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Brody Blue Jun 23
Of one man’s disobedience deceived to eat that fruit
That brought death into the world alone his sole repute
Whereby the serpent’s artful tongue misled did do that deed
And lost as he the blissful seat and rank of choses seed
But far unlike that spiteful fiend he fell when justly tried
Before the judge down to his knees with pleas for mercy cried
Yet when with mercy pardoned by the judge refused to cope
And let the loss of innocence be thought the vault of hope;
That which is dead within my heart revive and urge me play
A song that’s sure unto all man to justify your ways
Thru me tell the story, war on evanescence wage:
Goddess sing the rage

Of one man’s firm obedience both tried and tested true
Whose triumph, like the morning mist, gave unto each its due
When meekly giving up the ghost he boldly thus denies
A grave of such esteem for which a king would gladly die;
Whose kinsmen at the gavel’s rap like vipers drunk with wrath
Scourged heaven’s own begotten sent to speak on their behalf
And laid to waste that greater man then dared to go so far
As to blame all fault upon the silence of the stars;
That which is dead within my heart revive and urge me play
A song that’s sure unto all man to justify your ways
Thru me tell the story, war on evanescence wage:
Goddess sing the rage

Hail Holy Light! Offspring of Heaven’s word firstborn
Command the formless infinite at once take on thy form
And with thy vital lamp, dare I beseech thee to inspire,
Set fire unto darkness dead alight upon thy pyre
And from beneath thy sovereign seat where lies thy fountain’s spring
Oblige the maids of memory descend and sweep my string;
That which is dark illuminate, what’s low support and raise
That I in mine may for all time thru death still sing thy praise;
That which is dead within my heart revive and urge me play
A song that’s sure unto all man to justify your ways
Thru me tell the story, war on evanescence wage:
Goddess sing the rage
Daniel Jan 10
As like when they were children
now they curtsy at the cross
Then all once they take their seats
and turn their gaze upon

The august priest in silken robes,
ornately trimmed and white
And urging them to prayer between the
readings and the rites

The man of god, his hands aloft
move practiced through the air
His winsome words bring ease upon
the crosses which they bear

His mirthful moans and dulcet tones
resounding through the chamber
By candlelight I then decide
To stay for the remainder
Ellie Sutton Jan 5
Curst be the wretch, and sure he's curst
That taught the Trade of Rhyming first
'Tis a ****' d Trade, and who pursues it,
I'll pass my word at last he rue's it
The above is an extract from a late seventeenth-century satirical ballad I stumbled across in the course of my research. It made me smile; I hope it does you! The title is the number of the ballad in the English Broadside Ballad Archive, an online database of seventeenth-century ballads, should you wish to read the entire piece yourself.
“No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper;
and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn.
This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD,
and their righteousness is of me, saith the LORD.” 
                    ———— Isaiah 54 17 KJV




"This was not an impulsive act." she said
Snowy tears heated by burning gun fires.
"This isn't even a close call” Count it
Once more: how many Angels are falling?

And at this moment ominous cloudy pressed world
And it arises wondrous sorrow
And crying sentence, roaring-high
As grey as ghastliness

Through the drifts the chaotic vibrates
Loud call without sounds
Nor action of men nor beasts we ken—
The gunfire was all within and between

The angers was here, the shots were there,
And the gunshot was not for bonfire night
It busted and roared, and chapped and howled
Likewise, a rumble thunder was all around.


We all sat in the corner of darkness 
Stop pray, everyone try to shout
“You who lost” the boy screamed
His voice ignited the midnight ballad,

An unexpected early Christmas chorus
Isn’t justice God upon the heaven
But her son blinked his red eyes again
As she touched his wounded soul

"This isn't even a close call’ she whispered
We ought to kiss Uranus at night sky
Where we danced in better cheer
Where the morns haves no tearing fear
the above Ballad format poem is based on the most recent tragic gunfire event, Michigan school shooting…
David Plantinga Jul 2021
Desiccated youth has bones like cork,
So porous strong in cells.
Lost time perfuses emptiness.
And heavy dolor quells.
David Plantinga Jul 2021
Supine, roads sprawl so lazily
That they collapse to planes,
Not aiding stumbling travelers
As knotted sinews strain.
David Plantinga Jul 2021
The trouble started on the day
After the day before.  
Youth and hope and love decay,
And regret won’t restore.
It seems this old and weary world
Holds much more bad than good.  
I’d have assayed, but I was hurled
In this life before I could.  
A world of cloud and bitterness,
A life of scrape and thorn,  
So who would ever acquiesce
Ever to be born?  
Because briars outnumber flowers
By ten to one at least,
Weakness humbles mighty powers.
Famine goes before the feast.  
But feasts are more than fillings ups,
And hunger’s just a pinch.
And emptiness can’t stopper cups,
And straitening can’t cinch.  
Bounty and joy are plenitude,
And destitution lack,
So revel in what’s nice, or lewd,
No loss can take it back.  
A single flower fortifies
To brush away the burs.    
Striving wins because it tries.  
Forlorn despairing errs.
Terence, this is stupid stuff: no beer here, just entropy.  I put a trochee in the second foot of the first line of the fourth stanza for the harshness of it.  I also meant the double plural in the first line of the fifth stanza.   I also meant to double up on the "evers".
David Plantinga Jul 2021
Badinage and Persiflage
Make such a merry pair,
Chatting and bantering all day.
No spiteful gossip there.  

Each goes without acquaintances.
Each has one single friend.  
As solitary sprites, they speak
Of words, without an end.
David Plantinga Jun 2021
Some thieves have burgled every house;
The rich are sorrowing
At sacrilege and heirlooms lost,
Spoons, silks and sapphire rings.  
The poorer tenants mourn as well;
Their losses are their doom.  
Without the coin for food or rent,
Hunger and eviction loom.  
Just down the street, a misanthrope
Who lives in an old tub
Cackles at their lamentations,
And gives his hands a rub.  
He used to own a battered cup,
That and a bowl for alms,
But then he saw an urchin drink
Right out of his cupped palms.  
He learned that cups were luxury,
And threw the thing away.  
He’s happier in poverty,
And that’s just how he’ll stay.  
He boasts to passers-by he’s safe,
Since thieves can never steal
Knowledge or virtue from the good.
Wisdom alone is real.  
How better for that mendicant
If thieves could somehow take
Self-satisfaction from such prigs.
Oh mellow him for pity’s sake.
If I recall correctly, Diogenes Laertes told this story about Diogenes the Cynic, minus the moral.   Too many Diogenes’s!
David Plantinga Jun 2021
A drunkard’s guzzled several days,
And staggering outside,  
Dull and disoriented, seeks,
But cannot find, a guide.  
The hour proclaimed is even six,
Twice daily otium.  
The arrow hangs at bottom rim
Like a dead pendulum.  
The birth and dying of the light
Are symmetry in dim.
The day is leaching into night,
Or morning’s failing him.
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