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Brent Kincaid Dec 2015
Go on, young soldier
Go where we say and die.
Take this gun and shoot,
Don’t bother to ask why.
Carry on this war we wage
Though it doesn’t make sense.
We invade anyone we want
And then call it all defense.

Go on, airmen and women.
Climb into expensive planes.
Fly over countries, drop bombs.
Don’t expect anyone to explain.
Line up ground targets well
In your high-power sights.
We have declared them enemies
And they don’t have rights.

Sail on, you navy people.
Turn their seas into ours.
Help our country reduce them
To rubble and dead in mere hours.
Transport equipment and personnel
And help them change things,
Then go to free ports on R and R
And buy your sweethearts rings.

Tromp on, military machine.
Make the world into the USA.
After all, they’re just wogs
And don’t have a thing to say.
If they were worthwhile people
They would be from back home.
Places like Akron, L.A. and Nome.

But they are not real people or
They would not get in our way
And try to stop our holy advance
To be the only people to stay.
When this endless war is done
We will be all that remains.
Be part of the American way, and
**** or get killed for your pains.
Brent Kincaid Dec 2015
Thousands of years ago,
The loving god did decree
A vengeful statement that
Still affects you and me.
He told the loyal Israelis
In the Israel at that time
To go to their neighbors
And commit a huge crime.

It was couched in words
Of an eye for an eye
And lives in infamy
As the millennia go by.
This beloved god by decree
Ordered a massive genocide
Without a future thought or
Concern for those who died.

“**** all of them, even infants!”
That’s what they say he said
And even up until today
There are mounting dead.
A peek back at history
We watch the bodies burn
And know for certain
They have never learned.

The scariest part of all is
That these were all denizens
Of a timeless middle-eastern war
Now a cause by US citizens.
They have fought and murdered
For thousands of years on end.
So, why do we join in and fight
And send our beloved children?

Can’t we just agree on a course
To wash our nation’s hands of it
And recognize this madness
As a political bottomless pit?
It has never been righteous
Or easy to understand
How this war goes on over
This one small patch of land,
Fueled by religious hypocrisy
Written in a year that is labeled BCE?
Scarlet Niamh Dec 2015
I am cradled in inescapable
darkness, kept alive by my perpetual
insanity. These clouded eyes and
purple skies hide the secrets of a lifetime;
hiding away in the shadows from my
own truths in order to free myself from
the lies I once told, the mistakes I once made,
yet there is no escape.
~~ Truth be told, I am a liar. ~~
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
Bullets have no feelings
No use in kneeling
Nobody cares that matters.
They never count
The bones that shatter,
The blood that splatters
The lives they ruin.
They don’t know what they’re doing.
They’re thinking with their wallets.
Lining their overstuffed pockets,
They reward their own efforts
Then get together and do the same
For others with too much fame
And too little conscience;
No pity to share,
They don’t care.
We are not there
To them.

Their anthem
Is gouge, overcharge
Fill up a barge with gold.
This graft never grows old
When you are on the receiving end.
Millions to donate? You are a friend.
No riches to date? You are forgotten,
A loser, a user, misbegotten
And no concern of those
With a spoon in their nose
And riches to spend
On a war that never ends
And makes them more and more.
And secret bank accounts don’t score
With the IRS or with the detectives;
As long as our county is defective
They will continue to win.
Again and again.

If you object to this
You need to at least kiss
The ***** of some politicians
Who won’t see their petitions
Ignored, as always before
When someone denounced
The smallest ounce
Of corruption and payoffs
Paid to overpaid jerkoffs
Who are turning our leadership
Into a high-priced sinking ship
Of fools and criminals
Claiming to be intellectuals
When really they are crooks
Cooking the books.
Again and again.
And we never win.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
The truth is turning plastic
And politicians spastic
As they dream up fantastic
Ways to be bombastic.
The anti-intellectuals,
Their rhetoric effectual,
Demand a perpetual
And lucrative processional
To a place they know the score
Where they can amass more
Of money and stores
In disregarding the mores
They were elected for
And continue waging war
Like high-priced political ******.

The truth has no chance
In this genocidal dance
Of unfortunate circumstance
Created to enhance
Resultant happenstance
When, by the seat of his pants
When we happened to glance
Away for a particular moment
And were swamped by the foment
Of eight long years of torment;
Freedoms arteries turned to cement
And any chance of sanity
For American humanity
Got buried in some inanity
About hanging chads and counts
Giving a fool a chance to pounce;
To squeeze the last pure ounce
Of dignity out of the Presidency
By merely taking up residency.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
I’m glad to be home
But home doesn’t like me.
While I was gone
Home didn’t wait for me.

Some treat me like a criminal
And some are calling me traitor
For doing my patriotic duty
And following my legal orders.
If had done otherwise there
I would have been in prison.
I don’t know what this is about
Or from where it has risen.

I’m glad to be home
But home doesn’t like me.
While I was gone
Home didn’t wait for me.

Do people now go to work
And decide what they will do?
And if they want to do nothing
They loaf around? Is that true?
I know they do in Congress now
But has it taken the trickle down
And now following orders is
Above the average working clown?

I’m glad to be home
But home doesn’t like me.
While I was gone
Home didn’t wait for me.

During our tour of duty, we all heard
Some Americans had complained,
Thought we ought to not be there,
Hated us because we remained.
They lost control of our peacetime
Right here on our own home base.
Yet they wanted us to stop the war
No matter that we would be replaced.

I’m glad to be home
But home doesn’t like me.
While I was gone
Home didn’t wait for me.

I saw forties newsreels of ticker tape
Falling on huge marching parades
Celebrating our fighting military
And the sacrifices they had made.
Back home now many neighbors
Curse at me and look at me as scary
Instead of a recently returning hero
From their own country’s military.

I’m glad to be home
But home doesn’t like me.
While I was gone
Home didn’t wait for me.

And Congress voted down help
For those of us who are wounded.
The V.A. used to take care of us
Before the ‘One Percent’ fine-tuned it.
Now many of my brothers and sisters
Who did their duty suffer defeat
At the hands of their own country
And lay dying in our city streets.

I’m glad to be home
But home doesn’t like me.
While I was gone
Home didn’t wait for me.
To break the rules of reality,
I cheat all those all around me
Regardless of how sagacious I may be,
Only fools are mesmerized of those who behold me
I prance and dance on the open sea
Like a basilisk, but I remain afloat
With blessing’s curse, I cannot be washed ashore
Witnessed the many who drifted off beneath
As they recycle down below the abyss
Once more a rebirth of you, the only one I truly miss
I recognize you
Morph to something anew
You don’t remember me, but I remain the same
I float on the pinnacle of the sea
And yet, I’m envious of you
Eons and eons of my demise
Patience, a virtue
In tune to my existence
As I continue to observe the world,
Keeping watch of your perpetual transmogrify
This poem is available on my poetry book compilation, Misty Dawn Road.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/254141
Our love is to eternize.
It is to become perpetual.
To never end.

We are striving for that day to
develop into a
reality.

We cannot wait
for what the future
holds for us.

Our memorable
‘I do’ moment
is what we yearn for.

Family portraits in the
corridor is what we
dream of.

Two rocking chairs, seated together
on the patio in the summertime
is our goal.

Our love is never ending.
Perpetual.
Eternal.
Àŧùl Jul 2015
If I find you gone,
Then I would better be a recluse,
Gone in reclusion.

Neither a monk nor a priest I'll be,
But I'll simply be an ascetic,
These words are not a bit unwise.

They would not find me unhappy,
Because smiling I always am,
Thanks to you I smile perpetually.
Again exclusively for my youthful enamorata.

-by Drona

My HP Poem #893
©Atul Kaushal
Leigh May 2015
Anaemic black mist creeps its way between toes,
crawling eyewards, worming stealthily up shins,
pausing only to cup bolted knees and find more
progress toward the stomach's pit where it will rest,
For now.

The soaking - from outside in - is a violation as a pore
stretched aside is all the space this ten tonne mass
needs - a callused finger pulling back a fleshy curtain
to claim squatter's rights - mashing its body into a crawl space,
It curls.

Right here, in the depths, it will feed from its host and
gradually weave a tendril through intestines and bile
like a periscope, seeking and feeling for a route to the stem:
The source of everlasting sustenance;
The end goal.

Once it latches, it will live forever suckling stance.
The insipid parasite, the binding leech; as it takes hold,
consumes with its voidwalker embrace
and paints every memory with your fault;
Perpetual guilt.
.

Given some time, I will find a way to blame myself for just about anything.

.
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