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David Hilburn Jul 2022
Politer to fruit
In the name, of a toil's box
Sat by order's river, the irony we suit
To possess a stilled eye, which has savored not

Run, fool, run
Sown notice, of a quiet in the din
Of the jungle, we notice the hope of cunning
To save a charging guidance to what we have, for sin

Win, tool, win
Lead since, fed genius
Is a harboring cold, the driven nature of meant?
In the dim eye's I forgave, many tears come to season

Sun, who'll, sun
Avid in heat we prophecy, is a need's shame
Poised to entail all, the voice of method's begun
To make a wish in open seem, the order to a name

Sin, cool, sin
Token treasure, thunder in the east
So willed, for a moment to understand again
Looking for a chosen one, that we lost at a feast

Gun, soul, gun
Driven by horror and the beauty of childhood
Where a blind friendship with only a smile sung
Has come and gone anew, like a heart of would...

Halt and salt, why do you insist?
Savage as a paradise with a missing child can be...
A sign of the times, a sovereignty to ask, is a glue this...?
Miracles in a guilty eye, are we that we are, kindred's anarchy?
Heaven, was a voice that never cleared? (War...)
Erik T Blaze Mar 2022
As the World
turns
I can hear the world
Yearn
They're unruly and desperately
reck-less
seeking for love on ever-
lasting
terms
But they proceed with no concern
they're unable to discern or
learn
Not heeding the many
warnings and dan-
gers
Unaware of the many
forces that lin-
ger
Now as we stand by idly
as we witness
this cruel state of
Ig-nor-ance
We're losing our
Innocence
instead of making sense
of what's
going on
Unconvinced
of the shapes that are
taking form
We're miss-in-
formed
sowing the seeds to breed the
Devil's
Spawn
Provoking violence within the
mindset
of the spiritually blinded
While letting our
Silence
speak the truth
of the spirits that blind
Us
Reminding us
of where we Fail
A rude awakening
outa the
Spell
Snapping outa the
Trance
of being frozen in a
mea-ning-less
stance
For our only chance to
Survive
Is to thrive in our
circumstance
Moving on in advance
observing Truth
Learning to pro-
gress
As we focus in our aims
to Arrest
these
developments of
Carnality
We're pulling down the
Devil's
Faculty
Exposing Principalities
wherever
they
may
Be
Ephesians 6:12-20
colette alexia Nov 2020
Caught in the crossfire of two men's love
Insecure, selfish, and helpless
Only my blood
10.2020
Michael R Burch Jun 2020
Sonnet: The Ruins of Balaclava
by Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, barren Crimean land, these dreary shades
of castles―once your indisputable pride―
are now where ghostly owls and lizards hide
as blackguards arm themselves for nightly raids.
Carved into marble, regal boasts were made!
Brave words on burnished armor, gilt-applied!
Now shattered splendors long since cast aside
beside the dead here also brokenly laid.
The ancient Greeks set shimmering marble here.
The Romans drove wild Mongol hordes to flight.
The Mussulman prayed eastward, day and night.
Now owls and dark-winged vultures watch and leer
as strange black banners, flapping overhead,
mark where the past piles high its nameless dead.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz (1798-1855) is widely regarded as Poland’s greatest poet and as the national poet of Poland, Lithuania and Belarus. He was also a dramatist, essayist, publicist, translator, professor and political activist. As a principal figure in Polish Romanticism, Mickiewicz has been compared to Byron and Goethe. Keywords/Tags: Mickiewicz, Poland, Polish, Balaclava, Crimea, war, warfare, castle, castles, knight, knights, armor, Greeks, Rome, Romans, Mongols, Mussulman, Muslims, death, destruction, ruin, ruins, romantic, romanticism, sonnet, depression, sorrow, grave, violence, mrbtr
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
At Wilfred Owen’s Grave
by Michael R. Burch

A week before the Armistice, you died.
They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s,
then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie
between two privates, sacrificed like Christ
to politics, your poetry unknown
except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months
with Gaukroger beside you in the trench,
dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench
of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched
your broken heart together and the fist
began to pulse with life, so close to death.

Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care
of “ergotherapists” that you sensed life
is only in the work, and made despair
a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath,
a mouthful’s merest air, inspired less
than wrested from you, and which we confess
we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air
that even Sassoon failed to share, because
a man in pieces is not healed by gauze,
and breath’s transparent, unless we believe
the words are true despite their lack of weight
and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes,
and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate
of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies.

Published by The Chariton Review, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Rogue Scholars, Romantics Quarterly, Mindful of Poetry, Famous Poets and Poems, Poetry Life & Times, Other Voices International

Keywords/Tags: Wilfred, Owen, war, poem, trench, warfare, chlorine, gas, gangrene, armistice, ergotherapists, Craiglockhart, Sassoon, Yeats, honor, lies, gag, gagged, gagging, death, grave, funeral, elegy, eulogy, tribute, World War I
Cole Brantley Feb 2020
There's no way
I want to stop it
But I ******* can't
It eats at me

She doesn't deserve to feel
as if every burden
is her doing
its mine

If I did things right
If I was better at this
I live in this constant fear
so trapped in my own afflictions

My lack of control
spirals
why does it have to be this way
it hurts like nothing else

Except for this one moment
I refuse to allow occupy my mind

Maybe if I listened
Shut my ******* mouth
did more, maybe then
she'll understand

my true love to her
my protective intentions
but I feel as if I'm so far
from these things I want to be

for you
I'm sorry.
This is my mind as I go down the road and think of the ways I've hurt her and dream of the ways to make things better
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