said. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
RED DOOR (collaboration) by~ Benita Margaronis War Of The World Death, pain, blood, Shell-shocked men, suffering and darkness. It's all they ever saw. Soldiers thinking about their lives. Rotting flesh and the whimper of dying men with their bodies half blown off. Other soldiers shooting them in the head to end their pain. The shattering sound of an explosive destroying life and more ground. Blood and body parts spray through the air and spread throughout the ground. Total emptiness and nothingness. Mounds and mounds of biting bodies and horses. Scattered planes, tanks, trucks and others. Burning guns and oil. Because the world went to war so much was lost for so little gain. The war of the world shall never be forgotten. by~ Poet Destroyer War of the world Sacrifice. Doors tainted red, tragedies never forgotten. Mediterranean swept the soul of combatants without a word to say. A war so defiant both sides lost more than humanity to each other. Prisoners, white flag surrendering, shot in the head with no remorse. Brave soldiers wiping off the blood of their face like a tear. Men in fetal positions crying hard like the day they were born for*mom-MA. Soldiers pocket full of notes and dog-tags for a loved one. Achievements that followed death without a mother's hand to hold. Chaotic news and telegrams traveled without a moment to spare. A flag brought to the door painted black. Mothers falling to the floor broken hearted. Because no one can mend the courage one gave to us today. The war of the world shall never be forgotten. A collaboration with * Benita Margaronis My collaboration contest
The ringmaster left but the carnival stayed in town. Erect, proud, empowered people stride by living the Crayola dream. Awash in color, characters in the screenplay, the scene played with aborigine like dream walkers. No surface left to its utilitarian plight, all stroked and stoked with the creativity of the artist, all crooned to by boombox and skateboard smack, or the concrete slap of a mariachis' feet. The burnt bright white light shivers to a Hendricks strum, and the caffeinated come one by one hooked in to hook up, to the juke boxes sixties twang. Children play on Aztec snakes rising from a soft foam of green with mosaic skin and glass eyes freed from the restrictions, the confines, the confounded, gay, straight, bi, free bleeding poetry.
Who was Lizzie Van Zyl? A small girl stands on Woodcock Bridge Pointing at her reflection in the water. The glint from the sun, and a cold wind, Distorts a distant memory of gold, and places long forgotten. For the bridge and the girl are forever linked The bricks paid for with the blood of babes The mortar mixed with innocence and suffering For this little girl is Lizzie Van Zyl Once a happy child, taken from her farm Through tears, saw her house destroyed and livestock slaughtered Even her beloved dog. Taken to sleep on the ground, slowly starved And left to winters kill. Her last comfort a pile of rags to die on Her last words "Mother, Mother, I want to go to my Mother" Thrown into a pit, To join a multitude of innocents, in the name of progress Bloemfontein killed with deliberate neglect, And the bullet killed her father at Woodcock. Another victory for empires glory Lizzie's crime was her fathers, for he wanted freedom, Democracy, and a future for his family But Greed and empire gave birth to new words For here the Concentration Camp came to be, Propaganda too, A world kept secret from prying eyes. But Secrets come out and greed fuels the beast Bloemfontein gave birth to Auschwitz, Dachau, Treblinka, Oh and so many more, Different lands, same outcome An Oasis for Evil, A place where the dark side of humanity can live. A haunting realisation too, That England, has tarnished the code of chivalry, And brought shame to the flag. Little Lizzie still Stands on the bridge Her reflection is still pointing, not at herself But at you and me For it is we who did this, and it is we who will do it again, So glance at your wedding band For the glint might just blind you to its past, And pray that Lizzie does not become your daughter. Quote from a Journalist Cowardice of the most loathsome cure on earth - the act of striking at a brave man's heart through his wife's honour and his child's life." Footnote to the write This write is about the Boer war and the tactics that the British used to achieve victory LizzieVan Zyl was seen by Emily Hobhouse just before she died. Her memoirs reveal the conditions that Lizzie was subjected to. The atrocities committed in South Africa were kept secret from the British public. As a result the final victory led to Bridges being named after engagements such as Woodcock and Ladysmith. England is littered with place names, linked to battles. Perhaps place names where you live have a surprising story to tell.
salty tears from wars fought overflow, filling an ocean blood that was spilled, gets mixed in, staining virgin stones-- or are these lost souls? time and tide try to wash them off, but the bloodstones remain-- haunting reminders that one must not forget 06122011957p1015 ** inspired by the "bloodstones" found on Corregidor Island-- these stones literally look like they have rusty bloodstains, and some say that these are from the blood shed by the Filipino, American and Japanese soldiers during World War II -- I was able to get some of these stones before but sadly, I am not sure where they are now... today, June 12, is Philippine Independence Day --for Rick's Stones contest
One ,Won, Once By Chuck Keys Brightness can be blinding With your eyes closed Or with your eyes open. Darkness can be blinding With your eyes closed Or with your eyes open. As a driveway needs a parked car, Does color make a difference? Hurtfully Yes. Yet, we're all the same. Can a green pepper ever be red? Or should the Red pepper be yellow? Color again. Can't stop hearing that surface beat. Loudly. It's constant and demanding, with Painful colors. Can you hear it too? It's so loud, Obvious. Audaciously clear, Mostly passed over. We all bleed red; Cry tears, Love, fear, Hate, ache, Want, need, Eat, drink, chew, Live and die, regardless, Same insides. Crayons are different colors, We want them all, in one box. A complete set. Separate is never equal. When we become one Only one is won. Once should be f 'ever. © Charles H Keys, 2010. All Rights Reserved
An old man looking out his door, gaze fixed on a distant shore, reminiscing to a time, not of happiness, or, the prospect of a bright future, to when he was sick to his very core, to when as a youth, he went to war A time before infallibility had meaning, patriotism and bravado the craze, the future was still unknown, vigor for life at its all time high, a time for romance, partying, buying, no thought of pain, deformity, dying Too young to understand or question, ship to foreign shore, medals abound, will impress the girls next time in town, sacrifice not temporary, forever more, a legacy etched into a wall, few will remember, flesh shredded, burned, torn, families mourn A time, when he willingly went to war, will happen no more, all lost in youth, now unrelenting, no blind obedience, minimal risk, long life, his number one ambition As he turns back from the door, he thinks of the youth, here now, soon no more, lessons never learned, the call to war, to common the roar, complacency the mood, another generation removed The old man agonizes over what was originally not known, war is preventable, life too precious to waste, the solution simple, his vision, maybe too late Send old men to the front to fight, arthritis, heart disease, poor eyesight, let the youth enjoy their life, his near over, its only right Send old men, to the front, to fight ask them to give up their life, patriotism and bravado, still alive, will and desire would not last the night, old men do not rush to death in their twilight, failure inevitable, the old man smiles, knows he's right Wars not possible, if old men, are sent to fight
Hip-hop raised me I remember beefs between Big and Tupac, game and 50, Nas and Jay Z Listening to N.W.A, Nas, Big Pun, Rakim and AZ From LL cool J, Tupac to Slim Shady A lot of dead rappers and it fills me with sadness An industry filled with madness Studying straight outta Compton, amerikkkas most wanted, blueprint and illmatic Some say they could only listen to eminem when he was a pill addict They say he fell off with recovery This is something that troubles me You don't like it when a rapper does something different But if he stayed the same you'd say he has no vision Hip-hop is filled with enough lies Some of you should stop freestyling and just write A lot of people didn't understand what tupac meant by Thug life It's such a shame he was killed by Suge Knight Suge owed Tupac millions, & when Dre left death row he was owed royalties I guess Suge chose money over loyalty Now de.dre is hip-hops first billionaire This is great with the foundation he's been building here The greatest producer of all time Even if he doesn't write his own rhymes Gave us Eazy E, Snoop, Em, and Game So we will always remember his name I always preferred lyrics over beat Or the perfect mixture like "Shook ones" by Mobb Deep But hip-hop has had a lot of one hit wonders Gone after having the biggest song of the summer Nas said hip-hop was dead And it still needs sorting out Have always been a hip-hop head And it's being revived by Immortal Technique, J.cole and Slaughterhouse Eminem carried hip-hop for so long I'm sure he must be suffering withy back pain Some can't name a run DMC, big daddy Kane, or Rakim song They think G-unit created the rap game But 50 was more interested in clothes and sneakers Greatest diss song of all time? 300 bars, no Vaseline or ether Greatest album? It was written has to be mine I learnt more from Hip-hop than I did school books Like there's no such thing as half-way crooks Was about 11 when Nas made you look Hip-hop I could never get enough But now I'm worried about the state of hip-hop There's only a few who can bring it back Can't listen to YMCMB, Gucci mane or Rick Ross Or these who make up dances because they can't rap Hip-hop saved my life Nas, Em, Tupac, Big L. Big pun Wu Tang Clan Some of the greatest to touch the mic It helped me grow from a boy to a man
The Old Salt was a special man who came along in a time when he was needed most. A time that is now gone forever. When men believed and sacrificed, when hero's walked the earth in mass. When patriotism was not just a word but, by what men lived and judged the worth of each, a man who lived a life most of us cannot comprehend. An era now gone as this warriors tour of duty ends at this station, and begins anew in the heavenly fleet. Sail on Sailor into your unaccompanied tour, we salute you. What greater honor, that when a man moves forward, he leaves behind in each of us the best of what he was. A defender, protector, supporter, victor, a warrior, the last of the breed from an era when ships were made of wood and men were made of steel. The Old Salt has reported for duty that takes him away from us for now. Those of us who remain behind, remember, and will continue to remember, because he now resides forever in our hearts. As I look up at night, I envision The Old Salt, a beret draped just above the eye, as he draws upon his pipe, quietly he waits. The guardian of heaven's gate.
Watch this scene with both eyes and try not to blink C: --> I stood there... silently Like a predator near prey I sneak behind YOU You weren't even aware of it!! Ha-ha! I made YOU jump hIgH Like a startled hare I chuckle and smile You know that mischievous smile of mine? Your reaction was PRICELESS - you were so upset But YOU forgave me Well...I'm flattered. . . We laugh'd together (just like the good times) In a chorus - our volume Picked up extreme sound Believe me - I could hear our laughter from a mile away! But I'm glad I did My best to make you giggle Ridiculous me... Wouldn't you agree?
Will this be consider one of the pieces left behind in a puzzling world I ask who will judge or go into this time capsule for themselves just to find out what was going on or what they have miss in a world that was destine to a system that in some way we all had to follow a time capsule has been filled re-vitalized with happenings and events of history treasures Perhaps there will come a day when it will be explored Directions will pace these new adventures of mine that was saved for a moment in time How often have I had to realize that today there will be a tomorrow leading to a future that's not promising, but for sure there's hope for all to cling too
I Pledge Allegiance a solemn vow of obedience, from the earliest age of grievance, when found deliverance, one people, united against tyranny and intolerance, become the model of democracy and toleration To The Flag the symbol of once colonization come together in celebration, a new unconquerable nation, a successful castration, of oppression and dictation Of The United States Of America a conglomeration of peoples form one nation, 13 colonies a single relation, one voice, one oration, tread on me, expect retaliation And To The Republic a democracy, its creation, the Constitution, its foundation, agreeable to all in origination, fiercely guarded against demolition, militarization, and impregnation, over all these years, still on station For Which It Stands the protector of all oppressed lands, the world over she lends a hand, her signature, her blood, in foreign sand One Nation from sea to sea, whether rich or poor, some vocal, others, chose to ignore, those who guard the shore, those who knock on heavens door, one nation, esprit de corps Under God in a time when belief was strong, today, should not be wrong, having been with us so very long, a few may sing a different song, most will believe, as they have, all along Indivisible one, as a whole number, cannot be divided by any other, many have tried under guise of brother, only to be denied by the mother With Liberty And Justice For All the means to end all oppression, infinitely wrong with transgression, succession, regression, and repression along Our Pledge of Allegiance a pledge of a nation, a history profound, one indivisible number, all it takes, to be no longer allowed
The Check is in the Mail Authored by Chuck Keys At the beginning there was no rain, Only the thundering noise and bright bolts of lightning. The trees and bushes trembled with the cold winds Pouring sheets of rain soon followed. The stones and the ground cover cringed, Everything echoed and shook from the hard driving forces present. There was no place to run or hide. God Was making his statement. There will be no peace tonight, Everything is in play. Someone is in pain, searing aching ever increasing pain, Like the agony of a toothache, thumping, pulsing, thud, thud, thud Louder and more intense with each breadth The body and spirit is consumed, tightly wrapped up, Absorbed in the discomfort of now. And it's not going away on its own. There will be no peace tonight, Everything is in play. He was stolen, placed in chains, 400 years ago, Brow beaten from the beginning, in and out Never allowed to be his own, Not like whites, he was property, owned and operated But different non-white, (why are we still talking of color?) Yet beings we all are. There will be no peace tonight, Everything is in play. We cry for what was taken but can never be returned Not wanting to be raised above or over, Wanting not a victory, but delivered equality. Through love and nonviolence Martin and they forged ahead, No more waiting for the check in the mail, But expecting the expected. There will be no peace tonight, Everything is in play. The storm is here and now. A debt of honor is due, With the passing of time, where is restitution? We accept love, education, pride and joy, We can't accept the hatred of crime, violence, The lack of housing and work, Pain never fades on its own. It needs attention. God's values our values, The one constant, never becomes vague. Without compromise. Without compromise. There will be no peace tonight, Everything is in play. The storm continues with its blinding rage, Waiting for an answer, not patiently, but expectantly, There will be no peace tonight in their lives as in our hearts, Everything is in play.
Separate is not Equal Authored by Chuck Keys It is said, that life must be one. It is felt, when we are parted apart. Why must we learn to separate on what is viewed together in the wind. Do we equate our lives to others, to separate can never be equal. Who decides better may be at worst, the eagle soars to new highs only as one. Two tall man are standing, one is white, the other isn't, both are tall, proud and great.
Bold is the heart of the adventure, seekers of the undiscovered Frontiers beyond the realm of mankind's knowledge. Hardy, bulling Figures the unafraid, the uninitiated these spirited wilderness men. Of epic proportions whom challenge fate, and defy death itself. Railing against its white rapids of the unknown. Hailing their indifference by yelling at the top of their lungs, We will not surrender until the ending of our final journey, Has come and consumes us utterly, leaving nothing left But footnotes at the bottom of historical records dusty pages Behind as our only existing legacy. The great serpent snake of the Amazon, crawls through the open Belly wound of the Brazilian rainforest, splitting the devils dark Jungle in half, a beckoning demon calling unto the heart Of the adventurer come explore me if you so dare. Adversities freedom stalkers, heeded this challenge, Grappling at the serpents tributaries rattling tail, biting And spitting at them, with sufferage's malice, the reptile Of aquatic distain, cost many lives of the innocent in its Vengeance aftermath. In this river of doubt called the Rio da Duvida, This vipers poison travels fast through the veins of mortal Men, starvation, Malaria and the mistrust of others destroys The flesh from within and from without. Leaving spiritual wounds that will never heal no matter the Strength of one's faith, or the endurance of the individual Whom survives the attack of this snake called The mighty Amazon River. Three adventures made it through this black jungle of death, Theodore Roosevelt's, his son Kermit, and the leader Of this historical group Mr. Rodon. After reading about their story of bravery, I the author Of this tail have one thing to say in their memory, bully Gentlemen, and on wards unto your next journey's adventure, And may its endings final current find you well at the end. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
1914-18 War. Just another small cog In a huge machine Working together Aimed at some foreign foe To give a bloody mortal blow And end a wave of ternary Spreading across Europe Over seas Like a pandemic deadly disease Bringing terror and horror Death and honour To countless people On all sides All swearing they have God on their sides Driven by warmongers and warning governments Propaganda power and greed Thought by the ordinary Man and Woman On the street Death honour glory and defeat. The war to end all wars Or so they said But war still goes on Leaving countless dead. Wars few understand The scourge of Imperfect Man wafted by Satan's hand. Let is never forget But let us learn Man just can't get on And get's his fingers burned. The Huge machine Travels on............. Peter Dome.copyright.2014. April.
Under the wrought iron arch and gateway crawling with both wild and deep red creepers complimented by evergreens. The fall colors are splendid. Most of the flowers are giving way to the chill, and the swans are graceful and content with the breeding season now over Walking slowly along the narrow drive, spots of color scatter around the green grass. What beautiful yards, each house made of stone, granite - marble - sandstone. The foundation of the earth Dark stone black, pink, white, gray, burnt umber, rose beautiful houses inviting you closer, please see my name. I was here many years ago. Cholera came to me and took my spirit away. But I was pretty and young and full of joy. For a little while. Old stones to the early 1800's. Stones with angels guarding a lamb baby tears fall, in time giving the stone soft edges. One from yesterday. Come see me in my house. Mausoleum strong and tall. Handsome and successful. Each as individual in death as their homes and places were in life. Over here, I fought for my country. Me and all my buddies here, laid out under each of these many white crosses. Hello, don't forget my free spirit ... riding high over the houses touring where ever the wind wishes. Swirling fine invisible ashes through the trees sparkling in the late closing sun. A town's history. Natural, tragic, sickness, murder ... all here The history wraps around the casual visitor. Keening out not to be forgotten. Calling, we were important pioneers. The end of day sun setting on their windows Aglow with the spirit of yesteryear.
Another morning I got up and my thoughts returned here. Just wanted to put something of the memory that lingers still today from scenes we saw of September 11th. Scenes we would like to but will never and should never forget. I do not wish to cause further despair to anyone but if anything bring some hope to those who are suffering safe in the knowledge that they have the world behind them. What has happened cannot be undone but with strength and assistance from those who had the core torn from them as the horrors unfolded and they watched on in disbelief we can be there for one another. We can make sure the memory of this tragic affair lives on, and in doing so help keep our own souls alive and kicking... in hope all was not in vain, but that we shall learn from it and let the promise of peace win through. My heart and thoughts go out to all. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It doesn't matter today if we build a building of immense height like North and South towers of World Trade Centre even if to use as defence system just as we would have built a castle on a hill in times gone by - times have changed New buildings and memorials will now stand in recognition of who/what was on said land Their memories will always continue as will the vision on t.v. all did view Where minds stood still in disbelief while strike after strike we all felt grief Where tears were shed by billions of eyes War was declared with no defence in skies It doesn't matter today we most probably wouldn't even see as our enemies approached Like a thief in the night they came stealing from us that most precious those whom we loved or cared about What matters today is that for all eternity history has been made Times we cannot change Broken genealogical lines gone forever Marks made on the landscape - irreplaceable Never can anything stand for what was again Humanity and psychological effect remains We may not all have lost those known to us but we stand together shoulder to shoulder Encircling those that remain Knowing each one of us had our soul torn Our eyes darkened by Hells darkest Angels When none could believe that before their eyes Planes came crashing through the skies Out of ashes a phoenix, a nation arises and with it the world reawakens We will not sleep but remember A tragic time when so high a cost was paid with unknowing souls now recognised What right to take such brave innocent lives
Chanel No.5 ------------------- On the borderline of photos and time We don't want to leave her now "What do I wear to bed? Why, Chanel No.5, of course!" Something in curves, a beautiful crime She doesn't want to leave somehow "What do I wear to bed? Why, Chanel No.5, of course!" News-reel prints and print-press presidents Diamond boys and silver screen compliments A ten-thousand soldier stare, and sexual laissez-faire The every-woman's woman of secret doors to nowhere "What do I wear to bed? Why, Chanel No.5, of course!" On the borderline of photos and time She doesn't want to leave somehow What did she wear when dead? Why, Chanel No.5, of course...
The mind is a womb Copulate it Let the semen of reason Part the legs of its cervix And you will see When moth struggles before its born The power of its dreams for flight Words are eggs, you know Virginal eggs, I saw him hatch them into bricks Of ideas that he could carve Like an Edna exhibit All copulation must spontaneous A true gentleman has that gift Not to force his feelings On his betrothed He was also scholar, you know A sort of poet That prefer metaphors to the conflict Of chisel and wood He had such a mastery of the rhetoric I mean he understood them better than us For he did not only speak like them But spoke their strategy better than them I sometimes wondered how he knew himself Apart. Its sort of seemed ironic That he did have the anger that Fanon composed Unless wit is a subtle part of it May be environment is such a part of it The cool, I mean We say that about Manchesterians Roxborough, If it could produce the soldier-scholar Could not have produced just a little fire Even for the cremation of his brother, Roy Perhaps it was the mix blood ... Busta said that his mother was Taino I do not understand is who mixed them though There is an overt statement of force to be made A rape scrubbed from the memory For how could one half of hm Become so invisible ... The mission I mean. I must rule More than wood, and more Than water For my destiny Is more than what men may leech So I am not exploited I am killed for this robbery And here I am left A dead man on a throne Here I am Shrouded with self government And staring into the empty eyes Of children So why do I love him then Was it alone because my father Fashioned my world for me Gave me this icon For proximity the barbarians Who snatched my mother Washing her white linen one day From the sweet river Do not take that thought to the bank Where my children play This man deserves his accolade If only for taking blindness from my mind If only for letting me know The chain had never rattled their And even in their own words I could look at the world And ask "why not?" He gave me a ladder to my education That was some gift, Quite the best of all I am given O it so beautiful to copulate the mind Or hold hands through the annals And see this Manley, This little fountain of great ambition Flowing at my lips.
Originating in the 'Iron-Age', they stand as living history; a testament to the craftsmanship of men of yore built by hand, each stone strategically placed one upon another no mortar holds them, and yet as our lands circulatory system of boundaries they've stood for centuries arteries and veins of dry stone wall flowing across the fields and hills of the countryside that is synonymous of rural England.
Oh, aren't they grand Love comes dancing hand in hand Bowing to each other Fluttering lashes all around From the yoke of sensual bondage You leave me wanting more Needing drops of grace to save me The lust of my youth still cries out With a touch of his fingers to skin He would rekindle her lust even higher With a twinkle in his eye, he bows to her A garden I have, which, has never been touched Though, he is a proud gardener I can tell Therefore, lord, protect me from my thoughts For the bloody butcher, has me at his will I beg of you, keep my thoughts from me Let him not take it from me, as the others before me 5 15, 2012 Was watching "The Other Boleyn Girl" Natalie Portman, Scarlett Johansson , Erica Bana from 2008. Someone might try casting king Henry with red hair since he was a redhead.
Las mujeres que cruzan el rio cada dia forman una linea larga para la migra. Muestran sus permisos -- tarjetas locales -- y vacian los contenidos de sus bolsas. Cuando las preguntan sus destinos, contestan con las frases que han ensayado: quiero comprar pollo en especial, o desea mi hijo zapatos tenis de Wal-Mart -- mientras sus patronas del dia acechan, a prudente distancia, en sus camionetas guayin, con los motores en marcha. Estan fumando impacientemente. Otro Winston? (For translation, see "About This Poem")
Visions of pain and despair, with horrors of daily life forced upon the masses through modern windows of technology. These images burned into the minds of the innocent millions of sinless victims oppressed by today's tools of extortion by society. Images so powerful and prolonged within the soul, they're toxic to the mind and body causing you to purge the evils through pure emotions. Some images affect the world with disasters to unbearable to fathom, with hundreds of thousands sent to the after life, with walls of water surrounding Gods hand picked for life after death. Sinister images seem to over power the exemplary, and moral images seen through out time as noted in the calendar with December sixth, and September eleventh, as countless human beings were visited by Death. Weapons of mass destruction sought through Fat man, and Little boy, that devastated a country, with the might of the suns power, in a blink of an eye solely designed to kill and destroy humanity. Images of hope so easily forgotten within major catastrophic events, as the media has a part so intrusive to this equation of corrupting the minds of millions with the craft of deliverance through modern arts of technology. Society eats and devours this information with greed and voracity like army ants to its pray.
It began as a lovely September, 2001, at least, it should have been..... somewhere lost in the crossfire, between summer and fall days growing short, and evenings long But, things are warped into a sense of surreal. What was seen, can it be real? It's as if bifocals are mixed in a bin, out of focus, glossed over with grim Someone lets me borrow a broken pencil, I find paper blowing in the acrid wind my fingers shake with tensile fear....and, I write a goodbye.. I don't know why...... The city, an ediface in shades of gray stone, smoke, rubble and ash, littered streets, silent people, crying people, screaming people in fright A playbill shouts, "LIVE! Mandy Patinkin Concert - The Neil Simon Theater", ripped, and frayed around the edge...blowing into my face, .... now in my hand How strange....we were there........was that just last night? It began as a lovely September, 200l, or it should have been..... Sirens, shattered concrete, sidewalks, shepherding the living into the arms of someone, or maybe, .... into the arms of no one Someone is borrowing a cell phone, ... there is smell of burnt sulfer Bridges, crosswalks, that will take them back into calamity, .. our new reality Someone lends me a broken pencil, I find paper blowing in the acrid wind I write a goodbye... I don't know why...... It began as a lovely September, 2001, or it should have been.... _____________________ 10/3/14 For The Challenge "Chopped" Sponsored By Craig Cornish
For some anomalous raison d'être the lively in thine watch was resolute; i did ensue And each from I mine lips; that was touch ! Though I do know it materialized in thine vista, 'As the kiss' While I kiss you in lexical verse to mine grave I say to mine grave
Dream Reflections So drained, I feel like a trained monkey Who is paid to dance I can't wait for The chance to sleep If it doesn't Happen soon Grim reaper might come Knocking at my door When I fall asleep Driving home I shall visit the moors of Ancient fairies and Hills of enchantment, Once my curly head lands On my feather pillow I might dream of lazy days Laying under a weeping willow tree After taking a long dip in a cool Stream on a hot summer day Who knows where my Subconscious might take me, Good thing my Admission will be free, Because I don't have a Penny on me currently Time is ticking so swiftly These trying days, I must say goodbye, Before I drift off to Dreamland too suddenly Goodnight
He sits and waits and sulks as the clock strikes and on they strike and on he called to do no wrong 'in judgement, in meteyard, in weight or in measure,' And Oh! the boy thinks he see's this, but his judgement clouded by soot black eyes. And so he only sees the adults have struck him wrong as he sits and waits outside the office for the Brother, teacher to emerge as the clock strikes and on they strike. For they can not tolerate the closure of their mines, the closure of their lives and so they defy 'Her England,' of which Orwell wrote and which came true in nineteen-eighty-four So the boy should not sulk as the clock strikes and on they strike as he should see there are greater injustices or is it true that 'he that is unjust in the least is unjust also in much.'
THE LAST STAND Where have all my people gone, the Navaho, Lakota, and the Sue. Smothered beneath the white man blanket, Chocking for a breath of airs life's sustaining oxygen. The beating heart of native drums, are stilled frozen, In the middle of it's rhythmic thumping, no pulses echo, Can be heard on the open plain. The weeping women kneel on sacred ground, shedding A river of bloods tears, burning a permanent scare across, A baron landscape. Death's black raven shields itself, under it's crimson soaked wing, Against shames immoral injustice. Greed's unsatisfiable hunger for land and riches fuels lusts desire, Behold exterminations nay holocaust of the native inhabitance, Nothing remains alive except ignorance blackened shadow. How much blood can mother earth be forced to drink before, She drowns herself or spits up everything undigested, With sheer disdain and hatreds malice intent. On a black and white chess board the winners takes it all, Strategies grand masters playing with living pawns. Treaties written in vanishing ink, promises disappear in thin air, Revealing a liars sharpened tongue. The odds have always been stacked against those believing in fairness. A rogue tidal wave of humanity has wiped out a nation, And it's culture within the blink of an eye. Flights appendages are clipped on the dove of peace, leaving it Unable to soar above it's own habitat. Wreckage's refugees stumble in the ruins after math, Rapes victims of civilizations civilized, Are left devoid of their heritages lineage and legacy. Elders chieftains representatives of a great nation, Smoke peace pipes in the white mans hunting lodge In Washington. As human beings are hauled like cattle's cargo, Taken to reservations burial grounds. Ancient ancestors lit up the heaven's vast expanse, By torches flame, To guide the souls of the dead unto their great spiritual Plain beyond. The pale horse gallops forward without a rider, And the red people become a phantom tribe vanishing Upon the winds shifting tides. Giving one last final trible battle war cry, Why my father but the great spirit answers not. Behold America's legacy, a world trampled beneath It's heavy iron fist, all in the name of progress or for the cause Of Manifest destiny. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
"Anna, put on the shoes your dad gave you." I obeyed. He had given them to me for my birthday before he Was taken away. I haven't seen him since that day. But, mom tells us that we'll see him again someday. Melancholy had masked my mom's face all morning. My brother and sister sat on their bunks with sorrow. It began to run and grow down their pale pastel cheeks As mom somberly told them… "Your sister and I are going away, promise me you'll brush your teeth and always pray. Peter, you take care of your sister, you're the man of the house now. It's not that bad, oh my beautiful babies—don't be sad. I love you!" "Let's go!" as the guard pushed me and my mom. She picked me up and placed me in her arms then harmoniously hummed my favorite bedtime song. Then, we walked into a chamber. She said "Close your eyes" and that's the last thing I remember. Submitted for Abe's "Leather Voices" contest
The Egyptian standard falls, unto histories surrendering, The deserts breath, is so stilled, under the Nile river's Murky abyss, busted masts, heave against the Heavily laden hauls,taring the ships apart, As the Egyptian fleet sinks beneath the waters surface. A shooting flame of arrows, lights this tender box, Of human flesh and bone, in wars clash of titans, Rome must concur all nations. Survivors screaming for salvation's protection, But help will not come, for Horas is a Defeated deity, hiding within his own temple to The east. Broken is the heart of Egypt, as a daggers sharp edge, Is plunged into the body of a living god, the last Pharaoh, Known as Cleopatra. Cradling misfortune's solider, Mark Anthony, she thus weeps, Behold love's most tragic couple of history. With his last breath, he calls unto she, by names sake Alone, Cleopatra, than remains stilled. Lord thy last falcon has left the golden land, Welcome him, she thus bids farewell, to hearts warrior, Cleopatra. A mortal woman holds her lover, within destiny's arms, Soar with the great eagles, my love, for soon I'll join thee, In the great halls of our ancestors. Tragedies star crossed lovers, partake in the bitterest Of fruit, dried are these figs, once ripened by the sun, Now unpalatable by discord's taste. Nay, all the power and wealth of Egypt itself, Could sever, the silver threads joining these two, From one another. Lovers heart, bound even after death itself, Shall they walk forever, within the valley of The dead together, silhouetted figures, embracing Reunification's promise vows expressed long ago, Written within their hearts eternal. Lain in a golden gown, the queen of the Nile Does she rest, beneath death's slumbering shadow, A serpents bite, has laid waste to a dynasty's blood line. Behold how in the heaven two eagles do soar, Blanketed by the golden warmth of the sun, As the passages of the hear after open wide Their mighty gates, each name is spoken with Honor pride, behold Mark Anthony and Cleopatra. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
The Colosseum, welcome young gladiator, To the arena of death, sharpen thy sword, and raise Your shield high, bow to the emperor, known as Caesar. Listen to the mighty roar of the crowd surrounding You, is it not a deafening sound, seemingly, by it's sheer Force alone, causing the earth to shake around thee. Behold you've been chosen to compete, in this the Cathedral of crushed bones and mangled flesh. Here where victory's foe, may drown beneath a River of red crimson, from his own brethren kindred. A marble lain thunder dome, to quench humanities Insatiable lust, for blood's sport, torture and mayhem. The deadly game meant to appease, the crowd, And high born bred royal, and nobility. Behold the grand delusion put on full display, As the Christian Martyr, falls upon his crucifix Of faith, embracing salvation, to cultivate A new religion, yielded by the mortal Fleshes sacrifice. Dine well king of beasts, smiling with a cattish, Grin, of sheer delight, licking his paws after The feast set before him, is done with it's screaming. Trumpets sounding horns, announce the next act, To step forward upon this stage of twisted reality. Be bold youthful Gladiator, for experiences sword Arm faces opposite of thee, waiting for the signal To be given from above. Clashing titan's of survival, warriors with weapons Drawn, leaving no quarters for retreat, mercy's resolve, Lies only at the sharpened edges blade point. It is to the triumphant, goes victory's spoils, He whom receives, the thumbs downwards sign, lives. A heroic image, limping and bloody, half falling To his knees, to bow unto the majesty and might Of Rome itself. Achieving the greatest prize of all, to live And see another days dawning, And fight another battle, Within this ancient mausoleum of doom. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I've dreamed an admirable dream, To touch the monolith's of Stone Hedge, And understand their meaning. What a bounty of knowledge have these Once cave dwelling people leave us As their legacy. A hovel's kindred, whom came from The darkness within the earthen tomb, To experience the sun light, at the day Break of a new age dawning. Not a transparent reality as now, But an evergreen world, for them To utilize. An Eden to explore, a wild untamed Wildernesses, calling to them come See what I have to offer thee. Oh what would I give to see this Wondrous place, where wild life roamed free. This is my dream, What would I give, everything??? BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN 02-10-2014
Dunnotar, protector of Scotland's honors, how crippled you have become but for Cromwell's rage and purpose. Give the governor's lady your papers, for all is not lost in your courts! Through besieging forces she will smuggle them out in a place no gentleman dare search. And your treasure is safe in her keeping, until the crown of oppression is crushed and the Viscountess assumes her duty reviving your former glory; resurrecting your rightful status as you have done for Scotland, preserving what has no price.
I like sailing on the high seas over crystal blue waters I like seeing the waves rising and feeling the splash I like sights of jolly pirates swinging across the decks I like sounds of parrots whispering beautiful words I like scenic episodes that are challenging to the soul I like seasonal ventures deep into the mystery of love I like serious drama of swash buckling and bottled rum I like shabby old treasure chests of gold and rubies I like silence when the sea is calm and all is at rest I like starting it again, splashing high sea adventures I like sailing on the high seas over crystal blue waters! Comments: Anaphora is the repetition of at the same word (or group of words) at the beginning of successive phrases, clauses, sentences, or lines. This anaphora poem is all about the pirates experiencing a high sea adventure.
The camels' backs have broken, All across the thirsty lands; And their drivers rail, then bribe, then plead With the beasts of burden Too long taken for granted, But they will not be moved now, Though water lies far away; They have it in their humps, in the animal patience On their backs. Not so the drivers, Who fooled their days away at the oases. So now they gasp Since the desert ships have grounded themselves, As the ships of state slip beneath the sands. The camels rest without comment, Yet still, they sometimes spit.
THE BLOODY TOWER I am so trapped a phantom princess, on an ethereal plain, spiritually Forgotten in isolation's domain, in hell's chamber of brick and mortar, In this imprisonment of the unjust, I'm the innocent accursed, in England's Bloody tower of London. Once beauties most desired, men and kings fell before my velvet slippers, Begging for pleasures tokens, yet I denounce them, for youth's rose I'd not sell, Except for devotion's everlasting love. But men are beasts, with silver tongues of deceit, and the blind heart Hears only the charming words of vow's promises, spoken beneath the Moonlight's enchanting spell I fell, a victim of this viper's poisonous bite. So did thus a royal seducer come unto me, and by a jeweled crown, And golden bands, I believed in this the usurper, of betrayals broken Hearted. Blessed in wedding's sacred church, we bowed our heads low, yet Next to me did I not recognize, the wolf hidden beneath the royal robes. In the bed chamber, he sheds his linens of refinement, and then so exposed, To the innocent lamb, his sharpened talons, ravished by his carnal lust, A child bride was so sacrificed, upon the altar of passion's desires. At mornings first rays of light, the mighty cobra left his bedding's nest, Leaving behind him a slain creature tarnished by his royal scepter, laughing In harmony's revelry, with his newly weeping court jester, did this king Of lies ascend unto his crimson throne, ready to seek another's affection. Condemned and judged by a jury of mine own kinsmen, for falsehood's Crimes, my destiny's fate is to be cut short by a doubled edge blade. Oh Lord let my hearts sparrow take flights heights, and soar unto thee, On thy far distant shore, but no prayers answer could save me. Led unto mine own gallows, I'm led a queen dethroned for the loss Of her own innocence, the black hooded Grim Reaper smiles at me, I so do stumble, than collapse. Placing my shaved head onto the anvils cold steel, listening to the crowds Screaming off with her head, than a sudden crack, and my life is ended. A phantom princess am I, wandering from the castle battlements, To the gardens of fragrant roses, but nay not one step further, for all Eternity. From my window's keep, the world outside does change, yet here all Remains the same, repetitions loop of reflective remote viewing, Reliving the past over and over again. If this not be hell's vengeance upon me, the accused than what have I, the innocent done, to deserve such torture. In the bloody tower, the walls do so bleed crimson red, and ghostly Images past nay by the window pains of glass, begging for freedoms Release from shackles made of mists mystical chains, Pray for them, the lost souls of histories forgotten.
Tremolo to a vibrato when loud words are coughed forth from the inside. A chest aches - and history repeats itself. Adaggio calls me again - deaf ears stretch my arms open and upside down smiles spills your imagination into sepia tones. Tremolo to a vibrato when slick consonants of clever abuse peel my naked shadow from your wall and quietly sing me onto your fine linen sheets. Your fingertips burn. Ego and psyche tucked - I am aloe assaulted with fist-folded skin clamped upon my mouth. Nausea will hush my tears as they rise and blend into a cacophony of eager reminders. Lost epiphanies bleed atop blaring crescendos - the notes scatter like malnourished roaches and history repeats itself. Tremolo to a vibrato I'm trapped inside a lost journal - where there are no watchful eyes in back of me. An embarrased immigrant is stripped of his challenged wares and cursed sanctions; learning how to believe in the truthful lies of my masochistic mentor. I usually excuse my tattered ignorance. Self loathing and wanting comes with the territory - when my masts are down and I'm anxiously anchored inside your nurturing claws; I sing aloud. Tremolo to a vibrato - history repeats itself. Tremolo to a vibrato - please don't sing back.
From bebop, swing to hip-hops thing True poets had it best For there is a rhythm in the soul, Which they all just had to express Some could not control This powerful thing Was so often put to the test It began to dawn coming on strong Within the birth of a thing Called the Harlem Renaissance That jazz, that poetic-jazz, of intense birth Possessing syncopated rhythms And chronic expression of surreal tunes That perfected blend of jazz-poetry Developed into what it is today. Thanks to poets like Carl Dunbar and Langston Hughes That jazz, that jazz, that wonderful poetic-jazz Being bred of pride, lyrical form and grace Transcended cultural barriers Readily accepted in the 1950's by the humane race Therefore, the mantra had begun to be So freely expressed within poetic lyrics To syncopated beats moving on through the 60's and 70's By way of beat poets like Amiri Baraka Returning strong throughout the 70's and 80's Thanks to artist like Gil Scott-Heron Oh, snap he was one of the founding fathers Of spoken word poetry known to youngsters Borne to free-styling or hitting the beats On stage or in the streets Yes, you've guessed it, most def its rap Re-educating the poet in me, thanks to that thing In which made many a heart sing As these icons did their thing Starting with something called modern day jazz-poetry… Born during the Harlem renaissance and still going strong Comments: I hope that you have enjoyed this free verse tribute to some of the greatest modern day founders of what is known as Jazz-Poetry.
Even the dead reject this blasted earth. The ground, such as it is, Is freshly Antidiluvean, And the corpses swim within its tumbled, heaving masses Blood and mud the mortar Holding the chaos together. The sun is weak, Ashamed to break the haze And bring to light the obscenities transpiring here. The whistles blow And the troglodytes emerge From their respective holes, Staggering towards one another Through watery craters Over the mincemeat of comrades To add themselves to the swimming sacrifice Constantly on offer To the insatiable, sole diety of this place, The Mud-God, Futility. They are men no more, Those who struggle 'neath The leaden skies The wan sun Of the sodden moonscape That is Passchendale. They are only raging beasts Trading pain for pain, All trace of cause or reason Lost in the maelstrom of their collective misery - And the only escape Is to slay and to be slain; To join the bitter shades Ascending with the fog and smoke Through the wall of cloud above, To vanish into the icy deeps Among the far, impassive stars.
Viewed from outside, the forest appears to have been gobbled up, erased by a gigantic sponge of mist. Only the tips of a few cedars pierce through the miasma. No, they aren't piercing through the veil; more so, they are disconnected from the rest of their towering bodies - green, sharp cones floating above the lumbering, pulsating cloud. But once within the forest, having stepped through the perimeter of trees, visibility opens up a little, as wispy tentacles retract into the canopy above, as if in retreat from an approaching intruder. I do not know precisely what I am looking for, simply following a strong instinct as to the whereabouts of what I desire to find. How is it possible to desire something I do not know? Oh, but how I so desire to find it.... Fiddleheads uncurl, silent players in an orchestra, giving a visual impression of the sounds vibrating beneath their spiralled stalks. A strange hour for crickets to be tuning their Viennese strings. Over to my left, sits Voltaire with a crooked grin. But upon closer inspection, it is only a rotting stump. Voltaire, you sly, sly genius. Always so sharp and forthright. How you must have wormed your way into Luther's head, as the two of you hid in Frederick's fortress castle. Yes, you were always so keen and brilliant, but disconnected from your heart. Were you not? I push deeper into the forest, scaring off a mole who had a momentary lapse of courage within the mist. The curdling vapours recede even more, clearing up my lines of sight. There! Is that what I am searching for!? Naye, it is but a smooth, polished stone set amongst a crowd of dangerous looking rocks, poking out of thick, wet moss - dangerous rocks with slippery, jagged edges, resembling the dagger of Brutus. 23 stabs in Caesar's back, on that cruel midnight hour. 23 chromosomes added from each half, giving birth to a story of deception and betrayal. And of a captain going down with his sinking ship. Pondering over these spectres, suddenly jogs my thoughts - thoughts no longer connected to a physical body. My hands resemble the fog--thick as illusions, but also transparent, depending on the vantage point. I have found what I came looking for, confirmed my own mortal death, as I now appear to be existing within the memories of the living. I did not find the forest after all, instead, Death found me. The true reason for having arrived here, is to earn a degree in phantasmology. February 16th, 2012
Past the valleys strewn with apple trees- And spirited places where he derived his passion To the hardships and things forgotten- He clutched his thoughts in the quiet of candlelight Through the woven fabrics of his mind- And the boundless journeys he strove We gained his poetic wishes in perspective Now I drain my thoughts in deliberate diligence Hoping to bring him approval Though I know he no longer resides- I feel him in the cracked filled walls of yesterday I am but a humbled poet - Waning in the lost wishes of a master I will walk with Robert Frost deep in my soul- Breathing the pages of him and his earnest intellect Rehearsing the dreams and agony of an America's past- Poetic paladin Inspired by Amy Greens "Wow me with inspiration contest" !
Far beneath fathom's kept, where the dead men, Dare not speak of forgotten kingdom's hidden deep, Under waves chilling currents, in the aquatic blues, Burial zone. Behind seaweeds thickened greenery, and corals Reefs decorative stealth. An ancient mystery's truth lies undiscovered, Pull back times curtain reveal a world turned up, Side down. Once a utopian society lived, bathed in the Warmth of the sun. Shinning by brilliance light aglow in Architectural marvel. Civilization's corner stone, etched with Diversity's trade mark. Idealism in perfection orderly form, Pictured framed amongst , Legend's greatest mysteries left unsolved, Yet it intrigues us. A vast landscape spanning the horizon, Wealth's golden city. Built brick by brick on sheer strength, Of will power and intelligence intellect. A crown jewel of the ancient world but, It's existence has tarnished with age, Entering the realm of long ago, Mythological legendary myth. But fortune's favor draws fates attention, Leaving unto follies end result greed's lust, Deception's cruelty, and slavery's injustice. The god's have little mercy for humanity's, Sinister darker side, And cast a titan's krackan to sly the Wickedness there in. Destruction landfall hit Atlantis head on, An eerie twilight's hour destiny's four winds, Did scream why have you forsaken, Your children thus so. No wraith's compassion could eliminate, Sorrows heavy burden to bare. A nation, a continent wiped from the face Of the earth, without leaving a trace vaporized, In a instant. Storytellers epically write words, telling of Legacy's lost paradise. It's valuable theology speaks volumes knowledge, Of lessons to be learned so not as to, Be repeated again. In the devil triangle may it rest in peaceful slumbers, Dreaming state. Until history's reawakening calls it name once more. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Cicada chirp vibration. Comes an image of heat, sweat, sweet clover and haystacks that itch. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ for Laura McKenzie's contest ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unwittingly sucked in entangled within lifes cobwebs poisoned wrapped and saved for later Until satisfaction for hunger is needed preyed upon with slow satisfaction and pride despite the deceit and trickery of enticement Faced with soulful persecution of honesty reality and truth to be lost forever whilst deceitful one is admired Displayed devouring of specimen No trial nor retribution, let others fall fate alas before finished – destiny will strike Poor black widow will choke own untimely death from own grip of life suffocating truths stifled now smothering
Will We Know Him? Will we know Him if He stood in front of us? If He walked by us on the street? Will we know Him? If we have a chance to meet Him in our lifetime? In that split second that we meet Him? Our eyes met for the first time? Will we know Him? Yes reading the moment we stood side by side? Our smiles are very clear Our heart jumps around Yes we do know Him? That look, and that feeling When we know we've found our home Yes we do know Him Yes we know what to say to Him As we walk away together Yes we know Him as He knows us His children We are finally together Rev. Samuel Mack, OMS Copyright 2013 http:paladinnews1.blogspot.com
Engraved in chromes steel, is benedictions creed The road warrior's born to be free mentality, A legacy's name embossed in history, behold The American Harley Davidson Motorcycle. Fires hell bound creation, blazing down the Interstates two lane highway, feasting upon The concrete and asphalt jungle, it lives to be driven, And is driven to live. Emerging from brimstone's smoke, and hails Lightning flash, a two wheeled vehicle of deliverance, Cuts the wild heart in half, releasing mankind's Inner beast setting it free, unto the open roads Badlands, of ultimate abandonment to freedom's row. The rebel unforgiven,thus follows the lost by ways Seeking liberation's untamed spiritual knowledge. Held firmly beneath the wings of the American eagle, and Draped within the standard most sacred Under the red, white, and blue flag, of the U.S.A. A living entity, releasing society's inhibitions, At the sound of it's mighty roar, a freed lone wolf, Racing against the winds of the restless spirit. The leather jacket's brotherhood, symbolizing A grand belief in the declaration of independence, That all men are created equal, and shall have the God given right, to seek true freedom's liberty at will. These are the modern cowboy desperado's, Riding upon dual engines of power, Time bandits whom trust in God and country alone. A stampers anvil strikes in thunders rage, Melting quick silver, speeds downwards Into a symbolic mold, leaving behind tradition's Birthmark, and the Harley Davidson symbol Is born. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Cyborg Sleep An image of a man stands serene against the rock cold wall Vigilant eyes study the distant city Elongated and curved shapes form in his mechanical mind Only nature there to sense it's out of place motions The cybernetic organism, alien life Coming to life on the barren world A living machine, automaton, a time sentinel Built with purpose Watches with singular intent All there is…. all that's left Never flinching…. Nearly motionless…. somber in demeanor This replica of humans holds solid ground and waits Programed to move occasionally at times To generate power in its core components to survive The guardian of humanity stands A solid figure with a small metallic vile Sheltered within hides a remnant DNA specimen strand (It is the last fragment of human's survival and hope) Nestled deep in the power source Atomic silent and serene it keeps the centuries still In time to come, with luck The cyborg will be cracked open like an egg one day Perhaps by another benevolent humanoid race To reassemble the family of man from the remnants left Or the time sentinel will roam the Earth alone Carrying humanity along literally in the heart In an endless awakening from alien sleep No one to ever know the secret that he keeps
The Story of History Beyond those beaten days' depleted daylight Beyond the bathos of a pandemic bondage With the resurrected sashay's charmed night Down in the dumps at the pretentious proscenium A shy orchestration sans bark and bite Afloat in the air of inarticulate mind games Intuitive rains, first ever, like the touch of Midas Informed dense minds and filled their dented bowls Birthing the quartet of Vedas and similar works There was this epic, longest ever , they say Bales and bales of tales in miscible moral wraps With a natal nugget, on tall righteous props The Mahabharata with the Gita, like Mata, Pita And its transcendental twin revered more For a daily hosanna..the Ramayana with a deep lore Banish-evil-battle-cries, confronting blasted minds Search lights, self's unfoldment and its kind Her children made but never did dig history But loved digging up its bedraggled mystery To find bone dry drains, history's torn veins Below multi layered mud and muddled bricks Twisted and labored logic on tensile testaments Sites that suffered blights thru unknowable nights To find the four battens , the debacle, to follow Someone on the way labeled it Harappa . All the while Light ruled, but rigours too brewed Calling often for a reordering of ways so crude Then there were slices of truce.. The Buddha..Shankara.. Of collapsed black holes the horizon was full Faded for once their gravitational pulls Exploding back as eternal stars .. Kalidasa, Aryabhata… Alongside kings ruled and kingdoms rolled ' Ruler'-coaster-rides on thrones and thorns followed Till bandit chieftains erased the all important lines To the dance of dust from an advancing west Battling to drop anchors on motherly chest. Bare-faced brigands. Among their odious offspring Some stood out to shine with a stupendous ring Either putting up statecraft's show pieces Or scripting epitaphs in eponymous edifices Till dissipated and deterred they too heard The trenchant call of folks come from far to trade That would spell , in time, your damnation In manacles of measured manipulations. Against its prolonged , protracted reticulation Rose legit gripes from gregarious formations That would coalesce under the one and only Gandhi Into their momentous waking into life and freedom Split up, as it were, into two bickering fragments To play fitfully, for ever, their petulant fiddles Averse to complement under demagogic detours Falsely comfy under the convenience of inheritance -2- Six decades of self rule on, your children feel conned Not for failed hopes, but for the disharmony that haunts. An one- sport -nation fixated with a fixing -fame-game Movie-obsessed , and with its TV Blank beyond trivia and brand names. Money and food are no problem for many But, for too many, they are; vehicles are plenty But roads aren't ; laws are varied and abundant Some redundant , but every pervert who counts Interprets them different and funnily implements. Health care wears a five star halo sans humaneness. It never frees a dying adult or kid from its kinky tubes Nor permit the company of kin to them for one last time Ignores the terminally and unmovably sick stuck at home. Agriculture does well, but farmers don't ,.. and kill themselves Petty retailers are swell making a killing, selling farm produce. Stupidity grows muscles to muzzle humanity Hunks grow on vitamins, video games and vanity Freed millions press after pelf and power, plays hell With the weak and the women , their perennial fair game Profiteering, covert, overt, and across the board The sick, the student, the seeker after any service Any victim or one with a gripe being its victims That's by the very cream , no less, all the same Media scream with scam and spam all the time Even the ones,( that's about all), with their own aims The combined do's of brash bravado and venality A rash on governance and a blot on name. Effete ethics and moribund morals, seniors mumble.. 'Equality before law' means ' Advantage to the outlaw' Freedom for the grabs means restraints to many Succour often hard-to -reach and reaching-too-late Louts and lousy offices dot street corners and roads Governance press after targets too disparate To cohere or collaborate towards a wholesome goal, Leaving holes for private or pet agendas to infiltrate. Front-end-folks or prickly pears? Menace, malice, avarice, lies, police… Unrestrained delight in deliberate discourtesies. Why -dad-anyway-Why- not- call-him-uncle-attitudes… What does not tempt is in for contempt, Being irreverent to the important, and indifferent To the different, is the norm and the trend. Democracy could well slip into demonocracy Like when "Two wolves and a goat vote to decide dinner"** In the absence of the Will to lift it to meritocracy? PS: This poem ( 100 lines, 777 words, as it turned about to be ) is about INDIA, my country. *"Mata, Pita ' mean Mother, Father ** Based on a quote seen somewhere. S.Jagathsimhan Nair, 26 May 2013, For Cyndi MacMillan's contest.
Italian winds blow gently and smooth Over hushed dusty remnants of lives past, This once thriving city clueless of its fate Lies frozen in time under hot blazing sun. Chariots and horses stopped in their tracks, Brothel patrons lie in silent passion On lava beds of ashen cold comfort, Slaves free of earthly bonds lie in timeless sleep, Their masters' tongues forever stilled from curse. Nigh two thousand years of a forced respite For countless lives ceased by nature's great wrath, Holy temples, theatres and great arenas Forever preserved beneath a molten shroud. Pompeian spectres roam their burial ground Haunted by ancient Vesuvian eyes, Watching and waiting until it's time To erupt her cruel rage once again.
Slowly, The air fills with blue, and the greens catch fire The hammerlight of Summer With little mouse-steps, Steals off into apricity. I divide my days Between wine and responsibilities As a child divides his Between play and obedience. The time itself, at its best, Is wine to me, Full of light and flavors Vying for my attention. The aptly named Sept/ember Ignites itself against the skies And sets my thoughts asmoulder; The inspiration I have begged and badgered To arrive, does so at last By its own rule, on its own clock In the deep of the night While I should be asleep. I awake, Dreams close behind my shoulder, And find myself at this crossroads, Inexorably older.
Born into a life of poverty crime and squalor where hunger and cold winds bite and disease is rife and it was a daily battle to stay alive and find some food to stay alive. Uneducated illiterate caught in the poverty trap drinking polluted water from the same polluted cholera riddled tap. An impoverished woman sells her body for a cheap bottle of Gin and a lodging for the night while a pickpocket and mutcher ever watchful look for a pocket to alight. The deafening clunk and clatter of horses and carts on the cobbled ground and shouts from the street market traders echo all around. Children play and run through the narrow crowded streets dressed in rags no shoes upon their feet The putrid stench from the gutter and thick choking bellowing smoke from factories make one heath and make it hard to breath. Dilapidated hovels and buildings covered in black soot horse manure and raw sewage under foot. Beggars with large mournful eyes reach out pleadingly to the passing gentry to fill their empty bowls with plenty. A peeler pins a notice of a forthcoming hanging at the local Gaol for the few who can read upon a rusty nail. A Mother desperate to feed her hungry children steals a loaf of bread from a market stall but is soon captured in the sprawl. The judge sentences her to 10 years penal servitude far over sea in Botany bay but she dyes aboard the ship of fever upon the way. Her 9 children are sent to the workhouse for the poor to gain some education and work hard behind it's hellish door never to see their Mother or escape poverty ever more. Peter Dome.copyright.2012.
On his shoulders he carried me, when I tarried when young. He'd huddle me close, and tell me the stories Of how he grew up. The things that he loved to do most. Correct me when wrong. And punish when bad he'd Protect me from harm, And when ill - He'd wrap me in blankets, And nurse by my side, Till one day I grew up And rebelled. In your footsteps You wanted Me to have followed, And done everything by your will. But I'm my own person, So listen to my side, Are you in with me this time Or still…? Do you not answer? Hear my pain call? As I struggle to find my own way. Is it time I departed? Is it time that I learnt? To have my own will What d'you say? Well I'm sorry You're silent. You're so disappointed. But I know that you feel I am wrong. I can't take this no longer I'm so full of anger. To my misery Is there no end? Well I'm out!... Do you hear me?... Dont misunderstand me. I'm grateful for what you have done. But for now I don't know me. I don't know the answers. I'll pack up my things and be gone! But then you say to me Just listen – child listen, One day you will settle You'll see. You'll be married. With children. Putting food on the table - Working hard to bring in the dough Then you'll think of these words Just follow my footsteps That way you will Come to no harm. And the voice in your head Will silently say - I told you, Was right all along. I'm your father I taught you to follow my footsteps; To know what is right and Whats wrong!
A lone rider sits high in the saddle, As the horizon's sunrise spreads across, The open prairie. Twin pearl handed pistols rest at his side, As rusty spires clang against wooden planks, At the deadwood saloon. Legends cowboys whisper his name, On the dry desert winds, A giant of a man whom breathed Life again into the legacy, Of the old west. His side swagger's walk trademark On the larger than a life screen. The duke truly represents the great American hero on horse back. Six shooters drawn at high noon's Count down, John Wayne's the trail dusts equalizer, He always remained on the right side, Of tin stars law. The tumble weeds rolls along a dirt path, As tall cactus stand on an arried canvas, Life here is harsh and mean, Where only the strong survive. Bold individuals with the inner Strength against god's forbidden land. Harden men whom lived by one simple, Rule I will do what ever it takes To stay alive. He'll join the ghost riders, Forever driving the lords herds Across the grand divides vast Prairie sky's as the sunsets In the old west. Alone figure rides high in saddle, Set against a legends back drop, Hell bound for glory, In a cloud of gun smokes fog, Behold the duke emerges, With his hat on straight And gun at the ready. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Beyond the leggy palm trees you can hear them calling out Through the diffused light and thin curtains called home- Are a people in need Brought to there knees with infelicitous faces- Filled with confusion and doubt Broken hearts in broken places, loss of life- In an atmosphere of raw humanity Through there dusty desperate lives they plea for substantial means Tested beyond their capacity resting in squalid conditions- Praying into their Christianity No mortal man of compassion could stand by And be witness such devastation Sparse medical means in a land crumbling from the inside Many impoverished brave men waited by the loud white gates For a voice a glimmer or hope from their leader guru To the victims the questions remains why? Everywhere in every corner tears pooled into hands Contentious people begging for water and pointing to their bodies I was brought out to the edge of my chair from what I viewed An act of God has taken some many lives and left me in a state of stupor I said a prayer for the people of Haiti
Science in all fascination has discovered a species aquatic Theorizing this new yet old species remained hidden as Merman only to live in secret at the oceans floor the mermaid a tribe indigenous once said to be myth yet all proof and technology film does not lie Tsunamis has given the ocean a true glance of the man with webbed hands The species communes with dolphins will be under a microscope to analyze ? " The World is not ready to see what I have " Jacques Cousteau ~ to be entered in The Science contest ~
From the past days of old. At Seventh Street & Florence Avenue. Vehicles in pristine finished. Bragging Rights Mint Condition. Proudly rolled by in a yearly tribute. Very close behind did the present. Spanking brand new, Virgilina's, VA. Town's first responders debut their life- saving vehicles of rescue. Summer Fest proudly displayed. Awesomely colored painted fine cars. Including trucks and plowing tractors. The drivers and passengers. Cheerfully waived tossing smiles and candy. I watched so many of the children laughing. Enjoying themselves while playfully. Scrambling to grab all and as many. Of the tossed free candies. So very comforting it was to see. Neighbors, visitors, friends and family. Witnessing together. Standing side by side In such a loving comradely. History and our future. Embracing one another. In supreme harmony. Refreshing the supportive celebration. Veterans from old world wars of our past. Keeping close in step were our gallant; soldiers of wars in our present time. Today's events were also in celebration. Of the soldiers whom honorably. Transitioned to a much peaceful home. This was a very lovely quick get away. Cotton candy, home made ice cream. Scenie's Old-fashioned Peanut Brittle. Freshly squeezed lemonade. How fortunate to meet Ms Marion Woods. Author of Uncle Jerdon's Farm Children' Book. Thanks to my cousin Natarsha. I am experiencing a very lovely. Memorial Weekend Holiday. My Uncle Joe Lassiter our beloved Veteran. His daughter and my cousin Andrea Miller. Stood in the longest line waiting patiently. For what I learned was the town's best. Brunswick Stew. It's evening now I sit here as one. Within this blissful time in nature. Pleasantly at peace. Relaxed taking in the beauty. Of this picturesque piece of land. Reflectively pondering. On on this lovely day. I joyfully have a writing instrument. Very close at hand.
Mount Vesuvius erupts in anger warm air like butterfly wings flashes against our cheeks I hold you my final light... We stand on the edge of the sea a galaxy of smoke and soot swirls around us... My love I wish I had wings to carry us all I have is my shoulder for you to lean on... Let us press our lips together in these final moments perhaps in the future archaeologists will find us As lovers preserved in ash... ~ ~
Zephyrus, mighty God of wind, slips over western slopes to nudge the winter, in quick adieu, ..unfurled against the blue. He is husband of Khloris, a goddess of the green He is father of the fruited vine, and all the fruited trees which bend and bow to every breeze, that curl around his head. The stalky lupines long for him to take away the chill, while blue wild flax, will wave and swoon, upon the purple hills. A colored carpet wide and deep, is sweeping to the eye with clover green, so fragrant, lush, and it reaches to the sky to feel the depth of warming breath, exhaled with just his sigh His warming breath embraces youth, and jealousy is kin Appollon's love for Hyakinthos, may bring a tragic end We must ignore his boorish pride, for he thaws the frozen land and takes command when springtime comes, when green is in demand _________________________________________________ For the Contest sponsored by Shadow Hamilton Zephyrus.....God of the West Wind 1/1/15 http://www.theoi.com/Titan/AnemosZephyros.html (Greek Gods)
How sad is the day when we celebrate the death of a man? Good or evil, is justice so blind that it lets us know wrong from right? You kill a man but not an idea. You celebrate a death, you create more enemies. Is there any justice done in killing regardless of the actions? Tell me how blood washed away blood? A.N: this is a rough in the making.
Magazine ads and newspaper obituaries skitter across the streets like tumbleweed in the desert. Rims the size of carriage wheels roll by. Everyone's holsters are filled, even the children carry pistols. The schools are ghost towns but the saloons stay occupied. This is the Wild, Wild West.
All around me Great cities made of sand. Green sky scrapers poke through the ground To thrive in life's strict conditions And melt away with the tide… Great houses made of cards Form lines, and tightrope walk existence, Knowing that any moment, the wrong brick may fall And buckle our world to its knees As Mother Earth shouts Jenga! from the sidelines. So while were here We dance with the Glass Goddess Poised miles above reality, Leaping over the heavens on our domino stilts- We floor it in the sky Living death in the fast lane, Seizing the day Because any moment We could disappear Into Jacob Reinhardt 10/15/2013
In the foggy isle of Britannia, many men have sought Out fortune and fame. But one man's legacy remains, as steadfast as the walls Of parliament, a single voice echos, thunders across historical Reference, and it's meaning sound is crystal clear, We shall Never surrender, it has become this man's epitaph, Behold the Prime Minster, Winston Churchill. A stout figure head of reason, during a time Of global madness, lighting the fuse of justice, On an international stage. Awakening the old sleeping lions fury, it's roars sounding, Crashed as a tidal wave, against the walls of ignorance's Injustice. The British cannon's announced their coming, these Fighters champion for freedom, and liberty, we will Fight them by land or sea, and emerge victorious, This elder gentleman so did speak. Harken young soldiers of the brave heart, our time is at hand, Shall we not shake the fists of anger's vengeance at them. For those whom hide beneath a blood stained flag, A symbolic sign of purity, behold a nation's lie is exposed. A stout figure head of reason, during a time Of global madness, lighting the fuse of justice, On an international stage. Awakening the old sleeping lions fury, it's roars sounding, Crashed as a tidal wave, against the walls of ignorance's Injustice. The British cannon's announced their coming, these Fighters champions for freedom, and liberty, we will Fight them by land or sea, and emerge victorious, This elder gentleman so did speak. Harken young soldiers of the brave heart, our time is at hand, Shall we not shake the fists of anger's vengeance at them, Those hiding beneath a blood stained flag symbol of purity. Hell's storm broke lose upon the distant land, It's dark shroud blanket, relieved cruelties ugly offenses Against humanity. Did thus the world mourn their lost kindred, and the lion Fell asleep once more, after shaking it's golden main free from, The feathers of war. In the annals of history, an old man sits beside a large lion, Petting him until it rests at calms ease, lighting up a cigar, Winston Churchill's vision will not completely fade away, For his words ring eternal, we shall never surrender. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Oh lord hear the lonesome cowboys lullaby, singing beneath The vast prairie open sky. Hush, do they not lull the restless cattle to sleep, by a soft Undertones sweet melody. Drifting plains men, singing of the sorrows broken hearted, And dreaming visions of their beloved, they've left behind. Guitar strumming minstrels, of the fire hearth, accented By the lone harmonica, playing off in the distance Amongst a sea of cows, and horses. In harmonic rhythm is this grassroots orchestra, as the fiddler Strikes up his bow to join in, and playing ever so gently along, To harmony's rhythm. On the rocky cliffs mixed in the sandy dunes, the heckling Coyotes, give an eerie ambiance, to this old western chorus. Do these desert whyly creatures, howl in perfections tune, To the wrangler's musical beat, of these wide grassy expanses, That they all call home. The rattler shakes it's tail in defiance, against the munching Prairie dog, whom got away at the last moment. Listen closely to the sounds of the meadow-lands, does not the crickets, And locusts, add a natural flavor by their clicking and chirping. Near the rivers stream, as the winds do blow, along the waters edge, Another elements assent, is bestowed by the forcing of the reeds, to Bend hitting them against the hollow log, causing a thumping's, Drumming, to this uniquest of bands. As twilight's distant starlight, flickering in the vast Blackness above, these rambling souls whom wander so. Down these dusty trails long journey, yearn for nothing More than to know the quite serenity, of their home That seems so far away. Let your music fill your emptiness, for one nights Beautiful dream, and remember the memory as if it Were real, a vivid vision of illusion, and rest In complete bliss, good night my young Cowboy of the open sky. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
From cradle to grave the sun baked the skin leather, un-oiled and rain did not fall for Isis with held her tears. From the bloody care of womb children popped like bread from the oven of women, the urns of life, earthen were their colors ocher, saffron, and some as black as basalt, rich… with a Nubian glow. How the small ones squeal at the wadi's edge. How the toes of man and beast dance at the skirt of mother Nile, sensuous, rippling with the wind, or placid in the doldrums of summer sun.
An Ode To LIFE As I lay my head down and start to fall asleep I see myself being carried off to a place and time the place of our Lords birth in Bethlehem of Judea As in the Bible tells the story of His life and how he lived and died in that human seance and rose on the day He told of I do not remember being here but I remember the story I was taught so many years ago As I walk through the streets of Bethlehem I see each scene and hear every word as I am learning the story they telling is true The writer writes of a jealous King and his way of dealing with his people and of Mary and Joseph who came to Bethlehem to have a child The story tells of the three wise men who saw a star in the north and heard of a child who was born to be the King of the Jews and come to see and bring Him gifts An angel from the Heavens above came to Mary and Joseph in a dream and told them they had to leave Bethlehem or King Herod would have their son killed So they left Bethlehem and went to Egypt and there they lived until King Herod no longer ruled As I follow along in my dream I see each scene and hear every word as I am puzzled by the fact I understand each I don't understand why I'm going through this time but I know I must continue on this journey As I am pulling through a time where I reach the place of Jesus' in Nazareth of Galilee As I watched Him grow and work in His father's shop I could see the thing in Him that were with me As I walk along the streets and look around I hear the people talk of a child that speaks of wondrous love that's all forgiving and of a Father in Heaven that's loving and true. By Rev. Samuel Mack, OMS Copyright 2013 Inspired by God http:paladinnews1.blogspot.com
In the house a monster grows. Dissension seethes unchecked, this house divided stands alone. The strongest rule, the rest beaten, submit, hopelessly pay homage, for now. The young, attention is speculative in hope of increasing dominance. Strength through numbers, majority rule. Know those who now rule will again be replaced, they sulk, awaiting their turn. Until then, they will pretend and play their game. A country suffers, new fighting begins, parlay and banter are not our friends, The people the victim once again. Strong medicine needed to bring this monster its end. This two party system is destroying from within.
In the historical archives, many trails have led to The making of a legend, those born with the pioneer spirit Of individuality, bred deeply within their soul. Such was this man we called, Mr. President, Theodore Roosevelt. A cowboy rough rider, whom wrangled his way with true Grits fight, making his way to the oval office round-up in Washington, DC, Thus America's pride, was alive within Teddy's wild heart. This wilderness environmentalist, who's grand vision, Had the foresight to leave a wondrous gift behind him. To a nation beloved by him, this honorable man, Bestowed his legacies inheritance for future generations, To enjoy forever, the green valley's known as the National Parks and National forests. A nation's founding father, his face indubitably Engrained, into solid granites bed rock, on the exterior of Mount Rushmore, so does it bare witness, to this presidents Greatness unto posterity. A rugged individualist, believing in the fair deal policy, For all men, should all have the same rights and liberties. Theodore did so carry a big stick, but spoke softly, In the foreign policy arena, thus receiving the Noble Peace Prize. Drive did he, the stake of progress across the raw landscape Of Cuba, creating a man made wonder, called the Panama Canal. But if asked Theodore Roosevelt's greatest achievement, Was the raising of his children, and living life to it's Fullest depth's degree. A grievice day, to lose one such as he, but this man Whom loved adventure, looked at the death as only The beginning of another chapter's turning of a page, Beyond lies another horizon's sunset to be explored. Don't cry at the loss of one such as myself, Shed no tears, yet raise a toast instead, on my behalf, Celebrate how I lived, and for the little accomplishments I've left behind. For in this way Theodore Roosevelt wished to be Remembered and the greatest tribute of all. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
His voice is as a still whisper, a hushed sigh Rippling through the evergreen mountain pines, A spiritual being calls in native tongue, come unto Me, my chosen people of the sacred plains. The drums beat in the setting sun, as the tribes Join together in one bands march, the Dakota, Shoshoni And Cherokee, these wondering nomads, of the open plains. It is time for the great migrational transitioning, Heeding the great spirits, seasonal warning, These tribal gypsies, become a unified people, of the vast United beneath the vast grasslands Prairie. Instincts driving force urges them ever forward, Across steeps terrain, and rolling hills, deep canyons Depths divides, onto the open plains, For soon the great buffalo will arrive. To bowl and cup, do they carry all possession Necessities, leaving behind only Mohicans prints, In the dust. Legacy's children play, and run beside the caravan's, As warriors on horse back, boast of adventures Of seasons long ago. Mile markers of trails woven into the earth itself, The wilderness wild country lies ahead, in this big North American Continent, yet undiscovered by The so called civilized white men. At night falls rest, a small village emerges, where Nothing stood sense last years grand journey. Canvas tents, fill with families warmth and laughter For freedoms people, live by the great spirits calling. In ritual dance, do these indigenous tribe give thanks And praise unto he whom provides substances life, And liberation's autonomy. As the suns rises and dawn approaches, the earth rumbles, Shaking, beneath the hardened hoof, thy brother the buffalo, Has come once again, the promise kept, assuring The tribes winter survival. Evergreen's pastures, lure these creatures of thunder, Ancient beasts covering the great plains, as a black Cloud descending, as if massive locus's onto The flowering fields below. The hunters rejoice in the abundance set before Them, the harvest of meat and blessings promise, Taking only what is needed, wasting nothing, Yet giving thanks praise for everything. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
or do you want to tell the person whose first name is sang by sinead o connor middle name is sang by fred durst and last name is mentioned by fred durst do you want to tell me, the person you just spent 13 years mad at singing and dancing to my misfortune and rubbing your happiness in my face as you exclude me from sex do you want to tell that person whose name you plastered all over your war that he had nothing to do with surviving it do you want to tell that man Troy Jeremy Nelson who just lost everything 17 times to start over that he was not your allie in whatever that was? let me put your name alll over a war and then wait for your enemy to show up and ask you what does that guy got that i don't? everything now you murdered my grandpa you murdered my friends you murdered my sex life and you sang and danced to my misfortune to the tune of your lies pretending i was your friend called an alibi you didnt bother to even try to keep alive do you want to come telll me Troy Jeremy Nelson that your country just did that too that thats not what happened? Im not sure how long your going to live that lie the thousands of people concerned and involved in that persons endless and i mean endless nightmare might just come tell you what has been making them cry..... Happy Halloween tho FALSE PROPHET oh and p.s. next time you put somebody else in the middle of your war to play the victom of that person's nightmare you caused take notes to pass into the future as to what is about to occur to you may be a life lesson to history Thank you for not caring (sarcasm) thank you for not answering my letters (sarcasm) thanks for going the wrong way, in the wrong direction, to do the wrong thing that whole time i kept pointing out a drug ring blackmarket, you people didnt care about (sarcasm) thanks for calling me a liar as to what has taken place in my life(sarcasm) so whenever you are free to hand me a bunch of things with your smiling face, and names all over them to make me feel better for the way you treated me singing and dancing to the sound of getting away with murder for the miracles youve stolen my big brother doesn't like to dance around and play house, pretending to be someone hes not in a singing competition, racing against his sense of fear do you want to come tell the man just tortured by malpractice with his name on your war in your music, he had nothing to do with winning it?
Rosa Parks Would have been a hundred Were she alive today Human beings of any colour would gladly let her sit Anywhere on the bus With the possible exception Of the driver's seat
In the mist of the Scottish countryside Where clouds touch the lofty hills Stands a castle on a shores edge Rocks and mortar laid by hand Cobblestone pathway over the bridge Centuries of footsteps preceded Once kings and nobles walked in grace Now is only one persons place Out upon the loch winter would arrive Cold wind and frozen ice gather The castle walls would keep out the frost In spring ice would jam up against the rock As early heather blooms upon the rocky shore Winter left it's coat of white As crocus and tulips now grasp the sun Summer's new grass shoots come alive To the rhythm of the warm winds The seasons come and the seasons go In all weather the castle remains firm A landmark for centuries will stand This castle made to withstand the test of time.
THE LIGHT HOUSE The shimmering white beacon off the shores Of Marble-head, let it's flickering light shine again, In restorations amber glow of hope. For are we not the custodians of our own history. Allow us to relight the spark, igniting the flames Kindling, a tinderbox of explosive force, To expose our historical past for others to enjoy. Than shall we not pass the torch forward. It is up to us, to save legacy's heritage, For the future generations to come. Crumbling monument's cry out to be Remembered, times cruel weathering, does Ascend tearing at the walls of mortar, And chipping at the layers of paint. Can we not lend a helping hand, to aid in Such a worthy cause, to preserve our past. Allow us as human beings, the keepers of The lighthouse, to fuel the fire for preservation. Let us leave a historical landmark, a piece of The past worthy of saving, to be restored. Hand-N-Hand, brick by brick, layers of Humanities historical records need Preservation reclamation. It is a proclamations that should be heard, For prosperity's sake alone. Rise up Toledo-ans, see the torch light from Afar distant island, let not this flame be Stamped out, or fade away. No not here in the grand state of Ohio, In the light house, off Sandusky Bay, Shall it's rays of brilliance shine again. Against the Lake Erie waters, standing Tall, as a beacons light of hope, For future generations to come. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Year's end. The calendar expires in time's continuum. Arbitrary demarcations shift and fade. Locations change; faces age. Everything, though different, remains the same. Plus ca change, plus ca meme. The stars are ruled by cycles that the year produces. Time decides the issues. Our lives are nursery songs in minor keys and everything's been said.
Tingling toes of the megabyte cavalry callouses scraping along private roads Cascading matrices on the plasma periphery peasantry bleating on official commands Stewing a cauldron a festering foment watering nations from acid-soaked cans BE SAFE! say the oracles so buying a check but electing the cavalry leaves the infantry wet
White capped peaks, set a calming essence's surroundings, A hushed place of peaceful contemplation and serenity, Time stands still here upon Peter's mountain. In this isolation's retreat from the outside world, A lone solitary soul, does lean onto his walking staff, Pondering thoughts of life's past experiences, and Remembering days, oh not so long ago. Here this wilderness man, has a freedom that most Men will never know, in his personal paradise Of the forest wild. Living off the land, did he so hack, and chop for himself, Taking a small portions piece to live upon, A rustic cabin built in a meadow's glen, It's more than enough for him. A trapper's trade, by God's promised blessing, Does he make a small living's income, But wealth's gold, lies in them there hills, Liberation's breath, to be inhaled, day by Day with no strings attached. Outside stands one stone, carved by his Own hand, here lies my wife beloved, Spring violets lain in hearts respect, unto Her memory are thus given, as he wipes a Single tear away, soon dearest in softest tones, Is spoken by this rugged soul. The last is he of a dying breed of pioneers, Those searching for the next grand adventure, Just over yonder's distant horizon. Daniel Boone's back pack fever, runs through The mountain man's reins, and only death's Blacken trail, can sever their need to roam. Leaning against the fire place hearth, Puffing on his corn-comb pipe, this dreamer Makes peace within himself. I've lived a good life, had myself a good wife, Soon I'll join her, God be willing. Slowly, he sits within the rocking chair, And closes his eyes one last time, Allowing his bones to relax once and for all. White capped peaks, set a calming essence's surroundings, A hushed place of peaceful contemplation and serenity, Time stands still here upon Peter's mountain. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Oh I remember history well -- the ancient guidelines -- the lessons repeated, the dramas reenacted: the dates, of course, were of no import; catching the drift of things, that was the art. Languages change, seasons wane. People experience all the old pain. What happens now? What happened before? Lessons of history are writ on the walls -- they peek out from thousands of toilet stalls where Kilroy once sat.
Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION
Two majestic lords of the African Savannah, Strike without cautions warning, or roar's announcement. Nomads, prides outcasts, existing on the fringes edge of Survival. Instinct's primal predators, golden phantoms, shadows Haunted silhouettes passing in the night, casting eerie images Against canvas tents, and fire lights burning embers. On heightened senses of enticement, these living Killers, smell their preys fear, thus so crossing the line, Cutting deeply into man flesh, leaving bloody paw prints Behind them, and giving birth to their own legend. Translucent specters, blending mirages melting, Within the tall grasslands scrub brush, as if creatures Of illusion, brushed by the hot Massai winds. Caddish yellow-green eyes, pierce through humanities Nightmare realm, for in reality's harsh view, it cannot Be real, these ghosts in the darkness. Carnivorous hunters patrol, the devils backbone, Known as Tsavo, skeletal bone collectors, Relishing in their trophies prize, beware their talons Sharpened claws. Man-eaters, rulers of this lost garden of Eden, In the lions den, the bones of the dead scream in silence. In this blood sports arena, these kings dominate over The kingdom of men, dominion's red cloak, is Soaked in crimson's red, dripping freshly downwards Towards hells cavern. Mankind's greed, does drive this army of the walking dead, Stalked by these feline demons, of the nights abyss. Progresses iron horse must reach the African interior and If poundage cost be in flesh and bone let it be so, paid. Rushing waters forge, laid by steel rails bridge builder, The holy architect whom carries, the long rifle of justice, Assumes responsibility's heavy shovel, of the living dead's Burial grounds. Man vs. beast, teeth vs. bullets gunpowder, in the rising Suns twilight, one shots sounding ends the fight, and alone Lord remains to grieve for his fallen brethren. In rages vengeance, the last warrior declares angers wrath, And he is so slain by hail's gun blast. But in Tsavo, the people still watch, for in legend, ghosts Never truly die, yet remain hidden unto the hunger returns, Beware, these ghosts in the darkness. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
In the bay of icy mists, the viking ghost ships arrive, sails set full ahead, Crashing anchors rattle loose, plunging beneath the cold murky surf, As the hailing horns of the dead, announce to their lord, Odin, that Valor's courageous have arrived, and wish to enter, the great halls of Valhalla. Here the cold winds of the north dwell, it's chilling Breezes flow freely, through the phantom warriors spirits. But these rough men fear not death, nor it's harsh breath, for they Are vikings of the northern kingdoms, and they have come for Their last rewards treasure, to enter beyond the gates of Valhalla, And are armed ready to fight, beside their God Odin, In victorious battle. In these waters of the ethereal unknown passage, The cracking and heaving, of these heavily Laden vessels made of vapors thin mists, Send an eerie chill down the backs, of mortal men. As mountain icebergs float upon the wind Chilled oceans surface, the Valkyries approach, Smiling beneath their shimmering chain-mail of Brilliance honor. On the evergreen shores, a timbered lined hall stands, It's gates of golden pitch blaze, with fires white Hot flames of those concurred, their souls scream For penance mercy. Two long swords, Chris-crossed are the gates steel dead bolts lock, Above it's embers glow, a fierce eagle with red crimson eyes, Grapples, it's sharpen claws, cutting deeply into the oaken shields, On the thatched roof of the golden hall. A lone wolf beneath therein, passes sniffing at the Garments of the fallen men, if fears scent, the wolf so smells, Cast out is this soul, and dammed it is forevermore. Within the many souls do enter, a hardy welcoming at the feasting Table mead and honey wine, is set before these hero's of honor. But outside the ships remain tethered, awaiting for their masters safe Return, unaware of Thor's approach, his mighty hammer set at the Ready. Striking with thunders raw force, the hammer of power, Brakes against the sheer ice, as quick as the lightning's flash, Freezing tidal waves clash upwards, swallowing whole all evidence, That these ghost ships ever existed. Oh Valhalla, I pledge thee my life, my fighting spirit, my blood and Body given in the name of Odin, for thy honor sake, shall I live and die, Behold the vow's pledge of these Nordic men, known as the Vikings. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
"our budget allows for one janitor, and that spot is taken," is what he said before he took one look at my credentials "sir, I come to ask about the teller job," I says and he just leaves turns around to say "come back in 25 years"
THE BOY KING Oh youthful monarch of Egypt, so young to die and yet live again. In the nether world a Pharaoh's golden death mask is lain upon A boy king. In silences crypt a stilled figure lies in stacious frozen freeze. Until Ra's first rays kiss the dawn and they embrace in passions Fiery flame. Behold a rebirth an emergence from death's chilling shroud. In the valley of the dead his caucus's soul walks amongst His ancestral ancestors. Lost deities whom balance the hearts of men Against the feather of truth Speak his name with honor's reverence. Legacy's inheritance a throne built in the shadow, Of hierarchy's indignation yields, To restorations royal seal barring his title of rebirth Tutankhamen. The great sphinx retracts it's sharpened claws, As this small emperor's spirit bows with nobility's, Humblest of respectfulness at his marble feet. Without fears emotions he thus stands all alone, Before this stone giant of idles sacred worship, At his touch this littlest of divine gods, Turns a stone beast into flesh. And beneath the night's blanket of stars, He is welcomed Into the warmth of the lions main. A living creature cradling this child of light, Slowly fallen into dreams eternal sleep once more. In the halls of Karnack a peaceful lullaby plays, Upon invisible instruments, in a gentle soothing. Rhythmic tones the music plays. As a woman's voice sings of a beautiful desert spring, That turns into the Nile's fertile waters, Feeding it's eternal life. And thus the boy king sleeps wrapped in slumbers, Golden fleece, listening to the holy Melody, Which is ancient Egypt. Finally at peace within the kingdom of thieves, A Pharaoh of the golden realm. Hush now beware do not wake him, Or his curse may claim another victim. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Ya simdi Inanilmazi Yasamak varmis Vatanini koruyan Ordusunun komutani Teroriste olurmus Ya simdi Yeni kurallar ve karanlik gelecekler Agzina bir parmak bal mi caldilar Yarana biber mi bastilar Acma agzini karsiysan da be kulum Cezasi buyuktur yigitligin agritir basin Ya simdi Gune baska bakan Silivrinin yolcusu Bekler yillarini Yarginin sonucunu Eskiden meshurdu yogurdu Ya simdi Kim kaldi Demokrasi oturkenini Donusturecek tilsim Sadece isiitigim Sessizlik sessizlik
We live in a little valley once famous for cedar trees. The name is no longer a label but celebrates the past as do most places in this country. It is a place with monuments old but not ancient, unkempt mansions that cling to use, solemnized as party sites for weddings. We can't deny its beauty that lives beyond the ruins, the joyous harbor that harmonizes generously with sun and clouds, the great meadow, the people with their strange but utilitarian costumes who build their bodies along the road.
Behind truth you can decide Where the clay is set in As clouds are in circles above the world Setting eyes upon prices missing Manipulated society onward to destruction No one listens but the rules and programs for our minds Since birth we are the machines Those who dare go against the current Extinct they become Names with no leads Do we know better? Or rather know less? Like numbers in our heads Changing seasons to the like of the system This is no rebellion Is not the exact war settled against Is just the fact no one puts their eyes out As we march to the chambers Where the sky is set clear for our eyes But fire rains outside the tower Like an eye set on our every movement Isn't that the number we're given from birth? Nothing we try Can change the fact? Have the world tried to go against holding hands Side by side on the march to take the power beneath our sin's? Haven't seen war or peace But death and clairvoyant diseases are well settled Is there no more man to stand their own grounds? Where have the women's with authority fallen from? Inside vile's the idea remains Ashes we inhale to be programmed for control Im not planning to change anything with the words I may place upon a paper For I am no one But I pity the world inside my mind As I can see through But cannot lead the remains to restore Are there any more grounds to step in? Why do we as human must be concealed from truth? Things we shouldn't know? Aren't they human too? Because a profession is well made? I don't swallow what I don't like Man is made to lead Women is made to lead Or is there any difference in the ideals of one another? Can someone speak up for anyone in this days? Or is it made by mute emotions? Everyone holding up to the little they can make As those which have the world on their hands Few wishes to know what an emotion is While the rest manipulate us with the green on our number Im no anarchist Im not godless I just know I have rights to speak Because there's no place where my democracy cannot hail high For I am free and of course I accept if they want to kill me Is not having mercy or just destroying what is already in control But making things right People over the whole world make revolution But they failed for the lack of hands raising fists Is it fear running deeper than blood? Or just blood cursed by the same system? Can someone explain a bit? No one does They just get born, programmed and be utilized Then die and decompose in time Think through Is it worth it?
Askuwheteau meaning he keeps watch was a French speaking Indian who came from the Algonquin tribe head aching from braids he lay down his long hair and sit propped against a tree not far from the wigwams he lived in there he played his flute to soothe his tired mind watching for any signs of harm to his people he had a knack for spotting out shadows of other beings well before the figure came into focus but this particular night was calm and peaceful knowing this he played with an echo enticing the spirits to come and dance for this was a rare occasion where there need be no worry of attackers to pleage them his people not far hearing the joyous celebration skipped across the woods to join him song turned to feast and feast turned to stories being told around a new built fire feeling eased and secure no need for shelter they soon fell into a heavenly slumber Contest : Tell His Story By: Virginia Frayer
HIStory Father HERitage Mother!
Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it echoes across the vast Continental divide, connecting the Pacific and Atlantic Coastal shores, by the steel rails iron horse. It raged in blazing thunder, leaving a storm cloud of white Smoke in it's wake. Lightning's hell speed, drives this devil's steed, with flames Fire, feeding it's belly, by coal and sinews muscled sweat. The wrought iron beast emerges, from the black pitch of night, It's sharpen wheels of harden metal, cut, slicing through the Raw flesh of mother earth, leaving her bleeding crimson red. Bound and shackled, is this monstrous man-made beast, Held captive, by the leg irons of progress. Men covered in soot and ash, tend to the heart and hearth, Of this demon bringing forth greed's prosperity. Greased and oiled, pistons push gears, driving this seemingly Living creation, of mechanical engineering, lit are it's eyes of Fire, burning through the blackness of night. The engineer holding the throttle to the floor, Praying to God, he'll see the sun's dawning Once more. Tribal chieftains stand tall on a grassy knoll, Observing the iron horse below, as the eagle Soars above, shedding it's feathers in mid airs flight. As the weeping woman cries, for her people, For she alone, realizes what is it come. The mighty buffalo, roam freedoms open Tundra, as a herd of millions, soon to be Nothing but dust shadows, phantom ghosts Legendary beasts hunted by the native braves. Around the sacred camp fires of old these Ancient story's of the courageous hunters, shall Be retold to generation to come. The mighty Buffalo are brought to the brink of Extinction by the long rifles of the white mans gun. Yet these white devils still come, like a tidal wave, Washing the prairies beauty away. Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it Echoes across the vast continental divides, Connecting the Atlantic and Pacific coastal Shores, by the steel rails iron horse. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Frustration Confusion Panic Rage Violance Death May 4th is still alive.
In between deserts Ocean there I lie Pachamama As high as elimino tide In dream in one piece Palm heart cactuses Tides echo pacific whales Land of accasias in treasures Pachamama fly my soul in whale The wound grow ashes in tears Desert to pacific gate to open forbiden Meet Kurosho collides Oyashio Pachama will comeback all in one piece
In the old, wild west every lonely cowboy stopped to rest at a crowded inn surrounded by bare rocky hills; he blamed it on the greedy pioneers. Traveling wasn't easy, not because of coyotes or deadly snakes that hid, or slept in the blue stern grass...... they had to look out for those Indians. In the old, wild west every lonely cowboy always left his loaded gun close to his bed for a quick draw...unless it was a loud brawl coming from the floor below.
14:Passages plot themselves on maps To get you somewhere. Pour your soul into a hollow vessel For the archaeologist to find. To replicate each moment's sound Will never bring satisfaction perhaps exaggerate boredom Definitely annoy reactions Because the vessel's form is unnecessary There is no catch-all for past rains.
Each time has a special place And every such place has its time. When nature seethes with strangeness Where the mind in exquisite isolation halts itself and listens For the rumblings of a something large and not easily defined - Stop! Softly now, feel how close it is. Something's coming, be assured, that can't be held in words, Imprisoned by our comprehension. Nothing to do now but wait and see... Now here we stand at the conjunction Milling about and ignoring ourselves Like so many motes of dust hanging before a bright windowpane Illumined by the sharp cold light of dusk, gathering and sliding Across that vast empty horizon just beyond And still we wonder deep down How best to pass these years or moments Until we turn to look on our creations, Those children of our thoughts, Face to face, without defenses There's a beast in need of killing here Of that no one doubts But the name of the thing... There's the rub. What is it makes a body Inured to the blood and fire The pain and rage The beauty and the folly Of the Age it helped engender Start And tremble at the smallest of things The least of the pities and frail sorrowful occurances With which this world is etched and circumscribed? Is it the breath of conscience Or the sharper inspiration of fear? Perhaps the two conspire within us Contending for possession Of our human souls, at once so noble and so abject, The fitting residence for violent emotion. Ask me not for the answer; I too join in the dance of confusion. The beast is still there, and it's ours It needs to die before the dawn can come, Bringing us its meanings and its hopes Seeming so dim and distant But coming nonetheless. Remember now, it's a long, long way we've come from yesterday Back when we huddled and wondered in our vague, childish way From where we had come and to where we must go What we need search and what we could know And even then we affirmed, and some as loudly denied We must stand firm against the onrushing tide Of expectation and labor come 'round to fruition Bearing down the completion of our lonely mission. So on we wait. The flutterings of anticipation pass so slow and fine Felt at most as a tiny unease Slow spreading ripples in a quiet clear stream, Or the light breeze kissing the face Of the heavily sedated patient, Still there with us always, Silent and vital as our heartbeats. Look sharp now That beast is still there, And it's ours, Formlessly waiting like smoke in a mirror.
I heard about a name that gave it all to the evil game taking in vain - the son of man a few silver coins and little bit of fame. eternal shame for the main event of his evil deeds for ever be a slave in chains thrown down to the deep away from the earth his name was revoked in a heartbeat - from the book and the devil gave birth to the betrayal of JESS he implanted in his heart treason with a kiss giving up the light for the dark good for wrong life for death and for ever he is gone from the life giving breath damned is he who will follow evil man with a evil walk so we all should swallow-the holy spit when GOD shall speak don't be like the dark prince traitor with evil deeds perhaps false messiah having sex with 7 years old kids do forgive me if I'm wrong but at 7 years old-still a child at nine she gave birth to another child another creature that has to stop being a child - for a while mean while emotions are running wild thinking the messiah was reborn somewhere in the wild as a animal humble eyes and fake smile slaughter with cannibals messiah's favorite carnival you could call me Hannibal so I'll recruit another Army to defeat the madness and live in peace and harmony
Tonight, the full moon blooms And foils the looming gloom. The remnant doom from noon Has lost it's bullish tune. And embraces dusk's eerie cool. The village square it illuminates Arena of moonlight tales of late The little ones gather and wait While the elderly engage in debates And the goats noisily ruminates The bright night, lights sparks Of bliss and joy in trees' barks The tall iroko whistle in parks Where young lovers end their tracks And skimpy skirts lose their tacks The son of perdition frets unsure The thief in the night fears exposure The pirate sailor steers from ashore The night fisherman denied action For the kind light bathes the ocean Tonight, the full moon beams proud As the town crier makes his round Belting forth a piercing sound. While the town's chorus echoes loud The stage is set for the yearning crowd
My heart sank That buttery sweet voice summoning me to the front of the class I stood there chalk in hand shoulders slumped The question you asked for the answer you knew You chose not to teach rather to embarrass I was not a welcome guest Hallowed halls of learning not my home I stared emotionless blackboard covered in dust Laughter filled the room Still I could shrink no further oh how I wished to disappear You called on one of the special ones perfect clothing perfect smile a joy to behold She removed the burden from my hand I returned to my place of shame sitting at the head of the class
a flash of golden memories, from the womb to the tomb, reflections past to present preserved for future generations so as not to be forgotten, recorded imagery of a time, stored away for another day, to be discovered and reminisced those who knew not the subject play the game of discovery to see who had their name, to study the history, from whence they came a visual chronology of family fame, your own, one day the same, a loving vision into the past, maybe some things do last
. A November day, washed bright and clean light rains had ceased, and skies were blue But a thought, obscene, would dim the sun In a deadly script, which paled Macbeth One plot would darken the light with death I was about to stretch beyond my teens and youth was perched upon the brink As the callow child I was back then I would immortalize between extremes But only acknowledged the world in distant hues Sometimes grief would have a passive view But then, upon the landscape new I was thrown to wolves in black and white I couldn't grasp those first words said A true-life drama, of horrendous dread Cascading, first with deep unrest when cold war's threat, or deep unrest with wars afar, I sat expecting happy endings, with stories told unfolding good around the bend, where naive' dreams had always been This sudden turning of the tide had come to change my voice inside... knocking hard upon my door deeply shocking,...to the core rocking how I viewed the world With an anchored face, yet, strangely rue Apparent angst, his stolen breath He cleared his throat, and shared the news, With Cronkite calm, as if a stone, tho' cautious, stunning words to choose In his eyes, the sorrow shone I looked to him for confidence The magnitude, too great to own I needed guidance and a chance to lean into his trusted arms this mortal moment too immense I see it now, still clearly formed The day was bright, with amber light The sun was out, and lingered warm Football games, a dance that night Holidays had been conceived But death came crashing down with spite Tragedy came in as thick as thieves, The devil's plot to interweave _______________________________________________
Socrates and Cicero incorporated civility as a powerful, effective tool in their poetry and dialogues to smite the unsound ways of the sly fool. Today our society snaps with anger at such wise thoughts, having little regard or respect for its laws, and so disobedience grows at an alarming rate, to set up garrison; and would the modern barbarians absorb the substance of the proposed, logical ideas? Cognizance is learned by knowledge and deed!! Any Nation embracing civility can guarantee its citizens order and harmony, and as a matter of conscience, its a rendition of many values not coercing a free spirit, but allowing it to coexist to make many, who rebel, cogitate. Civilization can't survive, if its pillars don't rest on its foundation as Greece and Rome did! Do we despise them with smirks and smuts, not appreciating what made them truly great.... assuring everybody peace and prosperity? Good, lovable and fair parents raise virtuous children to be beacons of morality, and does faith contribute to their well-being by instilling in them amorous sentiments? We have seen courageous men and women defend their right to choose, to exist without being imposed restrictions... and they succeed in their quest! All that Mankind wishes and dreams can be achieved by being trustworthy and diligent; greatness awaits those holding up those values that still are a society's secular dream.
Off the cape of good hope, On dead-man's rocky reef, A legend from old was born. Behold The Flying Dutchman, Phantom's driven ghost ship. Seeking infinities isle beyond, Mortal fleshes reach. The captains wheel sets a Study coarse full ahead. Treachery's boney skeleton walkers, Follow his orders without question. It is the devils own hand picked, A madman's crew, Hell bound disciples riding, Currents restless waves towards, Destiny's unknown passages. The grim reapers soul seekers, Beware all at sea if you witness, The Dutchman's murky birthing. From depths fathoms below, Tarred torn canvas sails unfurl, Upon broken masts covered, By seaweeds greenish slime. Under heavy pressures crushing Weight, A chilling graveyard of wreckage's, Carnage exists, An isolation forgotten realm. A tidal avalanche, aquatic blues, Perfect storm envelopes, Everything in it's destructive path. Dragging anchors chains behind, Death's black vessel brakes, The surfaces tension. Cutting through the rough waves At eases pace. Readily welcoming those lost aboard, Then she'll dive towards deep waters, Farthest edge. Behold The Flying Dutchman's, Legend lives forever on. In nightmares screaming twilight hour, Another soul becomes enchained. And a skeleton walker joins, The devils own. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
William Thomas Pickering, 2nd Battalion Royal Fusiliers, G/3371 born 1881 died 1916 Commemorated by name on the Thiepval Memorial, France. Remembrance day .. A field of bright red poppies dance As I walk hand in hand with my children Through the battle fields of the Somme In my pocket, I have a bunch of wheat A token memory from where he fell At peace, to have walked where he walked As the poppies begin to fade.... I hear the thunder of guns, shrieking shells I see a vast sea of dismembered bodies A No-Man's Land of mud and wire A military display of fireworks dispersing Casting light on this horrific hell on earth For underneath the poppies lie, the remains Of so many men who died, blown to pieces; Where a river of blood will forever bleed Passed on from generation to generation The great loss of war, which nobody wins As I remember my Great-Grandfather William Thomas Pickering.....
When the Earth was young, fire dominated the hellish land, flowing like blood in veins giving life to the rocky planet. It glowed like molten rock within a furnace ready to be moulded into the continents that float like ducks on water regardless of constant motion. The land was bare and resembled what most would consider hell but still it was darkly beautiful in its own self. Millennia passed with no trace of life until that all faithful day when the Earth was bombarded by rocky meteorites and frozen comets. These titans of nature brought Earth's most precious gift transforming the bare land in to a world of new-born oceans. A never ending rain-storm begun causing the oceans to grow like an embryo in a mother's womb. Sadly the air was poisonous and the sky red, like a never ending sunset; life took no hold of the empty and barren land. Time passed slowly and the oceans begun to fill with the smallest of creatures, too small to be seen with the naked eye. Slowly the air begun to change and the way to evolution began, giving rise to adaption and abilities never seen before on the barren land. Single-celled creatures became multi-celled giving rise to what is considered the life force of us all – DNA. Time passed slowly but life exploited the barren land filling it with the most peculiar of creations. The Earth became a box of chocolates for whichever way one looked nothing was the same. The Earth's precious gift is life but without the aid of nature's titans life itself would have never begun in such a fiery furnace – glowing then yet dark.
she hid like a little mouse with windows barred to block the light and peering eyes she grew in that sunless cage from adolescent dreams to a women's longing fought with insecurity penning her hopes on humanity that had drifted away she wrote with anticipation filled with yearning to understand such cruelty with no answers she searched why what had they done would they ever know in the night they came with weapons fixed swinging slurs to wound her soul they gave her a star and a ticket to take a train new adventures from which she'd never return the star soon replaced by numbers carved into tender skin and she cried for her father she was the child of her mother and of her mother's mother she was the remains of sanity she stared at the camp not a children's thing with ponies and playgrounds but with gas chambers and crematoriums and she cried for herself for her family and for the world as they led her inside she penned last words still trying to understand through her tears but there was to be no understanding and in the end they laid her bones uncerimoniously in pits filled to the brim with lost dreams lost lives and failed hope...
Aye Ireland - king of the ol' plains, ye beacon us back to the land of shamrocks, wid yer pubs-n-ale, mates and song, and Celtic traditions wid Gaelic delight. Aye Ireland, on Saint Patty's Day ye awaken us to yer majestic beauty, panoramic shores, tranquil life, courageous history and aye, yer lovely Irish maidens. Aye Ireland – through trails and tribulation yer sparkle endures. Ye embrace faith, play hard, laugh hardy feel yer hearts wid joy and love wid deliberation and purpose. Aye Ireland - beautiful Ireland, king of the ol' plains – ye beacon us. bhí dhá labhra budh rí ar seanchlár
Twitching limply atop an Ulster lamppost Like a hung man, legs kicking in spasm at the last seconds of life Its bigoted purpose now spent and now abandoned to the elements No longer recognisable as the flag of union, a rag, a disgrace Its fate summarises the fall of a culture that once honoured it A proud nation of proud men, of starched collars and stiff upper lip Colonially pink maps on schoolroom walls bore testament to empire An empire won and lost when the map turned from pink to red Up and at 'em lads! For King and country! Hold the banner high! Ypres and the Somme, regiments of the brave under one colour The twitching curtains of multi-culture now fearful of the emblem The emblem of abhorrence uncased by those not qualified to fly it Patriotism, a narrow path parting pride from prejudice Defined by a flag, one duplicitous fluttering cloth, a split personality Now the badge of hooligan, xenophobe and pop diva Courage now gone, bleached by sun, washed by rain…atop an Ulster lamp post
Visits long ago to the Blaskets Islands, to untouched areas on the Dingle peninsula came to mind on this sleet winter's eve. The peninsula, nestled in heather mountains. The coastline, tongues of lonely white sand. waved rocks, drenched in blue mussels tide pools, alive with shrimps and periwinkles A sea-salted life unspoiled and free. Only marine life remains, but I still hear the music our native language, the voices of Seanchaí the ballads, sean?s, Peig Sayers who shaped our school years, her renditions of island life her mad pise?gs, handed down from generation to generation. Stories of Islanders huddled together under thatch, open turf fires cooking pot on a hook, the sweet air wafting of clay pipe tobacco a pinch of snuff sniffed from a silver box, nursing a glass of neat Poitín, uisce beatha, the strong smell of tweeds and geansaí báinín. I think of times lost, changed forever. Cottage ruins, where goats roam free, An Blascaod Mór my history, my heritage. Gaelic words in this poem * Seanchaí – storytellers Sean?s – singing without music Peig Sayers and her mad pise?gs – A Gaelic writer who we studied in school and her mad superstitions. Poitín, uisce beatha – very strong alcohol made from potatoes, called the water of life. geansaí báinín – strong sheep wool sweaters usually in a cream colour with complex patterns.
The heathers spans the great Isles Homeland to many souls Souls whose offsprings on the tides rolled These souls who hath spareness Spareness which sharpens haste To harnesses path across the great waters Seraphs thens protected their path To a new land to live life but differently Anagrams: Heathers spans Hath sparenesses Sharpens haste Harnesses path Seraphs thens These are anagrams for the name that I was born with given to me by my biological parents..When my mother died and I was adopted at 18 months, my last name was changed....The name on my first birth certificate was:Sarah Stephens
A Chance Encounter A chance encounter the other day Got me chatting to a stranger Just for some time to pass away. He was very well groomed, very smart. Spoke well too, seemed a decent sort. I told him a little tale I had learned whilst at work. Outside a building that's up for sale Close to the centre of the town A queue of people gathered. Old clothes, hand me downs. Inside people of good heart and souls Were behind tables long. And a kind of soup was poured into bowls. A slice of bread was added to each one poured. As the hungry-eyed came through the door. As each one passed a thank you was heard. Grateful for the meal today. A simple reply least we can do. All was silent no complaints from the poor. Till a young voice said, 'Please Mummy I want more.' I sat back in my chair waiting for a reply. The guy opposite gave a big sigh. He said, 'Things were tough in those days Very hard for the poor in the Victorian Age. They were ignored, did not count, How could others treat them like that?' No-one should be without the means I say, To feed and clothe their children today. I looked at him and shook my head. My dear friend you misunderstand The tale was not yesteryear or a foreign land. I visited a local food bank the day before last. And like you I was taken aback. Unless with my eyes I had seen, The myth about scroungers I would still believe. Some get the dregs, others get the cream. This is Great Britain in 2013. But the people of our Nation are strong In times of strife they speak as one. 'We are mighty as Caesar, mighty as Rome.' ' NI CARBORUNDUM BASTARDORUM'
six million stones a railroad car streaked red a thousand astrodomes swollen with dead children the population of houston dallas wiped out ugly striped prison uniforms signifying captures and escapes martin luther as a bigot bonhoeffer as a hero dying days before the liberation faces from rwanda darfur signaling the continuance of a tradition of genocide a danish fishing boat hiding neighbors in a fake bottom to escape a wicked storming the pictures of happy proud loving families bludgeoned in broken glass a soft cloth golden star like a slave branding pulsating with hatred and judgement harsher than the ornate letter a for hester 1500000 butterflies sewn drawn carved remembering the children who lost their lives in the Holocaust "Butterflies don't live in here, here in the ghetto" Pavel Friedman, April, l942 Written after a visit to The Holocaust Museum of Houston
he stood among the swasticka's a star in the center of chaos and still he couldn't comprehend with ticket in hand for a train that was heavily laden with lost hope he was bound and gagged by religion that was neither practiced or received yet he was convicted by birth advocating his death tears would not save him German words would convict spoken with accents of David yet there would be no slaying of Goliath and so he went without a word in yiddish to ovens readily heated and skin was but butter for German bread he walked among the gentile's and was slain for he was too gentle like a lamb to the slaughter they dined on mutton of Jewish mute evil knows no boundaries for it exerts power and control and those that are complacent will pay the price with life Star of David shone but was covered by German eclipse blocking the glow extinguishing the flame
Hero Cowboys The peaks of the Rocky Mountains The mighty rivers of the northwest The epic wastelands of the south The endless miles of grass in the east Men wandered surviving them all Horses were their only family Their guns their only friends Every hill could bring a new life Every turn hides death from a piece of lead Names like Gene, Roy, Tom and Audie They lived every Saturday afternoon Fighting in a small town's saloon Shooting the bad man in a gunfight They never hurt an innocent They lit up a dark movie screen To millions of boys they were heroes Always fighting for the power of right They always got the girl in the end Where have the western heroes gone The ones who were faithful to their characters Hollywood has moved on They don't make heroes any longer They are only found in fifty year old reruns If you are lucky enough to find them
Within the cold gray stone, It lives a spiritual humming, A strumming rhythm of natures Raw essence. Breathing rock inhaling, exhaling As the earthen elemental surrounding Conscious thought. Knowledge's smoothed edges, leave Reasons rough coarseness exposed. Humanities deaf ear, hears only, The hollowing of the four winds, Shutting out enlightenment's truth. Natures dream weaver touches Heaven, With her softest silken finger tips, And gods canvas falls unto earth. Behold a tapestry deepest blue, Lit by universal stars. In the stone circle, Mankind lifts innocence vial, Revealing ignorance blindness Of sight. And feels humiliation smallness. It's singular aloneness, individuality, Quest for immortality exists, On baron grounds frosted soil. In stillness silence, behold the Ring of fire. Lighting divine spirits to flame, Flickering embers alight igniting Destiny's spark. Intellect, intelligence a rebirthing From deaths black darkness. Within the cold gray stone, It lives a spiritual humming. A strumming rhythm of Natures raw essence. Breathing rock, inhaling, Exhaling. As the earthen element's Surrounding conscious thought. A cathedral of stone, With one disciple Left in prayers knelling position. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
There was an old sort of people that once took to the beach These old sort lived the beach and waited for the sunset They were old as time itself for they never aged They were of the beach and the beach was of them They watched every sunset from time began It was there eyes that made the sunset come and it was there sleep that brought about the night They forever watched and always kept everyday holy One day it was late and they were waiting for the sunset It did not come and they wept They disappeared into the night and were never seen again
I was curled up with Shakespeare on frayed pages with dog ears marveling at the depth of words nuances read between lines knowing that many hands had turned the same pages reaching different conclusions and evoking myriads of emotion my fingers touched the spine shivering with history connected through thought and with imagination running wild and I mourned for the children in todays world who's Shakespeare visits on flashing lights and computer bites lost is the old world charm such as Elizabeth wrote and Robert devoured ferociously my tears fell upon parched pages leaving an indelible stain that would be seen and felt by others who reached and touched the words I realized that tears on a screen would only be wiped away without memory of the emotion that was elicited leaving nothing at all for history to record...
The Color of a Man's Character We all bleed And cleave to Those we leave We all smile when we are greeted And cry when we are mistreated Why do we choose to abuse others For the color of their skin? Why do we think that only Our own color should win? We're all the same underneath We all deserve peace When we lay down to sleep Love one another while you can Show your son how to be gracious The color of a man's character Is how he treats his fellow Man.
If looks and money are what your about your not getting very far with me If you believe we use sattelites in space to watch television you have to be kidding me One happy victom center of attention of the brand new dance teaching his mentors the set up and allowing them to practice unbeknownst to the hardcore satanists we have been watching them all along practicing our own genre of miracle play and plotting to trump the hole in their plot Now they believe in magic as the media strings them along i am soo easy to get to since i am the blind leading the blind practicing the perfect act to get away with the perfect crime this is the leash around your neck and suddenly it has become mine Center stage of a plot where they carry out the joke of me never understanding my subtle warnings never fully knowing there is a hole in the plan for the world does not revolve around you and your twisted desires we did what was right and will continue to fight fire with fire Act 1 scene 1 practice makes perfect act 1 scene 2 an act of our own act 1 scene 3 deadlocked and now you know The life around me, fitting me like a glove a practiced routine waiting to be noticed so we can play our trump Spy versus spy versus spy and in the middle the blind leading the blind the story of a century you cant afford not to pay attention to but miss out on it all the time We told you it was a group effort to do your bidding mr. powerful renegade this choke chain around my neck should remind you something something we have in common but you didn't know i was refraining from pulling the chain it's getting harder to breath this unbreathable air it's getting more difficult to handle the constant lies and drama I will be fine just pull this chain choke you back we will switch shoes and welcome to my cult classic Spy versus spy versus spy soo many people playing yet too many oblivious for their own good i could keep this up for your best interest but thats not suiting me anymore so we watch you practice your routine wait for the hole in your plan and prove it we are deadlocked deadlocked no way out for all involved I step to the side you get whats coming to you i get to move on
I can't help but wonder I can't help it but I just have to look back The scar's that I have healed Every picture I have is so random I could cry a river I can't stop the anger within How can I love and hate thee at the same time You were supposed to be my shield but you burnt me You were supposed to be my oxygen but yet you're my carbon dioxide My heart feels like an Ice box You're a part of me You're my strength yet my weakness You're past yet my future You're my enemy yet my family I hate you and i love you at times You break me but yet you make me
Low flying plane Cloudless sky, bright blue Steel clashing, burning orange Cloudless no more, smoke fills the sky Thick, gray, rolls through the city Much more than a tragedy 3,000 deaths Millions affected Billions left with a dark memory seared in their minds By the hands of one, and A search begins War, oil, money What are we really fighting for? A man, a coward, a villain A decade of suffering mentally, The pain lies in the gaping hole of our hearts And is filled, with the demise of America's villain
Even predators have mothers and with the soft mewling eyes of infancy they search, search for the breast of mother the beak, the tooth, the talon, the claw… Children worldwide hunger. The small weak voices and stone dead eyes calling out to those who have… Mothers making stone soup. Mothers giving of their own body the last remnants of harsh life as the haves go on safari's or to zoos to feed the animals.
I smell them, coming like a landfill racing against my success, a race with spaces divided by a thin color line The world is printed like an aged Washington Post; quite a man he was, old George Nothing akin to Abraham, who knows, a man is just a man Of the few that perched on the edge, some, their seats were taken when the three came In September we break devil's backbone and cut the camel thorns; some were used for fuel, but one was allowed to flourish Near Ground Zero, a monument was erected echoing the sacrifices to Allah, because he begged for New York like Jerusalem, the unholy So, you see, my calamity is painted Deep within my roots are things that boil my blood and colored me for my judgment While the races are numerous, we forfeit the only we should run We are HUMAN, we are of that race only I've mentioned the "college" in prior times, how my journey was almost blurred; I was forced along a path directed by a thin color line, and ordered to run a race the God did not design
4 men in a boat, on fateful night . A poet from England ,3 mates set sail , One fell over and met his demise , leaving behind 3 in sadness they returned . To be described in a poem as they wrote .4 men in a boat ..minus one leaves 3. I thought I alone , I was the only one. Maybe. I was wrong . Who tells real truth in poetry I write , like the men in a boat that very sad night. 4 men in a boat , cold and frightened in a storm . At the end of the Day , the end of life , all is happy , all is sad . In love and Pain inspired . Many words written, for life is a storm , in truth and misery . Until the beautiful waters calm , and the seagulls sing their happy song for you. Then you will be writing words of love and happiness . This has been revised from the original version , I am learning new formations by entering contest that are for members on Poetry Soup. this is not about the win , I win every time I try !
Dedicated to an author by the name of William Golding... Enjoy!!! ~Two boys meet on an island ~~One is skin 'n bones ~~~The other one is chubby They discover a lagoon~ Ralph teases him by calling~~ him "Piggy" - how mean!!~~~ Piggy asks him if There are other people on The island with 'em He has no clue But this'll answer Piggy's question -- Other boys appear - All diverse shapes and sizes What'll happen next?? You'll see... Have you ever read The Lord of the Flies? I recommend it if yah haven't read it yet - I must admit It's a book full of adult words and it's simply...FASCINATING! - no lies You should read it - or you'll regret it!
sitting fearfully with stubborn resolve warm cocoa simmering amongst whitewashed marshmallows puffed up with self worth dusted with sugary arrogance slurs stirring inside endlessly whipping frenzy to pleading eyes she rode in silence speaking volumes that would sound loudly what kind of world was this that the light feared the dark instead of welcoming the blending for one without the other would leave emptiness filling the void with tangible hate teeth bared without reason lessons learned at someone else's knee wrapped up in lies to be labeled truth still she sat with the ignorance staring through windows from the past with defiant intent to change her limited view of future expectations in her eyes blurred images of burning crosses trees with swinging feet and white hooded men claiming superiority in God's name or any name that would justify immense cruelty the past lived inside her poverty and hunger dark degradation remembered in memories of generations spoken like fairy tales but with truth's conviction her papa had borne scars engraved with hatred into honeyed skin of the shackles that cut deeply into worth and self definition inside his eyes was aching refusal to accept so called truths he and his papa before him carried the scars passing them forward to burn again in new eyes hoping and praying to one day drown fiery flames of pain with cooling salves of knowledge, freedom and most of all equality little girl dreams are all the same they know no distinction of class or race human rights are inalienable should be granted to all human beings yet some still ride the bus at the very back fighting to regain what should have always been theirs watching the scenes evolve over and over reinventing prejudice disguising its malicious intent through concave windows that catch an eternity of tears falling silently from Rosa's eyes...
All hail, The brave soldier Who stands firm Like the fickle shell of a snail Before the oncoming foot of titans All hail, The brave soldier, A ferocious bee Who strikes his stinger into the enemy Comforted by fleeting thoughts of heroism -a safeguarded hive Thoughts that flit away in the wind Like windswept Pollen ambushed by desert -as the bee falls for the cause All Hail, The brave invader Who fells foe for his country All hail murderer, Comforted by a noble cause Sent out on wings of glory to cut down fanged tigers Purging threats, safeguarding life -the hive All Hail, Misguided killer For all tigers are fanged All people threats -All people life All Hail, The weary soldier -sacrificial lamb Joined out of a desperate cause A squalling infant, a taunting belly And the weary soldier Gives his sacrifice to the gods of the Hive And prays for rain.
stuffed critters line the dashboard of the V-dub he takes every day to visit her where she rests his bent fingers pluck strings serenade little princess sightless except for shadows, sees the cloudless day and beams the brightest crooked-smile gratitude feisty one drives big truck one leg to pump the pedals which one, the gas of course! while she dreams of evenings dancing bike pedals turning, churning on his daily fitness route he ventured out, not accepted came home to lead belonging rubber boots, wide-brimmed hat hands toil earth creating beauty short strong arms set nets He reaps ocean's bounty through serenity *the unmentionable word of all time – leprosy. The stigma still exists for those who have long been rid of Hansen's Disease. The only unclean thing is the heart of mankind. Dedicated to all those who have honored and touched my heart on Molokaí.
A farewell never passed Our valediction lost to the winds A lifetime of rage and anguish Flowing hotly upon the detriment And breaching. Though not without conflict It is under the shadow of war Within these shattered burnt ruins Remains the anguish Of sixty three years A recollection that seeps into the void Of my spirit Haunting my sleep…
The ancient Maya had a game They called Tut to Tut A game like soccer but the ball but the ball would be passed by the thigh and not the foot. They played with a latex rubber ball that some claim contained a human skull But what ever you think about the game it was never dull. Two teams would play before a temple On a strip of green the object of the game to pass the ball through a hoop made of stone the Winners were victorious but for the losers it wasn't so nice because they'd chop their heads of and make them a sacrifice. Glad I wasn't a coach beats soccer any day. ''Any one for a game of Tut to Tut''? Don't all shout at once. Peter Dome.copyright.2013.
Clouds garland snow capped mountain peak Icy snow butterflies melt kisses upon my nose Puffs of warm, moist breath balloons billow out before me, quickly chilling, disappearing before my eyes Crunching snow compacts beneath booted feet Prints set deep, little more than momentary reminder of where you have stepped before Crisp white blanket glints almost winking it's Christmas card welcome as it's vast white carpet spreads before you beckoning All of nature along with everything manmade becomes anew Nothing seems out of place A bird lands on branch of tree causing cascade of padded canopy New mound takes position with little noticed effect on perfect landscape Children laugh and run as they hurl packed balls at one another Dashing, darting, ducking and returning rogue ammunition to offending hand and screams of pleasure Slipping, falling they tumble over repeatedly Waving arms and legs, when finally still to create snow angels Then, standing up clothed as abominable snowman Giving rise to fresh ideas as new creation begins with rolling snow Bigger and bigger they chase and push, packing tight as they go Another ball a little smaller to place on top of first for head Then off they scatter in all directions looking to clothe their model Returning with woollen hat scarf carrot and stones to place as eyes nose and mouth with button features Admiring they know their masterpiece shall be short-lived For mother nature's hand will chance to create another slushy muddy puddle
On an early spring day, washed brilliant with clover In the land of the sun, and sweet cherry blossom A tremble, a rumble, that rattled the earth Cracking open the spring day, like the devil's own plaything Plates of dispute, on the edge of destruction Beneath the sea's surface…anger's wrath lies in waiting… It came with no warning, …a mighty surge of horror A tower of strength, to this tiny island flower The harsh call of nature, came boldly from the shore Relentless, the shaking, battering to the core And altered the earth with a shattering shrill Spilling despair, in a pillage of flurry Killing the helpless, yet… leaving the courage O' land, of gentle people, wearing dignity's expression Those from afar, watched on with compassion We gasped, then we cried, yet are awed with impressions How hands helping hands, and courage ensued Kind hearts, claimed the bruised, and calmed the confused You banded together…helping each another, Balance of elders, will hold you forever.. Grace under fire…. with honor we brand you You raise up the spirit with hands of the valiant Respect you have earned and honor you wear The sun keeps on rising…..and will shine ever more
Did you know time can slip by when we're not having fun? Samuel, it hasn't been fun These days that we've spent, it's felt like hours And remember when you came to the door with flowers? But time, Samuel- it's never odd or even Samuel, time hates us We don't even have a moment that's just ours Yet, chance made us friends Sitting in Niagara, staring at the lights Honestly, you and me, we could be free And yet we're imprisoned Steadily being caged in by time We were from the beginning, we were from the start Time hates us, dislikes us, loathes us, despises us We're the eyes of it's storm And yet I can tell in your eyes that you're happy That even with a car running on empty and not living a life we had envisioned, We've made a world that stretches far
Through report the world came to you, corresponding through reclusion on terms your own. Your first-rate grasp of third-hand knowledge, coupled with a dash of hesitancy, and you were THE "it" girl of the next era. Existence-like pure pre-existence. Recognizing your own genius , even when no one could see your face -- Your mirror, yours alone. You cocooned your body ( a white shroud ) to preserve, what? A voice. Some idea(l). Wrapped in light, a utopia constructed of hedges, afraid to step beyond your own garden, but more fearful still not to write your way Beyond.
standing emancipated suffering Mengele's obsession an unsterilized scalpel peeling away skin with religious zeal cries falling upon deaf ears in piles with teeth screaming in horror anesthetizied by Nazi madness...
Tis sore int' thwait wi mor'n a few folks a gippy loose tha's snap as M'pessons well n tek sum brass from t'watter na its nowt but a mickle midden but them folks as a good un, narry a one of 'em flit tek thasen a gander but the's nowt in Eyam save 'plague Translation It is bad in the village with more than a few people sick Leave your food at Mompessons Well and take some money from the water Now it's nothing but a big mess But the villagers are good people, not any one of them has left Take yourself a look but there is nothing in Eyam except the Plague History The village of Eyam in Derbyshire was hit by the plague at the same time as London (1665), the villagers self imposed a quarantine to prevent the disease spreading any further, the surrounding villages left food at a well near Eyam, in exchange for money which had been left in the vinegar filled well to clean it. For "Sista's Bloody Sista's" contest run by Deborah Guzzi Honorable Mention
In battles hymn, raise your shield, Sharpen metals sword. All hail bow low unto Rome, Be blinded by opulence's glitter, And greed's excess Salves feel her golden sandles, Upon bare skins flesh. Shackles hand cuffs, bind generations, Under whips task masters. Architectural thieves, swallowing, Cultures as the serpent gorging itself. On it's twisted belly the beast, Encircles it's prey. At blades sharp edged point, the innocent Lie slain, In histories dust humanity bleeds. Crimson skies light Cesar's horizon, As thousands gather in the Colosseum. The gladiator stands alone, facing madness's Throne Awaiting death's final release from bondage. A simple thumbs motion, Down meaning liberation, Up for another soul taken. Behold blood sports ultimate challenge, To live or die by strength and valor. Fates twisted sense of humor, Laughs at him behind justice's, Blackened curtain. Mocking the crowds lustful, Calls of encouragements. Sacrifices altar burns brightly, Upon the false Gods alabaster statue. Patiently waiting veracity's venom, Ambitions royal descriptors feasting, At harvests festive table. The warrior faces reflections honored soul, And behind them destiny's predator stalks, Those soon to fall it's victim. To a coiled cobra poised to strike, Decadence audience claimers at fevers pitch, Adrenaline rush, excelling the Combatants deadliest game. Immoralities remembrances, Or defeats cowardly shame. Devastation final reckoning To the victor goes spoils waste, For the dead remains emptiness. Champions hero kneels before, The emperor's mighty power. An evergreen crown of laurel leaves, His treasures only gift. Freedoms mercy to live another day, Beyond the arenas iron gates. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
On this night.... Screaming and yelling is all I can hear I want to get up, But fear reappears I swiftly close my eyes But can't fall asleep I hear a series of shots, From across the street Once again, It's just like before I rise to my feet , Then drop to the floor Shaky legs, And Watery eyes Praying prayers, I just want to survive Bloodstained spots,Yellow tape surrounding Broken fragments of glass,Who's underneath The blanket of death One cough, One whisper,One last little breath Family and friends so violently wept Rants of revenge, Are bellowing near Frightened eyes, shed clouds of tears Into the night I slip away But not so quiet return at day I blankly stare upon the walls My breath escapes into a fog A not so quiet day like this I feel as if I don't exist It's kind of late into the game, But life goes on, Its all the same A drink or drug could never heal, What's happening is still so real, You can't imagine how this feels A broken heart, A wounded soul Swollen lips, Dead body cold A second, A day , A breaths taken away A minute, An hour, A loss of human power Every month and every week So many more lives are taken quickly Is time running out, Are eyes going blind? Are ears going deaf? Will there be anything left? My heart's in remission to end it right here My body's positioned to stand up to fear Existence is determined, The struggle against defeat The time is coming up so fast, Into the night I weep From the moment we arrived,Terror increased Now is the time for us to pack up and leave A hard look at our life, Has made us sober We have no choice but to start over My family and I lived through nightmare after nightmare in our old apartments for 3 years and just 2 years ago, we moved. Thank God he made a way out for us to escape safely.
Unrecognizable breathing carcasses March to the graceful beat of death A welcomed sentence to their Savagely tortured bodies And extinguished spirits Unjustly slaughtered by lunatic men Self-created superiority based on Flawed, foolish beliefs Manically smug smiles grotesquely displayed As they watch the skeletal scum Forcibly assembled for Gaseous cleansing Violently chaotic stampeding unfolds Blood chilling screams forever echoing Through the chambers of hellish horrors Until Massacred silence Martyred smoke clouds the sky Fast fading in sight But eternally haunting
I was taken from this life in the black night, blindfolded to be clubbed to death so that I might be born again in spirit song, dance and name given by my great ancestor who, ten thousand years ago or more, crossed the Bering land bridge from Siberia to Cowichan and the Salish Sea warm land of the raven, the black bear and the salmon. I have suffered four hundred years of dislocation of the soul in this barren culture, nameless but for "primitive squaw." I have lost Tamanawas, the sacred ritual dance the Potlatch feast of giving and my children and my language. I will endure four days and nights confined and cold and hungry while all around the rhythmic pulse of elders' drumming, chanting guides me back in time and space to voices still resounding stories of a dancing flame light upon the earth And I will rise in cedar forests and walk the clamshell middens feel our language on my skin and see with startled eyes new life the Soulfire I've been given. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This was for the Shaman's Way contest but I think I missed it. Cowichan --used to be pronounced coWEEchan now it's usually said like, Cow i chan. The Canadian government outlawed many Coast Salish practices until the 1960's--the Spirit Quest, Potlatch feast and Tamanwas dance among them. Children were placed in residential schools, away from their families, and were forbidden to speak their mother tongue. More recently, the spirit quest ritual has been revived as (loosely) described in the poem. However, it is also now used as a form of "intervention" to help address an array of problems frequently attributed to colonization (e.g., drug and alcohol misuse). So, where in the past, young people would go off into the forest voluntarily, it is now often the case, (at least in Cowichan) that young people are taken from their beds in the night. Initiates are first symbolically "clubbed to death" then "reborn" after multiple days of ritual practices.
Drawing water from deep well Clear _cool refreshing water Drop bucket _watch fall That windless works That is if you do Turn _turn the rope Each turn gets much harder A lot like life, friend 1. Drawing (1) 10. Watch(1) 19. Turn(3) 27.Like(1) 2. Water(2) 11. Fall(1) 20. The(1) 28.Life(1) 3. From(1) 12. That(2) 21. Rope(1) 29.Friend(1) 4. Deep(1) 13. Windless(1) 22. Each(1) 5. Well(1) 14. Works(1) 23. Gets(1 6. Clear(1) 15. Is(1) 24. Harder(1) 7. Cool(1) 16. If(1) 25. A(1) 8. Refreshing(1) 17. You(1) 26. Lot(1) 9. Drop(1) 18. Do(1)
We watched Frida Kahlo with our backs toward the rice fields The monkey fits tightly to her breast, her right breast. A parrot on her left shoulder; two chatter-boxes that mimic What if the wolves pull our wool over our eyes? In lands where barbarians sacrifice youths for takings, the woman that speaks like a man wears the trousers in our houses She muddled up many sharp wits, but not mine; I've seen the Adam's apple Why are we standing taller than our heroes, and what honor is a wheel-chair to a builder? We've seen Miss Kahlo these days, she believes she can paint a brighter picture. Her children are media fed, and far from initiative; they hunger to prove Marx's theory, but are scared of the manifesto and the horror mushroomed by the monkey and the parrot on News at Ten In George's house, where some acquire the taste for caviar, a man is understood like Fidel if he argues for an amendment When Frida went out for tea, and Donald considered running From behind the white wall came the joke, and the four winds were primed to laugh. The monkey whispers lies to Sarah, and the parrot is frequent on the Oprah Show, Oprah, like Frida Kahlo, wears testes, not under corset but beneath Victoria Beckham
Planting the garden with all love and kindness I kneel and bow my head in quiet contemplation Reflecting on life passed, already slipped through my fingers Of times my soil was not tendered by such kindred hand When minutes were short and hours so fully crammed with business I'd simply open my seeds regardless of consequence and scatter aimlessly upon the land Much that fell about me would wither, fall, or fail For quality of moment did not matter, meant little to me Little I did would flourish for it surely wasn't manned nor intended No nurturing, no love, no care, no nothing Yet now my precious moments surely stand I learnt in time to find freedom in saying no, gently taking back that that was too freely given To once more take hold of pallet and brush with artistic flair That my own world could bloom in full colour and take a stance So I could get a grip, a hold on all To really know how to stamp my brand For time stands still for no-one
Amongst the heaven's vast divides in the kingdom, Of the God's the hills have eyes. Here mighty Zeus commands with an iron fist, And lightnings deadly thunder bolts. Beware humanity the Olympians watch over thee, In the grand pantheon's arena known as the blue, Planet called earth. Written in sacred text ancient scrolls are legends, Hero's whom fall and rise with the whims of Those four twisted sisters called the fates. Praying in pagan temples to divine deities. Virgin maidens cry innocence tears on the Fallens behalf. Courageous champions performing on, A grand theatrical stage to appease nobility, Almighty audience. Hercules half beings mortal flesh an indestructible Landside of raw strength a force to be, Reckoned with no power on earth could, Over throw his father's immortal throne. Achilles tempered steel wrought and lain, Upon human flesh. In reverences shadow of a woman's desist, Dies at the feet of reverences unmerciful beauty, Named Helena. Bloods spear of destiny lies quivering, on The far distant shores of troy. As a wooden horse burns beneath heavens, Moonlit sky. Greenery's loyal leaf encircles mankind's, Spiritual soul to honor lost hero's in the, Elysian fields of the dead. Silent echoes whispers linger among eight Peaks near creet. In reans ashes and destructions broken temple Walls life remains at rests domanate state. At victory's trumpet call shall these guardians, Rewake to take their place again amongst, The univeral map of galatic stars, The oylampians. But your legacy's remembrances leave, A magnificent brilliance no dynasty can, Compare with your shinning example. We remember thee blinded by thine, Everlasting beauty. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
horrific, decades-long study syphilis, study its effects covert medical testing army scientist bitten by mosquitoes, yellow fever mustard gas, enter chambers temporarily blind dark age hospital patients injected with plutonium, atomic soldiers in the waves of nuclear explosions trace amounts of radiation, in breakfast cereal of handicapped children new drug, LSD dropped over a French town, unsuspected, hallucinations with the latest discovery, reports of dark practices soon to follow.
VANISHED We are the echoing voices crying within the darkness, Melting mists of vapor co-existing amongst the living, The ambling drifters shifting between reality and limbo, The vanished. Displacement malfunction, the frozen chill in one's space, Happening without explanation, the corporal spirit sliding In the temporal rift as if a doorway has opened then closes With sudden forces slamming, The vanished. Running at full sails speed the ghostly ship hanging on the Distant horizons cresting wave, the Bermuda Triangles curious Answer, never revealed, a planes broadcasting its S.O.S. then Nothing except statics silence, the walkers of historical significance, Never heard from again except in dusty monologue's ancient text, The vanished. Rebukes despised disposed by hatred lies of malice, the forgotten, Yet we touch the living by the night's lunar light, angers tortured Languishing amidst the flames of hell's fire, crying out for justice But receiving only torment, silences footsteps heard amongst the The land of the living, The vanished. Sacrifice's vanished foe, given to the idle gods of the past, Manipulations fallen solider who gave his life for what He believed was a justified cause, the lost soul of the Innocent that does not realize he lies in the kingdom Of the diseased, The vanished. The crumbling ruined city, with its lingering residences, Still haunting the abandon streets and venues of the past, Do to tragedies misguidance, or alliances bomb shelled fortress Torn apart and left to molten ash, these shadows of innocence Remain, behold The vanished. The dead man's sleep walker, emerging from his cryptic Tomb, suddenly realizing it's survived the end of the world, But now he's all alone, in isolations one celled chamber, As the human ash cloud descends upon the last ma On earth falls to his knees and screams out loud, why, Dear God, why The vanished. Listen to the voices carried upon the wind, It is the vanquished seeking answers without Replies response, the weeping victims of time Bang against our shutters windows, and knock At the front doors of our souls, they will not Be ignored, Those vanished. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Mass of red and gold plumage blood of supreme incessant immortality flows within Only I alone can reign stronger a fortiori than the army of any man or beast Symbolic of Christ, ressurection, afterlife In death redeemed consumed by fire only to be born again of ashes I will rise up again! Injured from mortals wars I simply ameliorate and regenerate I am fire and divinty Continually watching the irresolute ever changing, dynamic world around me In despair I scrutinize and contemplate as all things moral are taken from me periodically and adinfinitum lost ever and again Armys of mortals have chased my blood for an age in want of my immortality Whilst they wrangle with continual want and I would content for less I have met no immortal contender my glorification to you either unobtainable or a terrible curse As a deity I serve this planet in all my supremacy for I will foresee you all Authors note This piece was originally written as a two part collaborative effort with poet Kathleen C. Mannon, otherwise known by pen name kkatie55 . The prompt we were given to write to for contest was Mortal vs. Immortal in September of 2007, a month after I first started writing I believe. To begin with we both took our ideas and wrote individually then bringing our ideas together and changing slightly to fit from there… I tried to write so this would stand alone too, and have only just decided to bring it out to share for opinion. To see the write with the omitted verses written by the other poet, please feel free to go view at this link where each poet has initialled over their respective stanzas/verses. http://allpoetry.com/poem/3404940 Thankyou for your trouble in reading this explanation, but I do not wish to discredit its original intention nor take anything away from the other poet by placing this half here. I hope you shall be excited about reading it in full…
A Leader That Comes Only Once In a Few Generations I want to see a leader who is willing to do the right thing for our country Not try to make a buck for themselves. We need someone who is willing to lead our nation to a brighter future Not into quick sand so they can rule the land for a few days. Our United States needs a person who is not self-centered Someone who can think what will save this country from Becoming just like all of the rest, a person who will maintain Our country's independent identity. We need a leader not a chump who is down on his luck; We need someone who is willing to walk away from a buck. Our nation has to find a person willing to stand up for her Not sell her out, she needs a true once in a few generations Type of leader to truly lead our country to better times.
Go out and get it we told them And I have seen mothers wringing leaves for tears of tea I have seen fathers striking stone And cursing the prophecy of water from the rock And I have seen them day after day like sheep Staffed and rodded into an obedient flock Defering Saturday matinees and Sunday evening games Taking solace only at the edge of flesh The new pilgrimage of the driven age of youth But it did not deter the goal we set The balloon of dream in their head That their new skill and competency will us richer And that for that we will sit as family laugh Like days too old now to remember And after the strain For balm the fractured cohesion falls apart Family like glass splinters in the heart I read about, know about it, felt it like the hammer at my grave But we cannot deny that despite all They went out to get it But cannot come again. In libraries whispering smothered discontent On facebook drinking the anesthtettic of spurious arguments The heart tweets, and tweets The disparaging malajustment of the world No vacancy sign littering our babel trembling Where are they to work What shall we do with all this genius Stagering from place to place? I went out with them until I was old I am returned again to build With them, but instead collapsed into a discourse with our eyes We meet the wasteland face to face.
Southern Tradition Daddy didn't look at them as they passed by August illuminating unkempt hair and worn-out hand-me-downs a woman and her four children walking in the road to avoid the sidewalk on our side. I see her every day but she doesn't have time to see me, ebony eyes too busy watching babies crying over the hot asphalt Daddy spits and shakes his head. ' Too sorry to buy a car!' Years later a muddy red boot print graces our front door A gift from a long grown child (confident as a ghost who's never been seen) in exchange for the tv in the trunk of a car his Mama never had Daddy spits and shakes his head. ' Well look at where they come from!'
was this tortured victoms ground zero a lie? were his 17 sites of an obsessive world peace nature proof in the pudding? were the forgetfulintentions of poetrypoem helpful at all? the life lesson of ressurecting three literary saviours and then slaughter them how many witnesses to this technicolor dream there to keep you living? can you prove me wrong that i just averted the holocaust? was the confusion of this necisary? from the homeless shelter starting over the realisation of how many cities have already cried not televised of their tears the world sick with war many affected in their own ways for their perceptions of a life they lived Deadlocked back stab society deadlocked crime of the century deadlocked the story of a stolen empire whoever they were were going to bomb my city whoever they are have been torturing people whoever they were are going to lie through their teeth deadlocked with confusion sucked in with terrorism and spit out as a peace keeper sucked in with good intentions to aid survivors of tragedy and war spit out as person with a soul deadlocked the crime of the century classic con or not the mixing pot society that almost died the mystery unravelling of me your allie and you working for me to kill worldly enemies to play the game to get me laid called keeping miserable happy all the way from youtube's imcallingjapan to an x tube music video all the way from the governments of facebook the pancake sting of the satanic community walking circles downtown clapping chanting pancakes family and friends waiting acting like strangers someone starts making fun of this person he yells you hate sex family and friends start clappping and chat sex sex sex then give a stranger a high five and walk away under cover again deadlocked earth i have taken over this planet its a thing like the way to kill warpigs if they take over the police called rap to color code an ambush you cant coordinate but i can the crime of the century of saving your life yeah thats my empire of loose ends the ones that changed your life the ones that fit in the manners of me taking over the world those 80 families with million dollar paintings with poems assisting futuristic intelligence on the back deadlocked back stab society i just took over the planet like the porn industries game of hug all over the mediapope of twitter
Ibycus was on his way to a music festival when he was set upon by robbers. While dying a wave of cranes flew over. Ibycus implored the cranes to avenge him. The robbers, with their spoils attended the music festival. There were thousands in attendance. Mid way through a choir performance, a flock of cranes flew over the stadium. The robbers, recalling Ibycus' dying words, panicked and were arrested THE CRANES OF IBYCUS "Look! Look, comrade, There, yonder flow The cranes of Ibycus!" Above the stadium, In perfect row, The cranes of Ibycus, Above the Fury's chorus, In dissonance, crow, The cranes of Ibycus! Above the bedlam crowd Their numbers grow, The cranes of Ibycus! Above the hoard of voices, Become now low, The cranes of Ibycus. Above the perfect silence, Flying slow, The cranes of Ibycus. Above ten thousand heads Which lowly bow, The cranes of Ibycus. Beyond the tiers and fading In the distant glow, The cranes of Ibycus Dave Austin a la W.H. Auden
imcallingjapan will show youtube poets how its done in this poem to ressurect your own literary saviours like a mediapope saying aint life tweet internet poetry corner speed dating coffeeshops to find the right music making software versus free liabilities take your time thanking me for showing you how to be a success at your photobucket slideshows like a myspace objecttocrave stumble upon my techno porn like a god of funk it can be done notes on notes of notes to sing the songs of a thousand birds sing vote after vote after vote of life changing abstract dreams 80 families waiting to cash in on their paintings and now you can thank me for your exposure as i stumble upon the deck stacked in my favor to meet the people who inspired me like a poetrypoem friend met through a shadowfiend easy as pie recipe for success this candid camera screw up kissing our nightmares goodbye Your dumb if you dont work on this to cash in on your talkents wether through hallmark, music, or advertising your welcome like a hollywood lemonaid stand for the people who made the most lemons out of lifes lemonaid
Through you I seek to know: What happened once below? You ferns of resistance, I see you Mixing it upward with A firm stance. (Such steely green weeds Do smirk indeed Above the empty path of horizon's eye, Blackened to nowhere). What, though, do I see in you? (A path lies vacant and wanting, A land once named upon a dream; A barren place now daunting, Neglected and unseen). Where is your truth? (Does it rest within your clumsy bud's dance With a tertiary sky, Or a raucous from your stem's windward need To lead)? Oh No. I do believe: It is your roots of defiance! To know Home in no shame; To forge through scarred soil with no blame! Such courage you have: To reap the shifting tar of fickle men, And safely hasten away From the notion of never again! (Thirty some years have stood and fell Yet… Your quiet presence lives to tell This hell, Once known, As Love's canal). Oh eager green, I wish you well.
As I gaze at the priceless sarcophagus of a boy king, my mind takes me back in time; thousands of years ago, when pyramids were powerful monuments, and Isis covered the entire of Egypt with her powerful, yet gentle wings. A time when the Nile was as clear as a crystal, and gold as abundant as ants in an anthill, is a time worth creating a time machine to travel to, and disappear in the enchanting grandeur in the sands.
Hear across my native soil, The calling, Echoes ancient voices, Raised in prayers ritual. A forgotten people, leaving, Their mark upon histories Legacy. Mysteries great questioning, Lain outward for generations, To wonder why? Beneath the heavens vastness, Behold gray monoliths reaching, Upward. In the circle of life and death, As a continuing sphere ever, Winding within it's self. A seasonal calendar timed by, Natures rhythm. An inner heartbeat, pulsating, From the earths core. Springs awakening warming Breath, Or winters chilling hand of death. To plaint and harvest, or lay at rest, The tools of trade. The beasts of burden are released From heavy yokes harness. Pagan Gods demand tributes sacrifice, Lain upon the sacred altars fire. Druid priests carrying wisdom's staff, Praying for enlightenment's spiritual guidance. Sung in Gallic tongue, they chant. Asking for natures bounty, A good years passing and Healings curing power. An ancient religion seeking, Answers to humanities quest to know. Lost to times relentless pass, Our ancestral heritage is remembered, I'm myths and legends, Mystical circle of stone, Known as Stone Hedge. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Neglected and forlorn like the parent uncared for left to the ravages of time the great pyramids of Khuf Khafre and Menaura sit. The city about them spewing the gases of man into the once pristine desert and sky. Hydrocarbons and lead turn the atmosphere a shade of ochre tinged with rust, and the haze through which the marvels of the ages are seen is all that maintains the fantasy. Centuries pass as the life in and out of Cairo Egypt leeches off the glory of the past. Architecture, art, gold and silver that flowed from the mines like water from the font of Eden oil the skies and pump the heart of a nation. The Golden Age fell, fell with the onslaught of the Romans and Christianity… leaving a people to live on the corpses of Pharaoh's http://www.arabworldbooks.com/articles1.html
A circle of harmony, symbolizing the Idealism of peace, In this world of troubling times, We do lean against it's inner bars, For comforts sake alone. Let us turn a new page, my friend In history no more black ink, But a greener color a weaved lore wreath, For the dawning of an age of Enlightenment. Can one hear mother natures voice calling, It is time for the Eco revolution to begin, So let us join together and save our world. Let the winds of change blow free, What a better symbol to represent, Than that of peace, waving in open Air, captured in the morning breeze. Flower power's generation has come of age, Dig out those tie-die T-shirts and Let us represent not with voices, But with action. Light the torch of freedom again, It's flame needs new kindling, Stoke it's sacred embers once more, And allow the modern world to Know we are American, the country Illuminating a greener planet. By example shall the United States Stand tall, or fall by natural disaster's After shock. The global unity of the brethren, of Mankind can make a difference, Let our inspiration be our children, The future generation, inheritance Should be something worth the leaving Of it behind. A legacy called pride, on a green planet, Proud of my kindred called humanity, Let our youth hold their heads up high, Not low in shame. Allow the age of peace to stand for Something meaningful, I'll give the sign What about you? BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Morning rays unfolding like fingers formed Trace the far-reaching dreams To awaken the sleeping children To recognize the dawn Of the new world There were promises made that shall not be broken Rest assured That there's going to be Some major changes made Weeping and mourning Will be no more ... Pain and sickness Will cease to exist... No famine in the lands Feeble minds will be Granted wisdom from above This is for the betterment of mankind So, rest assured dear friends Believe me when I tell you There's a new day coming.
I know you see me from up there, from halfway up the steep and twisting lane. In early half-light as you take your walk I no doubt seem to loom as you descend, appear to grow, to rise from earth, my boxlike rectilinearity, severe and unadorned geometry, a silhouette against the solitary sodium source. I once hosted fiery-throated hymns from dedicated souls in Sunday best: "Marchog, Jesu, yn llwyddiannus", "O! Iesu mawr, rho d'anian bur" – voices rich and raised and resonant, so filled with faith, so gorged with God. My pitch-pine pews were polished by coat and skirt and trouser twill. Abandoned now, unloved, slab-still, void and stark and desolate, with quarry-tiled floor that would resound with joy were anyone to walk upon it, I present gaping emptiness, a thing felt, a cave whose darkness, palpable, is peopled by retreating echoes of my past, like timorous ghosts far too afraid to speak. But there is One I must not name who lodges in my roomy quarters, cowers within my tight square corners, seeking shadows when the sun stares in. I hear Him breathing as He sweats in His remorse, a thing smelt, hiding from the accusing gaze of His forlorn creation.
A floating grand duchess of her time, Moored and held captive, by chains of elegance. The great lady, holds her head up high, with prides honor, Befitting such as her station allows, behold she is the Queen Mary, monarch of the seven seas, christened by royal Command, notabilities finest vintage, blessed this her hollowed bow, None other would do, for thy majesty, opulence's marvelous diamond, A jeweled liner, representing prosperity's golden age of fortune. Fallen have her sister ships, beneath the God Poseidon's unmerciful wrath. She sheds a tear, on their behalf, and curtsy's with grandeur's grace. As foam to spray, sending sorrows haunting blessing, To thee, my lost comrades, I so do miss, forever thy shining luster, Gems of rare clarity's brilliance, will be remembered, in the maritime Log book of historical acclaim. I'll never forget thee, my sisters of the heart, carried is this message, By swiftest currants tides, to the briny depths below. Gracious madam, residing on the international stage of fame, What secrets do they hold, beneath thy haul, though thy ports Looking glass, many ghostly images do walk, your empty corridors, Phantom voices do echo, within forgotten passages, of your Yesteryear's younger days of yore. Mistress of intrigue, enchantress of mystery, a masked diva, Hidden beneath celebrity's face of beauty, decor and Design, textures layers delicately placed to entice the sight And mind. Legacy's last link to the past, she is of a shipping dynasty, Of epic true titanic sized giants, vessels of statement, To a culture built upon the value, bigger means better, A classification that was doomed from the start. Yet she can still dazzle us, with her romantic Victorian Charm, always the lady hiding behind a veil of mystery, Waving her silken fan of desire, to solve the unsolvable, A trait of humanity is curiosity, to play with fire, And in the end to get burnt by the flame. A relic damsel in no distress, a vessel of olden days, Bravo I say, we need such as she, to give life our life Excitement, after all is it not the thrill of the chase, That drives mankind forever forward. Book my passage than, I'll board the next voyage, And walk the plank for my own precious prides sake alone. Call all aboard captain, for the queen of the seven seas, For she is the queen Mary, held captive by chains of elegance, A rare gem, in her own right that still shines. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
a coin for every day, five maybe six tossing away one a day of a diiferent value depending on the day color coded lets everyone know when and how you gave where the freakshow will take you to for their gratitude now one day to feast three days to collect circus games to play like an allowance for underprivelledged two different types of coins are worth anything on certain days while everything else is void two different types of coins not allowed in any store pay to charity or leave the store names and numbers and a slide of literary sciences from one hand to the next for lottery numbers one wining ticket among millions same numbers drawn, winning numbers nothing more than the secret of the village a secret the codes are meant for a six day event a nine day holiday streets littered with money how little you neeed to give to see how much it adds up how much you do give how little difference its making and why why cant things be altered? shift of power? power of the have nots? then take it back, and offer us this meet us half way give us our surprise holiday
(The Battle for Orgreave Pit) Cries of Zulu as miners rushed the barricades Truncheons banging against riot shields A nation at war with itself Men of South Yorkshire, United in the right to defend their pit Maggie's the Caesar of capitalism Her legionnaires bought with 30 pieces of silver Brought from the four corners of this septic isle To take away another man's right. To destroy his culture, his freedom, his way of life A democracy of road blocks and strip searches England for the few While miners live on Pots of rabbit stew Demonised by the elected south, Propaganda their stew. Orgreave, now a place of forgotten ghosts And Coal the driver of this great economic power All gone Memories, now overwhelmed by the banks and the city But power is fleeting, a house of cards For they too have felt the wind of recession So beware the hurricane, or you too might become extinct And what Caesar will save you. Footnote to this poem This poem is about the Miners' Strike, June 18th 1984 As a young lad and bizarre as it may seem I played in a 5 a side football match at Orgreave Pit on this day. My way was blocked by 1000s of miners and a cordon of Police blocking our access with barriers of Riot Shields. We made our way to the front and asked a Policeman to let us through. To my amazement the cordon opened and we were let through. Behind us was a surge of Miners all shouting Zulu. It must have been a rallying call, for me it was a magnificent site, a place of community rebellion, a place to be proud of. In response the Police beat their shields with truncheons. The sounds were deafening, From the sides mounted police horses galloped into the crowd causing miners to fall and split. This was war without guns. The Miners regrouped and the Cry of Zulu saw miners coming over fields and down the lane charging at the barricade of shields, the sounds of the clashes were unbelievable. At the end of the day I was coming home there were coaches of police holding up their wage packets to the window at the remnants of miners now left, a final insult to the miners. None of this was reported at the time.
It takes a critical mass to keep a culture alive, I once heard someone say. Ishi was the last of his tribe and whole civilizations have come and gone. The tipping point comes when you lose your way or someone takes it away from you. George Washington, for all his faults, understood what torture was. Tecumsah killed his own warrior for torturing a white prisoner. Our Bill of Rights was written with an empire's abuses in mind. Once, these things were understood, and despite our faults, we were proud of who we tried to be. A people and its leaders not outraged by our abuse of others rights and bodies, and even of our own, has lost its critical mass and become everything its founders feared that we might become.
To be English above all is not just a given, from the beginnings of time to the new world position. It is of bravery and honour that has built the empire we know, that no matter what we may face no matter how big the enemy or challenge we will not quiver we shall not shudder nor walk away, our upper lip will remain stiff and the lions heart our enemy will feel in protection of Queen and country. In a world of corruption and deceit, floundering morals as sources try to wash them away, inside this mayhem will always lay a loyal army to her Majesty and country that will fight tooth and nail to protect. No matter the hatred or non believers we shall not fall. The most powerful family in the world that has ruled through generations of change and is echoed through the story of time this is my promise to you your Majesty we will always be here waiting on your every word to follow and serve as your loyal army. May GOD save the Queen and protect her people through time, For we are ENGLAND . . full of love . . . full of Pride!
(To All Who Believe It Can Be Achieved) Caucasoid, Mongoloid,and Negroid Colour the conscience progression of Man's ethical Truths... The cultural aggressions of violence and ignorance must end! Extend your heart, hand and life Towards the Precious Don of Honour... Freely, keeping the sincere Brotherly Creed Comments: Brothers and Sisters it is time that we stand up and let the Love of God in, after all we are all one in the same under the skin, so why not give it a grand try... One Love and Many Blessings in Him Always, Adell
i don't want to be just marking time. i died on november 20, 2008, during surgery. i was on a vent when i awakened december 2, 2008....my sisters' birthday. what made me llive i'll never know. i know there are things to do on this side of death. i have no time for marking time. i have a stupid bag hanging from my side now. i am supposed to "get comfortable with it". well that was a laugh. that was a laugh until i thought of the people that had these things with no hope of ever getting away from them. i am so lucky. 14 days i laid on a vent, then 22 more. i came home 3 days, then i had great pain in my chest... . well this is great i said, a pulmonary emboli, 15 more days, three days home. then back to e.r. blood pressure too high. this bought me 4 more days in e.r. i am home now and finally have spent 19 days home. i feel every pain and i feel every time that i feel good yes, i am never marking time again.....there is something about fighting for your life and your sanity that straightens things out. i don't recommend it but i wish i could let your hearts know what i know. janetta
This the truth will always be – amity between Sam and Abdalla; finding Bigfoot, gathering the ocean's blue; a perfect wedlock; Hollywood; Fox News; Joel Osteen. There is no place where freedom is not sacrificed for dreams, reality for sugared words, a black man to Limbaugh's tongue – the brutal but softer tone of the Coliseum. Our dream is fractional happiness, a day with dark ending. Our light is a fast exodus to the open sepulchers, so far from youthful minds, but within walking distance of our bodies, breathless. Our fad is for the open eyes, our eyes, a minute to see. How fleeting are the seconds, and years. When the old Ampad man came to town, we went backward like a cult baptism, there was this smell that walked like stupid, along the Ohio River, the sound of tomorrow's children crying the cries their parents left them. Smith was never pleased with Jesus' work, so they took him to America, and execute the first 9\11, like Waco. We strip barks from the neutered trees, the rabid yelps in the Bushes. We've witnessed Barbara giving birth to Judas, an effort to fulfill the selling of the woman at sea. We were terrified, but God never let it be so; we will not go now, the sky will dressed in black to moan our pending death. We are dogs on a lease – I can't believe the things the wind told my ears. Remember George, how we gave him Samantha, then request that the black man give her back to us, saying, let us take our Sammy from the cotton picker's son; he's blind; he cannot see Russia from his house, his name is a message from the camel people. How can he rest his graying head, against a pillow made with thorns? How can he sleep, with all that stupid ringing in his ears?
Thru a shadowed path, down a shadowed lane Two lovers walk, the moonlight to gain. The beauty of the walk is as beauteous as their love, Shared thru a kindness, a reverence, and the touch of a hand. A meadow comes into sight to eventually espy Mists swirl in mystery as they begin to walk by. But a fragrant rose pulls them, their attention drawn Thru the gates of an old house they gently begin forth Who in love lived here long ago, now unseen? What trials, what future, had they seen? Their love built a life, and of course this home Would that their lives could be so generously strewn. Two lovers that lived so very long ago And thru the years were repeatedly, celebrated so. Now, two more have come as the man goes on bended knee He picks the rose and delivers it up with a ring He has bought this old house, a glorious old thing To inspire her to wife, to repeat once more, an old beautiful dream May the tale of this house and the old love it has seen Inspire a new couple to a great life once again.
I'm the whispering voice of legacies long sense past, the overseer Of generations traveling with broken wings of tribal tradition, A vanquished chieftain, whom sheds his sacred feathers, as tears Shame upon the white man's winds of manifest destiny. Clarity's shattered warrior languishing within a river of Crimson shoals, drowning beneath salvations suffering, Wounded left at bending knees of mercy, abandon, with Our archers crushed bow, and idle arrows of sorrow, upon The battle field of ignorance and indifference. Kindred leaves of humanities autumn, Left torn and tossed asunder, Tatters remnants, drifting loosely on the breeze Of progress, Built upon the ash pile of a nation's people. Many life flames flicker at the sacred fire beyond, Hear the drumming's roar; it is the beating heart, The bleeding soul, crying out for revenge, but Driven deeply is the spear of destiny, piercing The righteous spirit, shattering it into a million Pieces, that descends as raindrops of regret. Treaties promises melt away as paper confetti, Burnt embers offerings left as crisp fiery spray, Floating in the deadened chill of winter's forth Coming. Beneath the singed blankets of tribal markings, Lie huddled the feeble of starvation, those whom Desire to feed from the table of their ancient culture, But these eloping breasts are drained dry. Behold these starving cannot remember the flavor Of her milks taste, nor the fragrance of her natural Perfume, for they are the lost tribe of humanity, People of the desert prairie, blown apart by the Scorching winds of fate. I'm the whispering voice of legacies long sense past, the overseer Of generations traveling with broken wings of tribal tradition, A vanquished chieftain, whom sheds his sacred feathers, as tears Shame upon the white man's winds of manifest destiny. Harken my children and listen, for wind whisper walks amongst You, and I'll mend the bow, with prides honor, in faith's devotion, The ancient warrior shall ride again, against the flames of our Sacred fire, and thus the weeping woman shall cry no more. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
At what cost rags to riches splashing blind falling in trenches Cladding poor country king's taking the life of the owner Will they come for yours Clicking to social dictated schemes They march no more They walk no more They dance no more Millions of shoes entreated better they where kept out of the weather Maybe to be a S.S. belt, sheath or hat maybe a child will walk Unknowingly a mile in my shoes the Lord knows their destiny Like high leathery hills in store kept so many feet out of the weather Carnivorous minds eat up my people for my rags they contemplate They lie in wait if they would have asked I could have given Two miles to late the atrocity millions of leathers They march no more They walk no more They dance no more
I am from Tupperware-lined pantry shelves Ziploc bags of cereal Sunshine and bumble-bee brown Kitchen counters I am from the crackling ice of Norway the horns of Jericho the sweltering heat of Phoenix I'm from a town removed from time wood and fire heat Pine trees that stand like castle towers I am from misunderstandings and broken hearts From people who wanted more than they could have I'm from wilted desert plains and lava skies from a happy broken home the lonesome hum of coyote lullabies I am from roses that grew on brick canvases The corn that sprouted on barren clay I'm from simple needs and lavish desires Masking-taped moving boxes and "miles to go before I sleep" I am from "Gypsy Road" and "Turn the Page" another era an old soul I'm from wash hung to dry broken morals and years of change Me? I am from all the things that are a part of me and I a part of them Church prayers Crackling cassette players Serpentine dirt roads Each live alone in my memories and I beneath their surface dust I see them behind my closed eyes and maybe they see me in their dreams
Me …. By Anoush Harrison-Jackson What's the matter with ME? Better yet, what's the matter with YOU? I am comfortable with ME--------- My eloquence, my ethnicity, my social demeanour, My laughter, my insight, my shortcomings, My shape, my grace, my pride, My beliefs, my values, my devotion to my CREATOR These are the things that COMPOSE me So what's the matter with ME? Better yet, what's the matter with YOU? Don't try to dilute or even defile me with your Perceptions of how I should be……… Don't try to ridicule or belittle my efforts In a bid to confine me to where you think I should be— "my place" Or "my fate" in the society (so-ci-ety) So what's the matter with ME? Better yet, what's the matter with YOU? I am who I am I'm, simply put, just ME! Who are you?
I can't remember a time when my people were treated like nothing and Branded like cattle with red iron. I can't remember When my people were taken from their families and homes I can't remember The tribe I came from, or the way we were beaten for the way we were born. I can't remember When we were colored, negro, or property. I can't remember but I wear the scars No longer on my flesh but engraved on my heart, I wear the scars. I can't remember The reason I'm black and proud or what inspired one man's dream. I can't remember but I wear the scars I'll never forget what I can't remember These memories are the reason I push hard. The push of my people resides in my punch. What I can't remember is the reason I push. I can't remember. But it remembers me.
Wishful thinking rests upon soft summer butterfly wings warm breeze swims across my body taking with it my thoughts, dreams,wishes now they float, high above the endless clouds, like seeds from an empty dandelion stem suns rays wrap me in an invisible blanket of comfort tiny, speckles of wet dew drops from morning when God kissed the ground As I lay, feeling the touch of mother earth I drift to dream freely my Native ancestors dancing and chanting the songs of my people the Chickasaw A sudden itch on my nose brings me back to the present and as my sleepy eyes lift from crescent slivers to full dark chocolate moons I watch as a monarch dance across my face and kisses my cheek with its powdery wing as it travels above the endless clouds like the dandelion seeds
Harsh winds blow from a baron frozen land, Of ice and snow. Exhaling Nordic gods breath a chilling mist An eerie foggy vapor creeping along the Waters aquatic edge. Rages angry seas lap against the wooden Hauls as battle harden men brace for impact Waves crack tarring asunder splinters oaken shell. Yet these Icelandic warriors laugh at death, Savoring it's flavor, and relishing their own bloods Taste upon salted lips. The devils seed lives within them, these Barbaric conquerors known to history as the vikings By Thor's mighty hammer does strike thus, Against the anvils rough hewed edge. Sparks fly igniting thunder and lightening below Splitting apart the very heaven's themselves, Odin exposes a distant horizons far off shore. Hear the oarsmen drumming, a pounding, It's hastening beat the inner heart of this vessel Foretelling hells army will soon arrive, At early morning highest tide. Whom shall stand after this storm hits land fall. The sword unsheathed will take vengeance fill With it's blade dipped an ink well of blood. No treaty signed can stop history's mighty wrath Feel hot Norse breath upon your neck oh roman. Seek thy brothers kinsman's council for Safety's sake alone. Fears children hide beneath a gray cloak of innocence. Illusions shelter of falsehoods arrogance delusion, Believing the walls of roman shall never fall. A dark shadow is cast over thy world of glittering Gold a plunders treasure chest a shinning example For glistening ripening to fill ill gotten Gains empty hauls. What price to pay for lies deceit, it's brilliance Calls forth a trumpeting, a sounding for Deaths comforting. Valhalla gates open wide, to welcome Vanquished heroes unto the neither world. While Romanian drink deeply from deaconesses Bloody cup. The Vikings sing a victory song and voyage on And Odin smile down upon his people With pride's honor restored. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I am that thing you put in your pocket. You know I'm here sometimes; but most often, I'm forgotten. Gum wrappers and lint get more attention than I. I've been through the washer and dryer. No, no, don't worry, I'm hanging in there, maybe not as sharp as once I was, but I suffice, I promise. Sometimes your hand, the skin, comes into contact with me, we pause stare off. Muscle memory, flex, stretch, reach, stop. Your hands retreating. One day you're handed a penny, am I so cheaply bought? You pick me up, put me to your lips; I dispel across ozone. bounce off an ear. You do not pick me up again, the ground is cold compared to your pocket.
Let us travel back in Time To Spain in the 10th Century The Wondrous City Of Cordoba Under the Caliph, the Moors are Most Enlightened Living in Harmony With the Christian and Jewish Populations Toleration the Motto Of that Day Cordoba Grew Great Cultural, Political, Financial and Economic Centre Largest City in the World Universities, Libraries Advancements in Medicine Mathematics and Astronomy Sadly this ended with The Conquest of Cordoba By King Ferdinand in 1236 Surely if a model of Peace and Harmony can exist in the Past It can no doubt be revisited History does Repeat Itself And that Fact Gives Us Hope April 28th, 2013 For Russell Sivey's Contest on Enlightenment, Hope, and Harmony
heres how i see it and heres how it is living in this world where half of it is advanced with indoor plumbing television stereos cell phones computers and a huge chunk of the globe is not part of the world still has a hole in the floor for a toilet and we say ignorance is bliss oh funny funny man on the moon the joke you really meant in the Hollywood basement of one giant step for man and one leap for mankind Have we not clued in yet? Do we not live blind leading the blind? Am i the only enlightened who realizes that we were in space probably 70 years before we made it public to the world and Nasa is full of it oh funny funny funny man on the moon why is society so gullible to think that the governments technology hits the mainstream market before they use it for years and perfect it and work out all the bugs and then hands us something that just looks faulty and we fall for it hook line and sinker give me a moment funny funny funny us half the world buries their waste and we flush it away half the world has technology and half of it is in the stone age and yet we seem to think that whoever invents these things has no ties or affiliation to putting us under their thumb i mean come on do the math they landed on the moon how they tell you they send sattelites into space is a truth within alie they made up 50 years ago and were falling for it today let me play i get it society is dumb I'll write something yesterday say i wrote it today no one will know what to believe I'll even put a cowboy hat on I'm sure those cowboy western movies they had just as many cameras and cellphones but didn't release them in the market consider yourself a fool if you don't think they don't have something in their pocket full of tricks they are working on right now they're going to sell to the future and no one gets the famous joke the man on the moon told to the mensa geniuses but a hush fell over the crowd and I'm sure there was consequences for laughing and chances are even they were blinded by the bling life and blind leading the blind such an easy concept to grasp and man on the moon your a funny funny funny man!
Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here Ever the edifice The bold and self-serving statue Proud ego stamped In the courtyards and squares Of those who have diminished ( ordinary ) Ever the hero who by guile Steals the heroes burial With self sacrificial offerings of ballot boxes ( rigged ) Ever the flag waving For the faceless dictators Who by money and army medals adorned Assume control Via coup d'état ( or money ) Ever the religious fanatic Behind Iattola, priest, missionary and Papist Ever the quiet and raucous rapist Of faith Ever the secret of power hunger ( sanctioned ) Allowed to dictate Through political expediencies Ever the murder of country men To rule the country Ever the nationalistic barrage of pride For coloured cloth Defines identity And not humanity ( human ) Ever the innocent left to bleed To fill the coffers of nameless greed And ever the hate to feed The racial, political and religious idiocy ( bigotry ) Ever the door which opens For men and women returning home With the triumphal marches Of black body bags Ever the tear gas, riot shield and rubber bullet Ever the faces of Tienanmen Square Ever the bodies of The World Trade Centre Ever the terrorism of lies Ever the truth denied Ever love defiled Ever the innocent left to bleed To fill the coffers of nameless greed And ever the hate to feed The racial, political and religious bigotry ( idiocy ) Ever the door which open Welcoming home Mothers and Fathers From their long days labours ( ordinary )
her name was Anne and she wrote dreams upon pages; the kind that roam around your mind but are always held deep inside your chest; and she heaved under the weight of tears left uncried and so many truths left unsung; her name was Anne not of Green Gables but of Gestapos and Gettos; not summer getaways but of guards and gates; she was Anne of raven hair with faraway eyes, on spindly legs running towards a woman's curves; but the hook of her nose told heritage tales, that they numbered with hate upon her youthful arm; yet she still dreamed and wrote, of longings and yearnings of the future; with simplistic thoughts not comprehending her reality; her pen flew across pages, filled with hope, yet inked in sadness; and the winds blew the sheets upon the prejudice that surrounded her; without effect she was Annie to parents who saw only the past of a little girl with shiny new shoes pink bows and capped teeth; the shoes went into piles, bows flew upon the breeze and the teeth shone only in fillings of melted gold instead of smiles; she was the promise of a woman's secrets, yet to be revealed and enjoyed, upon silken thighs; with desired weight pressing love upon waiting lips; she was humanity destroyed by inhumanity; as the world watched little girl tears float away, into subconsciousness, where we didn't have to feel them or hear their weeping moans; she was a star from the family of David; an outcast now from society that deemed her unworthy; outlined by the yellow blaze as the star burnt itself out; and she called to her God without blame for he was good and kind; and man... well man was man, so unlike her God; her name was Anne and she pressed her face upon the panes of our illusions; breaking through the shaded barriers that we ourselves had forged; but too late for Anne did we see the truths; and now she remains forever young in our minds; but dead to our world; and her pages are all that speak; her hushed whispers grown finally loud; we hear her voice and feel at last her tears, as they slide down those precious pages to become our own...
Thin line between politics and truth Be a man like sword both sides akin What could do man without wearing mask Making promises in his dreams without cutting corners What could do man make others wear his shoes Afraid of how much his followers can take Betray his felowship become an enemy
Houses lost, friends go away… Then others I've never known… Some areas worse, some less… But all have seen the scar… Empty homes with vacant eyes… The bank will own the loan… Won't let lose their precious prize… Until they've made a score… A few will pass thru many hands… Most will wait with time… In the end we all lose… With tears in our eyes… The only winner any where… Is the bank that still holds on… There was really no doubt on this… As the monster gobbles more… As still so much is lost by all...
Recession made Christmas harder than ever before Family's splitting – money the core Dad's leaving to live on the street So that young hungry mouths are able to eat That some extra cash might be in the house and children might learn what Christmas is about? But without Dad gone, roof would be lost for the bills are much higher – we can't meet the cost No longer can the average family budget 2009, jobs lost, even working struggle to afford it Commercialism needs to stop building hopes and dreams Childern don't understand you are busting at the seams Disappointment reigns as kids outside taunt and tease No longer we fit in we're all on our knees Sinking. Even love has fallen apart We don't want this Christmas just haven't the heart! Expectation lower, depressions set in Politicians not helping the hole we're all in Instead raising taxes they'll crucify more and this miserable life could be at your door Will someone tell them that family should be together sharing love, life, hopes dreams whatever they weather
Black and white photographs kept in a box: Memories of yesteryear that tell a story of lives lived of friendships formed of love found. A family's history in shades of black and white preserved in a box for the next generation. 8/7/13 For Rick Parise's Trickle Down Free Verse Contest
I am a traveler In a place beyond time I speak the language of stone And adobe, Listen to the echoes of history In roofless, melted walls This is my journey I am a traveler, An earthbound melting misfit Whispering in the language Of leaves and lizards, Of rustling cottonwood leaves, Taking pictures with my mind This Is my journey I am a traveler Just passing through On my way to somewhere, Always on my way – on my way to Else-where, to else-when, to else-wise Even so, I tarry here This is My journey I am a traveler, A stranger from Time beyond To long ago In this ghost-filled home Of peace and contravening conflict This is my Journey I am a traveler Who sits cross-legged on the earth, Alone with the ancients Alone amongst shadows and sunshine, Silence and grace My heart and soul cry out in echo This is my journey
Bow the great dragons, unto the mighty, Ruler under heaven. The divine master's iron heel, lies upon the Serpents neck. For brilliance illusion a golden throne shines, Blinding those whom refuse to see the truth. The trail leading unto the river of blood, Streaming across a ruined country side. Striking powers scepter against angers, Weakest point his own peoples innocent Beliefs. How did this tyrant usurper create such, Beauty with arrogance strangle hold?? A rampaging tiger tightly grappling, All ends of a concord nation. Tarring it's inner seams until it bleeds, Internally leaving it unable to breathe. Push wide the ancient gates, and behold, The forbidden city of crimson red. Sky pillars an archway, holding seemingly, Up the very heaven's themselves. In awed amazement beneath the great steps Of China towards Beijing's southern most edge. Lies a glittering palace, of opulence greedy design. Honor bound at royal bidding's commend, Living china dolls, porcelain ladies of finest Quality, his majesty's playthings. Green emerald eyes, flash enticing mortals, To venture beyond safety's threshold. Meet certain doom for those whom, Trifled between temptations desire to satisfy, Lusts insatiable thirsts. Or honors sacred trust between master and servant. The lion guards his holy temple ready to strike, With sharp talons drawn. Drinking the blood of his vanquished enemies. But falls unto shame as blackness vail descends Casting his dark soul unto the four winds of Destiny. Even in deaths wake, split by thunder, and Lightning's mighty quake. Doesn't the poised hood cobra lie in wait To protect this his sacred garden, In the land of the rising sun. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
you are f u c ki n g FIRED
As I walked on the ship it was like walking into my destiny A new life is awaiting for me Finally I can start my dreams I am free just me and the breeze That hits my face as we sail away I'm nothing special you see Just a young boy now at chasing a dream that I can be anything I want to be My mind is at peace as we sail away from the port Listening to the music my feet began to believe As I dance along to my own tune and see all those who believe just like me The rich take this trip for fun As the poor take the trip to become The difference between the two of us is made sure of Bottom deck is for us and upper floor is for glory But this is just a ride for me to travel and to see As the rich are pampered, we sing and gamble Card games and whiskey are what we do Who would of thought this ship wouldn't make it though 1316 departed out to sea and to think many lives would be taken before reaching their dream It was a cold night when the lights started to flicker and passengers started to scream What happened next wasn't something we could believe. The ship hit and iceberg and started to sink fast. Family and children were frantic. Life boats where loaded for only the best Mother and children first as other where trying to fasten their vest The water was cold as people where throw in by the boat itself The band kept their composer as they sang their best As other tried there hardest to survive this horrible mess. I myself held on tight, this wasn't my dream, I was filled with fright. I shook inside for those who were dying and stayed strong for those trying to stay alive. It felt like hours even though it was quicker than that The boat broke in half and lives were lost like that. Now in the water myself I struggled to stay afloat. I felt my body letting go. As people screamed and shouted for love ones they had be separated from Reality set I was alone with no one to hold on to. I held on as long as I could my body numb, I could barely breath. The light shown and yell is anyone out there but I couldn't be seen I could not speak nor move and I was filled with fear. My thoughts where lost and death was near as the boat shine its light one me and grabbed my hand. I awoke cold and wet, safe. But the thought still fresh in my head, the Titanic had sunk
drag a finger across this wall a certain way sounds like airplanes flying by they crash into the ocean of my bed like coral sea or midway or some other sky battle i know this because i sat motionless, watched old videos of people dying and on fire or drowned by water combat, round two heavy, landed on some sinking carrier ship down, soapy sea foams black and white – shades of grey filter pale fires, choked in smoke unplugged and drained reflections lost in history, in waves
On the pier at Scheveningen Beach crumbling concrete connects me standing on the pier seawaves below so near while grounds trembe peeling painted kiosks define the lost grandeur for visiting voyeur in dark tristesse Scheveningen's glory behind rusted steel chains destruction rules and reigns old concrete gem (c) Elly Wouterse written for: ON THE PIER - Poetry Contest sponsor Nette Oncload written: 07/10/2014 Note to all not-Dutch readers: * Scheveningen {pronounciation can be heard here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scheveningen} for it's one of the most typical DUTCH words and most dificult for foreigners to pronouce. * the "PIER of Scheveningen" has been declared broke and is closed although the 'building' itself is still standing - nothing more nothing less - and closed for safety reasons at last for visitors. * I was there only weeks before the authorities made the decision 'shutting down 'the Grand dame of scheveningen"' . A decision that had been delayed - not respecting all safety regulations and laws - time after time.................. * THE ILLUSTRATED VERSION (REALLY WORTH A CLICK AND A READ FOR I FOUND SOME ANTIQUE AND MODERN PICTURES) RIGHT HERE: (JUST COPY AND PASTE INTO YOUR BROWSER BAR: http://www.ellywouterse.com/blog/index.php?id=a9146b38
Houses on parade Guards to civilisation A great divide between man and space Escapism opposed to reality Sentinals stand at either end of street Neighbourhood watch Dangerous tongues gossip Prepare for another enslaught
A tribute to slavery: Sweat dripping to my weary and feeble knees! Please master! Please! Don't make me pick cotton in the summers heat! Please! No get back to work you jerk ! I'm the master! Your the slave! Behave! No! Please master! Please! No! I said no! Go! let some more sweat drip to your knees! Then I'll be pleased! Off I goes to the secret gathering under the shade of the trees--Kneeling,Praying with dirt,twigs and dead leaves under my knees.We sing songs of hope and faith. OH the whip has scared my flesh. OH the whip has scared my soul. OH lord hear my cry else I'll die young and not old,take control At last guide my soul,at last guide my cold to your warm kingdom,to your warm hold to your glorious kingdom, burden free free free OH at last guide me, to your kingdom of heavenly--- We all singed the song, young and old,an attempt to uplift our weary and dreary in times of scary. Tho freedom seemed far tho hell seemed near me, Prayer in the beautiful black night evoked healing angels near me. A slaves cry attracted the angels eye NOW I AM FREE!!!
Listen to the sound of a terrible roar Gnashing of teeth, a rending of flesh, Singed is the desert, with the dust of her breath Seeking revenge, with arrow flamed death She is a warrior goddess, even mountains have cowered Daughter of Ra, spewing lightning storm fires Thunder and clouds, are crowning her head Mistress of dread, brings on trembling slaughter With the body of woman, she wades through the waters Her head is of the lion, with devil in eyes Eyes of a diamond, where a demon resides Claws and sharp teeth, sits among Satan's brides Death and destruction, are the things that will please her The joy of the kill, is what birth has conceived for Stalking the land, she is the warrior of sands Lost in the wrath of her furious path Egypt remembers, and quakes in the rubbles Her breasts small rosettes, ruthless whims of her wiles Intoxicated she is, by the lust of her dread Dressed in the red, of the blood of the Nile ................................................................................................................................
morning sun, a newborn babe, exhales her first breath each dawn in mist daybreak's kiss straddles the North Carolina and Tennessee line Cherokee Nation's last reservation remains within a hazy, vaporous veil nearly two centuries crept past since 14,000 ill and hungry Cherokees trekked the Trail of Tears moving westward wearily to sparse lands that precluded hunting, farming by President Jackson's ignoble decree many perished along the trail sacrificed to a selfish quest for gold travelers still witness indomitable spirits rising to life each night as mist fades with setting sun accusations of injustice echo through the Smoky Mountains to the tempo of tribal drums Native Americans reenact futile but peaceful efforts to keep their homes to remain one nation to survive to thrive as ancestors did scent of death ascends from sacred grounds woodlands that have forever lost their greenery now just cloudy scenery peaks that resurrect dreary history "reservation," a trifling gesture from a selfish territorial invader speak to the spirits at sunset beckon them to keep their honorable legacy alive then feel damp anguish in foggy daybreak souls returning to the forest floor only to resurrect again when darkness drapes the mountains once more the curse the shame Smoky Mountains Cherokee birthright denied *Written August 20, 2014
*~* In my heart, what I thought to be love Was simply my own desire So brief... Gone before time could tell it even happened Like a whisper Barely heard in the shadowy stillness of night I tell myself it's over, you're gone But in the same breath A voice whispers quietly to my heart Assuring me that perhaps You may have really cared I tell myself it wasn't meant to be But in my remembering... I find that thought elusive Too painfully conclusive It weaves its memory in and out Like a fine needle sewing its fragile threads Delicately twisting them intimately Amongst the filigrees of my mind The magic was so mysteriously enchanting I tell myself it's over... But my heart refuses to listen My mind says to forget you That no one's worth this kind of sadness My soul doesn't need this heartache I tell myself I didn't really care That it was all just a momentary illusion But... I never did lie very well *~*
What are pencils, could they write my heart; the classified model I've worn for ages? Is there lead enough to compose my legacy, this testament painted on the fast coming tombstone; what pencil could write God's memory of me? Who cradle your spawn, and rock him when you can't find yourself; who remember his parched lips and talking stomach? Be like Moses, they said, lead my greedy Israelites, be a father to them, help me to create tomorrow's no goods by nurturing their pining for unreality, forsake your post Could pencils write my merits going back into their pockets, or the little minds focused on the flickering and changing shapes, and fingers dutifully pushing buttons? Could pencils capture me in my mental cotton fields while my seed is up, way past his bedtime, could they? See, I heard his stomach talking like mine did in '88 When the hurricane visited and departed with things we did not give him What are pencils, could they write this heart? Could they draw pieces of this broken vessel, could they? Come, they said, come and be a father to the fortunate Forsake thy flesh and fuel the appetite of the glutton, continue the legend Craft paucity by writing their intentions, let them be reliant Forsake yours and shape these slaves help us to erect pyramids through them
Feel the winds of change, dear friend, They are a blowing. Brethren beneath a common cause, Kindred spirits, gather united. To stand tall against opposing Factions, Yet we remain strong survivors, Of justice and right. Adversity challenges indifference, It is so written good shall over, Come evil. The truth within us all shines, Humanity achieves enlightenment. Ignorance shadow fades in Reality's view, Life relishes difference, Freedom flies soaring mankind, Towards a higher plain. What a magnificent future, Lies ahead of us. Individuality blossoms, fulfillment, Becomes a human right. Forgiveness, compassion, and mercy, Shall be theirs at last. Let no mans options to believe, Dismay conscious choice, Carry the banner of beliefs no matter, What the cost or price. Your inner self reflection captures, Truths mirror image. Acknowledge separate half's, Making one complete being. Behold his name is called, Social exceptions. Resolves concussions shows a, Brilliant phoenix rising, From hatred's ashes. It spreads deliverance's wings, Embracing a majestic legacy. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Sararmis fotograflar gencligim Merhabayla gune kavusan Selam i gune dogan bir acili kahvede Bulusan dostlugu kadir unutulmaz mahelle Simdi kaldi siyah beyaz fotograflar Simdi kaldi anilar yaslanmis olmus dostlar Korktumda kactim girdabindan Senle sensiz bir hic... Poyrazin ve lodosun sessizce isiltisini mehtabin Ruzgarlari vurur odama dinlerim hikayelerini Sesi sesim unutulmus siyah beyaz fotograflar
In my day we played outside, riding horses, Playing hide and seek and on swings and slides. And only on rainy days Were we confined inside to play. We played slap jack, crazy eight, go fish And Lincoln logs was our dish. Everyone drank coffee and tea No caffeine worries did they see All our houses were painted bright And no one heard of the lead base plight The new homes of the day had asbestos, But what the hey! This was during World War II Where our fathers, brothers, uncles and aunts Left our homes for foreign lands. Here at home when sirens screamed It was our Air Raid Warning Drill. And companies that worked through the night Were required to paint their windows black Safety was our countries goal Here at home and on foreign soil. We played at the lake and tanned or fried When we got home a little cow cream was applied. Where I lived prohibition was still affirmed And Bootleggers were the cops major concern. The air we breathed was just air Unless a corral or hog farm were near. Transportation was car, bus or train The only planes I ever saw Were B 29's heading for foreign soil. I can't help but wonder how we survived Compared to the rules and laws we now abide. I just heard a well known man say "No more Santa Claus he is to fat" "It's bad for kids to honor a man like that." The Christmas tree has become "Happy Holiday" No prayers in school, It breaks the rules they say. Religion in government there is no place "In God We Trust" is a disgrace. When was the last time the Constitution was read Were our Forefathers out of their heads? "Merry Holidays too and you best take a stand If you want to continue to have Peace in Our Land."
The wind blows clean scouring in Sakkara, Necropolis of Memphis gem of Upper Egypt. The purity of sand and sky maintained by late rising in the twentieth century. The titan walls reach from a sea of silica crystalline grit of ground quartz once drowned, devoured by desert, now disgorged… the mill of life having preserved the germ of memory eternal. Far from the light surge of incandescent and florescent, from the leavings of modern man Sakkara rises again, for such as we to glory in… Imhotep's caress of stone, song of sand Rises, as morning follows night, Rises like bole of palm stroking the cheek of Ra.
Copper metal is a valuable wartime commodity. Something new was needed for the cent in 1943. A strange composition the United States Mint would reveal. Lincoln's profile appeared on a coin made of steel. It was plated with zinc to reduce oxidation. They were struck at all three mints in the nation. The three cities were ones that most people would know. They were Philadelphia, Denver, and San Francisco. Here is an interesting little trivia tidbit: This coin is the only one that can be drawn to a magnet. However, zinc-coated cents were made for just one year. Afterward, familiar bronze cents would reappear. The mint made a move two years before that was similar. They replaced the nickel in five-cent pieces with silver. A large "P", "D", or "S", appeared above Monticello. This indicated a silver five-cent piece so you would know. The following year, production of steel cents would cease. The mint used the metal to make the Belgian two-franc piece. Therefore, this is what the United States Mint did for the war. After 1945, we did not have to worry about it anymore.
The tree has been careless Not wanting to be in a place for so long It has forgotten what it waited for For centuries Las raíces han sido afuera en el sol Burning scarlet forgetfulness into the very esencias de la cultura The youth se pudren Without the nourishment of the roots that anchor them against the Beautifully wicked roar of the azure sea Las sirenas se llaman Sticky sweet soprano song Matando los sonidos de mis ancienos antes que la musica se penetra las orejas The guidance is gone The leaves are defenseless, curled up in Twisted ideas of direction Listening to the golden notes in the air Beckoning them to the sweet sound of destruction It can only hold out for so long Until the plunge Sin las raíces Las hojas no pueden estirar a los cielos la piel no puede respirar la fuerza del pasado ha desaparecido con el Sol Escuche el viento, la madre se llora las lágrimas devoran los cielos El futuro viene rápidamente como un huracán Tirando, tirando It can only hold out for so long Until the plunge (to Spanish Speakers, I gladly welcome some grammer help! I know there are some mistakes so please, dish it out!)
Charcoal polished fingernails poke the clouds, Gun metal arms staunch and concrete, flex under the sun. Chiseled gray palms clasp tightly, shelter gummed pavement . Still,praying hands protect Charleston Harbor. Structual magnificence. Steel Beauty. A small piece of Cooper River Bridge history. http:/ravenalbridge.net
Don't ever Lose sight Today is where To believe in yourself Up before our dawn You perceive the gray Not realizing for what I long And You asked me not to stay Our life, it seems, has come to an impasse I choose to love you forever Resetting our shiny compass Wishing each other the best To our own endeavors rlm '11
Hand of power, heart of whimsy, tamer of mighty rivers. Rivers of initial learning, nurturer of ancient gardens, gardens in their fabled beauty hanging yet in utter freshness in the fecund hearts of poets. Poet at heart cooped solitary, hostage of life's fickle fortune. Fortune dreamed with vanished glories still as green as tendrils twining. Twining on to memories heart-held, held while tending patch of foliage, muttering through graying mustache, "You're soft muffins, crumbly cookies, munchies in my white cell circle; circle stony though surrounds me, I'm still palm tree, brave, steadfast; that you're not, but bush."
Writing is my thing. My drug of choice. My bling bling. I fall in love with the similies and mentions of passion while wrapping my body in sentences. Creating complicated rhythms and making them simples as instances Every line a differenet emphasis Commas, explinations and periods Sometimes rhyming and sometimes not Stopping to puff so my thoughts can lock Feeding hungry souls starved from starvation Creating new creations Making people feel the sensation as I build up to mind elevation The quest for knowledge is not a game Spoken movements teach about the pain I write to ease the pain Rhythms run deep Deep underneath clouded visions of unspoken truth lies a message a message...a message that should be taught accurately to the youth About the struggle of a people that was misued abused, refused, confused, raped, beaten down uneducated portrayed as clowns, coons, niggers, fools Modern day niggas and goons Wake up!! Did you hear the news? You are responsible for you! Imagine how it would be tho If we were uninterrupted and brought overseas yo Uprooted from a line of royalty kings and queens Africa unite is all we'd sing Rhythms run deeper into the seams of my being I write to ease the pain of the oppressed I write to celebrate their success I write to educate the rest The message..The message..The message is very clear No time time to waste The time is NOW It's here!
in a rut no, a trench. pulled under like Ypres or Verdun walls held up by bodies of dearly departed. we gather here today because we have to. so chew the dirt from fingernails, swim this mud sea. six feet. draped flags, bedsheets, tablecloth rags set the places. mines flower on this grave.
2 million suicidal babies the munchonsen of psychiatry just pushed me over the edge what do we say when we cross the border? we're going to disneyland what are we going to do when we get there inform as many innocents what is about to happen going to the only country who has its digs in every war around the world going to the only place that lies to earth through a video box sitting in the corner to every family on earth going to the place of plajerists and hacks scouring the internet for good ideas and we are going to destroy the lies of their doctors poisoned adults suicidal babies with all the no brainers in existance why is it you are the only country singing and dancing? why are you soo proud of your happiness but use hate speach you call comedy on every minority no one on earth is allowed to be happy but you? why would this many people be upset with your legacy how nothing has changed the internet investigation already underway your internet fraud to destroy life after life and become wealthy doing it here's a vikaden to cover the stress that your a bad person now lets laugth and dance have group sex to make us feel better for the things we did party on wayne, party on garth the bottle picking homeless with nothing left to lose the rag man who smells like gas a cart full of glass we dont need bombs to take you down as your city burns from the ground where you realise all the flat tires something on the road the explosions of your vehicles unable to provide aid the investigation now under way 2 million guinea pig babies we will come to enforce your right to your person those doctors and lawyers lieing cheating and stealing im not going to lie you will be murdered and for this shiny new penny the maffia and biker gangs have just been hired have a good day im not sorry to inform you these people will get what they deserve you have all the power then blacklist me and stop playing the victom like you do at the karaoke bar first i'll describe heaven and there will be no victoms of that war then we will describe our own hell and you can die a martyr of earth's happy ending your joke dressed in suicide laughing, at the consequence of you not being a punchline you know who you are and what youve been doing the best suggestion of considering suicide its a good idea, especially for you, trust me
I lay in bed last night thinking of everything and nothing, as I often do. For some reason or maybe for no reason, I thought of playing on my slip-and-slide when I was a little girl. In Florida, summer lasts from April until October. We were always looking for ways to cool off. That memory led to another and another. I remembered our neighborhood. It came to life everyday with the sound of children's laughter. Now, I often sit by my window hearing the silence of children indoors playing video games. Safe behind locked doors. Occasionally, the birds come out to play or I hear a bull frog croak. Squirrels run across our fence line searching for places to hide their treasures. (The neighbor leaves out peanuts for them. The squirrels appreciate the gesture.) When I was a little girl, I caught grasshoppers and lizards, but not frogs. I didn't like frogs. I thought of my succession of childhood bicycles. I felt free as I zigzagged through the street riding with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. I haven't felt that free in a long time. In those days, I never felt lonely. I could always find a friend to share a secret with right outside my door. Our parents never thought they would send us outside to play and never see us again. The neighborhood was our playground. Until the day a young boy disappeared from a shopping mall only ten miles from my childhood home. He was kidnapped, killed and decapitated. I was eleven years old. Our world changed. On my playground, shadows lurked and everyone was a stranger. I cried when I saw the picture of the little boy with the baseball cap and toothless grin. My brother was the same age as that little boy. He had nightmares for a while. I was eleven years old. Our world changed. By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders for Debbie Guzzi's Fear contest Second place finish
Other violence this world There human flames ceased Sick swan six With circles some melancholy Doctor failure some Different universe copy soul Wrapped little body respect About shoulders stopped arms Flash doubles wife Early patient Stopped her crown Simple modern Loop provided effect While hate challenge simple. [This was my first attempt at the "cut-up technique", a surrealist technique coined by many early surrealists, including William S. Burroughs, an obvious influence on my work.]
Generations of warmongers spew their lies outward into the waiting abyss of greed as the adult throng of drones buzz the factories and the farmlands, carpenter ants wasting the bounty of mother earth. And we ..children of the flower children screamed "Hell NO we won't go!" We burnt draft cards and bra's freed from the tit by the acid dreams of Leary we rose, ran, flew, with flags on our arses. On campus's we marched bandana'ed brethren, fuzz busters picket carrying freedom fighters, a blaze with a hatred for everything and every one establishment… and the establishment killed. Killed its own children at Kent State and got away with it. As napalm dropped over naked children in Vietnam, the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius rang from the rafters of Broadway. Naked as the day we were born coated in the honest to God mud of a farmer's field in Woodstock, we danced. And we still marvel that Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Where are our children now? Still fighting ..still drones, still bombing Still 'liberating' the oil fields around the world. Still raping mother earth. And the beat drones on…………..
amid shackles and ropes with fire burning hatred into eyes a child stood without understanding seeing tears wet on mama's cheeks and papa's goodness spread hatefully upon tracks displayed as flags of their righteousness worth descended into slavery of white opinions placed on heads bleeding into superiority expressed in violence he grew to become the hate that hate produced with a fierce determination to offer freedom for all peoples who suffered at the hands of racist oppressors by any means necessary became the creed adopted from years of watching whites cover their crimes with veiled innocence what is not given freely must be demanded for to suffer in silence is complicity to accept is stupidity to do nothing is cowardice and he was none of these no one race is divine only God is thus and so he stood, tall against all those who deemed him unworthy taking his seat at the table of humanity demanding to be fed as all humans have an inalienable right to demanding that truth be served on large platters for the world to consume for where there is truth lies can not hide and hope is born into minds and hearts in his life he struggled to find that light but in time he stepped into it basking in its glow ready to shine enlightenment on a world still shadowed in hate's darkness but he would pay the price for dreams with his life yet the price was never too high for the dream lived on and thrived giving birth to a future that he marked with his X...
a builder of houses a societies centre pieces day by day
It was a wet November day on the motorway to Cork waiting at traffic lights a tiny man shuffled towards me frail, bald and alone, his piercing eyes beseeching, palms outstretched, imploring. His face ravaged with fear his shame stirred shame in me as I turned my face away, I saw others do the same. I felt raw discomfort it changed rapidly to fear as the cold face of recession the demise of my country the pain of my people stood before me in this little man an ache so immense, I had covered it deep. Faced now with utter revulsion, abject anger towards our government, our bankers and developers, those sneaky golden circles, as my eyes met his, I saw my own reflection. The country's bubble burst a year ago but he had just burst mine. For In his tiny frame, I saw our fragile nation a country on its knees begging for a bail out. In his isolation, I felt my own vulnerability huge impending loss as my children face emigration. In his baldness, I saw the naked masses new poverty and pain, still crushing us, the people This little man could be me.
Her name is now a legend Before her name was feared The lady Henrietta Lean close and lend an ear They say her status started One night long time ago She found her husband cheating With the girl she knew next door Her mind did snap Her heart grew cold With a knife she stole their souls Cut the beating heart away Ate flesh when cold Within her veins flowed the blood Of the one who done her wrong Gave her everlasting life Her age in death was old But one small thing that should be said About the spell she cast That beauty would always be her guide In death she looked her best Word spread quickly through the town Where Henrietta lived About the spell she cast the night Her husband committed sin Women came to ask for help To change their husband's ways For they had also messed around Now love for them had strayed With each one she gave the spell Steps to end their grief Now in the town such beauty found In women who's husbands cheat With new found beauty each started life Fresh and young again And if the man they loved did cheat Revenge was sweet again Many many years went by And soon the town was gone Towards the end all that was left Were women who were scorned But in woods outside the town In a placed called Widow's Peak You find plots of all the ones Whose death came from a cheat So this story lives today If you doubt then ask around For the one you love and share a life Could be a widow from that town All men beware all women ask Before you start your cheating In every city and every town A Widow's Peak is forming Believe me if you will or not In the end you'll heed the warning Just let the one you love find out To Widow's Peak you're going
The sub-conscious jugernaught, And it's defence mechanism, For so long your multi-faceted dimension we've fought, So commonly known as super ego, ego and id'ism. We can all be mean, jealous, envious, Sometimes kind, caring and compassionate at best, What we don't like, we call social deviance, I know all the me's I can be, collectively we've got a chance, Not much is known by the layman, There's a reason we feed from the tame hand, Each one of us immensely powerful, We need our vision back to make it's power null, revealing, no cohesion, a fictional entity cull. The mind unravels and absorbes the 'knowing' wealth, letting go of the ego and in 'their' terms my mental health.
For years men shed blood and women gave sons All for the price of freedom Each man took an oath to fight to the end To keep America free As years have gone by a cancer crept in Some wanted freedom to die "Oh take the flag down" idealist's now shout "We can't be seen in this light" "Let's share what we have" "and ask they forgive" "All of the harm we have done" A cry can be heard across this great land "We see what is going on!" Anger is brewing people are talking Soon they will rise up as one
Scents imminent Sense immense Of razor slashes self induced Tying Trying to turn the tides Slip knots in ropes become the noose The nuisance The new sense of truth While crying Drying eyes profuse As blood and sweat hide underlying Dying Flying on wings to roots Of camps and boots in pastures muddy Stained Trained to follow trails Of paper money And to pray for each offence That leaves the plains Bloody With revenge On fallen buddies As the sentiments And the means of friends Slain Ties the senseless ends With pain
The pollution is psychedelic Hell, you could even say poetic nature Terms of enragement Definitely not engagement Can suffice in describing the depredation Fire from the skies Burning through the system Dropping through to nothing Learning not what's in them Always running from them We may hide our voices But you hide your souls Torturing us with woes Never able to feed our hole Scars bleed out like coals Paint it any color you like Doesn't change a thing This war that you've brought forth Has killed us all In the past and future There is no now…
A storm collides, with a mystic flame, It's raw force strikes, the last ancient Phoenix, She rival's in pains agony, falling to the earth below. The fire bird descends, crashing unto Mount Olympus, From burnt ashes residue, a new deity arises, Behold it is she, Athena the golden goddess. The blaze of hail's fire, burns through her finger tips, Thunder bolts strike, in aggressions anger, Wisdom's strategist, in the art of war. None compare to this battle hardened warrior, Patron saint of the gods, a heavy metal protectress, She is the iron clad maiden, guardian of the Grecian world. A shimmering silver shield of lightening, Blinds in a flash oppositions foe, Weildiing the double edge blade of justice, Her righteous might vs. evil's dark force. Doesn't the earth itself shake utterly, At her mere appearance. Blow the ivory tusken horn, oh mighty Nikey, Beloved symbol for victory, to vanquish thy adversary. Sitting on the left shoulder of Athena, as the clash Begins in Olympia, leave no Titan alive or unmangled. Through the haze's fog, a golden chariot appears, Pulled by Hades twelve black Stallions, breathing Hell's fire, with crimson eyes piercing the nights Dark abyss. Thus she is the master of this devils herd, a Golden Goddess Athena, striking fear in the Hearts of the foreign invaders. In the Greek pantheon, her valor is celebrated, And she is victorious on the behest of the gods. Pay homages respect to her, Athenian's, for she is, The Grecian image to courage and strength. Beware this golden goddesses glare, it is the rising Of the storm to come. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Oh ill fated lamb, How we cling to your image, We all love innocence irresponsibly, Hold the ignorant upon the celebrity pedestal, Till too late we find the lamb horned. The blackness has seeped into homes, Taught that the light is what blinds, Feeling sorry for the dead, while life is taken away, Energy vampirism is rampant, tugging on every chord. Most will not know the truth while here, The truth, the blindingly obvious they fear, Always falling on deaf ears, no one will hear, I've come face to face with a cliff...its sheer.
on youtube i am troynelson2011 the ocd riddle for world peace, i cant check my email, twitter wont let me tweet, facebook wont let me post, and soundcloud definately owes me an appology... . imagine a group of people in my allies back yard pretending to be somebody they aren't. imagine that group of people hiding in my allies midst was perpetrating war crimes in other parts of the world. lets say hypothetically speaking this group of people hiding among my allie was holding their children hostage on television and force feeding children to be medicinal guinea pigs so their kids wouldnt have to... now imagine this group of people hiding in my allies midst perpetrating war crimes in other countries was funded by the global prodigal youth via living out their dreams and ambitions before they could cause they had the means to do so first.. so this group of inventors all with one invention under their belt using my friends kids as guineau pigs funded by my other friends childrens dreams..... What do you think happens when a terrorist organisation hiding in your allies midst (few disguised as many) perpetrating war crimes accumulates a debt to owe the prodigal youth sky scrapers... a global terrorist in usa is perpetrating war crimes using your kids as medicinal guineau pigs. setting up shop in canada where is rumored homeless began taking refuge in the sewer in short america, you are going to be introduced to the global prodigal youth, terrorists hiding in your country owe sky scrapers to.when does armstrongs sperm mature anyway? they hold children hostage on television, they use your kids as guinea pigs, you have just been volunteered to assist me in murdering my enemy, the one that owes me everything they ever put in their mouth wouldnt you feel responsible to find out every time you opened your mouth it became a tv show, game show, movie, or product on your store shelves, was being used to fund global terrorism. tsix step process of your enemy.vs ur 4 step process to realise ur allie you have MY enemy surrounded, word of mouth is powerful after you read this phone your mother and tell her you recieved an email from the future king of england explaining your global problems... twiiter, facebook, soundcloud, are stolen ideas isnt it ironic bill gates is our worlds most famous inventor with only one invention... and shows absolutely no pridefor his own baby he worked on for years after work
Language is a trumpeting vine, Blooms in every shape, size and color Tendrils of words grow every which way, here, there, hither & yon, insinuating themselves, curling lovingly, inexorably, into, around the vertical and horizontal, diagonal pillars and frameworks of each diverse community --- Language is a slow, lazy ocean whose tides lick the verbal shores offering new sand & water while re-absorbing and changing the old It flows out, ebbs in, a living, breathing, constant motion --- Language is essential, is vital and ageless – a kaleidoscope mosaic always perennial, always new Without language, what would you or I do? Without language…...................
Once, love dreamed of, I used to write her name by mine, in hope she'd notice Over and over, again, again, again. She'd look with radiant smile I'd do same Would pass me by Repeatedly, again, again, again. Two doves we were, both tender hearts so tame Shy to speak In dreams I'd call (your name) again, again, again. So it came to be There was no lover's lane As we lived our lives alone Memories recalled – regrets, again, again, again.
The Crusades Began a Holy War Which Continues to this Day. We Kill, and Kill, and Now it Seems, This shall Always be the Way. One Side Scores, the Others Die, Then the Cycle is Repeated. It never Stops, It's never Done; The Battles Grow More Heated! The Way to Peace, it Seems so Clear, Is not Through Senseless Slaughter. I Appeal to All, "Please Quit the Fight!" Save our Sons and Daughters! To Find Our Way out of the Dark, We Need only Seek the Light. A Solution Lies within our Grasp: Forget who's Wrong or Right! This God or that, it Makes no Matter. This Truth I have Acquired: Be they Different, or the Same, The Gods would Preach Cease Fire!
In the Cave of the Madonna ( Village of Topollia Crete 1994 ) I formed a square of brick a block house of the future and the years like dust lay thick around my door many footsteps answer like dreams upon my floor I built a synthetic artery into the mountain side And there beneath a hollow cave I found inside the minarets of aeons forming in a habitat of drips and spires consorting with empathy in the dim dark evolving beauty drip drip after drop of centuries Here, I formed a square of brick and white shrine painted to house the endless time of my soul the worshipful desires of my domicile and heart I designed to entomb and liberate before this sanctum of the mountains core to feel here in this high and inaccessible place a little closer to my troubled God Far from close and so difficult to traverse the winding pathways of stones and rock the sheer cliffs of my life longs work Long ago I forgot the peace of the valley the walls and road interrupted my view into serenity but occasionally when the night is close I hear the drips of those forming spires and expanses of time open a vista where my ancestry and history breathes for a second and my only answer to this mystery is my house of brick shrine of white Madonna church My religion
The accumulative miles could astonish, All those tongues, with nary a story uttered. All those eyes that never "saw" a thing. All those soles, the antithesis of "only". All those heels, still attempting to lift in silent dignity. From a still shot, a dynamic response is invoked!!
Towers, Well Structured Let us go up to that lofty room of intellect where the unsettled go. Let us climb a ladder in the mind and peer out the window, looking down with disdain upon the mundane. There are mansions there free of clutter to endlessly explore . There is music from the classics and art beyond description. There is a history of the race where we belong, being human. Number takes on new meaning all abstract and stark in beauty bare. The dates, the numbers. will count the years of history when wars were fought to purify the blood. One hallway to a corner room is dusty and seldom walked. It is where only the gods may go and look. They retrieve the wisdom inked on everlasting scrolls. Some words are written in blood, not lamb's blood, but the red water from the veins of a man. Access these stored rolls, tied with sinew, if you can, if you too are a god.
April 14, 1865 A chilled southern wind Lincoln's last hours Our American Cousin... John Wilkes Booth born: May 10, 1838 Taurus the bull claimed he had too great a soul to die like a common criminal... April 26, 1865 shot rang out hands held above chest tell mother I died for country these hands, useless...useless.. ~ ~ ~ ~
Land and root routes run deeper then Indianapolis capital likes trenching water Step on it Step on it Go Like a line to rise bare back with boots to test of trial to departure of news of Searching of a new home Step on it Step on it go This is not a "death march" but new life to found rules to moon why am I so spiritually Step on it Step on it go No matter the shelter no matter the food these spirits' tears sank's with in me and sparks life in the habitation of off springs of their descendants Step on it Step on it Go All I mean is well and as you know of your ancestry may I know of mines grandma always said all you have is family Step on it Step on it Go So I ask what is the import ant's of a stamp Step on it Step on it Go It's like Berry Ferry and the value of stamp Step on it Step on it Go The historical and the understand is like a chant it is more than a song Step on it Step on it Go Well as you know of your ancestry may I know of mine Step on it Step on it Go Seek peace among those peace breakers I thing now it time to research even more-
Fairhair's youngest son the good, for peace trickery repaid, by hawk upon the knee Norse blood raised an English king, hid from the bloody axe until his reign A Christian in a pagan scene A God Thing in a Frost Thing old ways die hard drunken jarls twelve leaping things hot yule-beer, boiling horse flesh He signs the cup a cross to bear in heathen affair Raven-feast a king tries to bring his people the Hope of the New Living Thing Pushing back the fires of bloody axe, he fought Eric's sons blue-toothed Danes Annihilator of all other Skalds recounts Haakon's Song his good night Outnumber six to one by Danes all weapons pointed, at the golden helmet though mocking refrains now hidden by poet's hat thrust on through you shall find Quernbiter, cutting runes and the Norse king, putting to flight the Danish plight whirling recoil of the fleeing Erikson a lonely arrow finds Haakon's heart upon the flat rock lay slain though the Dark-wolf again eats the land a Christian king has the hope of a God thing * * Notes -Hákonarmál is a skaldic poem,EARLY KINGS OF NORWAY by Thomas Carlyle,THE THING SMALL LOCAL COUNTRYSIDE THING --Thing (assembly)
Do or Die? I am perplexed unable to decide what to do? Either to spare a traitor's life or to kill him what if the traitor is my own son or brother? I am perplexed unable to decide what to do what to do if the traitor in concert with his accomplices gets his hands on my life what if he kills me while i indecisively sit and think then suddenly comes to my mind how the great Mughals dealt with such problems the gentler Mughal monarchs would catch their inimical brothers who were after their lives so that they could grab the Throne and come to power They would arrest them and blind them by bringing the fiery glow of red hot burning rods opposite their wide open eyes and then throw them in dungeons to rot the other more harsh Mughal Emperors would fight against such traitors and enemies and kill them in the battle grounds But I am not a Mughal King nor a kin of the blue blood yet I am am in similar situation in a place where law and justice bows to the strong and corrupt So what should I do? Kill or get killed by the greedy enemy none else but my own flesh and blood I am simply perplexed unable to decide which course i should adopt to save my neck from imminant risk of being swiped while i think.
September is here and we are remembering the worst tragedy that ever struck our Nation, a Nation where we thought - we were safe. What were you doing on that fatal day? I think that what ever any of us was doing we will never forget. Just think about that. It was September 11 of 2001. Everybody was going about their business, when about 8:45 A.M. everything exploded at once. Nobody expected this tregedy to come. I was coming from a doctor's visit. I stopped at my house to fix myself something to eat before I went to work. I turned on the TV. All I could see was fire, smoke and people running everywhere. I first thought it was a movie, when I heard the broadcaster say that they were live in New York City. I called my husband and we both watched how the twin towers came crumbling down. We couldn't believe our eyes of all the horror we saw. All the channels were breaking the news. The terrorists crashed two planes and thousands of our people died. some of the people didn't even know what hit them. It was better like that. It was better that they go to heaven and not to hell instead. Another plane was headed for the Nerve Center of this Country, but never made it there. The passengers in that plane knew, that soon they would meet DEATH. They decided to fight the terrorists and heroes they became, when flight 91 went down. In all the planes, the terrorists died, but to their people - it's no loss. We all know that they died for the cause... 09/11/2012 written by Lucilla M. Carrillo
I grew up with my little sister, Betty Anne Waters Until conviction took me away in 1980, for a murder in our town. Which, I would never do! Betty wouldn't let me stay, and wouldn't believe. She got her ged and many years of college. Passing the bar! Bringing out evidence from 16 years. Losing her husband and children. Losing everything for, Kenny. Her only brother, my only sister. She won to set me free in 2001. Betty showed the world, I was a wrongfully incarcerated brother. The sad part is I died, six months later, enjoying whatever little life I had left. So I leave this poem to show, my Betty, I appreciate everything, and give you my last thoughts. With a kiss. Love Kenny! A wrongfully incarcerated brother.
It was one of those rainy, overcast days And she decided to do a little cleaning As she dusted the furniture Something caught her eye The old typewriter sat in the corner neglected, and dusty all over Beside it lay its equally dusty cover As she stared at it, her thoughts wandered It was then that she started to reminisce She thought back to her years as a secretary, in a different place and time When the typewriter was king She recalled how the ribbon would smudge the paper How she would crumple them up And toss them in the trash can The can would be overflowing at the end of the day How the boss would chase her around the desk That was more the rule than the exception in those days She could still hear those keys As they banged against the ribbon She used to sing to the rhythm of those keys A song that she couldn't recall at the moment She suddenly felt an urge To take this ancient machine And clean it up Making it look shiny and new And then for old times sake She started tapping on those familiar keys It was then that the song that had eluded her just moments before, came back to her And she started singing to the rhythm of the keys As the falling rain played a rhythm all its own 5 - 5 - 2013
Prized Possession When was it that society and religion Became so afraid of the sexuality of women Or was it just men who became afraid Trapping and turning beauty into pornography To suit the idealism of a capitalistic Ideology Made women its prized possession There was once spiritual prowess in her nakedness Once long ago The symbol of womb and breast Gave birth to life And a possession was once the sexual expression Of both women and men Connecting Copulating In an essence of a spiritual unity Defined by the pleasure both received In giving to life So how did sex become a sin Dirtied by morals And then sold in a tin Of instant readily affordable self gratification When did your own sexuality Become a commodity For them to sale And poor Eve, lead mankind to ruin And she alone made responsible for the fall from Eden So shall she pay the price in cultural centuries Of Christian and Muslim oppression Such is the weakness of men That by muscle alone defends them Such is the weakness of men That their God must of course; be a man Such is the weakness of men That in the face of beauty It must be their possession Such is my contempt of those men Who cannot comprehend Where their own lives began And who's wives and daughter now exists In a poor excuse for love and worship Trapping and turning beauty into pornography To suit the idealism of a capitalistic Ideology Made women its prized possession Inspired by Brandy Megens poem "News at 5"
Spray painted on the bridge guardrail The words "Two Feathers is pok li la..." Past and the present meet by the river The old ways remembered by the young. Two Feathers in an "upstream man" Tribes of the mother river, the Klamath Nurturing their spirit and feeding the body Through the ages as it runs to the sea.. Hupa, Yurok and Kurok tribes have lived for thousands of years along the beautiful Klamath River in northern California. For Deb's contest.
Under afternoon's setting sun, It's last rays chase across the, Mississippi delta. Slow as she goes, steadily cutting, Currents rough undertone. Click, clacking water rushing, Up wooden panels divide sections, Harnessing the wooden wheel's raw, Power it pushes along, A heavily laden haul. Splashing spray hits unguarded, Passengers, whom stand alone, The side rails. Site seeing travels wonder at Natures wild landscapes, Vs. mankind's plantations. A tenuous balance between beauty, And progress. A grand old lady from days gone by, The white queen glides seamlessly, As if on air. Musicians play waltz's, sweet tones, As musics smooth rhythms vibrate, Her bow unto stern. Delighting gentlemen, and Maiden alike. Men dressed in period costumes, Embrace there dance partners, At the waste height politeness. Lovely, ladies blushing beneath, Swirling shifts delicate steps. Drifting crafts with sails at half mast, To honor histories glorious past. Freezing still watching, as girths, Wake rocks them on there merry way, Experience olden days legacy's. Reliving an easier time, recline my, Friend at idles leisure. Beside the rocky shoreline, Admire life's golden age, Have a taste of Southern comfort. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Young and innocent they went to school Expecting to learn and play Never in anyones wildest of dreams Did we expect that day For a rain of tears to shell them From one lost deep to sin But heavenly hosts came down for them Releasing them from him The devil he did have his day But God in end dost win For noubt will be lost but these young lives Will not be gone in vain The laws of the land will change in ways For it must not happen again Those who reign must stand on this Take stance and make a difference No one should be able to take a life With intent nor mindless innocence For even when with madmans mind You cannot be left to mingle How can you be able to walk in shop Purchase guns and not be liable Actions speak far louder than words And if we let just one slip through Without accounting for their sin It might well be me or you For on anyone these bullets Might be named to fall upon So make a difference – make a change Add your name – petition The whole wide world mourns in shame An Amnesty is long past needed Write your letters – use your vote Act now while it is fresh And pray for the souls of all those lost That each by the Lord be blessed Also for those who've lived through this That they might find a way To find the strength and courage To step out further each day
Your voice was born from twilight's Breast. Your name stole the mystery Of the night. Ambrosial hand of gold Bowled along the white Surf To glorify the lost souls Of a time Winding off with each chord, the locked secrets of the world. Orpheus! You are the Sun's chosen And the Sirens are trying To steal a song To bewitch the seamen. Time is trembling among Melodies and laments. A lost lover behind the Turning light. Your silence is calling The Muses To carry you beneath The sky's festival. Maybe now you are near her again. Father of melody Your untouched Lyra awaits To form sounds of time, To bring up an era lost. Taming the darkness You offered a soul to the cold. Fingers divine, Heart of gold! As near was the end You stood in front. A bending moment was your Fate's circle Following you As condemnation for the centuries to come. Journeys across the Sun's arms As a prayer for the dreams you loved, As a plaint for those you lost. Still, your voice travels along the sea To justify the unexpected turns Of Time. You, Orpheus, are the star, The lighten flame, Across the fields of gold, Calling your love to come With unreachable promises you hallowed. This poem is for Orpheus, the Greek Heroic Legendary figure who charmed even the God of Darkness with his music. The story of Orpheus is unique, showing love dimentions, his Hymns have made an impact to world's music over the time. Valeria Iliadou, Greece
OLD MAN THUSE Was Methuselah an ancient astronaut? Did he live nine hundred years? Yes to both say a few enlightened seers Did he visit Earth in a rocket ship? Did he wear a space suit? Possibly and used a laser gun to boot Did Ezekiel really see a wheel way up in the middle of the air? Was old Methuselah piloting that space ship? Had he taken an impossibly long trip? Truth is no one really knows Witnesses though many are all dead Belief must be taken on faith enough said
30 some years since On the moon we were. How old "our" then ? How old "our" now ? We played cards a few weeks befor, We played cards a few weeks ago. It was near full then, It's near full now, 30 some years since last We were on the on the moon.
Tall, proud cliffs, rising out of the sea, Straight and hard, withstanding bombs, Its protective outer shell encompassing The soft inner limestone of the Island Like my body protects the inner softness of me, The part that identifies with the Island, Needing to protect and yet be protected. Why do I identify with the stone? Its beauteous colours of cream through gold, Of its increasing hardness as it weathers And waits, To ripen and harden with age, Breathless over time, until ….. It is chosen. Finally. Like the Island has chosen me.
I was home from work that day. My office was on John Street One block away from the World Trade Center I would often go there at lunchtime To visit the shops To buy fruit at the Green Market To enjoy concerts on the esplanade It was a gathering place During the warm months of the year. And one evening, I was fortunate enough To dine in the Windows on the World Restaurant That offered a spectacular view of the city From the North Tower But this day, I was awakened By a familiar voice on the phone Did you see the news? A plane hit one of the Twin Towers I turned on the television And watched in real time As it all unfolded The mighty buildings Collapsing Into dust and debris Flames and destruction Falling bodies Obliterated bones And death I watched As exhausted firefighters Sat down on the sidewalk and wept I watched As revelers in the streets of Afghanistan Rejoiced at hearing the news I watched From my balcony in Brooklyn Where I once could see the towers But now there was an endless plume of smoke That stretched across the sky All those beautiful, precious lives Gone In the days that followed We New Yorkers treated each other More kindly, more gently For we were all fragile And felt capable of collapse Written September 10, 2009 - for Nathan Leccese's 9-11 Contest
I walk through the reservation valley of alcoholic death/ I fear no darkness among my own for the light breathes life on its own through my every breath/ I can no longer fit in for I need to stand out above the rest/ I can no longer follow, I got to be the host of my own because Im tired of being the guest/ I want to be the writer I dont want to be the reader/ I want to be the artist with the brush, I want to create I want to finally be my own leader/ I want to be able to follow society's rules because I am tired of being a cheater/ I want to be the supplier because Im tired of being the seeker/ I guess life is what I make it/ Forgive less as much as I still continue to forsake it/ My life is just a jolt but at times I feel death shake it/ Grab my emotions by the reins and straight earthquake it/ I try and fix my problems until someone comes by and breaks it/ but this is my time because Im still young so this young opportunity in life I must Take it. I got to hold my head held high from being low/ I got to stay lost until I find my own being my purpose of another young lost soul/ I cannot stop because Im too tired of staying stuck I must stay on go/ This my life now I know it my story waiting to be patiently told/ This my life now I got to let it un fold/ Let it slowly but surely grow/ Im just a hidden bomb waiting for my poetry to blow/ EVERYTHING I DID OR DO IN LIFE NOW IS SOMETHING I CHOSE? I GOTTA CHANGE BECAUSE I JUST CANT KEEP WALKING THE SAME RESERVATION ROAD.
Dreams don't make it here They are choked by smoke from fires fueled by bodies too bruised to recognize Here hope is like a forgotten thought that has left traces of its existence in your mind You know you can do it but you just can't remember how The children's playgrounds are now just a memory of a peace and calm that used to be I have forgotten the sound of children playing and laughing I know they can try but I think even they have forgotten what joy sounds like My reason to smile today is that 19 children died last night, yesterday it was 43 The rubble that carpets the streets gives testimony to the broken dreams of revolutionaries; the pillars and beams of a nation "The walls of the great cities have fallen and its homes caved in." The constant anguish has left my face mournful but I trust the flicker of hope is still visible in my old eyes They have seen far beyond more than I can swallow I have no more tears to shed, that well is dried up and hollow now This pain is like a splinter under the nail of my heart And with every gunshot it is pushed deeper and deeper and deeper but still I have no more tears to shed, that well is dried up and hollow now I am afraid of how much we claim to see and the paradox of how blind we act I am in awe of my spirits resilience and endurance; Truly suggestions of something divine
Unprovoked attacks Death screams from the hearts of the innocent A child's last breath Lies in your arms Raise your weapon For the sickness f****ing your mind Protect and serve? F*** that, let's massacre them all Let's burn and pillage This family's home and make them watch Piss in this man's hands And spit at his feet Let bullets rain on his chest So his children see Protect and serve? Intimidate and rape They fear your "help" And comply with tears in their eyes And a gun to their temple Dirt on their knees, in a pool of their father's blood Protect and serve? I think not. *About a news report I recently saw, about U.S. soldiers killing innocent civilians for sport. (This has been going on since there has ever been wars, it's not a new issue.) They blamed it on being in a drug-induced state of mind, and on seeing disturbing images of warfare. We debated in my class whether or not this type of murder can be justified. I argued strongly and loudly that NO traumatization or drugged mind is a just reason to murder and torture innocent people. The U.S. military is here to PROTECT and SERVE all people. Does this sound like protection to you?
There he stands across from her, With the invisible wall between them, Knowing that chance to be together would be the cost of deat,. So they stand apart from one another in two different dimensions, That neither can reach, Never will he touch her Beautiful face, That shines like the moon in the swallowing darkness, Never will there lips touch that he has kissed many lifetimes before, Never will she feel the warmth of his love, Which once sustained the lonely coldness of her empty heart, Never will their bodies touch with the fiery passion they longed for, These desire have been has denied in this lifetime, And powerless to change their own destiny, They stand apart whispering the word of love.
If only you could see I still have feelings for you No matter if I show it Or not I will always care I can't stand not being with you You act as though I'm not to Be seen as a person to be Trusted with everything I may have screwed up But life is full of screw ups I know I shouldn't have acted out of anger I shouldn't have but My life, my love, and My heart Belong to you. I might never get it back But it belongs to You. I love you
Dear all women, You made me write again and again Not about beauty, not about beasts, but about my self And the origin of my silence, snakes, silos and stillness How much ever fast I ran, you caved my self, selflessly I searched your depths in my gaze, in your glance, in our trance But all fell out of shape, like a gazoid, like a river that speaks for itself Your language of love, your symbols of seduction, your systems of life These words may be pending for a long time, long due or long rustic Poems are written, lost and left behind, same like the river of leaves That gets rotten in the bread of brown grey wooden ground I saw many roots, hanging in the wretched skins of my arms I sketched wrecked ships of my golden past Poems to pencils, Words to Worms, Purple to Pupil All are an act of Engines of growth through the Pictures of life Many roads covered, from love to lust, dream to desire Arrogance to ambivalence, words to willows, papers to carbon capacitors I still shiver when a pale glass window opens in front of me A paper cup and a torus of ladders, they came back in time And I stood by their wishes, their long beards, their stale wishes Their history melt before mine, though I am alone, and they wander in mine I have their fight in my mirrors, the mirrors that I name, call, scream and spit my gaze And I know that they never shapes up itself Dear all woman, I borrow your silence, your strength and your sarcasm On my ways, On my days, On my rays, On my wooden willows of whims and wickedness ***********
Beginnings – Endings Out of the darkest reaches of time and space came molten minerals, gasses, rocks, comets – life traversing aeons, in suspended animation across millions of light years, billions of desolate miles creating unseen universe after universe, creating unseen solar system after solar system. Past galaxies, black holes, quasars, supernovas, planets with their moon / moons orbiting. Time and space expanding, along side, ride asteroids, meteors, comets and star dust. Star dust, travelling in time and space follows a subconscious wave, a coarse that has taken them – particles of life – into this little blue planet and all that inhabit. A fight for life, in the heat of battles with the gods, was won, the gods kicked our ass into the prefect place as star dust, eggs, came crashing down their shells, shattered, melted away, as they entered this little blue planets, once gray, atmosphere. Upon entering, having contact with Mother Natures furry, found their way into Mother Natures, pot of stew, within which they grew, divided and conquered, after millions and millions of years of evolution, disasters, mutations, genetic manipulations that brought out of the darkness a metamorphous and their core essence, the yolk separated. Separated into millions of microorganism, atoms, millions of diverse cells, that in corporation, became all, all that we thought we have known about life on this planet. Until one fine day the gods finally got it right and from the primordial – chicken gumbo – soup we animate cells climbed, and the inanimate cells lay in stone and other lifeless – in our view - lives as we evolved arms, legs, hands, feet – animal magnetism. On days – every thirty six hundred years – gods were at their closest point to the slaves they created. They would come and tweak our genes until no longer homo Neanderthal, ruled, no longer Cro-Magnon ruled, the gods finally got it right and homo sapiens rule !!! After all, we were created in the likeness of the gods and did not the gods rule, and now god rules. The gods sent their sons to investigate the progress of what they had thrown onto this once barren rock – our little blue planet – observe and obtain, to create change in this upright creature that crawled out of the seas, - and they mated with the daughters of created man – who, after many alterations, natural mutations and genetic manipulations – evolved from a single cell into an exotic creature in the oceans, to this gorgeous mammal, upright upon land who became the forefathers of man – from Austaustralopithecus, Africanus, Homo-Rudolfensis, Homo Erectus, Neanderthal and finally us – Homo Sapiens - Sapiens, the children of the gods, gods who decided our fate ( slaves for all eternity ) with their spaced out wisdom, and in their likeness, war against each other, conquer, kill off nations, drown legions in the red sea, nuke cities - Sodom and Gomorrah – wiped out the Earth with a tsunami or at least, did little to prevent it, except to give man the ark, that floating laboratory with its vials of genetic material, D N A. I think I am getting carried away, being a little redundant at times, but the show must go on so that we can see man's journey. That spaced out wisdom – genetically create man in our likeness, our image, we will give the evolution of man, a jump start, we will insert, into his D N A, the essence from our gene pool, at our science centre ( the garden of EDEN ) then Adam, and EVE, the prototypes for us modern man / woman – the likeness of us gods. Enter the sons of the gods, who found such beauty in the daughter of man, the creations of the of their heavenly fathers, and began to lay – sleep – with them giving birth to legends, – some horror stories -, creatures, myths, stories of good and evil that have become the legacy of man. We – mankind – are no better than the gods, the sons of the gods who brought us out of our animal magnetism and into consciousness. We are like them - the gods, the sons of the gods - as the bible and all the following religions – Adidam, Ásatrú, Atenism, Ayyavazhi, Aztec religion, Bahá'í Faith, Bön, Buddhism, Cheondoism, Christianity, Confucianism, Discordianism, Druidism, Druze, Ancient Egyptian religion Etruscan religion, Ancient Greece, Hermeticism.Hinduism, Islam, Jainism, Judaism etc., etc. – as well as the Sanskrit, tell us we are. We fight among ourselves for control, for power, for prestige, for all that we believe is our god given right as we lay siege to the lands, the mineral rights etc., etc., laying waste to Mother Earth and man, all that keeps this planet alive, in our greed, our desire to dominate, in our haste to achieve what ?, what in the end will not help us survive. What will we learn ?, what will we derive ? In the final analysis, will this planet last another million years ? Or soon be lost, leaving itself and us in a tsunami of tears that is about to drown history, mankind and all, as, into space, Mother Earth, her children will fall. Then, will we see, truly hear the gods call, will they save us ?, take us into another hall. B. J. "A" 2 ( Bill . ) June 13th 2004
You had me at hello but then Something happened in which you let go. We use to love talking to each other day and night Because there were never any fights. But now I see that all the things You once told me aren't true. About how much you love me and The things you will never do. When we talked there was constant laughter But now it's like we no longer have anything To say to each other. I thought you were what I wanted in a man But I believe I was wrong. You send them random messages where You play with my mind and tell me all the things I want to hear but now, they place fear. Fear in my heart and mind as if you are doing you And is no longer mine. As I think about the things we could've Had I'm kinda glad. You use to run through my mind 24/7 But that's no more. I feel that you never really cared about me And now I see. I know you have school and football to deal with But that was never a problem before. Now, that you no longer make time for me, I constantly talk to someone that actually listens To me and enjoys hearing my voice And the things I say. I know you say that your feelings for me are real But it's not what I feel. You constantly call me your "babymama" but never your "girl" or "lady". But hey you don't need to because The things you're not doing that you promised Someone else is.
ten years ago today I had two parents I called when the second plane had crashed into the second tower we shared the impact of that horror we could not comprehend ten years ago today I had a friend who called when the first tower had collapsed after from the towers people had jumped for an easier death we shared the sensations of awe ten years ago today I had students speechless when the Trade Centre had gone on the first day after the terrorist attacks we shared impressions with the vocabulary I provided today ten years after I have not any parents not that friend not any students to share the horror the sensations the impressions I have now
the Manitou heathen have sunken two of your majesty's king Rupert's ships a fierce battle with in minutes after a warning of shots fired by your ships the heathen technology far greater than your majesty has ever seen even one heathen infantrymen equipped with a shiny silver bow like device which can place a cannon size hole through the bow like dragons fire the intensity was devastating straight as an arrow the fiery projectile about the same size The canons and rifle men were of little use for the heathen men appeared as grey wolves like something from a mad Merlyn's vision then vanished before our eyes we have withdrawn to the safety of the seas and moving southerly to hope a hidden cove while retreating we were hailed a voice reverberating all around us from some strange megaphone the Manitou rise seeing our plight we request your majesty orders king of Britannia - we now fear upon seeing the Nouveau riche lands of these new borders
I've seen black sheep set in Pongola grass Within pallid seas, differed, Like black buttons on a white cotton suit; Sheep are color blind. A bee is fine-looking, But there's fire in its ass. Can the wild goat trust The adder with inviting pelt? Did Emmitt Till paint changes With his blood in cotton picking towns; The blood that called from Mississippi, Like Abel's blood calling from the ground. Death had a voice, a voice in the wind, The wind that walked north-west And brought a microscope For John Public to see How inferior to dogs we are. As a child, I played Ring-around-the-roses Until I saw "Rosewood" And heard the drums Beaten like Rodney King, And the heartbeat of Cojoe And Nanny racing Towards the mountain of the devil, To escape the cotton fields. The drums are always talking. The old south is alive and kicking high. This is no Elvis tale. Exhume the body, See with your own eyeballs. No DNA can confirm That Jim Crow is dead. Jim Crow has a roost on Fox News. He's always crowing, Whipped up by the "boy" In the WHITE house. How much can you see If you look from the outside? I've seen it even in REM sleep, Even when I dream of roasted breadfruit, Jockato in coconut milk, and Chinese geisha; Willie Lynch is a man breathing The smog-filled air in Washington. In 1955, Money was the root of the evil, And '68 Memphis was the cross Of the sacrificial lamb, But these days men are lynched In broad day light. String up, dangling Like papa's khakis floating In breeze walking the orange glen. All eyes should see our opinion of them. Today we're civilize, And Catholicism is not voodoo. We no longer use rope, Our tongues do a fine job. Like Mutabaruka, I have no color problem; Everything is black to me, As black as Sarah's view of the motherland (It's not too vital for her to learn). If blue skies Cried acid, And wash the dark color From this portrait, I would still be black, As black as tar. It's in my blood.
Foot wear, The foot where, The foot what connecting all to this world, To dress,foot wear, Addressing care, The lacing made old fashion, Replacing buckles,chains and Velcro in machines, In rainbow colors, Short builds to shot up, Size to size foot wise, A ladies pride, Sometimes a tool provide, A history when came in contact with cheeks, Thrown at some heads in anger, Get into others foot often, Bare foot,a symbol of poverty, Cobblers to make, Lincoln an exception!
Awake, alone, the hours after midnight when thoughts like gypsy spirits roam about the world, traveling through past, present and blank future-- no maps, no boundaries, no roads. Free to roam, a nomad of earth's centuries, along unbarred corridors, uncharted seas, viewing both the close and distant perspectives of nations, thrones, and kings, captain of a time kaleidoscope turning in the curious capsule of my head. What could we be and see if not restrained by gray barred cells of time and place? Would wisdom rule because we ascertain the whys of old cultures' swift declines? I doubt we would choose any better even if we knew all there is to know; we would find we are determined rebels, for we are fallen beings after all. August 27, 2014
had then didn't. Wisped somehow... or gossiped... or distracted to Utopia's version of cockroached virgins stained glassy through windows tight enough for what?
like a suggestion to obsess of a gap commercial experience leaving me walking in circles unable to stop telling lies the fight or flight keeps me here underneath this hypnosis you work to keep pure failed attempts to do the right thing leaves you subconciously out of the loop the worlds fool fooling the world awaiting to wake from my slumber to wonder who i am and for you to realise this was in no way shape or form my fault. Hypnotic suggestion that seems to be keeping me alive showcasing your innocence at first terrorised by the fact you didn't understand the fight or flight keeps me here underneath this purely good intention you try to poison to wake me up the world deadlocked by this failed attempts to do the right thing the world fooled for a second chance to induce me back to where i began this seems to me to be in no way shape or form a fault of yours The stage of life revolving around a disorganised game not many had any bad intentions yet in this dilema of irony i am crucified misunderstood good intentions i subconciously relate to societies torture i feel i have endured keeps me here deadlocked by an attempt to control fate a stacked deck presented by ladyluck and a promise of destiny's first date the world fooled by the hearts of angels of men alone to place this devil upon my shoulder a game to play of a return to innocence within my minds eye logic ofacting out mankinds reflection this has left me in a temporary surrender knowing the fallen angel confused as to who he is is a god in disguise completely misunderstood at no fault of your own
The soldier, the war, and I Today I am home and thinking to my self.. What would I be doing if I had a soldier coming home to me and my family? What would I be doing if I was the soldier looking to going home to my family? And then, I look back at all the years passed since this last war.. Many children have grown to become men, Others have grown to become soldiers Where would I be if I had gone to the war and fought for my country? Where would I be if I had gone and came back safely? Where would I be if I had not gone at all because I was not qualified to go? Would I be with my family or in a hospital injured? Would I be standing proud, and laughing with my friends and family? Or would I be dead, as I never got to come back? Today I am home and thinking to myself.. Thinking of all of those brave soldiers, children still Who are out there, suffering.. And some ill Today I am home and thinking to myself.. How many woman are crying because of their gone loved ones How many men are crying for their loved and missed ones How many children are fatherless or motherless, or both! And at the end I stop. I think no more.. I am grateful for the things I have, I am grateful for the people who surround me... And I am sure grateful to never have gone to a war; yet, I sure appreciate the thoughts, courage, life, and suffering Of all of those who have been touched by it.
It may seem strange to write about a battered old saucepan but this was no ordinary one it sprung a leak the other day sadly without thinking I threw it away and now it's gone. It had been in my family before I was born and it was used every day it broke my heart after to throw it away. For all the delicious soups goulash and past it had contained the mouth watering delectable smells from the kitchen the shouts from my parents ''Come on now set the table dinners made''. All the red hot broths and porridge we'd scoff before school on a winters day all the laughs tears and conversations around the dinner table before it was was washed and put away. It was more than a simple saucepan because it held a lot of family memories now my parents sadly passed away it was one of the last things to remind me of how things used to be and mow I have to buy a new one and accept it's demise like my family it's gone forever. Peter Dome.copyright.2012.
Tempted…by the slithering serpent, Eve accepts the forbidden fruit, From the Tree of Knowledge. Resulting in permanent expulsion, From the beloved…Garden of Eden. Escorted…by the archangel from fruitful reality, Into the lone barren horizons. Adam and Eve, contrary to previous happiness, Both walk with an ashamed sinful gaze, As they forcefully flee…from Paradise. ________________________________ inspired by Michelangelo's "Fall of Man"
There's a point blank Just south of Soulsville where common pit desires exude extreme ego ratios rotating on human gutlike socioshadow experientials. Slow slug immuno pain gestures cloud coilshaped reason with limited intellirespect ids--only that lonely by product of talking to the mime chip on your shoulder clasped hands in a froth frame of zero quotient personality tolerance. Socioscan the fluid flawed internoschism and plug yourself into those autothoughts so socioprevelant as to walk away and call it a draw day. Never the tweens shall resolve. Sharp footsteps with no meaning will evercast jaded overtone half with tongues that bite their own limplip droppings wag wash in cumulative deceit doings. Drag your dill depths with an ether grappling hook and sociosoothe your infection---massage your emo entrails with an existential ease of a junk jolt to colon ize another fecal space of cleansed renewal--like ripping the tape from a well wound dancing scales up and down to a new brainbeating--livid at living fax a look outside your self and erase your exit embarassment for a beholding chance at adding a new socioscore to your puss life tax deduction. What a rectal return on your individual invest mint-- ass the rich get raunchier the poor prey prime evil----sign here, please.
JULY 1969 – Moon landing There are no wolves Astir tonight To chill our fireside man The wolves are gone Are northward gone From a disenchanted land From where Maid Moon Who winked at dreams Has lost her apple eyes Oh, someone's plucked The saucy dish From out a virgin sky Her lover's cool Bacterial breath Has blued the Maid's gold cheeks - And wolves are gone To howl for her From woods and mountain peaks
King Arthur Pendragon a boy of fifteen unknown But of Merlin about the accord Shrouding Arthur's rightful identity: King Uther's Son. Upon King Uther's demise England Needed a Sovereign...one prophesied in Times of dragons...a great upholding Savior. Albeit Nobles and Knights aspiring Crown and Kingdom attempted conspicuous acquisitions Failing in their efforts. So it was on Christmas Eve that Arthur came about Needing a sword. Espying the one Stuck in stone availed the iron... Beginning eternal legends of King Arthur... deborah burch 02.17.2013 For David's contest
I WISH That i did not have to see people on the streets with no home, food or even water or money to live on. I WISH I could be in a band and be all i can be like the birds and the bees and how they fly so freely I WISH That her heart wouldnt be broken and maybe if he loved her she wouldnt have died she would have lived forever in his arms I WISH That everyone could get along and that we all could be at peace, maybe the war would end and the sound of music can play again I WISH that her or his bully would see if they keep up all this hurt and fear that they put on someone else by huritng them will soon end the world in sadness AND I WISH, My art could sing like the lyrics of a song and that everyone could see the art teens draw from there own hearts and there bleeding minds of there souls.
If one goes on compressing everything In one's own self, How one is going to prosper? This selfishness could be self-killing. Make the others laugh, Laugh and be happy. Extend your happiness Make everyone happy. Shahjahan built the Taj Mahal, One of the seven wonders, To Make Mumtaz, his wife And mankind happy to look at. ================================ Seventh place winner in Contest: What is civility to you
Tis a hallowed place... This cobbled maze of alleyways Which bond these rat infested streets Yet, gas lamps lit, stand betwixt the corners And lone Bobbies patrol beneath their feet London, A littering city of homeless ashes Falls shameful underneath the moon's pathetic light The darkness is the seductress... soon to be accomplice As the hooligans, once again reanimate in mist of twilight Scruff tooth kings of domains, self proclaimed The dagger and a pocket flask, two most closely guarded friends And in the dank corner pitch kingdom, we anticipate From a realm dubbed "The London Dead End" Lush stumblers... Streetwalkers or simply naïve Entry here, our law says you must pay the toll Or pay the piper before you leave I partake of liquid courage And then I set my blade To foot falls around corners this way come… Among this lonely blackened place... This maze… Of streets and alleyways… Paved over each eve with lost shadows Never again... to witness a morning sun
Oh, you are so wise judging with your eyes what you see merely a figure something to despise. Oh, you are so sympathetic kind to those who seem pathetic If you could look beyond skin you'd see a soul free of sin. Oh, you are so kind living with closed eyes judging all mankind If only we were color blind.
Pandemonium fills the arena the cries of the masses echoes through the air like roaring lions... Cheering to incite the favor of the gods while the elder nobles wave in silent indignation... The gladiators face the emperor, "Hail, Caesar those who about to die salute you" The emperor raising a finger, "Fair you well" Clash of shield and swords protecting flowing wounds prolonging their lives... Blood flowing onto sand red blood in the sun forming putrid pools... Gladiatorum for the glory of empire and you Caesar, are you not entertained? ~ ~
I remember when, we would yakkety-yak, so many hours on the phone. Feeling so almighty, not wanting to end our conversations. My every brain-work, was always you. Your name, kept going threw my mind. Now, we never talk. We email each other like strangers. Then, not everyday. Our lives have changed so much. To the point, were our friendship isn't there. My heart doesn't skip a beat anymore. Instead, it seems to beat, very slow. Causing physical pain, as I hold my chest. Now! I don't like hearing your name or seeing it spelled. Remembering when, we would crave to see each other. Hold each other, so much. Not wanting to be apart. Always laughing and smiling. Eating has one. Remembering, the stare we had. We couldn't keep our eyes off our flesh. Our nights, seemed lonely without our touch. Now! We don't crave, or see each other. We never laugh or smile. We never eat together. Now our hands don't touch. The sad part is, I could care less. Care less on wanting it back. I don't miss it or need it. For it's you, I can thank. You gave me the strength, to leave you. You gave me the strength, to forget about you. You gave me the strength, to erase our memories. All , because you gave up. Gave up on, our touch. Gave up on, our smiles. Gave up on, our laughter. Gave up on me. Me! Your wife!
Our Father The road is slippery Black ice Seemingly at one with the surface Black ice on a black road On a black night Don't make Wrong or right White clouds As white as cotton White clouds In a black sky Black ice on a black road On a black night Don't make Wrong or right No way to plow it Or salt it Or need to change it All is one In heaven Hallowed be your name Your kingdom come Your will be done On earth As it is in heaven Give us this day our daily bread And forgive us our debts As we also have forgiven our debtors And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil. Amen
The air is heavy like a dirty woolen blanket each colorful strand pulled through the warp. Horns blare and traffic skids and screeches as unborn accidents are aborted by fancy-pants cops. The city slickers in their posh clothes zip along toward the outskirts avoiding those in dirndl-shaped, Polleras skirts and Monteras hats, as if ashamed, either of their own roots, or of the neglect. The road to El Salvador* is long weaving along rough pacific shore lines wefting past fishing villages, and cement factories with tangerine groves, each lane bringing the colors of modern life. The oranges, red and pinks of fine fabric repeated in on the metal surfaces of trucks, buses, and motor cabs. Each person's destiny pulled and pushed by the action of man, earth and tide forward, ever forward..through the dunes of Lima's desert. The invaders hug the hillside, thousands upon thousands, of rural poor, driven from the teat of the mother by earth quakes and the terror caused by The Shining Path.* Mao lives on in the upheaval caused by his ideology. Yet, so does ayni*, the helping hand of neighbor, the brown-skinned hand, more used to the bobbin than the gun. Here they have come in oneness a finished soul on a back-strap loom, dyed and drying in the heat of Lima's desert they bloom. *El Salvador- a shanty-town 45 min outside of Lima with 350,000 residents. This community was nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize in 1986 excellence in social work and community growth **Shining Path-The Communist Party of Peru is a Maoist terrorist organization in Peru.[ *** ayni- Quechua culture is centered upon community and mutual help ("ayni"). Their social system is based on the principle of reciprocity: helping a neighbor to be helped in return.
Who the hell rings bells anymore whether in a Capitalist society, a Theocracy, an Oligarchy, or a Dictatorship the DING has sure been taken out of the rama dama ding dong No ones home, the juries out G-d is dead? Shell, Chevron and Texaco have reduced the life expectancy of people in the Niger delta to 50 years ...... The Oil companies are fracking the hell out of the water table ....from here to Canada and back and guess what..then they can up the price of BOTH oil and FRESH? water?? Who are the bell ringers [Ask Jessica Ernst how the water is in her well?] Where are the bell ringers [hmmm, Canada?] [Strangled in the nooses of corrupt governments] DO say! Do doubt! Do think.... Take a whistle blower home for dinner! Blinded by the stars [lulled into limbo by Flamingo dancers] living vicariously ..voyeurs peeping through the key holes of arse-holes Pull yourselves UP..OUT, declare COMMIT re-remember what it means to have YOUR WORD mean something re-remember what it means to be a friend. Free yourself, for no one else will. Fallacies RING true to the disempowered there DONGs removed, their clappers plucked Sex, drugs and Rock and Roll was the mantra of MY age, and HELL NO I WON'T GO our calling card. *Thank you to my muse and friend Rueben O. for inciting this ancient ding-dong :) Please read his excellent write [Didn't Don't]
Far from harsh reality Of cruel peasant life Gilded surroundings Of smooth parquet floors Damask-lined walls Crystal chandeliers The background music of Imperial fountains Soothed the nobility at Peterhof St. Peterburg's bow to Versailles; Carriages and troikas Moved elegantly, smartly Conveying crowned heads Seeking favor from the tsar In a great hall now guarded By old Russian babas Nodding, fighting sleep As they glare at the tourists.
His name is evoked with boundless esteem By the strata of generations down the ages The prodigious son of our holy motherland Who embodied valour and chivalry to the hilt. He could have lead a princely life of comfort By conceding the honour of his blessed land But happily chose a life similar to his terrain Instead of beating the same refrain like peers. He embodied all that stands for grit and nerve Inspired the masses by an outstanding example Sent shivers down the spine of the adversaries And won admiration even from his sworn foes. His form awe-inspiring stays etched in minds Reviving the memories of his sacrifice great That arouses the most weak and low-spirited Infuses the spirit with verve and vim; enviable. Even today he is revered as a symbol of bravery With very few peers to match his place in history He strode like a colossus on the sands of time The Maharana is worthy of salute for all time. Till his last breath he worshiped his motherland A crest jewel among all valiant warriors of the land He the great, his loyal Chetak, the gallant steed To all such immortals, we all owe our gratitude.
the star dust in your soul amazes me it spills between my fingers between my synapses unto ground made of air i see the places i have been and the places i need to go when i lay witness to the star dust in your soul it's all consuming the big bang within the brain just to observe your effulgence the nimbus that crowns your lovely head this is worth the 5 or 6 billion years i've been waiting
Then Cronus, son of Heaven and Earth accepted steel and cut the twain Dead Earth descended low in sterile regions of the sundr'd Soul And a cry went up from mortal'd man - "Great one what hast thou done to us?" A part of time is cut in twain repeating o'er and o'er the strain And A begat him B and B begat him C, and on and on The boredom of the turning ball the reaching out the anguish'd call - "Great Cronus Son of Heav'n and Earth why hast thou done this thing to us?"l
Hmmm... this one ain't as weighty and oooh!!... peach sheets! smells pretty good and feel soft too. I hope she doesn't fart like the last one. Choked me to death he did! Oh...no pun intended! Brought her own pillows too, teddy bears A real girly girl this one She smells like a baby... I like her! She gives me a workout! She's always moving. Always seem to have visitors... the docs stay quite a while here too... She laughs a lot...that's good Haven't had many laughers Two surgeries and still moving... Wow! She cried a few times I was her support Had to...she smelt good! :-) Was there for the tests, probes, baths... she did ok then! Was there for the Pop's going ...slept like a baby!! Hmmm... I'm being stripped! No more baby soft. Uuuuuffff....man you is a big fella ....Great you fart!!
we have lost the meteoric icy-blue, sky-fire above the heated planetary core of a thousand covered suns in the center of oblivion where confluence carries hope in warm symbiont souls and lambs wear ragged fleece - iconoclastic mediocrity reflective fables of future past history unlocked - foretold the shamanistic path of return through stalagmite tunnels would lead our spirits home as tribal songs retreat oppression ever-present present past, shaman seer resurrected spirit healers weeping, weeping, weeping, for the buffalo bitter flood of salty tears blood of man soaks the trail with broken souls man and beast, stink and sweat, co-mingled bathe in single sacred tear underneath a future vision four white devil idol faces spirit sacrilege breathing devil breath upon the sacred hills of black and gold the ancients from the sky watch and weep and still dust stirs forty thousand spirit feet walking, winding, wending, in a never ending line worn and torn, shoeless feet, blistered toes to blistered souls trail of fear, women wailing, pain prevailing, psychic suicides and tribal death takes one final breath `
You use it every day. It is a basic part of life now. Maybe it's the flicker of the radio Or the buzz of a computer. It is used every day to make our lives simpler and less stressful. Is it really helping us though? It does make our life simpler But is this a downward spiral into emotionless and effortless life? A life where instead of real soldiers with real emotions are sent to fight, A drone controlled by someone at a computer is used to kill innocent civilians. The drone is emotionless. No compassion for other beings and no feeling of guilt or regret. This is the future, an emotionless drone controlled by someone at a computer.
God of light conquer my fear from within An eclipse of the sun has tainted my inner vision Who are we to have believed yet achieved Some are even caught in its pickle; Stranded as two love birds caught in a fickle Sacred Passage The uniting of two hearts so far away we will pray God of heaven take delight on my poetry Look highly favorable amidst the summoned truth Like a lost carriage we take our flight away Far from the lost brevity in exchange of honesty The silence has etched its memory in our brains Shattered by the moment of upheaval and then, Sacred Passage; We look humbly then often deeper then ever before In exchange of honesty its just Studio 54?
I felt my name slip off his tongue Before he even thought to consider Whether to pronounce it Ashanti Asante or Asanti Oh Queen Nanny, let them be Pitch black warriors made night their playground and pounced on trespassers How long boat rides led to new languages of blackness Afrocentric heroes making mockery out of zeroes with puffed up chests I guess I must tell him its spelt Asante Choice pronunciation of Ashanti, my father had his way There are warriors with spears etched out in my name So remember this phoneme correctly Not for the sake of me I do no regret this happening If it means I must teach myself again About tall trees in mountains And hidden languages in Acompong Maroons I remember how my father referred to his skin in escape of midnight, unseen and out of sight Burn down these buildings and leave traces of nothingness That's what we do People of the blue mountains and mango season Die bare back as we came in Never looking back at those small things A S A N T E Protect and preserve this thing here Great Golden stool, I have you Asantewaa can't fight for me She's been conquered But I am here in the essence of new beginnings And they can't steal this empire Osei Tutu now crowns me with these words This is my kingdom set in proverbs Great in spirit I guess that's why I've always been hot tempered You can't rename me now No Saul to Paul or Jacob to Israel It's meant this way I have to live up to those brutal conquest and lead brigades to free the souls of a beaten down distinction Asante or Ashanti If you know your history I used to trip up on the slip up Of mispronunciation They saw something in the water Intricately braided hair and rage beating down freedom out of clouds Spirit of fighters never forsook my tongue Now I fight with things like cold stares and pens Markers, paper, cell phone, notepads Times new roman font in unsaved documents recovered I feel a bit of shame as I remember middle school Seventh grade I decided to give up and let them name me I didn't want to explain the accent on the e How I put it there for flare Kromanti languages losing power on my position couldn't find me overseas Now I pipe up to them 'speak correctly' to buy back years of Africa's lost history It's me now behind fogs Standing invisible amidst nothingness I go back and am back to the position and election of my name A S A N T E Asante or Ashanti Don't forget the accent on the e
The light of day has been shut; darkness has covered a quarter of the world; they are here! the superior beings our ancestors called gods! they have come to check the chess game of history, they had left myriads of years back. Divinity is all we are left with not to gamble.....
She is a fine cook It didn't come by chance She was trained by her family She practiced day and night She had to learn to cook For many in her life Her husband was particular And she was a dutiful wife She told us all a story Early in martial bliss She made a beautiful cake Spent hours creating it She waited in anticipation To feed her only man A chocolate spearmint cake She thought would be grand Her husband was so excited To dare take a bite She looked at him with hope That it was a delight Instead his look was sour His eyes closed tight He said this cake tastes lousy Not another bite
what do you do for a living super soldier? you are paid to go to another country and kill people you dont even know what do you do for a living head doctor? you are paid to lie about mental health, and continue to carry out your torture what are you paid to do journalist? write slanted reviews as you tear apart the lives of good people what are you paid for mr officer? hide the truth of who the real victoms are and lie on tv so the journalists dont have to what have i been doing for a living? nothing, ive been too busy scrambling away from you job to job city to city to get away from being victomised again whats it like to have no reason to live you ask? i would die to prevent what you have been doing to me whats it like to have your soldiers go to war for another country to end terrorism, as you are being terrorised, reaching out daily. its been like being stalked by a serial killer while your rich and famous inspire him with plots and getaway plans in their television and movies full of hatespeach they think is funny whats it like to to watch your people die to help someone who just cried wolf whats it like to play the victom constantly you dont have a monopoly of hardship and world tragedy you weild it like a weapon of lies and gameshows to practice your manipulation techniques what do you do for a living amnesty international? link your information to the pentagon to assist your allies in war by killing the people who torture or people like myself before you get caught....or do you just book yourselves front row seats to your sick little games in a situation of nonstop constant no brainers the lies of you 700 people is a war crime of conspiracy no wonder you consider blowing your head off after the realisation, a no brainer situation and your still thinking the world revolves around the simplest things i would kill people like you for a penny to buy the divine intervention of nothing to live for apparantly im not going to accept the fact that after your game of making me miserable im just going to have to wait to be murdered im not going to accept that and i will kill people like you for free when you have no right to your own person as a human being when your pets have more rights than you do when soo many people use stuck on stupid as their subtle excuses they are the enemy realised it is your turn to die in the streets of society since nothing changes anything now go die
In the darks of yonder Thine eyes like bats Blinded by vanity Vanity of thine fathers Savages we become Deep within thy dungeons Brothers we become Dreams of freedom we see Freedom not of chains down Freedom for respect of lifes Freedom is all we sing Freedom is all we seek In a land strange to ye Animals ye become The whip is thy language Torture thy comrade Death becomes order of the day Sleep is thine mothers.
verasity of V V of variations sixth fifth twenty second to name a few waw vuh ee double U even B value of v a hook a peg a spear the number five but not a two when scrabbling V of vision I believe V to you V to me maybe we should let V verify V verbatim debate 'em a victorious visitor peacful vendetta Look here I got my two eyes on you V
Windowpane Sitting on the rocker above the street Chair takes its station with the man, old and weary Placed there in time to look out side A broken window holds them both fixated on the day Cracked in several places caused by storms and age Five or ten passersby stream past in a flash They can't see him due to the tinted fractured glass Events spirit them away in any case, in any event One cannot be preoccupied in the mundane or number of the day They seize the moment and shrink in size, meander down The wharf is a welcome warm distraction with sun and sea Out of reach, out of sight, at a distance, beyond the old man's vision The window glares complete indifference to these matters Down to the shore men march against the storm With nowhere else to go they come and go again Maniacs cry for such lives as theirs Someone used to bring reports and papers To forecast disasters and read about times gone by But no more; that time has passed, eclipsed by history Old man gets all his news by looking through the window Through it life stares back through cracks Rising past the damaged world into the bungalow It seems like everything is somewhat fractured Like humans, window and the pane, will crack more over time Mediators to the universe, a microcosm of themselves They see all things unfold although distorted Real things happen every day out there Old man catalogues them all in a glancing gaze On his rocking chair beside the window His glaring friend in pain is there To share his ways and gather up the moments
reconised as one of the greatest harpsichordist his sonates for flute and harpsichord remain an attractive part of chamber music repertoire with six string symphonies he had written for baron von swieten and arbiter elegentium in vienna music by cpe bach is often listed with a reference number from the catalogue of his works by wotquenne {wq} Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel 1714-1788 Can find his works at Classics online .com Entry For Brian Strand's FanFare Contest
Only seven years old living in a new place No one at home just have to come in all alone Eat all alone no one here Only seven years old but have to get homework Because the teacher willl be angry Punishment is to stay in at recess Only seven years old home so cold Can't build a fire because no one there Sad but don't know how to express the pain Only seven years old worried will anyone come home Pain of loneliness penetrates the walls and the heart.. Only seven years old too much for a child so young Only seven years old Empty, lonely, desolate at only seven years old
Full Moon Brimming On A Hungry Wolf Fire still burning Words are not enough Red Riding Hood, You stopped me where i stood. The basket you held, looked so good, I enticed...And you fell... In the woods... safe and sound We could not believe what we had found Me in denim... and you it lace We understood, each other so very well Full moon brimming over with light Gazing into the eyes of the other The twin to me, I did see, in You. Be careful with my heart, my love. My running shoes are unlaced for now, So lean back and enjoy the ride. Embrace all the laughter, our lives allow. rlm
Love is one of life's greatest mysteries It is the driving force which shapes man's destiny It is the very foundation upon which life itself is built Love leads life follows Love is a way of life One cannot detach oneself from Love to make a decision for Love is life itself Throughout the ages the power of Love has gripped the hearts of men - mighty men who feared nothing and made them powerless to resist its spell Kingdoms rose and fell Armies laid others waste and were laid waste by others Men died in agony at the command of a Love-infected leader Paris and Helen of Troy in the Trojan war Samson and Delilah in the battle with the Philistines Anthony and Cleopatra in the Roman Civil War Love is a potent force that sometimes makes fools of Earth's mighty men of valour And yet this same Love has been an instrument of good with which nothing can compare There are many kinds of love - a man for his God a man for his woman a friend for his friend a person for his kin a man for his dog - these and many more Though the particular cases differ the effect of Love is the same - that feeling which inspires and drives men to achieve things they once believed impossible Many a knight fought great odds and won for his lady Many a man leaves his comfortable niche in society and goes out to endure the hardship and pain of the less fortunate as he gives of himself unselfishly to improve their state because of his love for his God, duty and ideals History is filled with leaders who tried to build and maintain an empire with the might of brute force and failed - Charlemagne Alexander The Great Julius Caesar Napoleon Bonaparte Adolph Hitler And yet a humble carpenter of Nazareth who shunned brute force and violence built an empire on Love two thousand years ago and today it covers the face of the earth
-Another collab with Justin Connor- The long struggle is over We fought hard, And now we have brought the birth of a new nation Where freedom reigns and lifts our spirits high We have shown the world That we do not need to be ruled by a tyrant far away That it is possible to be free from tyranny That we can successfully fight away a most powerful country Free from monarchal upheaval And greedy hearts of powerful men To branch off on our own To establish our own government A united nation! Strictly representing the people Not even the large debts from the war Can destroy our new, unified spirit Nothing can destroy the ensuring joy Of being alive and free Always standing Democracy is part of our life Freedom reigns! Because we have fought and died on this land, We have earned the right to be free And our brothers who have perished in honor for this blessing, Who have fought with all of their might till death, Our most brave brothers, Will be looking down on us with pride And stories of peace and freedom shall ease the minds of the injured Our stories will last for generations to come Many shall write books of our courage And poetry about our enduring freedom Our independence has been achieved We are the land of the free And the home of the brave!
Part 2. Into the wasteland he flies To bury the souls of lies, Beneath the leaves of time, Dirty deeds must dirty die. This then the watchman must do: Step on the fingers that try, With downward pulls to pry, Into doom flower faces, These flowers must not die. -- The conquistador arrived. He gazed at the unscathed bounty standing Respect-less before him and squinted. Surveying the laughing land, He made up his mind with astute rat-like grace And thrust with self-satisfied lust his mighty sword into the sand. God's word thus bespoken he listened, breathlessly. The jungle though could not understand Tectetan, tectetan, tectetan Nor chose to hear or fear This little man, Oh thou little man, thou little man What is your plan, Little man? The jungle laughed, unbothered Unmoved it ignored Untouched it continued Unfettered it roared With sparkling green verdant song to sing, It sang. The conquistador fumed Scarlet red Vino roja bottled fumes Of smoky rage Stomping he retorted Thou art doomed Veni Vidi Vici he screamed Satisfied, mesmerized With scroll in hand he did announce All that is yours is mine It says so in this paper The King has made it divine Mine Mine and only Mine Did he but announce Without a golden ounce Of irony's feathered face Whose trace, With obsidian plans to erase Surely soon he would get to know. Breathlessly he stood once again, the conquistador did Assuming The noise, ploys and feathery joys Of the jungle toys he heard Marked abdications hour At work already At hand To make this land His. Impatient Making up his mind Marching straightforwardly Towards the eye of the jungle Sacking with gaze the mighty maze Of spider green vines hiding before him The craze of ores whose mint would course the earth Soon to raise his rank to that of Jerusalem's teutonic bearded men He was surprised when he saw Three sets of steely indian eyes Peering through the jungle wall And the flying hatchet hit him hard and true And for all we knew he never came back again "Ecab cotoch"
Tiffany lamps were invented by girls in 1888, to soften the walls of quiet parlors where men were hushed and sat politely with hands between their knees. . The grace was stolen in 1992 when the symbols of New York Jets replaced the flowers and Tiffany lighted laughter on the bars where trumpets blare. *I recently started a home job of ghost writing little articles for company blogs and promotions. I made a poem from one of the essays about Tiffany sports lamps.
I tell a tale of one Oh what a brave soldier In thrall all she saw was hope Struggling for the wings to fly while bonded with chains of pains the world very calm for her seeing what the future would be she waited while depressed What madness beheld her? Why wouldn't she take defeat? I tell a tale of one Oh victorious and strong Crashing the foe with steel Conquering with great ardor She built her own people With no enemies to feed on Filled with joy they lived more For the end to bondage has come Who knew what would happen? What would the future become? I tell a tale of one land now noble and free Our wings are spread in jubilation Fifty years ago you soared and flew Fifty years today we rise in riches Your children now everywhere Singing to your golden jubilee Dancing to the drums of success Laughing to the healthy rhythm Oh Nigeria at fifty. I tell a tale of one A shore that is full of soil Beaming like the sun in dawn Fifty years ago planted a seed Fifty years today reaping it all with peaceful practice of love together we stand as one happy and fit everywhere So our land be wealthy Oh Nigeria at fifty.
Sirens screamed, their wails glancing off stately sisters standing silently - standing tall amongst the debris, their attire of stone, steel and glass showing wear. Yet they stood with pride and quiet courtesy, watching the flashing lights speed past below. This 5 year-old was too naive to understand at the time. Who was shot? Who is he? Why? And the adult chatter sounded foreign, filled with strange, puzzling words. "Well, he had it coming, what with all the debauchery and hedonism. Always fried out of his mind, preaching peace like some messiah, trying to redeem his former chauvinist, violent ways. Sit-ins, smoke-ins, drop-ins, sleep-ins - how many sins? Ya just knew some loony fanatic was gunning for him." 10 years later, listening to "Blackbird" while coming down from a horridly strong fever, the other songs suddenly all made sense- a poor white boy from the 'Queen's Country', facing abandonment issues, had bridged the yawning gap between class and race, building from the Black man's blues. -r.Evolver- "Let's give peace a chance....blend all the colours together into one shining light - imagine." After the victim was rushed to Roosevelt Hospital, NYCPD officers confronted Mark David Chapman who was reading passages aloud from J.D. Salinger's, "The Catcher In The Rye". "Do you know what you just did!?" "Yes, I shot John Lennon." "Why would you do that!?" "Mr. Lennon was a phony. I am a catcher in the rye, stopping children from going over the cliff." ____ Well then, 'Mr. Catcher In The Rye', you saw yourself as a saviour waiting on a rye-covered edge, ready to stop the children from falling off the precipice of John. Oh, what a righteous pledge. But John was still a child himself, yet you shot him in the back 4 times with hollow-points from a .38 special revolver. Did he not deserve to be saved from falling over a cliff? Was this selective salvation? And what was your grandiose plan? Save the children from the precipice that was John, instead leading them towards a valley filled with cloned, little piggies bathing in fountains of blood? "....and Rocky Raccoon collapsed in the corner.... now Rocky Raccoon he fell back in his room only to find Gideon's Bible. Gideon checked out and he left it no doubt to help out with good Rocky's revival." "Give peace a chance - imagine." "All your life you were waiting for this moment to arise." -r.Evolver-
"You must understand, your behavior is hurting your children." I sat confused, expecting the psychiatrist to blame me the trouble making teenager, the problem in the family but he was directing his comments at my mother Back at home in my room I could feel my father as he walked in and threw a piece of paper next to me on the bed "Maybe it would be better for all of you if I were gone…" written in my mother's hand panic overwhelmed me I turned to my father in horror he was leaning against my doorway with an accusing, but sarcastic look on his face I flew upstairs from my bedroom to theirs to find her lying very still in her bed "Mom, Mom!" I shook her shoulders insistently groggily she awoke for a moment "What is it?" as my terror cleared I noticed the mostly empty bottle of wine on the bedside table She hadn't killed herself she'd passed out and there was Dad again leaning against a bedroom doorway a nasty smile on his face and I realized my father wanted me to believe she'd committed suicide and that it was all my fault
That burning passion within The unexplainable feelings you sense when they walk towards you The loss of breath and the strangulation you feel gripping around your throat Choking off every last bit of air you have left to your name You feel like collapsing to your knees and crying Wishing you had them back in your arms and running your fingures through their soft hair You wish you could go back in time to re-live those treasuring moments of bitter sweetness You can hear their voice echoing inside your head at night when your trying to relax Your dreamless nights filled with tears and pain You outstretch your hand beckoning, begging for them to come back Memories sharp as daggers, peircing your flesh As they look away from you eachtime The warmth they gave you before is now gone You feel like your body has become a corpse to rot forever When you see then with another You feel so betrayed and furious Wanting them back more then anything You would give up everything you had left just to let them know you cared and still hurt You want so badly for them to just take the loneliness away Nothing else can be done Nothing else will work Your lost Your alone Your scared You cry for help but no one listens You feel like dying Even though they know that deep in your heart they still have that special mark But they'll never know what they meant to you so you write these words Straight from the Heart.
Nautdah Nautdah, they called you, In your real life they named you, When you knew yourself, When you lived out on the unforgiving plains. As Nautdah, Comanche captive, You Became Comanche; Leaving behind the girl Who was Cynthia Parker Sloughed off like an ill-fitted skin. You gave to birth Their greatest leader, Quanah In a field of wildflowers on the Texas plain; Forsook your language and embraced That century of blood and pain For the sake of a people who's way was dying Even as you butchered bison on the endless sea of grass. They recaptured you and made of you a monument to what their wildness Had made of you: A woman of the Elements, a woman who would not be cowed By the conventions of her time; A woman who would never cease Trying to return to the people to whom she really belonged, To the people who belonged to the Sky, the Earth, the Wild Horses. And before Quanah died, having lived with his feet in both Worlds, He arranged to have your bones interred near his, Where the two of you could lie together And dream of wildflowers, and Freedom. .
I am an Indian, an Aborigine, Arab, Greek, Norde, African, Chinese..... I am a human whose alphabet and genes tell tales of my ancestors' journeys and cultures, as they roamed around the world; tales about how cultures were absorbed, or influenced others; kingdoms that reigned, and kingdoms that collapsed. Coliseums, Stonehenge, Pyramids of Giza, Ghana's Gate of No Return, Taj Mahal, and many other historical spectacles, tell a piece of my ancestors' tales….tales that prove that I am you and me; tales that prove we are part of a web that link us to an original source. Languages, cultures, and races, are quickly merging together, helping all of us to complete the Script of our purpose and origin. Finally, "I AM" will reflect in our souls, as our Divine Source!
Everything was property of the state life of a serf didn't even rate tyranny from Lords,Dukes and Barons production of goods,they weren't sharin'.... Coxcomb magistrate castle seneschal internal scheming took alot of gall court intrigue was their special interest todays politics aren't that different.... A new portal behind every door a gambit of play being explored every encounter a game of chance,but, what do you bear,the cross or the lance? Crucified was understanding and peace self improvement were messages laced drawing together opposing views in hope that the scattered may be imbued... But,the North didn't like that ideo divide and conquer their modeled credo superior force their specialty as divided bands are managed easily... Plantation,indian reservation... one produces,the other reduces, civilization,or planned domestication, one infuses the other defuses, West Bank,the Gaza Strip others kept in seperation docile,servile,beware becoming sterile, the active mind to waste away the fallen... entropy to atrophy, human spirit refuses degradation treading deliberate indoctrination... The taming of the animal nature still engrossed in pain and pleasure, law required to maintain civility until we can achieve a true humanity... Peace is still the want of many when will humanity be truly ready we make the choice of what we covet true soul'diers serve minute by minute... A new portal behind every door a gambit of play being explored every encounter a game of chance,but, what do you bear...the Cross or the Lance? ( the cross and the lance are symbols of the old kingdom beliefs of ruling, with either mildness and severity or the olive branch and the sword )
Nomadic tribes traveling along forgotten Mountain passes. A village built upon wooden wagon wheels. A homeless nation searching for a homeland That no longer exists. People cast asunder at the four winds mercy, Without roots safety line. Cultural diversity an unexceptionable social, Barrier to non-conform to the societies norm. Outcasts gypsies living on freedoms well worn Road. Dreaming of liberty's liberation from being Nothing more then dusts children, drifting As castaways upon hidden highways lost By ways. Beneath moonlights luminous glow, a canvas City comes alive. In abandonment's empty fields a flickering firer Burns at twilight's midnight hour Beyond no man's lands a nomadic people celebrate A moments peace. From those whom would destroy their way of Life and religious beliefs. Striking rosin to bow, the fiddler plays an ancient Tune. While voices sing of an easier time, a simpler Peaceful way once lived. Mankind's kindred spirits wishing for a sanctuary, Clinging to idealism, that one day they will find A home at last. Just a piece of earth all their own, to rest at peace, Somewhere it does exist. In such a world created by an everlasting being, An Eden calls to them. Until then the gypsy dance continues, and there Voices shall be raised on high. But at sunrise nothing is left but the cuts in the road, From creaking wagon wheels. And glitters dust left behind along with a lingering Dreaming, The echoing songs from a nomadic people, who belong No where but the open plains. God's lost lambs searching ever seeking freedoms road. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN .
I am the fallen one, one casted away, A reminant of a broken promise Man shakled for one dying wish, My vissicitudes haunt me everytime The sound of those blazing drums, I heard the music mystifies us all, Saves a man from a Fall, The strings are being pulled and the chorus chants, The melody which melts us all, I heard music has power: To cure and transform I am still the same; The Man with a broken promise Caught in the realmn of this heaven and earth My body becometh the prison of my soul I am a composer, A composer in oblivion – Looking Looking, for the soundtrack to my escape.
Who am I ? ill tell you this im just a girl with in a girl, hidden behide layers of my self. I am selfish and cruel , beautiful and charming. i'm the girl next door with hidden lies. I'm a sister and a pretend mother.. i'm just your average teenage girl, but i have pores and deep lines etched with in my soul. Of course im not perfect but i never said i was. i'm just a girl.
When they all walked away and he was dieing that day he never stopped believing he never doubted maybe i was there beside him hung on my own cross left to die without a crown of thorns without a spear in my side maybe i was a follower a family member someone from a past life haunted by visions and memories that i know are true but aren't mine lies they tell me stigmatism of truth mirrors of deception confusions of everything but i watched we talked he told me more than everything it was the kings he gave him his power i sometimes think because he never said sacrifice me to god so i can become one it was the monarchy who hunted him down for vengeance and fame he never said i want to be sacrificed to mankind it was the royalty who said he has died for your sins of your conspiracies against me now let it go and as they all walked away from the games they had played from their riots and fame of the kings paranoia and noblemen house fires and stolen sheep Jesus said a few things to me things no one ever heard things of truth no one would ever know i was there and i watched for his soul to climb the stairway to heaven waited for him to crawl off that cross and all of the kings men and all of the kings children and wives were born again maybe i was there hanging on my own cross eavesdropping on a conversation between two saints and i had done something minor wrong but i am today haunted with the truth of yesterday and this lie i cannot explain
The End of Times is coming. You can feel it in your bones. Floods, earthquakes, and tsunamis… Are only the first to show. Where will you hide? When the plagues come around? Salvation will be hard to find, For those earthbound. 2012 is coming Is it fact or is it myth? The Earth's weather patterns are changing. Fossils are everywhere Will we be stronger? Or in the rocks grip?
Great Warriors of ancient lands Proudly spread your wings and take your stand! Deicide, genocide- Rewards divine after 3 thousand years Of fights, battles strife upon each of you He will reward thy virtue Allah! be praised Death be praised! strapped to your back, selflessly brave. Desire for his rewards, the bomber blows higher than any before, he shall be rewarded in heaven With 6 virgins, or was it seven? He claimed his prize from the all wise Allah! His great warriors with him In heart and deed for HIS divine eyes to see Salvation lies in the destruction of Infidels and their seed. (And no people, this was not written in any hateful manner toward any religion- except for zealots, so don't blow up and start screaming) And IF someone feels offended, I will take it off, no problem.)
Have you ever wondered what happened to the men? Who signed the Declaration that made this a free land. Five were captured by the British. Branded traitors, tortured, died. Twelve men lost their homes and land. Ransacked, burned what was their lives. Two their sons imprisoned. Two sons fought and died. Nine killed in the Revolutionary. Pledged their fortunes and their lives. Twenty-four were Jurists and Lawyers brave and true. Eleven of them merchants. Nine farmers , all who knew. If caught death would be eminent. To sign with quill or pen. Have you ever wondered what happened to these men? Their livelihoods were ruined. Their ships swept from the sea. Stood against the British Navy. OUR FREEDOM WASN'T FREE. Have you ever wondered what happened to the men. Those Patriots of long ago. Could you be as brave as them? MAFLongfellow
Everyday I wake with a fear But to shed there is no tear, I wonder if my mind can put up with today's fight The guards outside will dictate my fate tonight. I shall not lose devotion But there are times when I need explanations You have never left me for a second or two, Then why am I scared when I am destined to seek you ? Then I hear my name , The soldiers outside transport me Where I have to be. The sun has come up with no seeable change, But I can see hope Now that I have survived another day.
The night Hunter S. Thompson, blew his head off, Toy Box Tomato Girl, went Gonzo Geisha on me. Abandoning the old man's love, for pure unadulterated orgy, intoxicating arms and legs, intertwining lyrical sighs, with bi young black, and blond hard bodies, tango tongues sharing saliva. I assume the blue black hue, of late night television, as segregate candles, was less exciting. The night Hunter S. Thompson, shot a hole in his skull, Hemingway's history, lay on his boney lap. The running of the bulls, the crash in Castro's Cuba, the locking-up of papers, the string of worldly wives, aimless running away. Toy Box Tomato Girl, knew little of the artist face. Being just twenty two, she had yet to embrace, life's joys and tragedies. Not quite able to end it all, and not quite schooled, in T.V. light literature, spontaneously she fled.
Constitution: From the mighty quill feathers of post revolutionary colonists a seething declaration that will stun the world. This is how its done, we dont mind you having guns, say what you will, thou shalt not punish unusually, we make the laws, you interpret them
Left to beg but not beggarly Novel ideas of the match the pencil seller but the chimney sweeps upward and smoke filled the skies as poetry gave rise to the industrial mass appeal Lady fair stands as her outstretched glove changes colors as drops of acid rain flow through her hands Her rich husband killed from a triangle with pour business sense left her there walking the streets with memories of the matches insensitivity Written in her mind knowing she is now in a world where she is neither young nor fair in days before she needed not pencil match or tot Art for art's sake in her relative life no need of miracles life imitating art she walks the cold uncoated streets cold wet and dirty she hopes God is aware
Strawberry flower incense breeze whispers a smell of indian print curtains. North Beach musk perfumed oasis. Wind chimes tickle memory moment flying down Grant Street breeze blowing blaring Baez beat on gawking tourists whose crane necks turn to see Me hugely pregnant. Poignant ache memory through times fog seeping under sills fills a world bridging the Gate's ancient groan of Bela birth and Brownie grave. Miles of blue worlds misty soft tears meet a heart overflowing in a warm caress for yesterday.
America, you are bipolar Mother of invention and murder Father of civil rights and lynching Your children listen to hip hop and death metal b-boys and skinheads America you are bipolar the biggest gay rights champions and the most hateful psycho-bigots America, what are you? the greatest artists and heinous murderers America, when can we find a treatment for you that will finally stabilize you? the world is waiting for your treatment regimen, America. on that glorious day when we can finally call the world holistic.
Erma Bombeck, Words of Wisdom. Coretta Scott King, Peace and Reason. Rosa Parks, Stood Victorious! Betsy Ross, Our Nations Seamstress. Mother Mary, Bore Jesus in Bethlehem. Harriet Tubman, Lead Slaves to Freedom. Queen Ester, Saved her Nation. Amelia Earhart, Gave all to Aviation. Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt. Joan of Arc, Martyred Standing the Test. Florence Nightingale, Healed Soldiers Wounds. Fanny Crosby, Blind but wrote Gods Tunes. Madame Curie, Discovered Cures. Mother Teresa, Fed the Poor. Annie Oakley, World famous markswoman. Harriet Beecher Stowe, Author of Uncle Tom's Cabin. Dear Abby, Averting Trouble Big and Small. Eve of Eden, First Woman and Mother to us all.... International Woman's Day March 8, 2008 Deducated To John Heck
We lost Haile Selassie I But the Lion still roars We lost Martin Luther King But the dream lives on We lost Bob Marley Who said get up stand up for your rights We lost Malcolm X But his racial segregation fight still burns bright We lost Mother Teresa She fought for justice inspiring humanity We lost Mahatma Gandhi He visioned humanity evolving toward peace & harmony People seem to have lost themselves To sinful annihilation People have lost their way it seems like Finding the truth & the path to their salvation It is said no lost, no gain And no gain, no lost Blessed are the Meek for they shall inherit the earth and the fullness thereof Blessed love my brothers and sisters ©Copyright Brian Pierre-Alexander -Sept. 2011 © All Rights Reserved
sea island natives living reminders of trade cotton rice and indigo gullah life is made five benne wafers cast into new daylight the hudu spell is torn away rest easy then this night bridges came and baskets sold the younguns moved to town rich men came and stole our land again to trod us down But some have stayed to tell the tales of how our world began of lands and cultures far away before man had ever owned man
How is the dew that came Before rain and sun's flame Gone so fast Is it because its wet Was only enough for shrubs And shrubs are easy to forget Or is that no glory last Where the sun scrubs White the sinews of trees? You who once policed the law Did also make the law In City chambers where Streets alone Carry the exotic flower Of your name When they ask me, What shall I answer for your shadowed fame Between the cousins who broke your heart? What was the legacy to the nation Now that the Jamaican Workers Trade Union was only root For the almighty scion That became the tree? Busta gave you no rain Manley pruned you excessively And there was no seed after that Except the truth That the new Jamaica was your vision first. I saw you once Singing Sankey before the village shop Canvassing the primitives I saw a stone hit your lantern And many more stones drop Like bombs around us exploding your dream The night was silent after that Father Coombs Had neither face nor trace again How can a great man fall like that The political ladder is a slippery slope And those who climb Must more than hope To lead dissidents of the slime pit Along with virtue must have grit Buttered on the bread of wit. And soon its May again But now the time of workers memory is past Until the rains fall again Against the drought shall the dew hold fast Will Father Coombs in white again Raise his hands and turn and smile To hear the fickle people call The fickle father's name? And shall I not tell them Cobwebs are also significant In the mystery of the world?
Give me a "Home On The Range" Where my granpa once roamed Out on the lone prairie From "Deep In The Heart Of Texas" He cummed up the trail Following the "Cowboys Dream" All the way to "The Chisholm Trail" There "At The Cowboys Dance" He met "Sweet Betsy From Pike" And danced with "The Buffalo Gals" Early next morn he hit the saddle once more Headed for "Cripple Creek" "The Yellow Rose Of Texas" And "San Antonio Rose" He met on the "Streets Of Loredo" In "Red River Valley" He met that "Red River Gal" Headed for the "Lone Star Trail" This "Texas Cowboy" Hit a new trail "Way Out In Idaho" But when "Windy Bill" gave him a taste of "Life In A Prairie Shack" He jumped on "Old Paint" and did leave. He headed north to "Dakota Land" Where his last years he did spend Proudly he'd boast "I'm An Old Cowhand" And sits and tells them his tales. Of the "Grand Roundup" as he rode "Wild Buckaroo" When "Down In The Valley" he ranched. But tears filled his gray eyes As he told of "Little Joe The Wrangler" On the "Trail Of The Lonesome Pine" When "The Work's All Done This Fall" "Git Along Little Doggies" he'll say It's about time for the "Last Round-Up" Which is the "Dying Cowboy's" dream. Cile Beer
Little birds spill onto the gravel Chirping with disoriented confusion. A spindly flock warbling "Mère! Mère!" Through cracked lips and bony beaks. Hawks circle indifferently Unfamiliar with the call But acquainted with the cry. The scarecrows converge, Singing their songs of Reunion across the river. Seductive assurances and Dry straw lies Come together when Hopeful lines form For a mère poule promise. Across that green field The boathouse beckons, Under late summer boughs Alive with blossoms. Across that green field The boatman waits.
on youtube i am troynelson2011 the ocd riddle for world peace, i cant check my email, twitter wont let me tweet, facebook wont let me post, and soundcloud definately owes me an appology... . imagine a group of people in my allies back yard pretending to be somebody they aren't. imagine that group of people hiding in my allies midst was perpetrating war crimes in other parts of the world. lets say hypothetically speaking this group of people hiding among my allie was holding their children hostage on television and force feeding children to be medicinal guinea pigs so their kids wouldnt have to... now imagine this group of people hiding in my allies midst perpetrating war crimes in other countries was funded by the global prodigal youth via living out their dreams and ambitions before they could cause they had the means to do so first.. so this group of inventors all with one invention under their belt using my friends kids as guineau pigs funded by my other friends childrens dreams..... What do you think happens when a terrorist organisation hiding in your allies midst (few disguised as many) perpetrating war crimes accumulates a debt to owe the prodigal youth sky scrapers... a global terrorist in usa is perpetrating war crimes using your kids as medicinal guineau pigs. setting up shop in canada where is rumored homeless began taking refuge in the sewer in short america, you are going to be introduced to the global prodigal youth, terrorists hiding in your country owe sky scrapers to.when does armstrongs sperm mature anyway? they hold children hostage on television, they use your kids as guinea pigs, you have just been volunteered to assist me in murdering my enemy, the one that owes me everything they ever put in their mouth wouldnt you feel responsible to find out every time you opened your mouth it became a tv show, game show, movie, or product on your store shelves, was being used to fund global terrorism. tsix step process of your enemy.vs ur 4 step process to realise ur allie you have MY enemy surrounded, word of mouth is powerful after you read this phone your mother and tell her you recieved an email from the future king of england explaining your global problems... twiiter, facebook, soundcloud, are stolen ideas isnt it ironic bill gates is our worlds most famous inventor with only one invention... and shows absolutely no pridefor his own baby he worked on for years after work indoor fish farming will end world hunger btw
Oh yes...indeed, oh, yes.... He thought he was a pioneer; Brave as a new Season's pledge, Stronger than the rest... Faster and smarter than human desire When blood runs hot. Oh yes, indeed... He took the chance before the others Who would not cross the boundary Into loving me; Certainly not without a dare - A double down stare For his fortune at the Finish Line To give him his reasons for courage. He even wore his Talisman Of bone and magic stones... A man can never be certain When he tangles with a witch.
Dancing with the darkness Accursed creature of the night Wearing a mask of humanity To hide that twisted trickery Then playing demon music Pipes wail a beauty's curse Stealing life and children From our loving tender kin Twisted vile changing Go back to darkened dreaming
Gentle breeze caressing joyful cheek Blooming blossoms in its shadow Dancing in the wind it waves Autumn colors so grand Winter makes it sigh Spring budding new Summer blooms Dancing Leaf! Comments: The nonet poem has nine lines, with the first line containing nine syllables, the second line eight, the third seven, then six, next five, then four and continuing until the last and ninth line has one syllable. The nonet poem may be written about any subject, and rhyming is optional.
Goddess of storm and dissidence, Lilith begot by spurious legend and foolish myth in the dark recesses of pastoral histories where ancient mysteries were defiled. Illegitimate child. Apollo's seed, by Roman Empire inquisitional rules inquire, to her whereabouts seeping fetid doubts, in the bones of the survivors. Submission required by slave drivers, And the Elite, now on Wall Street. Twenty five generations later, they still hate her... Yet, I see her in me, shadows of malcontent, when passed by for promotion and toxic lotion is sold to keep us young. I hear her forked tongue, when my voice is ignored again, when single mothers barely maintain poverty existence led as punishment for being un-wed. Burkas hide the bruises and we've run out of excuses why so many women are poor. Our beloved men are sent to war for corporate profits made and taxes paid in blood and tears. Yes I have fears. I fear her rolling up through me, if they only knew me and what I hold back, they would attack, and mark me feminist bytch, witch and un-Christian. Listen... I hear her whisper from sister to brother from father to mother, lover to lover... I feel her emerging with Pele's fire, Aphrodite's desire and Venus's lust. We must, hear her. She is part of us, the Mother's curse, foist in the never ending thirst for power and dominance over all. Eden's free fall, orchestrated, ill-fated, out-dated and reciprocated, by us, still now, somehow. The sacred dance beckons us in the second rush of knowing... rivers flowing, ever to sea. What will be, will be... lost in the slipstream currents of the paradigm whore who dares seek safe passage to our shore.
Why are you so intimidated by me? Is it because I undress you with my eyes and cause you to smile and see the real me? The potential that is hidden beneath a thousand brick waiting to be unleashed... Why are you so intimidated by me? Is it because I make you nervous and too afraid to challenge the bureaucracy? The unjust and inhumane red tape that holds one race at ransom and the other roams free. Why are you so intimidated by me? Is it my fierceness, my uncompromising or unwavering position? The stance that all should possess if we believe in Equality FREEDOM for the blacks who are enslaved by their inferior mentality.
Understanding the new generation. They have their own language. Their own new meanings to the same words. They have their own communication + lingo. Has it not been the same with each new generation in history? They discover a new style that is shocking to the older generations. Adjoining generations seem to listen to each other. At which point do the generations do not want to listen. Where is this gap? Spelling is different for the same words. A lot of abbreviated text is used. There seems to be an absence of books amongst dvds + cds.Has this interior design element been overlooked? Is there a new dictionary to accommodate the new generations? Or is this just how life is?
a "flower child" danced through life so many years ago cares were lost when she took a "toke" and "passed the pipe" around feeling "way cool" wishes for "peace" and "luv" she gave freely but "pigs" were her enemies even "flower power" couldn't help her rise above the brutal force used on students at Kent State "Four dead in Ohio" became her mantra when the National Guard surrounded her campus fallout from Kent State spread nationwide "Gimme Shelter" from the storm at home while "Charlie" was pursued by draftees Vietnam, a place she had never seen, but the flower child's spirit suffered each time a son or father was "sent home in a box" she wanted all to "live long and prosper" in a fantasy world where love bloomed like "Strawberry Fields" but the "flower child's" petals fell as she grew older it was time to "get real" after all *Entry for Craig Cornish's "Talk That Way" contest. By Carolyn Devonshire about life in the 1970s
In an old farmhouse high on the cliffs of Dingli surrounded by archaeology and mystery lives Mary, guiding visitors to explore and find caves and cart ruts, deep tracks seeming mined that criss cross at Clapham Junction it's not easy to guess their function. Talk to Mary and she will tell you of times gone by, when there was so few people who wanted to know and understand what it was that remains so strange in this land. Perhaps it will always remain unknown, since archaeologists have come and gone, not enough with perseverance and finance, they come and go and lose allegiance. Maybe one day an answer will appear and all will suddenly be clear, why the cart ruts run under, the house, where Mary lived with her mother.
On the cold harden stone carvings names remain, Charcoal etchings sketching's, rubbing's of forgotten history, Textured rows of this human bone yard called a cemetery. Rough carved gray monuments to life's fragileness, Isolation chambers of remembrance lie hidden beneath This earthen soil, as for-get-me=knots floral arrangements Garnish these graves of emotional attachments. Fossilized vessels of mankind's historical legacy, Layers of preservation evidence that we existed, Satisfied and blessed time capsules for the future, Lie within these human skeletonized bone fields, For later discovery to investigate. As thin as the paper lain against these stones Of textured graving, are the vials between Us and our extinction, life is a fleeting gift To be celebrated not thrown away ever so lightly. I'll kick against the tides of life, striving to Thrive and survive, for I'm a branch of extension, Spiritual Connected to the tree of humanity, And my roots have grown in the richness of Traditions roots of mine ancestors, thus One stone downwards from thy kindred. Ever rocking is the head stone of the ages, It sways with the endurable chiming rhythm Of the timeless sands, flowing through the Hourglass of our global atmosphere. Walking amongst these bricks of stood, As idle soldiers at the ready for discoveries, Shovel blades, I ponder the thoughts that They may evoke in the future world of Tomorrow. Oh in the harvesting of the dinosaurs leavenings, We've written our own biography's sinnario, One day to be exposed to the light of infinity, For no single entity lasts forever, nor species Shine beyond extinctions mighty wrath. After all is it not true that the key to understand The future, is to unlock the past. On the cold harden stone carvings names remain, Charcoal etchings sketching's, rubbing's of forgotten history, Textured rows of this human bone yard called a cemetery. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Flying high and waving proudly; perched atop a silver orifice the magnificent and beautiful flag of honor - Old Glory, smiles upon a grateful nation with resplendent dignity and distinction.
we hold in our hands the narrative we artists and social scientists 21st century armaggedon screaming dysfunctional children of history living by purely subconscious, instinctual visceral pulsing product of a campaign of vassals dedicated to erasing history here we are. so what do we do, we artists and social scientists? we scream we cry we bleed but also, and very important we analyze we do all this and we can call ourselves humans and the true heir to what we call history.
William Shakespeare You watch the show week after week You cry when you are supposed to cry Laugh when you are supposed to laugh You even feel the intended anger Milady, please loosen your bustle Breathe in the cool evening air Know that this story has been retold hundreds of times Differing sets and actors sharing the moment with you However, the words were written centuries ago By men who were skilled in the use of a quill They were meant to take your breath away Some were meant to make your loins quiver Other were meant to make your heart skip a single beat However Milady none live within a spark of truth They are merely to tell a story The actors have no true feelings when they speak Their kisses are without the love they show The blood does not flow from the warmth of a body No one died of poison or at the end of a sword It is all a show performed to share the writer's thoughts Alas Milady do not leave the theatre empty hearted Take with you the words you have heard Hold tightly the feelings you had inside you If you can do that Milady the writer's work was not in vain The actors work would be appreciated And you Milady, you will have a memory A memory of one of the greatest stories ever written And you will, for all eternity, remember the writer's name You will remember the name William Shakespeare
We built the Great Pyramids of Giza. We made the Atomic Bomb. We discovered herbs to heal. We grow viruses in underground labs. Religion was created to bring peace. Religion was also created to divide. Books have been written to inspire, but also to spread hatred. We have made love in war, and war in love. Different races have united, and people of one blood have divided. We are gods and devils....
My first antiques were bought at an auction after I was divorced They were inexpensive, great value and talked to me They gave me comfort at a time when I needed comfort Using them, they became old familiar friends I grew up in an era where new was unknown, so these familiar friends became part of who I had become I then met a wonderful man, who became my soul mate and though he scorned my old furniture, he soon began to realize their worth His modern teak did not have the value my old pieces retained A job loss made a business begin and Antiques at the Sawmill was born My old familiar became the source of our income and many old familiar pieces came and went through the years We were blessed to have so many people looking for the old and while purchasing, many of these people became our friends Inadvertently, my old familiar things enriched our lives as did the many wonderful people who purchased items through the years We never know what will come into our lives but we should never not open a door to see what is beyond. It shows that sometimes necessity becomes much more than that, it leads us to a new and worthwhile life I know that we were richly blessed because of what started as a necessity I will always thank God for showing us the way.
They are powerful, They are the "great ones." They are thoughtful, They are the "true ones". Some Traders long ago made Them march a long trail A long trail that was said to lead them to the "Promised Land" It was the "Trail of Tears" and there was no such a land for Them The Traders lied and watched Them weaken and die They are not "Savages", They are not "Indians", They are marvelous, They are Native Americans. All this is Their land and those Traders took it They treated the Traders with kindness And the Traders betrayed them The Traders said that They didn't "deserve" this land They are powerful, They are the "great ones." They are thoughtful, They are the "true ones." The Traders said they were weak They were not weak the Traders were weak The traders only wanted Their land to look for "gold" They lived for so long "without" gold. They are not "Savages", They are not "Indians", They are marvelous, They are Native Americans. The Traders now call themselves "Americans" The Traders now say that Immigrants should go back The traders are immigrants too Why don't the Traders go back and give the "True Americans" their land?
I Felt the Earth There in the valley reaching for the sun Our younger days were such fun Though the struggle to be Was so much for me? The valley walls were so tall That I would fear they would fall Then bury me, it was so little that I did see As the sun did run its course The silence still echoes in my mind Where I had trod in younger times The valleys hole deep under ground Would give and take of those around It to me didn't seem so clear As I was to young, and didn't see Why they would do this for such as me Then laugh as their days sped by Sinking shafts of killing coal They would just each morning go To where I would ask in questions few As it was hard to speak to you Who slaved all of your day's For such paltry sums Quality of life and then some They would take all these things away You did this For Me Even now in these modern days They do the same a different ways As we would still not know That under ground you would toil so Then later as time, did pass me to be A thinking man for all to see I would wonder at it all That why you should have been there at all From healthy folk to coughing wrecks It took its toll of fine young men This land that we loved so, and then again We loved it for it was home Fear not to turn up at the old people's graves There to talk of those long gone days That left the greedy ones flying so high Though to little me and mine, we cry to be We had so little that had to go so far Ask your mother around to tea Talk over fences and laugh with me At the way of folks that err The life though hard was still there to see Now came the new age just for you and me Things were changed where I had grown I could not leave you there alone To strive to be good was all we could do At what things you now saw and knew In church yards this valley through I will still visit there to talk to you There to relate of the now times To tell of tales that you once knew I hope it sees your eternity through Deep under ground there stirs not a thing I see You Now Nothing now the mines have gone Just old memories now held in song Blackened faces coughing, choking shrouds Clouds of long past days held your ways For other folk you toiled away The sun that stretched the valley so Is brighter now than you did know The changing of the valleys ways Brought on in so many places Cannot replace your blackened faces That even now had so many graces Hear now, to the green grass you gave to me Gone are spoons to say I love you so Take me back I you implore To walk once again the valley floor Mind that hole my little dear It's where the miners use to play The fear they had, has gone away My child look to the hills you will see Lumps and bumps graves of yesterday Which on green grass spills Over to cover mine droppings That took its toll, they said it couldn't be Do not look you mustn't see The changes of one type of poverty To this one place we hold so dear Gone are the mines but what's this I hear There are new things to take their places Today I Cry No longer blackened, we've changed places Little boxes with electronic faces That sings your praise and makes you feel Yet where's the money to pay the bills No matter that we are coming to The centuries end for you and me It's the same now as it will always be My grown up child don't look at me When I say, I would rather be Back there in days gone by, believe me Then if you catch me sometimes its fine Where you may see me cry for that time It's not for the passing of my friends That all these warm tears descend Rolling then falling without end It's for the future that we are told That will be better now that you are old Not so grown child of mine The poverty has just been refined There on the soil that I left behind Was as, and is always now Where the earth feels the same
(Mothers & Fathers Of Italian Americans), Out of desperation one usurps their stead; Picking up its broken pieces from the fragments of their head I'm going to make you an offer you won't refuse Shackled from philisophy's that scream choose Still meet my old friend, Fist full of lead with bloody hand Give me some time to contemplate & understand To survive in the streets getting shot hero's bleed Timely tune leaving soon shadows sleet Keep your friends close & enemies that much closer Throw a rope around your head no bend over No neck Jimmy with his friend Uncle Tony With words in untimely exposed ravioli Not to mention cooking the stramboli; MAFIA Shades of dark rivers bend Nine at head now your dead Big trunk to dunk that flunk A special olive stirred with straight up Tom Collins A wandering crowd with a special promise Two tone Jimmy was the lady's thing got the sell that every lady needs 9 at head by dock at noon then sorrow had bled Struggled to refrain from the slice on the blade A clear taste of viable solution MAFIA Blank shells buzz to bells living hell Crown of gold jewels explode truth untold Now you will do as you are told until the very rights to you are sold Through a barrage of steps new episodes... Two kanuck's suited up best fresh out of Jersey; Brevity Shattered glass Yet its all fair to say no one ever gets by on any free pass!
Mingle shattered in shocks Velocity shaking in sleep known fault Catastrophe strip away sirens Underneath rubbles Canan fires and looters Missing in survival dreams Warp dressing dreaperes Eyes of sun blind in light in nightfall Under chipped and cracked Departed from you again
History is written by the victors The villains They win the war They drink the nectar …blood… …the ink for the defeated The truth is abandoned Gives way to printed lies Unadulterated bias right beneath the eyes As you learn from the history book
When I first met you I was elated Filled with much awe I dreamed of the presently elapsed years Of great happiness and rich excitement I watched the birds as they flew past And squeaked My naked eyes were fixated On their sudden movement and their return Never did I strew my thoughts on the land Upon which I stood The charms I could trace on your face The broad smiles you gave Lowered the thick tall, solid brick walls Of my heart My passions lighted My yearnings glittered And the taste of purely refined soft-drinks I sipped through my throat Simmered down every feeling of doubt I contained for you. Scarcely did I consciously brood That some day I would struggle For relief and solitude From a white woman's domineering rule I grew up fast to think she was white I disdained and disliked her I pressed hard at her Till she felt an austere uneasiness I fought with her And sought for what I called liberty From her presence She sobbed, wobbled and left my coast With spasms of sorrow surging In her youthful bosom And bled from pains for untold days
I have found my voice at humanity's eleventh hour I have found my voice because I called upon humanity's wisdom and asked if I can help to deliver to you some units of joy and lessons of love so I ask you to hear humanity's inevitable lovesong ancient humble soothing And deliver me deliver us deliver me on the days Jefferson spoke of inalienable rights deliver us into that night of human liberation when czars were overthrown and utopia envisioned deliver me on the day Martin had his dream deliver us on the day Paris' commune became community deliver me deliver us I say deliver me And deliver us Because without the us there is no me And without the me There is no us humanity's struggle constant argument between Me And Us The me and the us Were at Lexington Concord Gettysburg St. Petersburg Stalingrad Omaha beach Paris, Prague, and Mexico in 1968 Tianenmen Square in 1989 And Occupy Wall Street The me and the us Are at kitchen table Deciding whose childhood is spared The me and the us are at Parliaments all over the world Deciding whose life is worthwhile The me and the us are at the UN Deciding which nations are worthwhile The me and the us History has been about the me and the us History's first experiment in liberation Stalin and world interrupted, still insisting on the me so I ask you, humanity I implore you In the name of so many terrified faces In the name of so many torture chamber places I ask you here and now At humanity's eleventh hour brink of armaggedon's world war to Deliver me And deliver us Deliver us from humanity's dark night let the children and future generations breathe freedom's air Deliver me Deliver us Deliver me Deliver us.
< whispers of the wind ......... speak to enchanted sea ......... bp ........ going down
In front of newly glowing fire__the warmth Fills the area in very front Family draws close_warm against cold Time today flew as trees were cut (down) Cut just to the perfect length to burn On the open fire of night's desire These hours of story telling__laughter Make up for labor of timber felling Time spent at the well drawing water Here now time for discussions Story-telling, laughter, memories The fire softly lighting Mother's eyes
The grand madam wore double strains of opal perils, Around her collar of white lace, in eloquence personified, She's cultures Lady of utter refinement, curtsying to noble And high brad's aristocrats alike. In fragrances of memories I've drifted backwards, To a time of Lillie's corsages tied upon white gloved Wrists, long gowns of silk that trailed behind ladies Of status and grace. Glided carriages adorned with opulence's wealth, Lined these main streets busy thoefairs, Drawn by horse powers elect. Pulling these beguiling vessels beneath oil lamp light, Did the pampered horse flesh travel, delivering the High born royals, from fancy balls, to posh dinner Parties and the rich man's society clubs. Gentries Gallant dapper Dan's went a courting, Seeking beauties ungloved hands, with sweet kisses Of vows promise, yet a dowers riches blinded their Eyes, to the spoiled countesses true nature, so these Court Jesters with mouths full lies deceptions, Got their own back lashings tongue, in the end. In these arena of wealth and fortitude, did Madame So travel, amongst the crimson carpet walking With prides stride, holding her head held high, Never exposing the lower birth from which She'd been birthed. For she knew the truth hidden behind these Fanciful fans of lavender and lace lay masks Of masquerades charades, and games of Fortune were played by dollar's gains, not The feelings of heart. True class exudes not from ones pedigree, Or families wealth and power, but instead It comes from within, honor, duty and a Soul's valor of spirit. At the evenings final climatic hour, This mistress of the wise, seeks her humble Shafto's warming bower, sitting in her chamber Of isolation, she smile at the portrait hanging Above her mantels fire place. Whispering slowly, soon beloved, she blows him a Final kisses farewell, then drifts into infinities Drifting realm of for-get-me-knots. Behold its Madame's last curtain call, Let us all throw red roses at her feet, For if a lady of true elegance ever existed, On this earth of ours it was her, Madame Of lavender and white lace, let the opal Chains of perils thus be broken, as her eyes Of classes distention, close for the last and Final time BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
soft flames flickered offshore Timucuan tribal campfires luring Menendez's armada Feast Day of St. Augustine 1565 Spanish settlers rowed covertly to shore more than 600 torches ushered in a new era of light torches turned to gaslights hanging yet today in a city of artists where street singers hope you'll look their way centuries old Castillo de San Marcos ghosts of slaves held within cast a spiritual shadow on harbor water originally restored Spanish architecture throughout the gaslight village living history, soft lights, no neon antique stores adorned by twinkling white lights lantern lit are the many street-side vendors couples stroll past, hand-in-hand on the cobblestone street historic integrity for the nation's oldest church multicolor strobes ascend through huge stained-glass windows colors in streaming rays reveal detailed architecture bright spotlights from the Fountain of Youth climb the large, wooden cross Spanish settlers erected one of two signs observed by mariners brilliant glowing image of hope, guidance St. Augustine Lighthouse's beam shines a path far offshore black and white rings glow in its tower, circling candy cane Bridge of Lions, an illuminated spectacle visitors' gateway to a forgotten age well-lit harbor, safe haven for houseboats and yachts gaiety reigns during sunlight hours night brings a different mood, perspective warmth and intrigue - city of historic lights *For the City Lights competition City: Saint Augustine at night *See "About this Poem" for history on the United States' oldest city.
I can't wait for the day I'm home, But where is home? Is it a past memory of childhood of the family sitting around the living room watching the TV with a takeaway on a Saturday night? Or is it the future that's yet to be created, a family of your own and a new place to call home? Maybe it's a feeling one of love and joy the kind you first created playing as a young boy? But I believe it is not just one of the above, but them all in twined into a magical feeling, one of wonder and belief. It is to complex for us to understand now but trust me my friends, when your home . . . you'll know.
We..... live love read cry laugh dance hug goodbye sleep call scream vent yell rely talk eat shop share sing change...together Its just us as its always been We are inseparable We are friends.
emerging in the rising twilight the stars brought tears to our eyes the wings were like songs signaling the dry desert rising, reaching from the great nest by the edge where the world is split open some hands reach up from an opening in the sky the belly of the earth heaving out its kin
Legal Tender of Getting Old If tears were coins I'd be a rich man… If sadness was time I'd live forever… If I only knew what to do to make it better… I would do it in a heartbeat. But, no answers are easy when feelings crash around you… And the Sun does not shine in the heavens above… if only I could see…if only I could find a way…if only I knew… How do you say goodbye when there is no love? To only be me myself alone … again… decisions are frightening and shaky to behold… But change is needed for me to stay sane… all the while we continue to grow old. RLM '05
-Collaboration with Justin Connor- I should be joyous and glad I should be drinking and celebrating, But the images of the battle still play in my head There is a part of me that is proud, And another part of me that is sardonically laughing I fought for the good of the world Not for the pride that comes afterwards Europe has been liberated from an oppressor The most evil man I have ever known is now dead But because of him, millions of lives have been ruined Brainwashed to creators of chaos and bereavement Families traumatized, bodies in the streets Children, innocent children, stuck in the images Of raging men and sobbing victims The disturbing images now forever stuck in my brain The remnants of war leave a mark Far more agonizing than any bullet wound But something good does come out of all of this There is no need to fight Nobody has to be scared anymore Because we fought, People can begin their lives again The remnants will be cleared and families will be closer Tears will be wiped, shoulders will be wept But I will not celebrate with my friends tonight I will return to my family And allow them to embrace the remnants of a broken soldier This war brought death and suffering And I don't know how people deal with both Six years of tyranny have ended And many years of pondering have begun Evil was in this world But good was here to fight And good has triumphed over evil To keep the world safe
from crude beginnings came primitive man learning to cope with natures darkened wilderness, wild plants,wild animals,wild environment,and day to day uncertain productiveness... an animal by nature,commuting the body with inferior things, sticks and stones became weapons and tools the processed skills,from natural animal to human being, as existing with nature became his first school... learning to domesticate nature led to agriculture, wild plants were tamed to mutiply with the seasons the firing of earthly minerals was an ardous procedure training the animal for it's second nature affliction ...the first yoke of beastly burden communities arose as cooperation persisted individual roles skillfully attained toward party progression, utility became necessity,convenience due exisisted rough beginnings of human civilization... surplus became barter for exchange, interacting regions brought goods from afar the world began to open,to new ideas and range, refinement appropriated to lessen the vulgar... as trade became properous,communities became kingdoms, debauchery became cunning,defense became an artform, higher learning was reserved for the few,priestly royal wisdom, as the masses gravitated toward security,considered low born, ...the second yoke of beastly burden tyrants ruled fiefdoms with imperial fever as the caste system slowly ascended it's elitist role, the people endeavored,empowered by need to ward off invaders, small bands became confederated tribal army,invincibilis sole... some refused to toil as a beast,why commit as a sweaty worker when with a strong arm and tempered steel, rampage on the field was the common ideal of a berserker, taking by every means possible,rape,pillage,burn and steal... ...the third yoke of beastly burden unwitting captives became slaves to a new master luxury forthwith at a bloody cruel cost, freedom for the shackeled and the chained,couldn't come faster excepting possible turn of events,all hope not lost... refinement of industrial machines flowered more labor needed in the factory and less in the field, ...steam,coal,hydroelectric powered mass production from massive labor,extensive higher yield... consumer goods extended to lines of credit enough is never enough,even in the gulf of disparity slaves now to individual desire,and can't overcome it, creating a form of manic depravity... ...the fourth yoke of beastly burden ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
< Vietnam War Capture of Saigon What The Hell For Guerrilla war Conventional war What The Hell For Laotians Cambodians Vietnamese U.S. Soldiers Casualties What The Hell For My Thoughts On The Vietnam War May All R.I.P.
I put a Halloween mask on my dog. She rolled over in her sleep, but just kept on sleeping when she landed in the windowsill. What Battlefield really needs IamA Robert Beltran, aka Commander Chakotay from Star Trek: Voyager, and now all yours. AMA! Cats love lasers US/Russia relations Pete Holmes on why he's always laughing. The man has a point. What, in your opinion, is the greatest thing humanity has ever accomplished? Flogging Molly -- If I Ever Leave This World Alive [Irish Folk Punk] Through the eye of a needle Gun safety is important Wrecked cruise ship with a tilted Earth ... * Note - cut-up technique -Random headlines from reddit news 3/5/2014
Colorful blasts rain throughout the night Illuminations of freedom Upon bloodied battlefields Young warriors' innocence was lost While our Independence was gained Our voices ring with Glory while our fires we ignite This night we celebrate our right to be free! TLH © 07-04-2012
Lewis crept into Harper's Ferry at cool dawn's light in '59 with angry John Brown, pursed keen and unkempt to bleed over his shawl, then died for his wife Mary, grew old and gray and left that stained shawl for grandson Langston Hughes, to inspire him someday Langston took Grandma's shawl and took oppression to his heart to rise up in other words, "where people suffered in beautiful language"* © Goode Guy 2013-02-03 * Langston Hughes http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Langston_Hughes http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewis_Sheridan_Leary http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Brown_(abolitionist)
where bones are picked cleaned by talons crook's of raven-wives like steely ice-picks dripping of the Valkyries verb-thieves of morpheme drain the meaning through sunken wind-eyes of cloudy skulls in the sky the bearer of speech-figures forums of a Norman's-ransack shutting one's eye bare-shirts run away to rid hawk's ground of Kenna's-abode yore's measure-tree nigher are's not having scrapes-inn but all are vital framers-anvil lost tropes of the metaphor this saga was shy not a peep from windows of the folk so now I must not cut but again write not to RE:WRITE so some can better see learning knew ways breaking yokes free verse at first but now a inquisitive rhyme Word meanings fly away through windows of time snatched by Harpy's torn from memory buried in the field of a long ago rhyme but digging deep you find teasures stolen by Valkyries like a grotesque pic surely strown by death's scythe arm loads of gold stored ready weapons for another warrior which in another time may be erased but not today hold the sword's wife writing again holding high and protecting the courier of the quarrier by word of scop not to stop but increase your scope
27 years have I spent amongst these prison walls Waiting patiently for the day to dawn When my people shall be set free from racial discord Wife and child and all have I given up for the cause My life is set on freedoms pyre as a ransom for the fire My blood is hot and my thirst unquenchable The voice of my ancestors instilling courage and confidence Do not give up the fight till each man has won his right The day has finally dawned, like a child bursting out of its mothers womb The price is paid, my life is laid , I can at last rest in my tomb. God Bless Africa!!
Vancouver's a private reference and it's not really about Canada as a whole, just one experience regarding the aforementioned. Shh! Schwein Fleisch vs schweinefleisch. As two distinct words it literally means "pig skin" as one word it means "pork". I mean it as two distinct words so that it can tie in with "pound of flesh". I was going to have "haut" but apparently "schweinhaut" is actually a surname. Oh those unlucky few who roam the world as Mr and Mrs Pig-Skin! :( __________ Vancouver Chasing rainbows along horizons Is insane. Clear misunderstanding. You left the city and your pound of flesh. Schwein Fleisch. We were young, laughing and colliding Corrupt to the claws. We were Writing endlessly, listlessly and so Apologetic. Pathetic fallacy The downpour flooded the chalk into grey. Of course we wrote about you. Reviews were decadent and ego-manipulating. We were akin with it. The world was always a Spectrum of amazing. Had to run. Through the rainbow with Your look of Old Nick. No explanation. Schwein Fleisch.
A craving to conquer, a hunger for war Ships set sail, to foreign soil Across dark seas onto treacherous shores Archer's drawback their bows, Fiery arrows climb high, Flying with fury, they darken the sky. The awful odor of pure detest running through their veins Projectiles sores then pour like horror's heated rains Golden Chariots carry both, man and beast, Corpses fall And vultures feast, Upon their flesh, gnawing on their bones What lays ahead it is unknown. Night has fallen and they retreat, no victory, and no defeat Surrounding blazing camp fires they celebrate, Drunken songs, mourn fallen mates Reeking of sulfur, comes morning dew They suit for battle, Combat ensues Gallant and fearless, they stand with pride, Shoulder to shoulder, side by side. Mesmerized by the enchanted sounds The squawking of crows, their heart's that pound The sun beams down Their armor of silver, reflecting light Their faces are raw, no sign of fright Bold bronze shields and, Sharpened spears Salted sweat trickling down, they have no fear. They draw their swords, they stand their ground. It echoes NOW! !!! That dreaded sound. Metal on metal, Daggers ripping through skin, All attack, the battle begins Blades penetrate through tissue and bone The horrific uttering of shrieks and moans Mutilated bodies All are pierced, Rivers of blood. All is spilt The ghastly stench of carcasses, rest at their feet The sounds of skeletons buckling underneath. Soldiers collapsing all around, Thunderous, it shacks the land Great warriors, dying noble men "Forward!!!" They roar Javelins take flight, and lances thrust Onward they march, thirsting death From dawn to dusk Gaping wounds, detached limbs, and vengeful eyes They push ahead; they hold the lines, until all adversaries have met their demise. IN THE ART OF WAR Chiquita Baity
The magnificent beauty Unique in its appearance Used since the days of Rome Marked in the passage of winter solstices Treasured and cherished Lover of water, pure and elegant Fragrant and bliss With a tear drop center Once gracing the royal gardens of Paris Cut and resting in glass, posing on tables Clinched together in the arms of a bride With lace and white ribbons a showstopper One can't deny In a rainbow of colors made for the eye
Into the bowels of the earth we descend Down into the pit of hell Crawling on hands and knees to mine This precious fuel they call coal Now Petey and I we are almost men He is ten and I'm eleven Been working here, down this mine These last two years and month now Mum is counting on us as men Since Dad died from consumption Coughed every night, spat out blood Now gone to be with Jesus The work is hard, it's hot down here To work by flickering candlelight The dust so thick, you always taste it It makes you cough and splutter We've almost reached the coal face When I can hear some rumbling I turned my head to speak to Petey When the world collapsed around me I don't know how long I lay there When sense returned to me By the flickering light I could see The roof caved in behind me Now I don't know if Petey was safe Or if Petey was buried under But what I knew and the news was bad This was a miner's worst nightmare Not a breeze came through, no fresh air The tunnel tightly sealed I think I knew deep in my heart My bones would find rest here Time passed, don't know how long The candle burned away The last light my eyes did see Then blackness all around I had seen night and I'd seen black But never before black like this The silence too was deafening A tear squeezed from my eye I cannot cry, I am a man But the tears slid down my cheeks I told myself for Mum I cried What will become of her The air so stale, tis hard to breathe My eyelids heavy, drooping Slowly I drift off to sleep Tomorrow I'll awake in heaven ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ About this poem: Sadly children as young as five were sent down into the mines and should there be a cave in it was more economical to leave them there and keep mining in a different direction. Thousands of children perished working in mines. .
< 5 Vows Holy Wow Jainism Realisim Here We Go Nice And Slow Non - Violence Truth Non - Stealing Celibacy / Chastity Non - Attachment / Non - Possesion Life For Thee It Must Be Entry For Deb Guzzi's Broad Horizons The 5 Vows Of Janism
I saw you brother with your eyes deadened to life As the bullet passed through your chest I shall never forget that piece of lead that laid your soul to rest Lodged into the door beside me Our plan had failed Every detail played to perfection Your hand was on the rail of the train when the shouts came Stop! Stop! To stop meant death anyway, so why would we Yet their bullet pierced you And I stood there, frozen in a world that hated us If things were reversed I wonder, would I have pulled that trigger? I think back when they sent momma and poppa to that gas tank The cloths had hidden the fear in their eyes As they walked silently to death I know this, I could never have been that cruel How could they follow this leader of deranged thought But now I am alone in this freedom land called America I shall never forget what those Nazi's did to my family The tortures unbearable for thought All the friends I have known have perished by gas Some shot for refusing to die All because I am Jewish Nothing could be so atrocious as to kill a man for being himself. BY: DARREN J McMURRAY June 14, 2008
Committing myself to action; I stopped to put all plans away. Determined to author my Life's book pages, I began the business of today. I did away with past and future: Losses made and profits gained; That to lose and this to gain. With the past already accounted for, And future yet to be taken account of; It's a waste for me to keep their books - My business is today
Diversity I was born out of a number, Faces defining my world, and I've always been inclined to cumber the distress I witness at this berth against the figure. Yes, the figure that is and is not, because I have no culture, no heart, nor home. I am something light tricks to be, an illusion of diversity, the colour of your teething bone, the greatest profanity being humanity, I am much less-the unfortunate- the unknown. Words are nothing without your lips, and spite can't see without some tongue. So being human cannot reason without some puncture to the lung. If there is a God he is not here, the reliance of invisibility is one to me an unintelligibly cowardliness of fear. You want the air, to take care of what you said was your own will. You want new souls to suffer for an ancient bill. You want me to stand and say I am sorry for something I haven't done, when you're the one, who is ticking the times tables incorrectly. Today will be tomorrow and soon after the great past, If you don't want history to be seeded in misery then you should stand out and make it last. I was born out of a number, mathematically spiralled into life, and so far I still find it a struggle to understand the joy of waking. To be born is to be alone, To live is to be surrounded, To die is to be free, but for that you must work first. And I don't barter with this curse, if there is nothing- I may as well exist a little first. But what I can't compose is how I see these faces, where others separate by numbers, words and races, I only see one in the mirror: human.
I was walking down the street one warm Saturday night And three young brothers approached me Faces cloaked in red scarves So I braced myself anticipating the worse But then one asked me a question That changed everything He was like who you be? And at that moment time its self stopped And I resaid the question who I be? Then with ease I replied I be your salvation Grammatically incorrect is you question I am your brother brother you are my keeper We are 1 as a people I am superior to the the typical man Cuz I am connected Connected to a heritage that has structured my mind Through the emancipation of my history I don't bang blood it pumps in my soul infused with God's gift to me melanin from the clay he used to make me So my question to you is not who u be ? but who are you? Cuz the state of to be is to impersonate to try but I wanna know who you have become alone Without the influences of this corrupt society Simply said I am.....
Rhythmic swaying of peaceful waves Tides align with the influential moon, Lapping gently on wave-beaten shores Of frothy seaweed and golden limestone. Dazzling, too-blue-to-believe waters Mirrored in the bright afternoon, Eroded shores ancient with history Keeping its secrets of thousands of mysteries. Within honeyed walls that echo through time Are whispers of old that try to be heard by modern age man, Who is so out of tune and his instincts low, Not keyed to the earth. Age-worn battles of power abide Never realising that they're against the tide, For the Earth surely in its finest hour, will win its opponent in war, And seal them in through Earth's activity. A very good and fitting cemetery.
O Mighty Atlantic… What is this fascination which I have with you? Could it be a part of me your lays trapped somewhere in midst? You are like an old confidant with countless secrets you hold! There's an ancient one which haunts me today, and you guard it well… Like the miles of warehouses, hidden within your belly Where spirits of my ebony ancestors lie, shackled in rusted chains Never again to see the rising sun?! I know not why this had to be And do I dare to ask God, Why? So, I wait; for in time all will be revealed. The centuries march on; they've left behind the invisible scars Broken spirits, lost and weary, walk an unforgiving earth, Carrying within fractured souls the abject pain of ancestral spirits Separated by the gulf of time and buried, frozen in the deep. Do you still hear the sounds of terror mingled with mournful groans; The piercing wails of vibrant girls; and young men's angry roars? Do you hear the soft murmurs of young mothers comforting a child?! Was their agony so bitter that you could not console?! Do you recall the sound of each one's last, labored breath?!... I hear their screams and groans; their piteous pleas and angry roars Echoed by wild winds and crashing waves on dark, stormy nights! I have felt the cold and dismal pain that "waters" hate, A dark, heavy cloak which broken spirits don. We survived the middle passage and "seem" free; But we know that a mortally wounded spirit cannot fly! And though rusty chains no longer hold, spirits are held fast in place! Where are our eyes? Give us eyes! Father, give us new eyes so we will see! ~*~
By any other name what is in a name prosody Rosa Dee the sweet voices arise in Consonance assonance resonance Renaissance you see being reborn by the word frequency colorfully resurrected euphoric euphony your flowing down along the Dee an Irish sea without life the screams of cacophony cantos of Muirghein the queens nightmare winds of change blow upon the wordy mare but the word in question rhimes with prosody so you see to alliterate the marrying sounds honest dissonance choosing rather to write it down nomadiclly poeticlly phonetically as Rosa Dee instead harboring to the odic glottis lotus within hours hope to see a singing laughing flower
Calliope has turned her back on fate, She will be a muse no more, She has halted all her metrical speech, She no longer frolicks, At the fountain of Hippocrene, She no longer answers Apollo, The Mousagetes,in Delphi, Corycides,the cave on Mount Parnassos is cold and empty, For the Muses have followed Calliope, The eldest and supposed wisest of them all, Yet,Melpomene knows of the tragedy, Her sister shall sow by this choice, For without Les Neuf Soeurs, The world shall reap this seed, There will never be another mousa, Sung nor written, About the stars, heros, Sadness or laughter, About music ,dancing, Or even love, For if Urania follows, There will be noone to appreciate the stars, Without Clio, No history will be told, Without Thalia, No comedy shall bring forth laughter, Music will have no tune without Euterpe, No dance to step to without Terpischore, Nothing will ever be sacred, Without the pensive Polyhynnia, And without Erato, Favored Erato, There will be no passion, No love, And then , There is Calliope, For whom , And without whom, There will be no epic ending, No. All that will be left , Is the tragedy, Of Melpomene.
Determine soul, give me this powerful ocean Independent spirit, fill this powerful machine For I physically stand strong Feel the authority on my fingertips Phantom of mine, stand high Day or Night Because, nothing matters As, I stand a individual On this mountain so high For I am mentally powerful My courage behold My eager stand back Relax, for I am great As a forceful person The faith I carry for all Give me your grime, residue and waste Come into my atmosphere Breath the air I breath Touch the sky as I Passion is in my soul Vampire, shadow and zombie Give me a hand Help me save this land This dirt and sand It's at war everyday It's sad to say Determine, I need you to stay Independent spirit, fill this machine My powerful machine The one with so many words zealous,secure,brave,dedicated, harmony, love, unity, and concord We don't need fighting in the lions den The frustration we put in the soil The storms we bring in the skies I will stand next to my stray Shake hands with my competitor, traitor, and opponent For all shall make me solid My courageous beast go to sleep This world will be at peace Because , I'll be there D.L.V
Life is a gift, but death is seen as a curse, Heroes are ordinarily born but give their lives for other to live, Tell that man that fold his arm in the mist of injustice, That one day, very soon, if he refuses to take up the challenge, The life he protects will be snatched from him. Wake up the slumbers to the duty calls, Tell the idles that there are so much work to be done, Look into the eyes of the wicked ones and dare him, Now is the time to act for tomorrow may be too late, Rise, oh rise, men of justice. (c) 2014
Fish swam in blue waves of cotton candy Carless gulps of salty ocean Tails whipping through chocolate sea Sweet as a rice crispy treat Mindless beauties beneath the land Squishy scales under quick sand While dinosaurs chant for reincarnation Butterflies flutter in several mazes Carrying souls from eras beneath to Timeless eras above to retreat
A dusty old town-so quiet a man, a traveler takes off his pack-so heavy and reclines for a rest. they dont know his name, they never do they wont even bother to ask he troubles them-his mysterious past leads them to prejudiced views but were one to ask, for if naught but a name what would this traveler say- would he speak? a word, no. a name, he would give them and pass "Im Wanderer, the world is my street." Wanderer-what a name does it signify much of his life or is it a code- a cypher? an enigma to his past.
Look not too long - the past is clear Each step revealed Each wake revered Longer is the backward glance But not with joy - perchance If Only - comes to mind the eye - of memory Whose sake is dry The beating heart that knows no fear - Has not looked long into the rear If only we could guard our steps Avoid the pitfalls at a glance But no - our vision in the forward - stayed The backward glance holds its prey!
They came like locust A clustering crowd clattering leaves And when the cloud into cirrus strads had fade I saw nothing the same as before. Heap upon heap they came Tormenting everything whose structure Or bone or faith is metallic, Tearing down bridges, or train lines Or cables of communication Leaving us to be spectators And non-strategic commentators of greed. It is a strange occupation In a country without mines, or manufacturers Forging iron and steel into added value of history Our energy and vision Has no capacity for such excursion From the dilemma of our tormented box. I shudder when the land is barren When we no longer import the finite supply I shudder when the pockets run dry like rivers Whose beds we do not clean Or is it only I that see the forecast of the storm?
Good Cop You're a cop. In Hitler's Fatherland, Nazi Germany, 1964. Little more than a rookie. Normally catching petty criminals and hookers in dark alleys. A call came through, a body in the woods. You the cop, first on scene. Little did you know that you, the cop, would bring everything crashing down like a house of cards. By investigating this crime, you the cop, sent fissures right to the top of the Nazi regime. Secrets spread forth like acid; burning everybody. The death of a race, the Jews. Extinct. Retired top Nazi murderer told you, 'Not a brick remains. The Jews are in the East.' You knew you had to see with your own eyes, you the cop. Where it happened. So you went to Poland and saw. There were bricks there; moss covered, dirty and half buried. What untold story did they tell? Millions of ghosts hovered around you. Crying for justice, permanent release. As the SS came for you, you knew the cost - your life. With Kennedy visiting, you got the secret out. By forsaking your life, you collapsed the most evil regime in human history. Ended Hitler's reign of terror, allowing peace to ignite. edits look fine here. on final post after edit some text is out of line. not as bad as epub system i use tho which screws up word 2007 onwards. oddly word 03 is fine. hit enter key, text on next line. not like carppy 07 onwards. progress huh? yea right...
A force of evil with ruling hand Holds the world within it's grasp and command Watched bythe all seeing eye Autocratic no compromise Driven by power and greed Dictate to the masses What they must head Wolfsin sheeps clothing Tied to the devils heel Control the governments puppets Peptuate and turn historys Revolving wheel. Peter Dome. copyright.2013.
Sioux,Saura once trod here. Dwelling here on river's edge. Their Spirits remain. Quiet. Hear them now, Footsteps on the path we walk, voices in the breeze. This is hallowed ground. Each tree,rock,mount,stream revered. Let it be so now.
Wake up to find its not just a dream, the morning rips a new wound of reality. Forever gone, Forever missing, All the regrets building up inside of me. I could have been better, cause you were the best, I love you with everything now you took your last breath. You went, happily and chased the birds over that rainbow bridge, I hope your watching from above c ause when you left you took a part of my heart ...RIP My Beautiful Puppy. I Love You Camille Baby?
When you think your alone I'm actually there. . taking away your freedom and your not even aware. Its better this way with you not knowing, as if our true face was to show, well that would be the end of the plan as we know. So do us a favour and keep working your 9-5 watching our T.V thinking you're alive. The truth of it all is we run this show and even if we told you no better people would know! As most aren't wise they do as there told, makes them feel secure. . Its psychology of old, an as we both know sheep do not lead . . but follow!
Before men could fly there were books. Before books there were campfires. Some things are emerging while others diminish. The years have been changing me for a long day now. There were thoughts that turned as I walked today, with some apprehension about making it to the end of the lane in freezing cold. But I curled my hands into a fist inside my gloves, with false fingers flapping. I could wave with those wobbly fingers when cars drove by. Sometimes I waved presumptuously when the windows were tinted, not knowing what beast was at the wheel that I could not see. The cold air prompted me to blow my nose, and I expelled a head full of needless thoughts. I spat out memories as well, but they were backed up on my synapses, layer upon layer, like a mirror reflecting another mirror, with me in the middle-- or in the distance; I could not tell. Those memories are as endless as the past and days play out and fall over like a row of dominoes, stretching round the world. Meanwhile I search the shelf for that elixir which will wrap time into a still photograph with a panoramic view of eternity.
The binding groans open And lets me in Plunging into the depths Of a cream colored world Scents of ancient tomes fills my soul And I'm addicted I need a fix I really need a fix And I inhale like I've never breathed before My eyes glaze over, and I'm g o n e Universes I never knew appear Black holes suck me in, Supernovas explode Stars dazzle my eyes As the words sprint across the page It stole my heart, it did I've never been in love like this before Running fingers over the inky pages Texture filling in the ridges of my fingerprints Flooding my identity Knowledge makes me Builds me up to take me down Into myself Over and over Inspiring new thoughts That I thought were new But really were hidden under The dusty covers If we save literature If we save books from censorship If we promote literacy We can save mankind And it's history The bad and good Lessons learned and yet to be understood All the falls and tumbles Rises and stands All within the inky pages Held in my hand
Looking out of my hotel window I see a blanket of white as snow comes down from the sky The Holy City of King David grinds to a halt Winds are blowing as Shabbat comes in The city reels from the bad weather Yet I take comfort in the fact that I have made it to Jerusalem The holy city of the Abrahamic faiths I hope to see more of this ageless city before I head home to the fabled Lower East Side where I make my home
My home, the land of the rolling hills. Where the trees embrace in mutual respect. Who can truly understand the mystery of the hills without living among them? I have learned much from the flowing waters. I have spoken with the spirits of the earth. I have discovered it's fiery soul. I have sung with the whispering winds. They have told me the same thing. "I am STRONG," "I am POWERFUL," "I AM WEST VIRGINIA!"
This room held hope and promise when it was first opened up but bribes and collusion arguments from shrewd lawyers added up to injustice. This room though no longer used still witnesses to prejudice and lies a jury in a hurry a judge with bias and justice undone. This room is outdated, falling apart Was it ever anything but a holding place between a rock and a hard place?
the fool of the tarot is the pharoa four royal families go into hiding to pull off winning a war versus torture for his birthday its an under rug swept fool proof process that is hinted at in the zodiac and the bible the bible is a guide of realising torture victoms and a reminder on how to heal them it seems the bible stories are reminders of historical events that caaused the end of a war satan was the pharoas name, jesus was hired to abolish slavery mary was the nurse the holy ghost was the black market that proceeded government the zodiac is a weather channel of catastrophic events that took place while previous generations were alive their mythological stories point to places on the earth where these tragedies occured, speculated by confused philosophers we call prophets some hieroglyphs and numerology are similar its a simple language of numbers, crack the code of hieroglyphs into numbers translate the numbers into meaning almost everything we read or study and speculate points to how a past battle was won figuring past lives are a math the occupation you have now and how those skills you use everyday would have helped you survive hardships of a previous period ie toy store candy shop would be alive during saints ie. casino goldrush or dirty thirties ie. prison guards trojan war ie. pornographers cleopatra ie. teachers jesus ie. fitness experts philosophical age etcetera, the skills you use everyday would be useful in a previous time of hardship. davinci hints at women being named after tornados and other things women have been named after the mona lisa may then be cleopatra
Blinded by hatred and greed Drunk with arrogance and power Drowning in deceit and delusions Prompted by their hired seers Who spend sleepless nights consulting Whispering deadly secrets, conjuring schemes While their masters play 'god' Confusing mercy and patience for weakness They forget there is One Mighty God In whom past, present and future lies Now the tide begins to turn And none can stay His mighty hand For he has heard the bitter cries of the poor While their oppressors fill their coffers The silent cries, have reached Heaven's gates All they plead for is just deliverance A new day to work and feed their children To whom freedom has been denied Today, he has spoken in time And the world stands to watch in awe As the wall of mighty dictators Fall like dominoes ~*~ Note: Eyes focused on the Middle East and Northern Africa. And I know many of us are concerned about what will it mean for us... only God knows and since he 's in control, whatever happens we can be sure it will turn out for the good in the end, my friends.
We blast mountains from our vision To shape how things should be Punctured the sand with cold derision Power reigned with sudden glee And what now? Nothing in the caves Except blasted stones and gaping wounds Time frantic, raves At nothing midst the shadow of the ruins. The mountains there Where we lost them, concentrated in dust Saw it disappear So vulnerable our destructible use of trust. Nothing in the sands Nothing in our hands Nothing in the rivers The petty law givers Are mingled with dunes that twirl and twirl The blind thought of what will end the world.
Exit the chaos from which you are derived the Prince of Providence makes his existence felt with head held miles high for he has survived against all the uneven odds acknowledging the victory he gives a slight accepting nod while at loss for words for he has exceeded more than ever deserved sitting upon his throne, unowned at the highest peak existence has known Hear me Great Destroyer, conqueror of lesser men from heaven or hell, or the wishing well from what shadow did you ascend? a shadow who dominates the light the prince leaves prints of a powerful foresight a kiss goodnight, for the waning age not one sole survive, to witness his rage a chaos reign, for all the accepted learn to control it, or join the neglected I live within the golden gates survivor of the olden days staring frozen by his gaze stuck for eternity in my own