His men still,
All at arms,
Young of age
Not readied for all harm.

"Fire the artillery,
Send for the Calvary,
Get them there,
Hold the line!

Die not for yourself,
A simple trade:
Life for eternal glory,
No soul is wasted,
In these fields of death"

He watches, he waits
He thinks, he stumbles
All in vain
As his plans fall the drain

"What now?" they say,
All is lost, none stand,
Great autumn orchids
Stained red
With youthful pride and vigor,
Gone for a pointless dream.

Guiding hand
To earnest and certain doom,
He sits on a throne of corpses,
Wasted genius, wasted effort,
All for naught, all far gone.

Tactician, intellectual,
Butcher, fool
Hero, Angel,
Villain, Devil,
A man of no equal,
A man of all folly,

A leader and a killer,
A man , in his hands
The hopes of nations
And empires,
A man with no where to go,
"There's nothing we can do.",
He says at last,
"Here's my Waterloo ; all is lost.".

As he stands in surrender,
Both flawless general
And flawed man.

I challenge you to broaden your views
If you are one who is adversarial,
But should you shun competition
I welcome you to engage in cooperation.
That we may learn from each other,
Sharing our personal perspectives.
If I had ventured to say
That there is no such sturdier foundation
From which upon to build on,
Would you call me crazy?
Perhaps, in a pitiful way,
You would refer to me
As an optimist
Or as daydreaming & faraway.
It's just not realistic, not here or today.
Cooler heads do not prevail,
Safety leveraged over risk is gay,
Precaution is something for *******.
What bullish nonsense and pigheadedness,
Are you not freely disposed toward exercising
Those of your most sacred rights & liberties?
Is too heavy the weight of vulnerability?

inspired by Enid Dame and her poem Lilith

i walk the streets that you used to walk when you were young.
they’re still filled with the ear-splitting traffic of streetcars and taxis,
and the heavy footstep of man
as he trudges along in the gray sludge of old February ice.

i spy on him sometimes, mama.
i watch him slouch against the ice fire breath of the winds
huffing down his neck.
i peek around the lamp-post and watch him shuffle against the dreary gale
that blows him backwards for every step he takes,
just like how he was blown from Eden.
i saw him mama.
the man who threw you out.
the man who abandoned you.
i watch him walk every day,
he seems lost.

it’s cold here mama.
this place is nothing like the paradise you described to me.
you told me that you lived in heaven
and that you were loved,
just as much as you said you loved me.

oh mama, why did we come here?
it rains all the time.
i cried so much in the
apartment you managed to find
on the corner between that deli shop
and the pharmacy owned by a
man who never stopped smoking.
you held me close and said,
“shh baby, it’s alright.
we’ll get through this together.”

the day you died,
i cried like I did when I was in that apartment,
only this time,
there was no one to hold me close
and whisper in my ear.
mama, Lilith,
you’re gone.
history has never remembered you.
you’ve been erased
by the broad sweep of mankind’s hate.
they don’t want to remember you.
but I do,

i do.

i whisper your name to the trees on fifth street
and look at the stars on faded concrete steps at night,
trying to find you among the
constellations
of the history you should have been
a part of.

Some Conway Cabal;
It's a regular circus,
In the capitol.

This is not a poem, however, it is an invitation to everyone.  Many years ago in a galaxy far away.  No, that's not it. lol.  Blt and I came up with the idea to write poetry from the viewpoint of a historical figure or a fictional character's viewpoint.  I wrote one from Humpty Dumpty's point of view.  Jesse James and Bill had some great ones too.  The ideas are endless.  Anyone is welcome.  Join the fun.

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/132874/lost-poetry-from-history-challenge/

I look down from blue skies on high.
Birds fly,
And sing.
Clouds make their rounds.
Shifting shapes,
Take the form of peace,
Content with itself.
The wind whooshes and whirls my hair.
I smile at its gentle caress,
Happy to receive an old friend.
Together we surf the heavens,
Bid our greetings
And farewells,
To the Gods above.
Feeling safe and protected.

Arching across the firmament,
I become separated from the wind.
Frantic,
I search the sky for any sign
Of my wayward friend.
I ask of the birds:
"Do you yet glide upon the breeze?"
"No," said they,
"We must flap and flap
Just to stay a flight."
Worried,
I look down at the clouds;
Still moving,
Shapes still.
...
And dark.
So... Dark.
Lights flashed within.
A terrible boom sounded,
Causing me to loose focus on my peace,
Leaving me to fall downward,
Ever downward towards the raging storm.
Panicked, I yell to the Gods in the heavens:
"Please, I have lost the wind,
And without it,
I am left to plummet!"
I was scared.
Would the Gods save me?
Would the wind?

My prayers unanswered,
I plunged into the abyss.
My hairs stood on end
As electricity arced.
The sound of thunder,
Deafened my ears,
Leaving a hollow ringing,
Screaming,
Thinking it's the end I begin
To sing:
"Above the clouds I knew peace,
Tranquility,
The love of friends,
And songs of birds.
I was free to smile,
And happy with my lot,
High above the human rot;
But now I fall.
The Gods too cruel.
The wind is gone;
And storms duel.
If this is the end,
Then perhaps I will rise again."

As the last lyric left my lips,
I broke through the clouds,
Fighting off hail and sleet,
As I spun out of control.
Rain began to soak me,
Leaving me shriveled
And wrinkled,
As if I'd aged a century.
I can see the earth now;
My sweet mother,
Who had nurtured me,
And taught me to soar.
She too was also sodden.
Rivers flooded the ground.
Trees were being torn from their footing.
Lightning struck repeatedly.
A blinding cacophony,
That left dark scars on her skin.

Humans ran where'd they could.
Some climbed mountains,
Other dug into her flesh.
Parasitic cowards,
Unwilling to face their fate.
Their greed and avarice
Were what led me to the skies,
All that time ago,
When I cried to the great mother:
"They take and take and take,
Yet never do they give to you.
Once they worshiped you
With offerings of laurel
And incense.
Now they insist upon stealing your life."
Warmly, she brushed away my tears,
Saying:
"My dear nymph,
They know not what they do.
Just like you,
They too are searching for peace.
Though, they are not a part of me;
They do not pray to the Gods.
They do not dance with the trees.
They do not sing with the birds.
They do not blow with the breeze.
Much like lightning,
They are static,
And ever racing.
Life is a competition they feel they must win,
Regardless of the cost."

As the memory faded,
So too did that feeling of falling.
Looking around,
I saw light that was bright,
Instead of dark.
Clouds parted to shine brilliant rays,
Pristine,
A rainbow curved over a mountain top,
And birds sailed once more in leisure.
Looking down,
I see that I'm floating
Just inches from the ground.
Then feel just the slightest cool kiss
Brush across my cheek:
"My friend! You've returned!
And not a moment too soon!
For if you had been just a single second later,
I would have reunited with the mother,
Six feet under."
A new smile bloomed on my lips,
Relieved to be alive,
Yet also sad to see the state of Gaia;
Flooded and scarred.
She was unrecognizable.

I whispered to the wind:
"Set me down dear breeze,
For I must commune with the forest,
And help heal the damage
Caused by murderous men."
Unexpectedly, the wind lifted me up,
But not towards the heavens.
No,
The wind raced me to the nearest mountain;
Rainbow still curved over,
Where the humans huddled
In their ragged masses.
Stricken, I fought against the wind,
Wanting only to fall again:
"Those men and those women,
Threw me away so long ago.
They made me feel such pain and sorrow
As they hewed my forest
To satisfy their insatiable hunger,
Forgetting those days of peace,
Where nymphs helped lost humans,
And humans composed beautiful poems
About nymphs.
... And their great mother."

The wind did not listen,
Setting me down in the center of the pestilence.
I cowered,
Wondering why my friend
Would act so cruel?
The humans around me shied away.
Some yelled "demon".
Others "fiend".
I cried then,
Feeling other than,
And yelled at them:
"Stay away you barbaric heathens,
I will not let you cut me again!
Nor witness you harm my mother!"
Then, I felt the wind...
It nudged me towards a crying child.
She wasn't much taller than myself.
I felt... empathy for it.
Together we cried tears of fear,
And sorrow;
Both victims of life's losses.
Mine, in the past.
Hers, in the present.
Sobbing, I asked her:
"Why do you cry young one?"
She wailed:
"I lost my mommy!"
My tears redoubled as I said:
"I too have lost my mother,
But it is not the same.
You see, dear child,
I have been watching my mother die
For far longer than you have lived,
Or will live.
So do not cry.
Instead, go offer some incense and laurel
To the spirit of Gaia;
Pray to the Gods.
Dance with trees.
Sing with birds.
Blow in the breeze.
Find peace in nature as your people once did,
And compose a poem for me,
To read in Elysium.
...
If you do this,
A mother you will find.
I know, because I asked the Pythia,
Long ago,
In a different time."

-------- tea and Sisyphus

Bruno paused, at his interface
with the printable word form,

he paused thinking in writing
"this is so important, I must underline it."

I thought it, of first importance.

The concept of all fruits freely eaten from,
but one, knowledge, right of all sorts,
all species fruit, branch, root and leaf,
all intervvining chthonic molds to make soil,

goodgottamight jus' gimme a blackland farm.
let ol' pharoah done be drownded
goodgottamighty , oh yah,
jus' gimme a blackland farm.

Science, long now, sudden
eruptions of just too much to think about,

like the size of the Earth in his hands,
relative to the post JWST visualizations we share,

bring it in, too wide, ballein, throw out a thought,
an Earth baseball sized, no problema,
in your hand, your mind hand, your typist hand,
keyboarding second nature, like a callous
on the *******
of a scribes writer hand.

Often offered up as proof, see this finger,
this proves I wrote the whole pile crushed,
in the shipping and storage of Ashurbanipal's
collection of books, which Solomon told him,
when they were swapping wives and concubines,
was a vanity and a vexation of the spirit,

But this calloused finger, the mused mind reminds,
this finger proves I came through history,
I did not make history.

She earned the title Nine Days Queen,
But hitherto, she was just Jane.
Just Jane, and she had no idea
That when she married the son of a duke,
A plot was forming around her to steal the crown.

A crown she did not yet wear,
But inherited when the King was gone.
She rose to power instead of Mary or Elizabeth
Through an amended line of succession;
She was never meant to be Queen.

The plots and plans and goals of others
Led to the end of Lady Jane Grey.
Mary conquered the throne with little effort
And Jane was one of many to be sent to death
By the woman history calls ****** Mary.

Nine days was the length of Jane’s reign,
Unscrupulous were her advisors.
Just Jane, she had no idea what she was:
A pawn in the games of those around her,
And she was never meant to win.