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We Are The First Responders

We are the first responders
The many in the blue
We protect you from the fires
And from those who would harm you

We heal with a helping hand
And respond to all who call
We are the first responders
The ones who see it all

You ask us to protect you
And you call when you're in need
You get mad if we're a minute late
To a crime we cant forsee

You run quickly from the fire
We run toward the burning flames
You take the drugs to harm yourself
Still we treat you just the same

We see a fear that's in your eyes
Yet we stand straight and true
We are the first responders
And we do this all for you

Carl Joseph Roberts
A tribute to the brave heros who lost lives on 9/11 and those who work and have worked as our country's first responders.  This is a repost of one of my earlier poems and one I hope touches people and makes them think about those who serve us everyday and those who have given all to help others.
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
My mom offers me a bowl of oatmeal she cooked at seven.
It is eight.
Sitting on the stove, it looks clumpy and cold —
a mash drowning raisins.
I pretend like I don’t see it.
But it calls my name as I start my day,
even though it looks repulsive
and I have avoided oatmeal since college.
I toast some bread.

She glances over the counter to see if I am paying attention  —
a reflex from my childhood.

Because as a child, 
my parents said I had selective attention. —
sometimes I listened and other times I didn’t.
When they got divorced, it got worse.
I was distracted by the bristle of my dad's 5 o’clock shadow
and the sigh in my mom's voice when they asked me
separately,

What time I needed to leave?
and
If all my stuff was packed?

But all  I kept thinking was:

Is that all there is?

You get married, get divorced, and cart around your kids.

The thought of swallowing this is repulsive.
like leftover oatmeal,  it stares me in the face.
I don't want it.
Most girls I know are raisins —
They already have their whole
wedding planned on Pinterest,
and their kids names picked out.
Everytime, I  see engagements on FB,
I can't help but forsee divorce
and I wonder why people run for a
partner, kids, and a mortgage,
when in college their
ambitions were more.
I wonder when their
mid-life crisis will be,
or when they'll wake up
and want more than
9 to 5 to fulfill a lie
patriarchy put forth.

So I spread peanut butter on  toast and
murmur, “I put the oatmeal in the fridge — someone will eat it.”
My mom puts her head down and finishes her coffee.
I eat my peanut butter sandwich.
I am stuck trying to answer an impossible question,
as she begins sentences like
"Once you get settled,
you'll want to look for someone..."
I tune out.
I don't have selective attention,
just the perception that
everyone is ignoring
this important question:

*Is that all there is?
Confessions of a jaded millennial
Kendall Mallon Jan 2014
§
Battle of New Britain

Lieutenant Jim G Paulos led elements
of G Company in a savage counterattack
that ousted the intruders supported
by Lieutenant James R Mallon’s improvised
platoon of H/11, which remained
to help man casualty-depleted line.

Improvise (OED):
One: to compose on spur
of the moment; to utter
or perform extempore

two: to bring about or get up
on the spur of the moment;
to provide for the occasion

Three: […] hence to do anything
On the spur of the moment

Improvised platoon
Df James R Mallon:

When most of your platoon
lies dead in the pumice sands
of the South Pacific-Japanese
bushido bullets tear flesh and spirit
out of the corporeal—husks of limp
limbs you fought to defend and they you
Japanese mortar fire, machine and small-gun fire
fifteen yards in advance of the wire
how do you bring about or get up
the courage to grab whoever—
the nearest marine
talk through ears drums burst by mortar succeeding shockwaves
forget for the time the men
you spent months training
sipping beers in Australia
laughing over bar stool drunken jokes
men you shared your dreams about after
away from the mosquitoes
away from the constant moisture
rain rain rain day and night
soaking through fatigues through skin through bone
never enough sun to dry out
air already saturated
sweat or seawater—it is all the same
now you must find new men—men you have seen,
but do not know the same as your own platoon
their life and yours in each others hands
alone in a group of stranger-brothers
always faithful
keep composure in the face
your buddy’s entrails pouring into the pumice sand
hence to do anything
on the spur kicked into your side
to block what no man should ever be asked to see
and do what you can in the moment
to save your division from enemy fire.

§
Cyclops Black Eyes

One summer e’ening drunk to hell
He stood there nearly lifeless
A gal sat in the corner
And it’s how are ye ma’am and what’s yer name
And would ye like a drink?
She looked at him, he at her
All she could do was accept one

And rovin’ a rovin’ a rovin’ she’ll go
Through his pair of blue eyes

She knew not the pumice beaches and streams
Sometimes walking sometime crawling
amongst blood and death ‘neath a screaming sky
Where Cyclops black eyes waited for him
Was it birds whistling in the trees?
Always the Cyclops black eyes waiting for them
So they give the wind a talkin’

And a rovin’ a rovin’ a rovin’ he’ll go
Away from those Cyclops black eyes

And the arms and legs of other men
Were scattered all around
Some cursed, some prayed, some prayed then cursed
Then prayed and bled some more
All he could see were Cyclops black eyes looking at him

No Cyclops black eyes waiting for her
And a rovin’ a rovin’ a rovin’ she’ll go
And never know what saw his pair of blue eyes

Could she forsee in that pair of blue eyes
Decades he’d spend drunk to hell?
Sometimes walking sometime crawling
Rovin’ and rovin’ away from those Cyclops black eyes

§
Colt 1911**

I was nineteen when I learned
my Dad his father’s Colt 1911 pistol

when Dad was young he
and his brother found
the gun—hidden in the rafters
of the cinderblock basement
their father built; magazine bullets and pistol
on one rafter—separate, except
the bullets lived in the magazine

my dad and uncle, like any
young boy, were fascinated
by the pistol; though too young
to feel and know the power
and danger in the cold blue metal

when their father and mother were
away—home alone they snuck
to the hand-laid basement
reached around the rafters
through years of dust and darkness
feeling for the colt and mag
scrape-click-pop—ca-chick
round in the chamber—“freeze!”

so played boyhood fantasies
cowboys & Indians
cops & robbers
with a lethal toy


so my dad kept it a secret
locked in a tarnished steel box
locked through the trigger guard
magazine separate
four silver, dimpled, bullets rolled round between
their queue and releaser

I was struck by the weight—heavier than I expected—I felt the years of use polished into the wood grips—thick hand grease sweat blood humidity sand saltwater gun oil mud tears life saved and taken.
At the bottom of the wood grips ticked notches deep in the grain—both sides—different numbers; “What are these?” I asked running my finger across the nocth-ticks feeling their depths their absence consciously carved with his next best tool—kabar: workhorse that can baton through five inch diameter logs, machete through two-finger branches, dig a hole to burrow while machinegun fire mows down jungle; easy to sharpen, keeps an edge; full tang to hammer temples or tent posts

“I don’t know; the only thing we have is the lore.”

fI counted seven
the number the magazine carries
eight total, if you have one in the chamber

You have to commit to fire
a 1911, the cliché: don’t pull
the trigger—squeeze
is how the 1911 fires—a button
fits the crotch of the thumb and index finger
opposite the trigger on the handle;
to unleash the hammer then
lead, squeeze the two—firm
tight at the target; no shot fired
by accident—no Marvins with the 1911.
I am trying a new form of poetry called 'documentary poetry'. This is the story of my grandfather who fought five campaigns in the Pacific Theatre of WWII for the United State Marine Corps. (This is a work in progress)
Little Red  Jan 2019
Endless Void
Little Red Jan 2019
You grabbed
The rope and chair

And hanged yourself
In the air

You listened to
The voices and their pleas

As they celebrate
Your death with glee

You closed your eyes
As they smiled

As they partied
Like animals, so wild

For you have commited
A sin they craved

That has sent you
To your grave

...

You opened your eyes
And so far as you can see

Is an endless void
That you did not forsee

You regretted the decision
That you have made

But it is now
Far too late
First ending to the poem "Insanity"
Zenobia Feb 2010
They say, no man is an island
Yet an island can be reshaped
By a tornado, hurricane, or a earthquake
Mother nature rules with an iron fist
To place her stakes on the land of the living

They say, no man is an island
But there must be a better way
For other nations and countries
Come together and embrace
To restructure our governments,
Working together, rebuilding, maybe, even see
The humanity in eachother giving
To help those, who can not help themselves

They say, no man is an island
All the justice and laws in the world
Wouldn't correct it's poverty
In exchange, for it's wealth
Animated politicians
Speaking in tongues
Atoned to be totally clueless
Unaware of the next existing
Killer of lives

They say, no man is an island
To forsee at last
Battle of waves of storms to come
Genocide, Nuclear, Wars
Will come again, and again
History repeats, in cirlces
It never ends

They say, no man is an island
The inadequate versions of getting things right
Should be a must, for the change with truth and trust
People having the will or the lack of
Food, water, protection, health care
That ain't right
To not be inform and share

They say, no man is an island,
But there's just has to be a better way
People taken care of people
Living life better than it once was yesterday
Families who have lost, buried, and shed many of tears
Placed their memories of loved ones
To cross over into the light
Have lost more than just a home, family, neighbors
One thing one must not lose is
The spirit inside to have

They say, no man is and island
For every man, woman and child
Is of the land of their island
Hope is not ones plan alone
The plan simply is of many...

Faith, Memories, Freedom, Dreams, and Hope
(upwc)Zenobia/aka/LadyZ710 /2/13/10
I.

Moonlight silvers the tops of trees,
Moonlight whitens the lilac shadowed wall
And through the evening fall,
Clearly, as if through enchanted seas,
Footsteps passing, an infinite distance away,
In another world and another day.
Moonlight turns the purple lilacs blue,
Moonlight leaves the fountain **** and old,
And the boughs of elms grow green and cold,
Our footsteps echo on gleaming stones,
The leaves are stirred to a jargon of muted tones.
This is the night we have kept, you say:
This is the moonlit night that will never die.
Through the grey streets our memories retain
Let us go back again.

II.

Mist goes up from the river to dim the stars,
The river is black and cold; so let us dance
To flare of horns, and clang of cymbals and drums;
And strew the glimmering floor with roses,
And remember, while the rich music yawns and closes,
With a luxury of pain, how silence comes.
Yes, we loved each other, long ago;
We moved like wind to a music's ebb and flow.
At a phrase from violins you closed your eyes,
And smiled, and let me lead you how young we were!
Your hair, upon that music, seemed to stir.
Let us return there, let us return, you and I;
Through changeless streets our memories retain
Let us go back again.

III.

Mist goes up from the rain steeped earth, and clings
Ghostly with lamplight among drenched maple trees.
We walk in silence and see how the lamplight flings
Fans of shadow upon it the music's mournful pleas
Die out behind us, the door is closed at last,
A net of silver silence is softly cast
Over our thought slowly we walk,
Quietly with delicious pause, we talk,
Of foolish trivial things; of life and death,
Time, and forgetfulness, and dust and truth;
Lilacs and youth.
You laugh, I hear the after taken breath,
You darken your eyes and turn away your head
At something I have said
Some intuition that flew too deep,
And struck a plageant chord.
Tonight, tonight you will remember it as you fall asleep,
Your dream will suddenly blossom with sharp delight,
Goodnight! You say.
The leaves of the lilac dip and sway;
The purple spikes of bloom
Nod their sweetness upon us, lift again,
Your white face turns, I am cought with pain
And silence descends, and dripping of dew from eaves,
And jeweled points of leaves.  

IV.

I walk in a pleasure of sorrow along the street
And try to remember you; slow drops patter;
Water upon the lilacs has made them sweet;
I brush them with my sleeve, the cool drops scatter;
And suddenly I laugh and stand and listen
As if another had laughed a gust
Rustles the leaves, the wet spikes glisten;
And it seems as though it were you who had shaken the bough,
And spilled the fragrance I pursue your face again,
It grows more vague and lovely, it eludes me now.
I remember that you are gone, and drown in pain.
Something there was I said to you I recall,
Something just as the music seemed to fall
That made you laugh, and burns me still with pleasure.
What were those words the words like dripping fire?
I remember them now, and in sweet leisure
Rehearse the scene, more exquisite than before,
And you more beautiful, and I more wise.
Lilacs and spring, and night, and your clear eyes,
And you, in white, by the darkness of a door:
These things, like voices weaving to richest music,
Flow and fall in the cool night of my mind,
I pursue your ghost among green leaves that are ghostly,
I pursue you, but cannot find.
And suddenly, with a pang that is sweetest of all,
I become aware that I cannot remember you;
The ghost I knew
Has silently plunged in shadows, shadows that stream and fall.

V.

Let us go in and dance once more
On the dream's glimmering floor,
Beneath the balcony festooned with roses.
Let us go in and dance once more.
The door behind us closes
Against an evening purple with stars and mist.
Let us go in and keep our tryst
With music and white roses, and spin around
In swirls of sound.
Do you forsee me, married and grown old?
And you, who smile about you at this room,
Is it foretold
That you must step from tumult into gloom,
Forget me, love another?
No, you are Cleopatra, fiercely young,
Laughing upon the topmost stair of night;
Roses upon the desert must be flung;
Above us, light by light,
Weaves the delirious darkness, petal fall,
And music breaks in waves on the pillared wall;
And you are Cleopatra, and do not care.
And so, in memory, you will always be
Young and foolish, a thing of dream and mist;
And so, perhaps when all is disillusioned,
And eternal spring returns once more,
Bringing a ghost of lovelier springs remembered,
You will remember me.  

VI.  

Yet when we meet we seem in silence to say,
Pretending serene forgetfulness of our youth,
"Do you remember but then why should you remember!
Do you remember a certain day,
Or evening rather, spring evening long ago,
We talked of death, and love, and time, and truth,
And said such wise things, things that amused us so
How foolish we were, who thought ourselves so wise!"
And then we laugh, with shadows in our eyes.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
i love the fact that most people
rather enter the concept
of karma rather dialectics
to argue their point - makes
emily austen seem like a nutcracker
of ideas to come from
ikea as the self-assembled semi-detached
heights, otherwise known as wuthering, heights
or the disco-ball done in mahoganny eyed splinter
shine - sheens the spot!
it's just so ****** blocked nose rotten,
the opposite of polite society,
a bit like the middle-ages... reigning
paranoia imported from a lost colony,
library cards of blue indian peasants
turned into pheasants that did the cancan dance
all of a sudden... miracles christ couldn't even forsee!
i'm free every saturday if you're hashtag up-for-it...
never mind... i'll leave my quote and oil my phone-number
for a missing mobile telepathic nuance on
when differentiating blue indians with garam masala
and red indians with mohawks - easiest game of all:
snakes & ladders, noughts & crosses... garam masala & mohawks.
Äŧül  Sep 2016
A Tensed Joke
Äŧül Sep 2016
You're going on the highway,
Bringing a new 4-string bass guitar,
And a drum-set too for your sons.

Now you could be a family rock band,
You could churn your own Summer of '69,
The world will know you three now.

A really ******* hitchhikes in your car,
You are tensed as your eyes meet.
There is unfathomable longing in hers,
And the bathykolpian woman's so inviting.
You can't play the good man at this age,
You decide to cheat your own wife now.

You stop the car quickly anyhow,
A quickee's on your mind & nothin' more.
She smiles at you and lunging towards her,
You smell the inviting scent of hers.
In middle of the kiss you start foreseeing,
You forsee a bright romantic future,
Suddenly her wellbeing's lost & she vomits.

Then you bring her to the hospital,
The gynaecologist congratulates you,
"Congrats! You're going to be a father!"
Taken aback, you say, "But I just met her!"
The girl who hitchhiked says, "He's ****** lying!"
The doc summons the police and your test is done,
"Good news & bad news," the doc says,
"One, you're not her baby's father."
Hearing this you're relieved.
"Now the bad news, doc," you say.
The doc says, "You could have never have fathered any even if you intended to."
You are flabbergasted, "What the hell! Why?"
The doc pacifies, "Your load doesn't have any sperms,"
Seeing you shocked the doctor says,
"It's a birth defect that happens rarely but yes it does..."
"...You may sue the girl for everything."

The biggest shock in your life so far.

You just shake your head and turn around to go.

You're in the middle of a nightmare,
It couldn't be true!
If not you then the 2 kids back home,
They belonged to whom!


Now that's the biggest tension!
Part 1/2

HP Poem #1156
©Atul Kaushal
Can we ever come
to the marvel
terrace
to
forsee
each others beauty

Why do you play
with such an extension
there at the sea
where
Time dances
on a lapse
of a warmest
heart wish

There are little holes
written in the sands
sublime

there
Here
everywhere

Resounding beats
follow thoughts
and float as
reminiscing
letters

Or other way around
among
words

I'm

lost
where there aren't any

Any

'You'
is a Genius
for me

Yet You,
just you, near me
for me
real
enough
possible
potent
actualization

Brahma
Shiva
Shakti­
Love
Dance

A burning bush in a desert of dreams

Serenity
Harmony
Wish you can feel free
Wish you can be free
Wish you can be with
me
wonder male
wander male
on whales
where
one beat meets
beats
in beating

my hands make invisible
waves
parallaxing
through ether

To reach eruptions
the Sun
of Time

Moon ebbs in my mind
i'm swirling away

landing
on a mystic meadow
of your poetic Beauty

Your- Self

Reinforced, thrown
deep into an ever-last toe rings
on an Elephants
translucent
magic foam
of mystery

memories
always fresh
in a Divine Cauldron
of
this unthinkable
Cosmic Conundrum

Calm creatures
Lovely woods
melting
rising
poe
is dead
percussion of our ohm
a constant
pace

slow

tender

Time
4
Love
~
Imagined by
Impeccable Space
Poetic love beat
~
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtb52nB9YmU
~
The trial i must follow
the legacy i must keep
the track i must maintain
my own path
is where i wanna follow
not the legends of yester-years
not the model’s of the present
not the fatherhood legacy box
not the fantics of people
or the fantasy of people
but my own path
a path that’s new
that many scarcely know
that none has not seen
my own path is a push
like a destiny maker
am a chief of my own track
a track am not meant to compete
but a path of creatives
where only me knoweth it
my own path
i aim to follow it
my own path
that i vow to follow
in this journey of life
it’s inevitable many would forsee me
many might push me
but my own path
that i vow to follow
in my own path
a story i must create
never to cross another
but to follow my own path
that is my greatest acheivement to follow
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=AhNQd1U-OsE&fulldescription;=1&client;=mv-google≷=NG&guid;=&hl;=en-GB#watch_actions
Susan O'Reilly Jun 2013
Married a delectable rose

couldn’t forsee the woes

her actions would compose

A flirtatious flower

men with kisses shower

her mysterious power

She spread her petals far and wide

his beautiful bride

no longer a source of pride

a lingering scent

he now repents

the passion he spent

His rose had thorns

his feelings scorned

her loss he mourns
I'm sorry boo
I never meant to
Couldn't forsee this happening

Oh god what have I done?
Am I unfaithful...

Thats been on my mind this past couple of hours
I didnt mean to say what I did
Was trying to be nice and friendly
Trying to brighten their mood
I wasnt looking for love
I have you
Right?
You'll stay here right?
I'm scared...
Terrified
Petrified
Mortified

What have I done
Am I unfaithful...

I cant live with myself
Whyd i act in such a way
What's wrong with me
The voices they scream inside
Someone please help me
I've dishonored myself
My character
My partner and
my morales

— The End —