#gunpowder
One apparently normal day
Mr Guy Fawkes sat on his stool
Eating his curds and whey
When into his head popped an idea
Perhaps through his good right ear?
It said
As follows
Blow up that big pompous, stupid building full of big pompous stupid people!
And he said
..Okay!
So he thought up a plan
A pretty clever one at that!
A gunpowder plot
With lots of TNT!
Hehe!
But some complete d*ck
Done dobbed him in!
And for that he was hanged, or somethin'
And now we MUSTN'T forget what Mr Guy Gunpowder did,
In case those normal thoughts creep in.
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 12:26 PM UTC
"Remember, remember,
The 𝘍𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘩 of November:
Gunpowder, treason, plot.
For there is a reason
Why gunpowder & treason
Should ne'er be forgot."
Aye.
Drop all the bawny
And read it right:
One will notice
The exclusion in remembrance
Of plot proper.
What drivel, what rot.
A nursery rhyme,
Meant to lull asleep a populace.
You hear the story
That they were religious nuts,
That was projection.
Not a soul on our side
Was for balmy superstition.
We who was folks of science & virtue,
Philosophy proper was our standard -
What that had been & is corrupt.
Remember the Fifth
And remember his brother;
Two blonde youths,
Two tawny royal lads,
And one whom they slaughtered.
We fought for the expansion of freedoms,
Civil liberties & such.
For the likes of social programs now widely enjoyed -
Schooling, healthcare, and the like.
For not a soul among us to know hunger,
That they might have daily - bread
And the like.
A son named
After a king usurped -
Woodville, or Wideville;
For it is a large world,
But really quite navigable.
And a King who took a new name
In honor of his slain uncle,
D̲i̲c̲c̲o̲n̲ C̲l̲a̲r̲k̲e̲
Once more, where moored,
The only survivor.
Might is nary ever really right.
They too saw that
On the Isle Wight.
This line;
Long & tried,
Persecuted & replanted.
Forevermore,
As it had been before
And doubtless shall be again,
Wearing the verdant festoon.
May your wreaths also blossom!
In Old World, like New;
Truth is always the fashion,
Justice is always the passion.
Jul 25, 2025
Jul 25, 2025 at 12:09 PM UTC
Live as if you were a firecracker
Which burns out too soon
Makes such an impression
Worth it
But the gunpowder is what makes the explosion worthwhile
May 21, 2021
May 21, 2021 at 4:22 AM UTC
I've seen and heard,
enjoyed and purred
at the stories of old,
the silence of mold.
I've folded and weaved,
gently miscleaved,
broken and barren,
answered to Charon.
My bed is too small
and my rope's a bit tight.
I bring justice for all,
even just for one night.
Nov 10, 2020
Nov 10, 2020 at 5:58 PM UTC
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "कविता" published in bharat-darshan ( Sep. -Oct., 2018 )
Can be read through the link ==>> https://bit.ly/2nRwOB9
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Poetry is the outflow of someone's heart
For someone, it's only black fever
For some, it's only a form of business
For someone, this is only seasonal fever
It's just an entertainment for someone
For someone it's like a toothpaste
A good instrument use to giggle
Listening it makes their teeth brighter
To show off the that stunning brightness
They spread crooked and mysterious smiles
Show of their shining-sparkling teeth
Then they lash out their greedy tongue
Poetry is an old newspaper for someone
It’s a mound of waste and unusable junk items
Poetry is just an advertisement for someone
Only an excellent medium to sell their goods
Poem is dark black alphabets for some
Only equivalent to a big fat black buffalo
From which it is impossible to get milk
But it's easy to get hurt by it's horns
Poem is a deep sympathy for some
For some its acute pain of the heart
Aroused from the core of their heart
It's someone's love for someone else
Poem is overflowing care for someone
It is swirling cloudy dust over someone
Poem is just a time-pass for someone
For someone it is complete nonsense
Poetry is effrontery in someone's pride
For someone it's amnesty for all
For some it's Saafi by Hamdard^
Which purifies and cleans the blood well
Poetry is a meditation for someone
For someone it’s a form of worship
Poetry is name of someone's beloved daughter^^
Poem is the name of someone's beautiful wife^^
Poem is means of livelihood for someone
It happen to be the basis of his life
For someone it is simply a big loan
Which is much difficult to repay in time
Poem is a tribute to the heroes
It a wreath to the brave martyrs
It's a collection of songs for musicians
It's prayer of devotees with folded hands
Sometimes poetry makes us happy
Sometimes it causes us to weep
It often caresses readers with love
Sometimes it even consoles them
Poetry sometimes make us laugh
Sometimes it forces to think
At times it reveals the flaws beneath
By removing the outer cover shell
Poetry sometimes surprises us too much
Sometimes misleads to pseudo-intellectualism
Sometimes it poses a challenge before us
Sometimes it emerges as a song from the soul
Sometimes it portrays the beauty of actress
It tends to dissolves sweet juice in the ears
And sometimes it pours molten lead in it
In such situation it pushes back all courtesy
Sometimes it transforms rulers into heroes
And sometimes it makes a politicians zero
Sometimes it becomes the words of panegyrist
Then it behaves like a butter ball for them
Poetry sometimes honours someone
Sometimes it even trick so many of us
Poetry even makes fun of somebody
Sometimes it entertains someone's heart
By the way, poetry is a blunt weapon
But it's has a different hitting power
Which is the real inner power of poet
It's also his covering blanket and strength
Only poetry gives him the required courage
It completely protects his existence
It always teaches him the lesson to -
Keep on fighting against the gunpowder
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
^ Saafi - A Unani Medicine made by a company named Hamdard, used to clean or purify the blood
^^ Name of ..... - Kavita (translation of the word Poem in hindi) is a common name given to females in India.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 9:04 AM UTC
I hate what I'm writing
what if my brain is ******* me over
what if finally it's learnt from the others and packed it'd bags on me
what if my brain joins with the forces much greater than us
that I talk about
and together they plot their treason.
My thoughts are loaded gunpowder and my body
comprised of brick and cement
is the parliament building.
Maybe this poem is me
catching the rebels redhanded.
Maybe it's too late.
What if this is it,
the demise of my inner government,
the seats given to the opposition,
the monarchy going up in flames
(it certainly feels like burning)
I beg,
have me hung drawn and quartered
and feed my limbs to the birds.
And then,
from deep within the innards of a birds *****
my last request is to
at the very least
make my severed head look pretty
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 12:29 PM UTC
There is no rain to bring relief to our sweating bodies...
only the reign of arrows... and their offering of stabbing pain
There are no stars to put on a display of dances and twinkles...
only the rotating show of the thrown daggers
There is not a river to reflect the beauty of life...
Only the blade of the sword... that reflects my possible death
There are no clouds in the sky to soften my spirit
only the low cumulus smoke of gunpowder and ash
There is no sun to shed its bright flame upon us
On the flickers and flashes of light of ignited bullets
There is no difference between night and day... they are the same...
Only the difference is who the enemy is.. and who is the Savior...
The grass no longer grows full and abundant in luxurious green
It is constantly trampled and stepped on... leaving it withered and tan...
There is no snow...no soft white snowflakes to give us a cold kiss
Only the bites of thrown, bitter, cold shattered pieces of glass
There are no vast variety of colors to adore... only two hues
Light and Darkness... So we can tell who is for us... and who is against us
* * *
The weather... and landscape wasn't always this way...
It wasn't the Lord's intentions to have such a horrific display...
What? What did you ask? What is it like on the battlefield?
Well...sit down dear child... and I will tell you...
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
Your tongue must taste worse than gunpowder
Bitter and cold
Because of the words you speak
Bloodied and vengeful
Against everyone, including yourself
Hate, dark as fresh coffee
You live in a house that’s burning
Slowly to the ground
Your hostility, slicing those trying to save you.
My lips sizzle against your lonely ones
And my palms ripped, bleeding, from grabbing yours
I am the earth
That smothers your ignited hatred
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
her kiss sparks fire,
the gunpowder in him flares;
triggers quick fireworks.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
Once upon a time
Lived a boy drenched in reason and rhyme
He culled the fields
A plow he yields
With a smile as soft as soil
But he heard the call to better things
away to rocks and stones that sing
Buried down in dirt and dust
Yields a bite of metal's rust
A smile as sharp as flint
The hand of death touched his soil
But through that barrage he twisted and toiled
But as he pleaded an escape from the grip of black
He knew that it would pull him back
And a set as solid as stone
Back to farm and yield he traveled
To see he life had unraveled
His green fields of corn and roan
Was all dark, and filled with stone
The green boy shadow stained
The boy had twisted and shouted
That the shadow of death should let him out
But in his haste to escape
He forgot the trace of blood and the deeper scrape
That was gunpowder and blood
He forgot to ask
He forgot the tasks
That had given him a soil smile
And in that lost guile
He forgot to ask the hand that gripped him
To wash itself of the shadow
Of blood and gunpowder
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
It is the weakness of the flesh,
the sweetness of the sweat
on your skin
what will be the end of me.
.
Because no matter how strong
I am,
you make a quitter of me,
I quit my values and my mind.
.
And it is all worth it, for you,
for the taste of your body, of
your skin,
for the slickness of your lips.
.
Its the sensuality of your eyes
that ignites me entirely from
the inside,
its even hotter than lava.
.
You set my hands on fire
and I can't wait to see the red hot
scorch marks
that I will leave all over your body.
.
It's your tongue making its way
from my lips, to my shoulders and
to my ear,
that makes me fall on my knees.
.
And it is with your every breath
that my entire world goes away,
its shattered,
the pieces lie under your fingernails.
.
I'm left overexposed and alone
lying in bed naked dressed only
with regret,
because of this I have to remain silent.
.
You are fire and I am gunpowder,
you make me explode every time
you touch me,
and I know this is all wrong.
.
You will take me everywhere
from pleasure to agony,
from glory to ruin,
but I know we will meet again.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
Without you,
I was nothing but a tepid grey dust
I wanted nothing more than for the oxygen that I inhaled to be met with sultriness
It was in my nature
Almost how it was in your nature
To fulfill my desire to be kindled
With you,
Flames ignited the fuse
In the skies they saw the fireworks
You were the spark in disguise
You taught me just how fire works
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
*Smoke emitting from our lungs,
truth and lies dripping from our tongues
Again I will succumb,
strung out on a dream that may never become
Real
Jaws as blunt as guns,
But used to shield wounds that I never knew how to heal
Wary to feel too,
unresponsive or despondent
For the fear that I may never come back
But I'm unsure that I'd even want to,
continue to want you
And use you to conduce an excuse,
for what's wrong with me
Transfuse my confusion unto you,
Because really I don't want to face the truth
Austerity I'd have to spit out like a strong whiskey
So truly, what's the use in this abuse of romance?
Advancing on a mere chance that your soul might want to dance
With mine-
I feel cornered, confined,
But dare I cower ?
Or feel empowered to believe flowers can sprout from gunpowder?
Now we're years past a simple encounter, now or
Never is a little too late,
ground work
of slate and mistakes
...If only I could promise you that it will fade*
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC