Caitlin Fisher
Caitlin Fisher
Oct 2, 2014

Forgive me, my love
I could only stand-horror struck
I watched, yet I didn’t, the crocodiles of the raging Nile maul your bloody corpse

My love, my love forgive me
That wretched day; that cursed hour, the very hour of our return
To see you breathe your last was akin to feeling a knife in my back
They had to hold me down
The hated guards who couldn’t save you

Forgive me, please, forgive me
I can do nothing more than carve your face into cold marble now

Antinous forgive me, forgive me please
I couldn’t save you; no one could

Antinous, forgive me

Apr 4, 2013

the killers shoot lyrical
koans on the bar delicate,
I amble for a pint of
Dungarvan beer, whatever
the where that means.
There's a sunset here
and a sunrise there,
and lunchtime somewhere
in the middle as the mahogany beneath my elbows reminds
the Romans that I'm unsure
as to whether or not they made
it as far as Ireland.

General Tiberius,
are you awake?

With hampering Hadrian Wall.
Timmy Shanti
Timmy Shanti
Nov 23, 2013

Loading my hadron collider
With hampering Hadrian Wall.
What on earth am I doing!?
I know nothing at all.

I add some tea to my sugar,
Putting the kidneys in stone.
Getting chased down by a cougar -
My wishful thinking at home.

Feeling betrayed by my conscience,
The time is quarter to three.
In a world full of pretence,
I prefer to be free.

October 2013

of Hadrian Denaruis silver,
Sia Jane
Sia Jane
Jul 28, 2014

Maybe those afternoons,
were meant for,
that simple meeting,
amidst the quiet,
breviloquent chatter,
raw, uncompromising,
blissful uninhibited emotion.

Resounding cups,
mismatched china,
jasmine, rose, lavender tea,
celestial gardens,
plants; leaf-bearing
chinking lipped tea cups,
saucers pooling.

Immaculately intricate,
of Hadrian Denaruis silver,
an eighteenth century delight,
for ladies; un salon de thé,
sound waves wander as tea diffusers,
ritual & routine,
friendship & freedom.

© Sia Jane

I miss reading poems here so so so so much. I am so busy and too busy to even write at the moment. BUT I will be back around soon once things slow down. Miss you guys xxxx
Like Hadrian,
Francie Lynch
Francie Lynch
Jan 14, 2015

I built the playhouse
To withstand
The seige of time.
Like Hadrian,
I dismayed the border people.
Starlight shone through
Crescent moons
Like the Ishtar Gate of Babylon.
Children shrieked and wailed
Against those walls
As nomads in northern China,
Or Philistines in Jeruselum.
But time is a formidable outsider,
And my small walls would tumble
To the blasts of tempus trumpets.
My hand runs lovingly across
Your names on those
Memorial Walls.

building walls that would make Hadrian proud
A Thomas Hawkins
A Thomas Hawkins
Jul 5, 2010

How can something that brings so much joy
turn around and cause such pain
It takes you out to bask in sunshine
yet leaves you naked in the rain

It fills your stomach with dainty butterflies
and sucks you in with its sexy pout
then the moment you let your guard down
it pulls your guts right out

It leaves a gaping cavity
and an ache inside your chest
makes you feel your very worst
after feeling your very best

Where once you were king of the world
now you only want to hide
building walls that would make Hadrian proud
you lock yourself inside

But alas we are too stupid
our optimism too sublime
because we tell ouselves in a year or two
"it'll work out different this time"

Only it doesn't.

To those whom Hadrian so feared he built his wall
Cori MacNaughton
Cori MacNaughton
Jun 11, 2015

The Celtic Cross
Around my neck is often seen
An ancient sign
Of where I go and, too, have been

The cross more ancient
Than the Christ oft signified
A mere expedient
To Rome when Jesus died

Although I wear it in His name it further goes
To those whom Hadrian so feared he built his wall

The land where rivals are the thistle and the rose
Where the blood of all my forbears once did fall

As their mingling souls in Heaven thence arose
The stones within the mist cast silent pall

Cori MacNaughton

#of   #i   #the   #this   #poems   #my   #wrote   #was   #all   #ever  
Hadrian’s Wall will, once more, mark where thei
John F McCullagh
John F McCullagh
Sep 18, 2014

Elizabeth, the virgin Queen, left vacant the English throne.
Her Scottish Stuart cousin came and claimed it for his own.
Two nations with one monarchy joined in the Union Jack.
The Scottish lost their nationhood and now they want it back.
Saint Andrews’ Flag of Bonnie Blue will have to be unfurled
if Scotland votes to take its place among nations in the world.
Quebecois and Basques today are eagerly looking on
to see if Scots will vote to tell the English to be gone.
Hadrian’s Wall will, once more, mark where their dominion ends.
Remove your subs from Scapa Flow; your lease is at an end.
There still remains a problem which, just now, occurs to me.
If the English take their Pound with them, what is our currency?
It’s true we’re rich with North Sea oil and better off than Spain.
Yet how do we do business if the Sterling won’t remain.
We need a new “Gold” standard based upon the single malt!
Who needs pounds when we have ounces stored in barrels and in vaults?
So pour me a “MacCallan” on the day the rent comes due.
Hand me a glenfiddich and I’ll purvey food to you..
Our creditors will be well pleased with hints of bog and peat.
We won’t dilute our currency as Scots men drink it neat.

the vote is today
and all the way north, to Hadrian's wall.
Chris D Aechtner
Chris D Aechtner
Oct 9, 2010

Here I stand, as Vomiticus Grammaticus,
my spew, more commanding than Maximus Romulus;
its stench, stronger than even the mighty Spartacus.

My father, Caligula, is the most vile and repulsive
Emperor to ever rule over the dogs of Rome.

His favorite dish,
is a newborn baby, basting over an open fire,
poor innocent infant, roasting on its own funeral pyre.
My father, that demonic, Roman whoreson,
enjoys this appetizer, spiced with coriander and cloves.
Every Roman will attest to this fact-
from Constantinople, down through Numidia,
and all the way north, to Hadrian's wall.

Not a single woman is to be seen on Caligula's Imperial estates,
only heaps and mounds of orgiatic, bronzed catamite-studs.

And you might ask, what exactly is a catamite?
Well, a catamite is like a sodomite,
except far, far less polite!

Do you catch my drift?
Are you not very swift?

A catamite does not ask for permission
before inserting his staff into an unholy altar-
please do not let your imagination falter.
A catamite will penetrate any living thing,
and donkeys are not prone to giving themselves enemas....

....I do not want to shed too much light on the hare,
they are so cute and small, it really brings me to despair.
This gives a whole new meaning to, "Splitting a hair!"

Aye! But these bronzed gods are such beauties!
With their full, luscious lips and kohl-painted eyes.
Just slap a pair of firm breast onto any one of them,
and even the straightest arrow,
could become aroused enough to bend one over
on top o' my bed of sharpened nails.

My father, Caligula, is obsessed with torture-
he performs it for sheer entertainment and sport.
But, the finer details I will leave for another chapter to tell-
a brand new tale, for me to spell.
It is enough to know, that my father
cuts off the phallus of every new victim,
and cooks up the most foul, spiced, pubic-stew.

Is it any wonder that I spew and spew and spew!?
These memories bring forth the most toxic, violent brew.

Still, I pray to Black Jesus with my loud, retching, vomit-song,
for I do not want to stay as Vomiticus Grammaticus for too long.

Stationed up high on the Devil's trident-prong;
in this puke-infested Inferno, for now I belong.

Here I stand, as Vomiticus Grammaticus,
my spew, more commanding than Maximus Romulus;
its stench, stronger than even the mighty Spartacus.

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