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Lawrence Hall Sep 2021
Lawrence Hall

                                   For the Good of the Republic

                               To the Caesars and their Generals
        (But not to the Senate; they have made themselves irrelevant)


You have medals and money and country estates
Book deals and bank accounts and pleasure gardens
You can retire in soft luxury now -
Your military contractors have seen to that

The Rubicon is ruby with your soldiers’ blood
And the Tiber is stopped with the loyal dead
Who fell upon your sword-sharp signatures -
And now you conspire against each other

You have done enough; go home to your musicians
Your receptions, your hunting parties, your…wives
You could pray for the dead
But you won’t


If you love your nation you will not meet
At the Milvian Bridge
"A republic, madam, if you can keep it."

-attributed to Benjamin Franklin
Tiffany Arnett Jun 2020
I met a man.
No, not just a man.
I met a gentle soul.
I met a knight hidden in the tropics,
I know he would fight for me if he could.

He is a man of kind words and promises,
He means what he says.
His eyes are dark,
They hide his beautiful heart.
His love is sincere.

His smile is fleeting in pictures,
But it lights up the world.
His voice is deep,
It moves me like thunder.
His intense gaze never makes me falter.

Souls like his are few and far between.
His words soothe my pain,
But they also make me laugh and cry.
He is a rock to support those he cares for.
He never gives up on them.

I met a man.
I met a strong, dark knight.
I met an incredible soul.
I found a love.
Or did I meet Eros in disguise?
Traveler Mar 2020
Like the last Roman empire
  Our republic is but a facade
Capitalism has sold out to corporatism
  Our establishment has sold out to the highest bidder

I join the quitters..
Jonathan Moya Mar 2020
A deaf republic can’t afford
to sit on its hands,

killing its sign language
in willful silence,

letting memory erase
the fear and the truth.

The disease existed.  
The shrouds too.

Concrete does not
pave over the blood.

A stroll in the park
does not tamp the pain.

The Punch and Judy show
is but the pantomime
for the forgetful.

The only sound heard
is the singing of
marionette strings

culled from a pile
of burnt violins.

When the air turns
khaki and violent,
the crowd disperses,

their hands in their pockets
signing and forming words.

In a silent closet at home,
the last parents teach
their children to sign.

The children sign
to the doors, windows,
the grass, the trees, the sky

anything with
the shapes of ears
before ears were banned.
H A Vitatoe Dec 2019
The crazy caucus
No doubt
Must've forgotten
Of their
Glass House
Dakota J Dawson Apr 2018
The crowd sings a tune
Most dreadful

It is with steel
Cold retribution
Uneven fire

That he shall die

Formalities unsecured
Royalty disbanded

Speech said
Hostility silenced
Peace has come

A hairpiece
Eyes an unnatural shade of blue
Hands reaching for a god

Face unsure
Blade ready
Head severed

Without God
Tangible mercy
England is set free

Gold to ash
Mind to dirt
Heir to none
Dakota J Dawson Feb 2018
The bottle is soft
To touch
Caressing my sorrow

Crows scream
A usual tune
Prudent, but useless

I have to run
Into Rome
Where eagles fly

Caesar across the Tiber
Cicero in *******
Pompey unfound

Liberty is dead
The restless have arisen
Dread seeming to bribe destiny

Sword and stone
Catapult and Trieme
Feelings are fleeting

Houses catch the flame
Blades seer flesh
A list has been made

The weak are dead
Strong circumcised
Demons feed
RJ Days Nov 2016
must recognize our Form
in the mirror,
see our Face, and make our reflection
as we kiss it, though it regularly sickens


We are still Us, though
that probably means little if it ever did;

We have been amended beyond recognition
from centuries of lobbing
off limbs, appendages, stitching clauses
like bandages then forgetting about them
if we ever shower,
disfiguring the pale torso of our Body
politic, naked and middling before posterity
grotesque genitalia dangling
hopelessly, and useless
between marble columns
unable to unite in congress assembled
erasing pluribus unum;

We're our Legs, buckling under obscene weight
now cloture’s invoked, the question ordered
on history with yays and nays,
discourse long reduced to the nuances
of blusterfuck;

We're our Buttocks, passing gas
bills, denying a snowball’s chance of
melting in frozen hell or on house floor,
and our Brain, lobotomized
better half yearning “Yes, we Can…
…ada” beckoning the coasts, blue dots
on blue dot ever browning;

We're our Fists, clenching gavels
while advising Mother Earth to **** up
because even without her consent,
reality’s adjourned;


We're our Skin—yes, our Skin—, thin-
ly veiling contempt insufficiently concealed
by layers of spray tan and unmarred
by blood sweat tears of our foremothers
and our Brow, not sweating more perfect
when it's so easy to turn and follow storybook greatness,
when our Fingers, callused from tweeting
Little Bits of *****,
which though once again retitled
and re-released, remains a classic,
completely unrevised;

We're our Ears, nostalgic for the crack of doom
and we're our Tiny Hands, unable to help themselves
from popping a Tic-Tac and grabbing
onto those titillating, dusty buttons
on the hydrogen jukebox;

We're our Eyes, heavy
as a defeated queen
with makeup running, blessing us
all for this operant foray into madness,
ever observing how our Arms, which
(torches now extinguished)
flail in confusion amid incalculable darkness
still hoist our pitchforks low and
our Tongue still grievously petitions
for more deplorable words amid
hallucinations of victimhood;

We're our *****, *******
on progress, except
which—failing to rise to the occasion—
nonetheless manages
to flop over and strike once more: a dis-
chord in common defense of
fragile white male privilege
always showing, never growing,
general welfare and tranquility flushed down
the toiletbowl of history
hoping those old turds never
resurface, still ignoring the stench of injustice
and the chipping of gilded porcelain;

We’re our Lips–which neither Broadway hits nor
newspaper clips nor high minded pleas alarmed,
and with Dr. Franklin’s warning notwithstanding–
We are our Lips on treacherous steps which will be
all executive power herein vesting;


We're our Palms, grasping rope amid air
saturated in deathly vespers, which tugs
down-up toward unearned heavens;

We’re our *****, pretending to be
our Mouths which chide & otherize, while
our Shins expose their cuts to ****,
bullet-holes welcoming the swift infections
in what dank sewage now pours from open
Overton windows, broken along with
any pretense of civility; ultimately,
the only thing we could shatter;

We’re our Holes, shamefully enjoying
the prodding and poking caresses
of anarchy, be-
moaning un-
Equal Protection law & order bestows,
depriving life, liberty, property
when our Hearts, weary of
the long hard due process, supremely
malign centuries’ holdings;

We’re our Immunity, sovereign it be
fighting all insults foreign and domestic
and our Voices rising in lamentation
for what we’ve lost and what we’ve barely kept;

We’re even our Hair, unkempt, distracting us
from enduring corruption of our Blood;

We’re our *****, too. No, never mind.
We never had any. But She did,
and class despite the strength
of glass;


We’re all that still, and our Souls'
politic too, fractured much asking
what Un-
ited States we’re in;
September 17, 1787 – November 8, 2016. Not a bad run, I guess.
freeing the mind Apr 2016
The green, white & gold flag rising outside the GPO,
Crowds gather to remember this day 100 years ago,
The proclamation read and the green colour floods the streets,
As the march takes place we stand in peace ,
To awknowledge our leaders who fought for our country,
To allow our citizens to be free,

History flooding through the young & old ,
All standing as one as the story we know re told,
The army saluting together United,
As we remember the volunteers our minds enlightened ,
The fight for freedom, For us today
I'm proud to be Irish, it is not hard to say.
24/4/2016 1916 rising celebrates 100 years.
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