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I woke up early on a Christmas morn.
Gladly waiting for Santa before dawn.
Looking through blinds in anxiety I'd torn,
I'd hoped to see him approaching my lawn,
in costumes in previous years he had worn.
But in disguise he came with a French horn,
playing elegies of demons unborn.
Wheat, barley, oats, rice and grains of sweet corn
filled his socks for a land which was war-torn.
I'd thought the usual Santa would return.
But a different Santa came to fore-warn
me of a nagging menace that had drawn
my nation to the brink, and seeks to drown
her in a season of yuletide to mourn.
This poem is dedicated to children in war-torn Africa and Syria. Where Christmas is celebrated in adversity.
what *** created in seven days
a seven word summary:
it’s all a lot of needless ******.

but you’ll say these evils are necessary.
my partner and i were discussing some current political issues and he said, “it’s all a lot of needless ******,” which inspired this short slam
I hear them
Fierce clashing of swords
The constant fighting
The agony, the cries
The men.
Give a moment
For explosions
In the sky
As sprouts of blood
From open wounds
Make their way outward

There’s something about
The night
Especially around
The tranquility
Makes everything seem
The war begins…
It draws closer
You hear them
Everything that’s caught
There’s a war
It’s raging on
It’s raging on
The venue?
My head.

Walked to my window
Saw the lights
Of the
And said:
“I’ve never raised a sword to ****
yet, here I am, fighting again”
In a moment of peace
My eyes met
A field of grass
Moving so
In the wind
Without a care in the world
I smiled.
Feeling a
دema 2d
I wish I can go back home,
borrow a blanket from the living
room that was once filled with
me and my cousins' dancing,
gather four ****** from the street,
the same street I used to steal flowers from,
that now steals people's blood and lives,
borrow a branch or two from the berry tree
that my mom used to make juice out of
and give to our neighbours,
they only reside in my head now,
build a tent in my parents' backyard,
the same backyard where
I held my 6th birthday party at,
that birthday had to end early,
there was a more important event happening;
the Americans were bombing
the area I used to run so free in,
with all of my friends,
that I never got to say goodbye to,
never get to see how puberty hit them,
or even know if they're still alive today,
I live under a stable roof,
I run away from the thought of home,
because it kills me that
I left the land that once
gave birth to me,
kept me warm,
warmer than I would personally like,
Eryri Dec 5
As far as wars go
It's a bit of a bore,
But we are at war.
Trade war tariffs:
Monetary missiles,
Cyber attackers:
Heat-seeking hackers.
Yes, hot wars are so passé,
Cold wars,
So-called Star Wars
All in the past,
Silent battlers
Not sabre rattlers.
Keyboard warriors
No F15s nor Harriers.
Masters of Sanctions
Not Masters of War.
Expelling diplomats
And ***-for-tats.
It's a new World War,
But it's a bore,
So pay attention,
Don't get complacent,
The war drones on.
yes, it did.
Just now

right now,
the now that was a moment ago and left a mark.

Beastly meme-ish mark, a consonant glyph or a ligature,

an umph!

Right between the eyes.

right between the --- fit any jective noise ---ooof!


no cursem
no sworn revenge, mere wind knocked
from my sail

a seen monster blocking my sail with the shadow of his storm

Float, still as a pond on the Albatross killer's sea of green.

there never was a yellow submarine,
The one Krasner sunk in central park was fake. That was in '68.

March, maybe, ides of March keep signaling meanings
I never knew were clues.

This just happened.
I was telling a friend about the effect of seeing my first man die,
as I set the scene, March, '68…

tellin' him, it was the next day,  the next day after
we met in a chow-line at Camp Freznell Jones,

You axed, whatchewdoin here? I rolled my eyes.

You were a medic, you said if I needed
hope, you had dope…
(we had first met on the first day of first grade.)

I had shot him in the belly with a bb gun, when we were twelve.
He slugged me in the mouth for Alice Jones, when we were fifteen.
(there's a story, but it angles away from what just happened.)

We remembered a time.

March 1968, about a week after My Lai,
we were
nineteen year olds, schooled together  in good citizenship,
since we were six,
in the year 1954. when
President Eisenhauer,

personally, we heard,

had added two words,
under and ***,
to the good citizen allegiance pledge
all first grade good-citizens-to-be
were learning again,

because the new pledge meant more than the old pledge had.
That had needed to be done.

Or the commies were going to get a cobalt bomb
and blow the whole world to heck.
Per Boy's Life, the scouting mag.

This was explained by the fact that there were no escapes
from prisoner of war camps in Korea,
the commies were at
war against ***,

that was explained when a captured secret brainwashing plan revealed:

the lack of knowing why America was worth dying for in Korea, among
the U.N. G.I.  little brothers and younger cousins

of the greatest generation's victorious G.I.
warrior heroes, every one,
so steeped in esprit dee corp,
the ones who could would march in Parades for fifty years.

tweener losers twixt the survivors of first
wave greatest generation warriors and  us
(Talkin' bout my generation, we didn't die before we got old),

those guys nee-cess-it-ated,

Purely from lack of knowing, never having been taught

the Uniform Code of Military Justice and that our
allegiance is and was pledged to a nation under ***.

Both which were new information
maybe our moms and dads didn't know yet,
we could teach them for homework
the new pledge and ask for dimes
for the march of dimes
at the same time.

The boom of babes
just beginning citizenship training for the war
they would fight, but right,
they would know,
because the commies,
could not infiltrate our schools and teach lies…

The boom of babes
just beginning citizenship training for the war
they would fight, but right,

like all the men in town who served and survived the real war,
the world war,
not a Po-lease action,
and who,
if they were shot down (no fault of their own, ****** Red Baron)
they escaped
in movie quality dramatic ways
from prisoner of war camps in Germany,

(Not many escapes from Japanese
prisoner of war camps,
but Islands account for much of that. Sharks.)

the boom of babes
just beginning citizenship training for the war
they would fight, but right,
that boom of fresh new cannon fodder for the future,

we needed to know
we were pledging, promising to pay with our life, no lie,

I pledged, we all pledged knowing, no mistake,
*** is on our side,
we are, as a nation, as a citizen of this nation,
under ***.
From now on.

We all stand.

--- that was all flash back---
What just happened was Doc Musgrove stopped my tale,
my telling of the first death
I watched

He remembered
He was a medic
He cleaned the mess I watched that left this stain.
He carried the bodies.

I walked away.
Then fifty years later, I figured it wouldn't hurt to tell.
But it does.
You, generations after ours, remember war
does not make better people of good citizens who know

allegiance means allied with, not ruled by.

Liege lords are things of the past. That's why the statues always fall.

We are free because truth, when known, makes us free.
Wars make no man free.

If you can't love your enemy, that's no excuse.
Set a standard, high as you can imagine,
based on the good you know is good,

{no this is not preaching it is sharing, so you don't suffer from lack of knowing and say nobody shared what he learned after becoming the definition of a heretic.}

exercise your self, discipline your self
become a disciple of good
for goodness sake
do what you know is good
as if it were being done to you

and enemies become others who maybe
you could see things like, if

you looked from a higher plane.

Yes, I dare, I was dared. An Indian kid dared me to prove
I inherited the wind.
While planning a pod cast we realized we were speaking of the same incident, fifty years ago.
Yes yes, my white friends.
Tear each other apart.
It’s what I want you to do.
It’s your civic duty.
Turn on each other until there is nothing left.
But a gaping hole, lubed and groomed for *******.
It’s not **** if you let me.
If you beat him, I’ll make you my house *****.
Oh, you didn’t hear what they said about you, man?
You cuck libtard.
You **** hick.
Starbucks vs. Tim Hortons.
Yet I own both.
My white friends.


- The Foreigner
War, War is fought by the brave for the corrupt. The ones who prompt war are not all evil, war is. Those who fight and know the fighters are wronged by the ones who command the fruits of violence. Those running forward for the benefit of their ideals. Used as pieces to further a movement that is told different to some. That many oppose, for innocent to suffer, for war to keep going. Old and new stand together people seeming to fight all their own wars, firing weapons side by side being put in the hands of chance and Patriotism. War is not the solution, it is the side effect of a society built by human minds who even forget why they are. They are going to fight are themselves. Blood is the ink in which every war is written in. Brave and strong everyday people are the pawns.  Fear is the book it’s written in. But confusion, unfairness and anger are the three muses of the war. But what many seem to forget is that all of us are the authors of war.  How would it feel if your words fell on desecrated ears? Battlefields as graves and weapons bringing the end. A single bullet can create a war of its own if it finds a sorrowful host, it will syringe the halos of the spirits of the ones they go home to piece by piece.  Earth is patiently watchful of our squabbles, as we think it too will suffer from our leave but what were we to it? Unwelcome suitors marrying it’s resources away to unrelenting hunger. They think it will be gone when it ends but we won’t take it down with us. They always say there's an us and them. They are taught to **** their own for their own. Causes are justified, things are said and the grimness of the war sometimes is only told to those who seek it. Who seek to speak to the only ones who know the truth is the dead. For they know wars ever elusive final page.  There are no winners in war.  War is not a game, war cannot truly be won. War can be fought but never won. For war is man, for man to man nothing else. War is here to stay
A Prose Poem about how I feel about war.
Some of us Christians                                    
          Some of us do a fantastic job                          
                       Some of us do an odd job              
                                Some of us do a terrible job.  

                                                         ­    And that's not O.K.

Because some of us will never agree on anything.
But that's O.K.

                                                           ­                   It isn't O.K to
                                            Attack      At­tack
                                         Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
              attack                              ­                                      attack
              ckAtta­ckAttackAttack            AttackAttackAttackA
                   ­                      Attack            Attack          
                              ­           Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­ Attack            Attack
                                        ­   Attack         Attack
                                            Attack       Attack
                                              Attack   Attack

                                  T h e  o t h e r  b r o t h e r s !
Live by the sword, die by the sword. This is one of the causes of my mental distortions. It is likely borderline. Who knows. This was written after getting fed up with the Christians shouldn't have tattoos debate. Oppressive household. **Use computer for intended layout**
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