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Once we were on fire
Young    rebeliouse   free
We stormed the castles and took to the skies we flew we dreamed
We were ablaze our light setting raging screaming fire to the world around us
When our thoughts could not sit in silence any longer
When the kids were engulfed by a wave of fury of the injustice done by this world before we were even here
We screamed and demanded
But now it rains
Now the cold heavy water blankets the restless
The fire has been drenched in worry and stress
The brutal downpour has distracted all with false life or death
The blaze once 100 feet high now nothing but a charred soul

And all the ones put out by the rain
to tired to fight again,
pray on the generation next
That their fire is enough to best the storm
Chris Neilson Aug 19
if humans only make do and mend
there will not be a world without end

many different places we worship
while letting this planet's resources slip

trusting our faith will flower
professing a love to a higher power

a designation to keep us all in line
if we pray to our God we'll be fine

buying shares in a guaranteed afterlife
with our planet‘s climate in trouble and strife

disregarding our future generations 
unless we build them space stations

no one sets out for hell on a hand cart
highways for rock stars playing a part

not everyone believes in life after death
they say nothing's beyond the last breath

spiritual belief is a personal choice
we all speak with a unique voice

we've only got this Earth on loan
from a universe of life as yet unknown

we all share this third rock from the sun
so we must respect our world as one
Religion, atheism, climate change and AC/DC all covered here
Umi  Apr 25
Umi Apr 25
A castle built on sand,
Falling appart by the striking wind, storming, raging, rampaging over the land in a furious devotion only a lunatic would be able to know,
No purpose, yet trying to make one, a nihilistic attempt of a deserted hell, forgotten through ages and generations, left to rot, perish alone,
I do not know the meaning of life, but alike you it has to exist,
Trying to put a broken heart back together, is alike trying to find the pieces of a cup which has shattered into a million, tiny, shards,
I cannot imagine each piece to be the same, because they are not,
Left to be never whole again, after my companions who shared the same naive dream I held dear, fell one by one, only their will remains,
The morning glow we dreamt of was more than just the sun rising,
In brilliance, the roaring sky should have embraced in light then shone even brighter, a firestorm of events as if it was an illusion,
The mission I took up, to become angel like became chains which bound, tied and overwhelmed me with their unimaginable strengh,
Even if no one understands me, giving up can never be an option,
If they worry about me, saying my ideas are twisted and silly,
And even if they speak ill of me, saying my dream to be an angel one day is beyond being naive...I will definetly stay positive!
Bearing my wings, I will keep fighting until someday I fall,
Like a simple feather

~ Umi
Meghan  Aug 8
Broken Flags
Meghan Aug 8
Kneel or don't
Stand if you please
But won't
Once a sign
when was it taken awry?

All it takes is one
Bad apple spoils the bunch
Squeaky wheel gets the grease.

They say time flies
But not fast enough
Remembering hurt
We've never felt

Only when generations
Lost in time
Can tie their binds
To that time
Will we begin to remember
To forget
Not forgotten
Just scarred.

As flesh heals
And wounds bleed no more
Will we, as a Nation,
Come together
And stand as one
Against all odds.

And no One
Shall be
We all,
Our whole...

I wish
This peace should come
In my time
But all
Will be
A memory
Of dust.
rob kistner Jun 9

I watched
as generations
moved forward
as a civilization

I observed
the millenniums
of human endeavor
as they awakened
to self-reliance
less dependent
on hive mentality
mastering machines
eliminating conflict
striving for truth
ever evolving

I watched
the world

I stand tall
thrust skyward
closest to heaven
of all living things
a perpetual presence
the constant sentinel
a witness to triumph

oh would
all that

I watched helplessly
as generations receded
as empires crumbled
greed ran rampant
wisdom ebbed

I observed
of human folly
misguided logic
flawed reasoning
as they flailed
to a cold

from one another
from the environment
serving their machines
serving their avarice
perfecting violence
racing to ruination
becoming aliens
in a mad eden

they were
no more

I watched through tears
as the natural world
slowly declined

toxic air
burnt terrain
to far horizons
and now I stand
thrusting skyward
in this decaying hell
praying for a heaven
the only living thing
the pitiful survivor
the final sentinel
time's witness
to tragedy
the end


rob kistner © 2010
(revised 2018)
a concrete poem contemplating the apocalypse
Dr Peter Lim Sep 14
Here I'm rejected
there I'll be condemned
I'll not be excepted

in my face, subjected
to every form of malice-- crammed
among those suspected
of betrayal--- contempt

raises its venomous#  head and I'm hated
for the views I hold--  hemmed
by envious forces-- everywhere hunted
I am an innocent victim--damned

and left to ideas I've constructed
my own pain to consume---stamped
TRAITOR* -- my only hope is to be vindicated
by future generations which would have my thoughts revamped!
# sorry, I spelt wrongly last time
* italicised
wichitarick Sep 12

Youthful mind left wandering just feeling the wetness from yards into the curbs

Ripples running curbside over toes, forming those first streams for a meandering mind

Clouds collecting power,mists collecting,forming Drop by drop rains flowing into their reserves  

High mountain lakes reflecting their passion, partitioned by beavers to make their own pond

  Broken into brooks flowing faster downward into streams,cool and clear their taste like sweet liqueurs

Beauty not confined to a torrent but gifted with greenery and wildlife ,flowers that make the forests more confident

Trickles forming into cascades downward making outpourings & overflows waterfalls forced through the fissures

Gravity needs spaces we watch as it heightens then widens,making it's way through the continent quickly becoming most prominent

Admire her beauty but reap her rewards,wet bounty to feed the fields, food for fishes ,generations receive her treasures

Canoeists,kayakers or legendary steamboat captains are fond of their flowing, boys wondering where she will go ,knowing our tears of joy will flow to the sea should be our greatest compliment. R.C.
Nice memories from time spent on or in some favorite rivers,but also how great a part they play in our lives and the geography . Thanks for reading ,your thoughts are helpful. Rick
Krysel Anson Sep 3
I am half-Chinese and a half Filipino-Spanish.
I have only learnt to speak Filipino my whole life.

The best advises I have received is that there is no right or wrong,
that labels does not always help.
That no matter what, I should just go
and "Live my life", or "Sing in Full Voice, Until Then".

Attentive to a fault to the work or person at hand.
Because of routine and living demands, sometimes I
only pay attention to what is available or given to me.

Like the quest for the Spices of the East, I could no longer live the same way when the time came. I had to learn preservation and other flavors.

In a Asian Food Show, someone shares
How some later generation Chinese had to study their own native language in secret between 1966 to 1998.  
Stories of how their migrant or refugee heritage have made them scapegoats of many local tensions.
And varieties of words and ingredients also native to Chinese and later generations that lived offshore.

Many of us now in the thrash of our collective songs
towards healing and full living as humanity, continuing
refugees and wanderers in our own ways.

Where we see our indigenous-selves and our oppressor-selves,
is not as difficult as we are usually made to,
in a world of artificial
demands and surpluses.

One old song gently reminds me
in many languages singing,
as another bowl of handmade noodles
breaks open into countless random pieces:

We are only passing through earth.
Made to experience, and let go of our fears
and limitations.To gather our remains so that
it is inanimate buildings and objects that are used
by the living instead, and nothing is left behind.
To not leave a trace. To learn how to love.#
Krysel Anson  Sep 3
Krysel Anson Sep 3
By now,the seed varieties of the world,  
may have been attacked beyond recovery
by wars of pretense and relapses.
We are still learning
how to handle it properly.
We tend to say.

Some will talk and plan over dinner parties,
over TV or Radio. Most will leave
it behind like another corpse
of lessons thrown to the gutter,
like a dead fag on another Sunset Boulevard.

Iraq's seed banks
we blew up in the 2000s.
In various places in Asia
and the Middle East, places of life and cultured
varieties gone in an instant.
Echoing our imprisoned
ignorance and drives for more instant goods and services.

Indian farmers have committed mass suicides after
their god Hanuman was used by a chemical giant
to sell poison seeds and renewed
bondages of indebtedness.

One question a stranger asked a group of writers on tour
was not what their poetry or books were about,
nor why they wrote it, but how writing may and
may not be helping as we make decisions and solve problems now?

Once agricultural lands turn into new promises
of commercial buildings. Cities of inaccessible towers and
abandoned malls in America, Spain, China, and Russia
feeds us back our own echo.

Like converted uses of lands, our humanity
is converted into inanimate collections and status
symbols of some players or parties. As we face
our continuing struggle between
our oppressor-selves and our genuine roots.

Despite the perversions,
inside vicious habits of waste
where we glorify promises of war and efficiencies,
we continue to be entrusted with the ongoing lessons:
Rarely do surviving generations through famine, war and diseases,  
throw away means to live, or destroy any kind of seed.

Every day we wake to the ruins and remains of
Our living poetry, word spaces, hours, exchanges,
gains and losses, stopping and going. This time,
not just for fires of anguish or unnecessary losses,
but for each other's midnight lamps.#
Bella Nov 2017
I’m sorry, I thought you were joking--
I forgot you don’t joke
I just
I don’t mean to hurt you
But it’s so easy to do
I understand that
You passed that trait down to me
And I’ve done my best to hide it
But it doesn’t work
Not completely

I don’t want you to think I’m rude
Were from different generations
Different ways of speech
Words don’t mean the same anymore
Language doesn’t mean the same anymore
My sarcasm isn’t to be taken to heart
It isn’t something meant to be taken at face value

I used to cry every time we fought
I can’t let myself do that anymore
I’d never be able to pull myself together
And I hate that
I’m sorry for that
I’m so

I really do love you
I’m sorry if sometimes it doesn’t feel like it
I really am
But I don’t know how, not to fight with you
How not to argue

You’re alone in your room right now--
Depressing into your chair
As you do so often
I’m in mine
doing the same
I can’t bring myself to talk to you
To walk to you.
I wouldn’t know what to say
I wouldn’t be able to look at your teary eyes--
I know it would be better than just to sit here,
But still,
I can’t do it

I’m really sorry
Please believe that I am
A spectrum of words,
hurled in every direction of the world.
A melody passed down through generations.
It evolves to the tongue of the old and the young,
Like a song that wants to be sung.
The eternal life of communication.
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