"armaments" poems
*What if I tell you that
This world is going to end
And that end is not too far,
You probably won’t believe me.
Allow me to take you to a journey
A journey to the end of the world.
A world without a hint of greenery.
A world with all sorts of armaments but no food and water.
A world congested with people.
A world infected with diseases.
A hot world on the verge of a cold war.
A world with numerous machines but no fuel to run.
A world with no shred of humanity.*
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
Your words are precision Bombs from slow junkers,
Exploding between my ears. there are no bunkers.
My response tumbles out stuttering like anti aircraft nests.
They hit smoke at best.
The alarms in my brain go off suppressed by tears discharged
Heart, Trust, Ego, Friends over the years the shards.......
Your armaments know where to hit and cause most damage,
The sarcasm of your arsenic love language.
Plumes of fiery emotion flare up, soon loves smoldering cracks .
I dodge your heat seeking adjectives, they encircle in packs.
Cold nights afloat clinging to this yellow deflated ego. falters
Awaiting hope in pirated waters.
Our love is war
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
(it's cliché to admonish clichés in their entirety)
I. (love)
We are meant to live the clichés;
we are meant to resuscitate the words,
and rehabilitate their wounds
into a fertile viewpoint
where we build respirators from clichés
to filter the virulent dust kicked up
by the marching pigs.
(re-invented clichés offer back breath
in an exchange of circular breathing)
The swine contort love
into armaments of antipathy;
they push buttons,
squeeze triggers,
pull pins,
and aim where it causes the most damage.
Even though we are natural born hypocrites,
we don't have to let that knowledge corner us
into using love as a weapon.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
and I wield both;
I sharpen the quill on the blade's edge.
If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike,
but only channel love in defence.
II. (poetry)
The pigs march to a beat
of nuclear blasts
that bring poetry's flag
nearer to half-mast.
Poetry should stand on its own merit,
instead of leaning on shanks that hide behind smiles
constructed with aspirations of popularity
that churn out lazy, aspartame-laced lines
devoid of accountability and integrity,
or lean upon smiles filled with slivers
from far too much fence-sitting,
too worried about the trending majority,
to see the complexity within simplicity
and clarity,
or
propped-up against degrees
while writing poems that are drier than the Sahara:
husks of lines tumbling across dunes,
only to be imploded
by atomic-pork mushroom clouds,
their fallout marring parchment
into a poisonous terrain.
.
III. (dreams)
(revive, twist, and switch the clichés )
We must not fear saying "never".
Surrender to love, but never surrender
to the jealous captains who attempt
to hook and net the defenders of Neverland.
With compasses of conscience
beating in hearts kept young,
navigate through the smoke and mirror-smog
emitted by the marching pigs.
(we must never give up on our dreams)
Dream about the courage needed
to love everyone and everything,
including our enemies
who conduct genocide
on the language of a purer intent.
Dream about word-seedlings
pushing through the arid rind
of dying poetry,
in hope for a more organic fruition
to grow in our hearts and minds,
so that poetry gains back its strength and vitality
to once again stand on its own merit.
+/-
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Lost in the club on the way to the bathroom
American dreamless, existed in a vacuum
Every day, another way for us to consume
Raids on the senses, a general consensus
of the senseless, reprehensible amendments
The armaments by the tenements, diffused
Confused, never used, lonely in the fugue
And you
You who assume, presume, eschew the ruin
of the brewing times, rising tides, the lies
and of ties that bind - us to the times
and to meaningless rhymes
By illuminated rooms when the eye blinks
Think, blink, the pink rink - closed
By the hours that be, powers that see
Subversive naturalism
in a state of debate, compensate the reckless
Feckless and dick-less, compost of the senses
The sexes have wrecked us, ****** of the spectrum
By your septum reset them, mind wiped
Iconic lights gone
The new light's on
Right on
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Scornful Seed
On this stony shore I bleed for a lost people in highest need
Drowning in the access of privilege abused
From the awe of dawn till bathed sun set quietly we pollute
Our moral heritage decimated while we our conscience sear
A superior man of the bar trembles in anticipation of judgment
Enter the proud the brash untold misdeeds that scar the soul
Soon purist scrutiny all will detect guilt filled torment
What could have been? Serenity still as the moon
Old glory presides over a house newly divided
Space fixed ocean land coexist air tenderly the earth adorns
Nature abides souls of this republic were once to God undivided
Every pore and fiber of their being alive by his word
Assurance our spirit’s armor all enemies vanquished
Envied by the highest monarch individual men set to rule
This new pristine forest green cascading rivers splashed
Master piece of greatest design Puritans by hardship never mashed
With mighty voice and pen they confirmed liberty freedom self evident
Fairness and truth ruled by tempered mercy
Mob rule gave way to reason with in all it is resident
Our collected greatness could be viewed in one B.C. MR President
The price Concord Valley Forge Gettysburg to name a few
Our home land’s safest guard isn’t soldiers and armaments
Prayer the best weapon held by those who have heaven in view
Continued peace and restoration of prosperity is his to renew
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 3:45 PM UTC
A self-arranged route.
Ambitions led me forward.
Every step was to gain my adolescent aspirations.
I was confident.
When life was array,
The goals became my crutch,
My vitality,
The only reason to move, progress.
Idealistic and naive.
Blind and hopeful.
I meandered swiftly,
I gallivanted unsuspecting.
If I was to truly exist, I had to control my haste.
Oblivious to true adversity,
I needed to digest the lesson,
I needed to understand the complications.
Unexpectedly, the caveat stared at me.
I fought and clashed,
To only raise the white flag of surrender.
The battle was lost.
Who I was eluded.
I struggled through a sea of self-impediments.
I allowed myself to drown in the agony.
I did not have the armor to save me.
Through the fog, I heard songs that healed.
I held on to the words as they began to stitch me together.
I started to crawl,
I knew I would never be the same again.
I knew I had to start a crusade,
An onslaught against myself,
An onslaught against the organization.
I knew I would never be the same again.
As I raised armaments,
With the reinforcement in my ears,
I began to evolve.
The person I was became more substantial.
I had further tribulations ahead,
But I was more prepared, more capable.
I was humbled, yet proud.
The person I was became more unobstructed.
Through the misfortune,
My identity became solidified,
I reattained my dreams,
And I made efforts to get a steady hold.
I told myself I will not founder.
I told myself I could not relinquish.
For this was the war that would define me,
And I knew I must persevere.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
wooing/seducing: the where of the first kiss always
~for Robin Carretti, who loved it best~
‘tis true my battlefield tactical brought me
many victories
when that was fool-desired
no chain mail, walled armaments, arms crossing,
all failed
to the single softest siege engine in my possession
and the passing passionately poems read
back ‘n forth, non-negotiable demands,
vicious but viscous
red lines,
day remainders of the contusions of night's angry passions
and the
disputed but muted disparities of both
nothing, no, never broke the spell of:
the first kiss, always upon the neck
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
Ten megaton and
it hit us head on
and that was the
start of the war.
but it was as before
when the last war was won,
dead on both sides and
both sides taken for rides
on the armaments train.
Someone's got to gain and
it has to be them,
those out of the picture
those who get richer
every time a
bomb drops.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
where our daisies nightly… and our minds politely -
just might be
the rightly garments of
our inner varmints.
or Something has just
Might Be.
but something precisely -
has dawn in a vice. armaments shiny.
and all of our beautiful
dying -
dying ignightly.
parentheses.
so Love is outside
We.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:37 PM UTC
The bombs will **** only the guilty.
This time,
the destruction of schools and homes,
of roads, hospitals and libraries,
will be instantly forgiven,
because we will acknowledged by all
to be the good guys.
This time we will know
what happens next.
We will have a plan
and we will execute it
with wisdom, compassion and skill.
And it will work.
This time no vested interests will lurk,
grinning, in the shadows,
waiting to lap sustenance
from spilled blood.
We will have none of that.
This time, our victory will prove
our moral superiority,
not merely that we spend more
on armaments
than they do.
This time, violence will beget peace.
Violence will beget forgiveness.
Violence will usher in
a new and loving age.
This time,
history
has nothing to teach us.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
I have no clue what Krshna taught Arjuna
but I like the name Atman a lot.
Atman. Atman. Where a man is at.
At all times. No matter what.
Gita, get in the action, gorgeous girl,
god is the answer, keep the meter.
Wisdom, none.
What Krshna tells Arjuna makes no sense.
I prefer mathematics.
Knowledge of how things are made and done
more than meditation on the Self
as a manifestation of the One.
I’ll never have to leave this comfortable planet.
We have this asset but can we sell it?
In Paradise Lost, Satan executes his plan
but God already knows all about it.
Still, whether it succeeds or fails is up to Man.
Same here, when it comes to nuclear armaments,
a distraction from the work of making life permanent.
It is all premised on the mystery
of invisible but sentient particles—
little Krshnas and Kachinas
nesting inside one another.
Meanwhile life goes on outside all around you—
WWII, the Napoleonic wars,
the Civil War which we’re still fighting.
Krshna says behead your brothers
without prejudice or justice.
So it transpires in the nuclear fire.
Whatever forever.
The poem has gone to glitten.
Teacher, teacher—tiger!
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 9:08 AM UTC
My thoughts are like gamma rays addicted to *******
Fiending for absolute Truth
Or a new use for Head Space
They come in a swarm that bitch-slaps any bats in my belfry
And rational thoughts flash mob
My cherished illusions
Daily.
I'm on the front line
Of a Psychic War with the Brain-Dead !
My Kung-fu is Confused
By Hatred as an Argument -
Racist Beliefs as a platform to start with...
Asinine articles of faith
As arcane Armaments
Immune to subtlety ...Q.E.D. ~
or any proof of concept !
They've kept the Rubicon
Uncrossed by the Curious
Held stock in kerosene
To burn books too luminous
for
Fearful Men, Unaccustomed to Promethean Gifts
And the Unquenchable Flame of Paradigm Shifts
Mortified by any Noble Pursuit
That diminished the Lie
To magnify the Truth.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 12:37 PM UTC
hello Edvard. i have no umbrellas for your armaments .
only your conspiracy and the last ******* ink dark thinking.
bright charlatans engrossed in their glib de menthe.
no harm in it.
only your heresy is more beautiful than blinking. wink dark slinking -
into frightful. hooligan moons blast evening. again, we miss.
no heart in it.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 12:05 PM UTC
an accord of peace shall never be found
while ever the weapons of war resound
man has not heeded lessons from the past
over centuries countless souls killed
endless rivers of blood hath been spilled
an olive branch ushers in tranquility
too many souls lost through inane hostility
the world sees conflict and is most aghast
put down the rifle let it's powder rest
leaders must hear this imploring request
the dove of peace the symbol of brotherhood
may it fly over our orb in quietness
armaments bring vast amounts of sadness
may we have hush in every neighborhood
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
The world shows you bouquets while law screams of consequence
So loud that you begin to wonder
At the random order of floral arrangements -
Red masked hyacinths
Fox-gloved armaments
Honeybee sentinels guarding the last living queen
Who will she be
Are hornets defter than bees at murdering interlopers -
The last of these I've seen
Tiptoe at the grave of endangered species.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
the military industrial complex
likes to make a buck
the production of bombs
boosts its bottom line's luck
the piles of cash go into
a brimming till
as the munitions take aim
and strike to ****
armaments yield a profitable
return at the exchange
while the bodies mount up
on a foreign range
the hawkish men in power are
itching to start a skirmish
so their pals in business can
positively flourish
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 9:03 AM UTC
Sidereal gaze enriches casual lays beneath the shimmering firmament
Glorified passions is the indignity of benighted scars and brandished armaments
Scour with the owls proctoring over the night for signs that penetrate the tight
That ooze new light and wage an epigamic fight
Temptress like a mainlined ecstasy enlivening a heightened empathy
Our love towers above suburban muses and urban ruses
It showers with meteoric power and consummate flowers that it chooses
The misfortune of star-crossed affections
Is the serendipity of empowering but inclement afflictions
Impenetrably vast like a cavernous space
To make us tremble in insignificance at the petty rats that race
Our lambent passions erupt with paroxysms immune to an unbuttoned snooze
Oneiromancy glistens with prophetic eternities dreamed awake with inordinate *****
Playful jostles and succulent pretended jilts lionize our blessed fates
We reckon with eternity by adducing modernity at its current rate
We disavow transient objections just like gravity impounds its own weight
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
it's not so hard
to tell your story.....
......lovers ?
we walk concrete
we meet
we dream
say
"i remember"
and the lie is done
--
arms race armaments
for glory
hearts beat
the beat of the song
we are always
"the last to know"
why is that?
--
walkin tall
or not
walkin at all
--
that's the way it is
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 11:18 AM UTC
Opaque irises await those who uncover the un-burial mound
Oafish sockets containing them like marbles
Open to the elements, decaying with their corporeal encasement, shaded by
Oaken leaves that remain unfallen, while
Obsequious maggots go about their task of cleansing the remains
Paralyzed in the final moments of their mortal coil, the bodies lay stagnant,
Pacified only by the removal of sentience.
Pagan rituals surround such corpses, and the intrepid discovers
Patiently await the arrival of some necromantic spirit.
Quasi-instinctively, the pioneers of the superterranean mausoleum
Quell their fears and remove the bodies from their conclusive locale,
Quantifying their deaths by the armaments and metal carapaces upon them.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 12:44 AM UTC
Wicked winds howled senseless from Great Lakes to Navajo
Screaming eulogies for the frantic madmen
And the love of rage they shot their veins black with
And the additive-free sadness that filled their lungs with ashes
Broke down church bells tolled, once, twice, three times on the hour
Resounding enough to wake Virgina her revered dead
The heart of mighty Shenandoah beats in shades of revolutionary red
And DC sleeps uneasy under armed guard
Here is where your mother lies and bleeds empathy to the tune of Suburbia's solemn hymns
And here is where your brother ticks his weight in manic speculation and nervous wondering
And here is where you straddle the nuclear armaments of culture atop the shoulders of those lonely mad giants you hold so dear
A dying breed, a skeletal frame of burning purpose and relentless conviction
The last great hunter of the American Dream
They said their prayers, their rosaries, and their benedictions floated carelessly off to nothing, from nothing
Laid to rest on the edge of a cornfield six feet under cold Earth and laughing heavens
Heads bowed in lurid admiration tempered with contempt
For the soul of the devil of the world to come
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
Tracks by the creek
lead the charge,
a path for future pioneering troops,
boys aged six, seven, eight,
footprints made by me
and our gang
years ago,
running through the woods
chopping our own way
through tall grass, anthill fortresses
crushed by nikes, branches as swords,
sticks as arrows, grenade rocks,
a longing now to return
with them to backyard wilderness,
battlefields and armaments,
and rush forward
as a child soldier, fearless
in fantasy fray.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
I wanted to spread my fragrance like
Flowers do. Nothing I did wrong. Just
Strive to make me stronger enough.
Don't know where and why it ***** you,
As the way I am living my dream. You
Started to knit the invisible web of
Despise and slander for me with words.
Without any real facts your defaming
Words made my dreams full of
Nightmares and screams. I started
Fearing to consume which I adore.
My fragrance become poisionus gas
For my ownself to swallow tarped in your
Pointless whispers. Still, Do I need to let
You decide my life? No, Not any longer.
I am going to spurn your bruits
with my
Smile. Make you long for the thing which
Now you despise by achieving my triumph
As I wage a war of one, My armaments
Can't fail me now.
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 5:39 AM UTC
Remember when we
cannot remember anymore,
the Sun shining through
windows sealed shut,
when we talk about it
we do not talk about it, we call
it with a different name: aberration.
I cannot remember you anymore
so small and languid in this
life. Everything pales in comparison --
offered by chance, filled with hesitancy
as if obligation, emptied by coming
into the fullness of it, saying it as a plump word
with the same accuracy of knives
tucked within the soft recess of the kitchen
counter that same day, you were different
as any other when we cycled through
Alexandrite Street, the world new again
like we were born in the similar moment
splintered by much less of a force waiting
outside the black gate of the home, and so
much more of a name slipping away
from the cliff of my chafed lip onto your
body's sustained pit, the drop barely an
indent, only as if of limited exertion but
possibly a weight for us to solder
through and through. I told you I could never
indulge into the fray and hold armaments
of it, but twice-told this battle I can
fit in: you, my accoutrement for war,
hallowed you are in excess of flow and march
through rain and light smiling through
opened windows with a blank circle of lightness
that is your face held close and memorized
before taking the commute home, force-equipped
with time's persistent pleading and our
untoward compliance like a reciprocal of stiffness:
you are the wall of your home and I,
a suspended pendulum with a dumb clockhand
in a stalemate.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
All hands on deck while this sail
wraps around my neck.
I try to escape but the tide
washes me back.
The planks are worn and holes
riddle the rotting keel.
I made my craft from weakened wood
when it should have been made of steel,
the waves slowly seep in
whispering of a salt water meal.
The ropes that dangle from my withered mast
threaten to string me up
like a pirate put on blast.
No more "yo ho's" and "aye mateys"
the cabin's locked, with no handle or slot
for a key.
And the rudder is stuck, drifting me
in loops
Every port I land in cheats me,
I've been duped
of all my treasure,
armaments, and ship
If I can fix this vessel
It'll strike a coarse
for a watery grave
Sunken at the bottom, the sea
will never be the same.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC