"artillery" poems
All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies
21.8k
Nobody marching toward us
Their guns making us die.
No tanks are come clanking
No bombers in the sky.
But our Congress and generals
When oil or bases seem needed;
We appear armed and threatening
Peace and love talk not heeded.
No country has attacked us
With troops and lethal artillery.
But our leaders expect us to
Go open up their arteries
And **** their women and children
And laugh while they all die
And we are expected to do this
And never think to ask why.
It’s almost like big companies
Were sad when WW2 ended
So they started attacking countries
We really should have befriended.
We let Russia have free reign
To **** and ****** and steal
Almost as if their aggression
Wasn’t really true or even real.
We looked around and made them,
Those evil old warlike excuses,
That some country threatened freedom
And we pretended they weren’t ruses.
We attacked Korea and Vietnam
We were just supposed to observe
That they were yellow people there
And think they got what they deserved.
We didn’t stop there, as Reagan took
A duly elected leader and put him in jail.
If any country did that to our country
The conservatives would howl and rail.
Then the Bushes tried their best to take
Iraq to steal their oil and punish them
And created an era of stronger hatred
And anti-American outrage and mayhem.
No foreign country has attacked America;
So, the point bears repeating once again.
We need to stop acting like bullies here
And start acting like decent statesmen
And women who have the bigger picture;
The growth of peace in our battered world
So, other countries will not take their guns
And shoot our flag when it’s unfurled.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 4:56 PM UTC
Take the knapsacks
and the utensils and washtubs
and the books of the Koran
and the army fatigues
and the tall tales and the torn soul
and whatever's left, bread or meat,
and kids running around like chickens in the village.
How many children do you have?
How many children did you have?
It's hard to keep tabs on kids in a situation like this.
Not like in the old country
in the shade of the mosque and the fig tree,
when the children the children would be shooed outside by day
and put to bed at night.
Put whatever isn't fragile into sacks,
clothes and blankets and bedding and diapers
and something for a souvenir
like a shiny artillery shell perhaps,
or some kind of useful tool,
and the babies with rheumy eyes
and the R.P.G. kids.
We want to see you in the water, sailing aimlessly
with no harbor and no shore.
You won't be accepted anywhere
You are banished human beings.
You are people who don't count
You are people who aren't needed
You are a pinch of lice
stinging and itching
to madness.
Translated from the original Hebrew by Karen Alkalay-Gut.
6.8k
If I can't stand and say something
About injustice, hunger and poverty,
I can at least do one special thing,
I can write a very beautiful poetry.
If I can't fight modern-day slavery,
I can write and bring awareness.
My pen is like a mighty artillery
That can help stop this wickedness.
If my frame is short for me to be seen,
My mind is loud enough to be heard.
It can take me places I've never been
And give me a shelter and my bread.
If I don't have fine clothes and jewelry,
I have deep wisdom and intelligence.
That enables me to write good poetry
Capable of taking me out of decadence.
If I don't have fine cars and houses,
I have from Jah a blessed assurance.
And peace inaccessible by noises,
So I say thanks for life and Providence.
©IvanBrooksPoetry
22/8/2018
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 11:47 PM UTC
I am not what I used to be
So now in the shadow of unspoken events
Everything whimsical is leaving
Words fill my head, they fragment like artillery shells
they tare through it forcing irreparable damage.
Time has accelerated
Born out of the absence of light
Shaped by my own hands
Justly worthy to be referenced and adored
I re-encounter what my elation briefly with held
The thirst for the dangerous
Obliterate the incomprehensible crowding thoughts
The stampede within my head
The mayhem of the many visions
Lock them down, all that fracture within my head
Inexplicable wanderings of mindful musings
Spontaneous perceptions
Shadow of foe
Encircling their fears with distractions
Pulsing in endless repetitions
I am the one whose throat is stripped bare.
I am the one who has not spoken in years
A distant moon to sense
© Crystal Erickson
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
I dismiss the attention nobody pays,
To the way I stay in games for days,
They say "You're wasting your time away",
But I'll play till I hit the grave,
Cause,
One more level, another point, another match,
Double **** triple **** don't crash,
Every day, getting better, no sweat,
Zero deaths, forty kills, no regret,
Top tier, s rank, winning streak,
Don't lose, don't die, not weak,
Can't miss, gotta win, don't quit,
Flanking, execution, legit,
We've got Contacts, reload,
Spawn traps, implode,
Bringing heavy artillery,
This is the Gamer's Creed.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 11:03 PM UTC
This isn't about front lines and deep mud,
it's not about sacrifice and bands of brotherhood.
It's not calling for silence or for national pride,
it's not about cenotaphs and those left behind.
No, this a thank you to one Ernest Page,
Gunner Sergeant, Royal Field Artillery, 182nd Brigade.
Thank you for ducking, thank you for dodging,
thank you for lasting, thank you for living.
Thanks for returning back home to Brockley.
Thanks for asking Gran and building a family.
Thank you for dad and for little Aunt Betty,
for Pam and for Pete and for cousins aplenty.
Thanks for Rose Cottage, for trips round the lake,
thanks for loud laughter and sleepy eyed late
mugs of hot chocolate and medeira cake slabs.
Thanks for my sisters, thanks again for my dad.
Thank you for surviving, and all that implies.
I owe you it all, I owe you this life.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
First, I claim my land and choose my artillery for
Paper and for pen.
Before going into battle, my men are prepped with
The message and plot.
On my claimed land I lay bricks and marble of
Rhythm and theme.
Now, my land is ready to hold life in
Imagery and in style.
Finally, I build a fortress there in the reader’s own mind.
©Copyright 2014 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
Three-legged spider on a ***** tile
Eyeball rolls, clean in hand
Massive metal door opens, up top a hill
Graveyard of ever-ringing cells.
What's real creepy to you?
Enclose the city, lock us out ..for good
Condemned as doomed, living dead
Big guns survive in metallic domes
See the crass ******** shoot us down!
Wanna talk about what's creepy, huh?
Plunderers now lay down new laws
Can't fight the sick, red sway
Random acts of violence bay
Armoured eyes see all from lofty towers.
Creepy autocrats hide the truth, right?
No soaring when blood runs rivers
Tripping over rotting corpses
Decaying stench of hope dying
Help will come, we must believe!
Do you believe lies to your face?
Infrastructure's down, no services
Power's out, no more flushing
Car carcasses aflame on every corner, yet
How come big brother's eyes still move?
Are the gullible ones really stupid and feeble?
Sun shines, but nothing grows
Rain seeps red away into sewers
Crops of twisted metal, hoards of guns
Skeletal trees adorn our landscape.
Why hold askance your glance skyward?
The gates will open to let us in
Surely, they witness our hardship!
There must exist a life beyond this strife
Uproar, bombard, gas, artillery....then no more....
Can you ever cease to have temerity?
In face of adversity, calamity and injustice
We should NEVER cease to be exasperated!
Hope must prevail; faith must live;
Thoughts expressed; love and respect must survive.
Can you afford your spirit just to let go....?
Think about it. Creepy autocrats eternally rank ...
Chronically..........Insidious
Repressively........Deleterious
Egotistically.........Inadequate
Eruptively............Odious
Pretentiously.......Tedious
Yucky...................Scum!
S T, 31 May 2013
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
I'm a Kool g rockin' coogis poppin' coochies
Haters get murked like Colhese my rap lease
Debutin' numero uno the heavy weight sumo
Born on Jupiter raised on Earth my heart's colder than Pluto
Mic judo flows stickin' of ya corticals
Check me in the articles I be the broken particle
Of the universal ya need rehearsal **** goin' commerical
I lay raps like a hearse flow for rappers funeral
I a criminal none keep gats by the abdominal rhymin' phenomenal the mighty Apollo
Blazin' my cocoa flippin' crime like Bardellino
One luv to my nino got it locked like a Vegas casino
We checkin' ya dough at the front door so stop ya show
Fronting and stunting once my nines get the hunting
Bullets spikin' like kickers punting raw taunting
Game hungriest similiar to the lochness
Mon-star far from subpar rhymes ride bizzare
A pharcyde takin' ya into a spiritual homicide converged to the angelic hide
Still a crime shame all of 'em say the same
Thing flexin' diamonds on they pinky rings yet another sad soul that sings sub siblings
To the underworld debators contract initiator so you can create a
Pace between the stage and the audience face
**** that rather keep a gat tucked in the front or the back
With wisdom to rack
Imagine that fools breakin' for stats? see where my heart at?
Diggin' reachin' into the minds of the youth with the brutal truths
Chippin' my tooth
From killin' booths once I plot ya will ya loose
bringin' the ghetto blues and cruising *****
Still a sober jealous God am I call me Jehovah
Tactics of a Cobra one strike it's over
Venomous ridiculous hataz so conspicuous
Hatin' us only to anger my artillery surplus and who bust?
More rounds than Matt Dillion coatin' ya brains
With my lyrical penicillin stealin'
Back the spotlight
Catch the bright sunshine that stares into my mind
A Pharoah prophecy laid in the back of me
Head til I touch my final resting bed I'll embed
The realist **** ya ever heard shooting a bird
To all my enemies I blast at 'em with as the bullets herd
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 12:40 PM UTC
For nine days the artillery barrage
rained down on us
that June of summer in the Somme
machine gunners like me waited
in our concrete bunkers deep in the earth
When the shelling stopped
we rushed to the surface
and began our job of mowing down
the slow walking British Infantry
stoically advancing as if in another war
in another time where they might choose
to die bravely and with honour
a hero fighting for his life
his king and country
But here he dies unknown
by the chance turning of my gun
in his direction at that one moment
and the random number of bullets
left to fire.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
A day will certainly come
As sure as we breathe
When our creator will ask of us
What we did to aid the oppressed
On that day
As surely as who created you
Created me too
It will not be about religion but humanity
When carefully planned and organised jets
Launched rockets
To bomb populated refugee camps
Schools and apartment blocks
At a defenceless opposition
Without an air force or navy
Heavy weapons or artillery
Command or armour
**That's not war
It's ******
It's cold blooded massacre**
As a woman shot in the stomach
Gives birth to a cold blue baby
And a world across oceans changes channels tuning in to the next world cup champion
It was never about taking sides
Israel vs Palestine
There is a truth
To which we must remove the blindfold of ignorance
Searching for a voice of right
Amongst the cries of pain hatred and anger
The sign in a city
Where there is too much to see
Finding peace amongst people who are not ours
Because I see hypocrisy of nations
Who stand for human rights
But only when the human shares a matching ideology
I see hypocrisy amongst media
Where a million wounds and shades of blood
Are inked into black and white letters
Today I read 'An Israelian was killed whilst a dozen Palestinians died'
They turned humans into numbers
Quantitative data
They couldn't possibly de-sensitize it any further
I mean look at the verbs in which they phrased that
I see hypocrisy amongst Muslims
Who stand equal and united
Yet they too turn backs when the interest is not beneficial
And the pitiful nation falls divided
Whether it is a prayer
A strike, a boycott or vigil
A protest or petition
Maybe even a donation
There's a thousand ways to help
But very few who do
So what did you do?
Was it out of sight out of mind for you?
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
Suited up as I try to maintain
In this ground cracking weather.
Heavy bags on my back
And artillery in my hands.
Goggles dusty
From the blistering sand
That slice my face like razors
With every gust of wind.
The scorching temperature
Is on hell and every breath
I take is so dry that my tongue's stiff.
One canteen, a few packs of food,
And a mission to complete.
My boots are laced,
With my feet feeling like people
Trapped in a burning building.
The further I go the more my body
Feels like it's being cremated.
I must reach my destination....
As helicopters pass through
Dropping explosives the size of a
Small child with the impact of
Several meteors hitting the earth.
Running like a track meet and
Maneuvering like a game of Dodgeball.
Gunfire, bodies, and thick smoke
As I bypass fallen aircrafts.
Approaching my target which
Will be my final destination.
BOOM! I found myself airborne to
Only hit the ground in unconsciousness.
BEEEEP! Is all I hear as I try to get
Up and regain consciousness.
Just a little over a hundred yards to
Go with a blurred vision
Feels like a lifetime.
As I'm reaching my target with
Bullets whistling pass my ears....
It's time. I set up my shot....
I hold my breath
Heart pounding with adrenaline
I'm studying
I'm focused
I'm ready....
POW! As my 50 caliber jerks
Back into my shoulder kicking
The dirt off the ground like a horse
At the Kentucky Derby.
MISSION COMPLETE!
As I'm going home with a bad case
Of paranoia and a Metal of honor...
I still have disastrous flashbacks
And ****** nightmares.
But....Nothing compares to that
STORM in the DESERT.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 2:54 AM UTC
I was sent to work at the old Repat.
It was forty years since the war,
Those ancient diggers would sit and swear
At the pain of the limbs they wore,
The wounds would open as years went by,
They’d come for another slice,
That war was never over for them,
And morphine was paradise.
I saw one veteran struggle and curse
As he ripped at the buckles and straps,
The new prosthesis had rubbed him raw
As his knee began to relapse.
He tore the leg from his wounded stump
Sat on his bed, and roared,
Then swung the article over his head
And flung it across the ward.
The others had ducked as the leg took off
And bounced off the opposite wall,
‘I’ll have to report you,’ the nurse exclaimed,
‘It’s a good leg, after all!’
‘You wear it then,’ was the man’s response,
‘For it’s driving me insane,
What would you know of Flanders Fields?
You wouldn’t deal with the pain!’
My job was to settle and calm him down
So I asked him about his leg,
‘When and where did you lose it, Dig?’
The veteran tossed his head.
‘You’ve heard of a place called Flanders Fields
Where the bullets came in like hail?
Well, I was there with the Anzac’s, son,
At a place called Passchendaele.’
‘Our Generals were trying to ****** us,
I swear, on my mother’s head,
They kept on sending us over the top
Until half of the men were dead.
The German gunners would enfilade
As we struggled against the mud,
I’ll never forget the battlefield,
It was spattered with bones and blood.
They’d send artillery shells across
At the height of a soldier’s knee,
We’d watch them come as they parted the grass,
They were Grasscutters, you see!
Well, I was running with bayonet fixed
And praying for God’s good grace,
When suddenly I was lying there,
I’d tumbled, flat on my face.’
‘It’s strange that I never felt a thing,
When the Grasscutter got me,
It took a while ‘til I saw my leg
Was gone, from under the knee.
But that was the end of the war for me,
The end of the life I’d known,
I spent some time back in Blighty, then
I came on a ship, back home.’
I never chided those men in there
Though they’d curse and swear, and roar,
For every man was a hero where
They'd trudged in mud through the war.
That Repat. job was a fill-in job
And I left, still young and hale,
But I never forgot the Grasscutter
Or the man from Passchendaele.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
after some grey days
comes the sun
summer heat
spectacle on the Seine
to commemorate
"La Route de l'Armada"
a fleet for tourists
that never was
yet nice to watch
nevertheless
with fireworks
& stately masts
sails folded orderly
decks scrubbed
the crews all smiles
ready to answer
all the children's questions
in between
gray & inaccessible
some men-of-war
of more contemporary make
among them
somewhat tarnished
one single ship
that really carried
allied soldiers
in its sightless hull
on that gray morning
and suddenly
if only for a moment
you smell the sweat
of fearful courage
hear ammunition
click into magazines
the waves break dull
with hollow sound
amidst the crashes
of firework artillery
that splits the waters
upward from the ground
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
Different strokes for different folks, but if I stuttered when I spoke, there is a reason why I wrote, and if you think that I'm a joke, then stroke me, stroke me...
Empirical lyrically virile and viral a warrior reborn like he's gone out of style,
a rage unabated both non-syncopated and internal/external no meter's abated!
You wanted an anthem?
You wanted a cause?
You wanted a figure to even the odds?
You thought I was kidding
but now you're admitting that
I am the chosen whose broken the clause!
Rising in status, my main apparatus, the attitude: platitudes lack the finesse!
I'm searching for perfect not anything less!
I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!
Melding the milieus of millions and millions of masses who clash for the chance for the cash,
when all that was needed was truth to believe in, significance outed, you puppet let's dance!
No bragging, no lagging, and no more sandbagging, the hustle is over, your tussle is weak!
For soon we will savor the end of your flavor, fifteen minutes over, your outlook is bleak.
I'm nobody's pigeon hole, nobody's fool, I've seen quite my share of arrogant tools,
but here are the statements that lead me to greatness:
love me or hate me, go on instigate me, ignore me and gasp when you hear of my rule!
I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!
Now join me in raising a fist to the sky,
and pound upon pressure to powers that lie.
Make diamonds of rhyme-ends and squelter your silence
to pierce through the casket that left us so quiet.
Their reign is run dry, and nobody buys it, let's hit this at home so they cannot supply it.
Prepare the artillery pack in your fire, you're gonna need it , if the bars get any higher,
now hear from the jokee, I dare you provoke me, you still talking **** well stroke me, stroke me.
I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!
**I'm willing to take it for me and for you, THERE'S NO ******* LIMIT TO WHAT WE CAN DO!**
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
No, no, I haven’t been doing this myself,
but I live in Cambodia,
and 2 guys and a girl were deported recently
for riding around on a motorbike in the ****
in broad daylight. Actually, you see,
naively or deliberately,
they rode right past a police station.
Now that must have been a sight for sore eyes.
So the police set out in hot pursuit,
rubbing their sore eyes, or whatever they rub,
maybe their truncheons, eh?
And when the perps were pulled over,
the cops didn’t fall about with hilarity
when these riders said quite calmly
that they were going to pick up their laundry.
Truly! They were backpackers! As if that explained it.
But publicly, the cops said nope,
these perps are obscene to be seen like this
and they violate Khmer customs and culture.
The cops even took pictures of this outrageous obscenity.
Indeed. The riders' rapture of being bare assed
and naked and **** free is not for Cambodia.
Certainly not at this juncture.
So their capture resulted in them being deported,
never to show hide nor hair in the country again.
Just goes to show...
But you can get away with ****** here,
particularly shooting union leaders or critics or protestors,
or you can throw a grenade into the opposition,
and **** a few right there. Those killers go free.
It's probably dangerous to speak openly,
but I don't think these guys read poetry.
They're probably busy oiling their artillery,
and even rocket launchers, as the PM
threatened to use against the opposition recently.
Seriously.
They're on the lookout for dissenters here.
Oh yes. And bare ***** Obviously.
So watch you **** in Cambodia,
especially if it's bare on a bike.
And ssshhh! Watch out for your mouth.
You need to cover your mouth up properly, too.
Mike T Minehan
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
Holistic, not horrific
Humane, not vain
Humility, not artillery
Human, not religion
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
Car packed and ready to go;
on leave so we thought but it wasn't so;
I suppose it wasn't just meant to be;
T Air Defence Battery was going to sea;
Across the south Atlantic Ocean;
Well at least that was the notion
One hundred and ten ships all packed to the top;
Commandoes, Paras, Guards, Ordinance, Artillery, the lot;
This is it lads. We're going to war;
But nobody knew, what was in store
And all those mixed up feelings inside;
Were **** near impossible for us to hide.
We landed at a place called San Carlos Bay;
In nineteen eighty two. On the twenty first of May;
To repel Argentine invaders from the Malvinas;
Anxious, proud and scared. You had to have seen us.
Across the Falklands, the Task Force did travel;
By air, sea and foot and not as a rabble;
Objective Port Stanley for the final shove;
First taking Tumble Down; Goose Green and Bluff Cove
We recaptured the Islands. They were British again,
And amid all the glory, cheering and pain;
We now look to peace for as long as we reign
And no more hostilities, that drive man insane
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:36 AM UTC
In Silence
The English ex SAS Special Forces member went to the Ukraine to fight. He travelled light and took just a small back pack and a head full of skills. A gun was a gun and a bayonet a bayonet. He was trained to use most things as weapon especially military articles.
He decided to go to the Ukraine after the Russians invaded proper in early 2022. The Ukrainian Army took him to a holding facility where they vetted him. This took three days. Included was basic close combat skills and weapons use.
He excelled and was given a job, being sent to a forward artillery position with a dozen other foreign troops to protect it. The SAS man was in charge and most men and the single girl spoke English. All understood military commands and signals. All were veterans from either conscript or professional armies.
Each was here for their own reasons and all disliked either what Russia had done or Russians themselves. The English SAS member had killed several Muslim terrorists from Daesh and al Qaeda in Iraq and Afghanistan. Now he looked forward to fighting and killing some Russians, officers if possible. After being in the Ukraine six days he was on the front line leading his first patrol. This was better than being a bouncer in a Manchester night club!
The SAS guy ordered his men to only use bayonets as they silently crept to a Russian fox hole a mile away. He wanted blood and the rush of combat, of killing. There was the trench and a single sentry, asleep. He would knife him himself. Then his squad would ****** the rest and take back any weapons, maps or documents. He spoke four languages including Russian. Any Intel was good for his bosses though. Here we go! There’s the sleeping sentry. Gently now, he must die in silence…
Mar 20, 2022
Mar 20, 2022 at 5:33 PM UTC
I only have one photo of Grandad
from his years of service in the Great War,
and in it he’s wearing a leopard-skin leotard.
My paternal grandfather, Grandad,
was brought up in Brockley, South-East London
In his teens he was conscripted
and became a gunner sergeant in the Royal Field Artillery.
I still have his stirrups and his French/English phrase book
which includes useful words, like dysentery,
(think of the movie, ‘War Horse’, and you’re almost there).
He fought in the mud in France and put a lot of horses out of their misery.
Apparently, he enjoyed the stage – a song and a dance,
and almost went professional after a string
of successful nights at the local Roxy,
all of which makes me want to have known him better,
but he died in my teens.
He laughed a lot, loved his vegetable garden
and had a collection of handy-sized, hard-back books
giving details of how various circuits and wiring worked.
I recall his bear of an armchair
and how it was in easy reach
of a slim stack of shallow drawers
from which he would take slender tools or small curios
and sit and explain their significance to my bemused child self.
I have the brown photo somewhere -
it’s not one I’d like to frame as it raises too many questions for me.
Like – is that bloke next to grandad meant to be Robinson Crusoe?
Like – what prompted grandad to ‘black up’ from head to toe – is he Man Friday?
And now, I stare at the photo handed to me by my friend of his grandfather, complete with rifle and medals,
and again I silently ask my grandad – why?
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:11 PM UTC
Letters come & go.
Messages from home: love lost.
Jefferson Davis
& “Honest” Abe Lincoln’s war…
…nothing more than flexing strength.
The sun rises up
above the barren Culp’s Hill
as Ewell kept them
back, & Jackson’s wishes were
lost on Cemetery Hill.
Gettysburg was filled
with mudpits, puddlepits, shitpits
& every kind of
pit. Not any kind that they
wished to see as guns moved up.
The barrage of shells
from the artillery was
never ending, not
unlike this cursed war, all
while brothers & sons were lost.
The second day came
with no signs of stopping, he
packed his gear, grabbed his
rifle, & marched out to the
sound of Charon’s ferrying.
The medic rushes
out onto the battlefield
hesitating not.
His crude instruments flailing
about in his pack, he works.
Medicine, horror,
they were synonyms to him
as he braced the man;
scraping against flesh, he screamed.
This Civil War--hell on Earth.
Sawing off a leg
was much harder than once thought,
the medic then knew.
In the thick of battle, screams
drowned out screams, & drowned out screams.
Bullets whizzed by him
as he cleaned up his patient.
Or was it victim?
These days it all seemed the same:
North, South, free, slave, dead, living.
What once was blue ‘n gray
was now brown & black & red.
Explosions tore up
the land around him as he
cleared his vision & finished.
Out of the brush, fear
overtook the medic as
a man in blue clashed
with a man in gray; blood ‘n sweat
drenched both as life was on balance.
The medic was stunned
& failed to bring himself to
act at first. He shook
himself awake, & grabbed his
knife, & leapt into the fray.
His knife plunged precise
into the blue man’s heart. No
soldier, but knew his
stuff. The gray man thanked him, &
the South fought another day.
All for naught, for on
that third day, Lee ran with his
tail betwixt his legs
all the way to Virginia.
Two years later, all for naught.
July fourth, eighteen
sixty-three, no cheers, no love,
no wins for us folk.
Only them **** Yanks get their love
from home: letters come & go.
Sherman’s March left him
quaking in his boots; gone was
his love. Gone was his
home. Gone were his letters. All
of it gone. Gone with the wind.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
This is dedicated to the millions who died in the Biafra - Nigeria civil war
Counting the losses
Of my people at dawn
Breaking the curses
Of no wholly source
I sought to wage war
Without funds and money
I thought to secede
From a nation strong and many
I was full of envy for vain minorities
I am an educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border
Proclaiming Biafra
Was so big an agenda
Building militias
To **** and to tether
My opposed tribal brothers
And the critics of my powers
I denied much on media
All that hid in my fingers
My plans I held higher
The proclamation of Biafra
I am an educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border
Visible to the blind
Were were ready for a fight
Audible to the deaf
Huge price of war to pay
Hausas killed in numbers
By my igbo sons and daughters
yorubas were driven without boots
by my fellow Biafran youths
Ibibios were suspicious
So were Urhobos, Itsekiris and Ijaws
Enmity was at its peak
So high that none could breach
All these were my agenda
My services to Biafra
Was so good for me to render
On May 30th 1967
Was just like a fable
I declared in the open
Without even a wobble
The state of Biafra
Almost complete; an agenda
An anthem was composed
Flag and currency; none could oppose
The heat of the tension
Is such I couldn't mention
The height of jubilation
Not all did it favor
There was sorrow in the land
This, I cared not apart
I was a symbol in the world
For the havoc I did cause
I am an educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border
The war began
With no money at hand
We fought with pride
With pains in our hands
We fought with might
Defending our father's land
We died in mass
Numbers of air attacks
We killed civilians
Of the tribes against our plan
We'd shoot in the heart
Every oppose we'd catch
Nigerians were too strong
but we swore we'd burn
I saw no flaw
In the havoc I did cause
I am an educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border
Hunger and thirst
Was order of the day
Sorrow was a pest
and death had no end
Too many burdens to bear
The pains of war to pay
We ran out of guns
Bullets, grenades, even bombs
We had but matchets
Arrows, stones and spears
But We faced an army
Of full artillery
Our tragedy had no end
Even God couldn't help
So our homicide was cast
And We became fossils at last
Let those who seek war; stop and think
The pains of it;higher than that of peace
So I e'caped in a copter
Leaving my people to suffer
So on exile I did ponder
while millions died in yonder
I am an educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border
I write from the grave
From the hell of my pains
I was that educated soldier
Who took you to battle borders
And ran, leaving you to suffer
I was that educated soldier
Of an eastern defunct border.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 9:00 PM UTC
Your world is dark and your path is rocky
No radiant sun to light your way
So you stand perfectly still until you can see
Everything, impeccably displayed
White lightening flashes across stormy skies
Lighting up all your shadows
Convincing you, he is the sun with lies
Quickly leaves you winging solo
Your eyes then open wide with knowing
Those flashes are not your sun
Merely beautiful fire streaking and flowing
Upheaval having some fun
You begin capturing each flash in your memory
Storing them one by one
Creating a beautiful array of lighted artillery
You will turn into your sun
Still, your world was dark and your path was rocky
Those flashing memories faded fast
You could never store enough of them to see
Or light up your worldly path
Now off in the distance so far away you see
A tiny beam glowing bright
Will you stand here still collecting memories
Or go in search of your sunlight?
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 9:57 AM UTC
every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love,
i stand on the central Warsaw train-station,
and there's this girl checking her
mobile interet, phone,
and she looks pretty...
and... i really don't want to **** her like
the guys **** her in ***** movies...
maybe that''s shy i'm considered
"effeminate"....
maybe...
i just didn't **** enough women...
or maybe...
i speak the tongue of the crusaders...
but we sent the artillery...
the beautiful women to the Arab
******
and kept the nation safe...
Islam, akin to the comparison
of the Bubonic Plague...
Islam... virus of the mind...
i'll contest thi...
i'll ******* die for this...
i've been feeling weird for the past
few days....
Tom Petty died....
so... why would anyone give
a **** if Wayne Static
does the coffer?
so... i'm supposed to care?!
**** you!
Jeff hanneman died...
but do you see me,
making a case for a ******* parade?!
no?
good... that's how i like it...
******* south London
plonker!
every single time...
i fall in love with a girl
at the central train-station in Warsaw...
the love dies a sudden death...
when i get to the....
Western train station of Warsaw...
the Ukrainians et al...
the Mongols...
love's up,
dead, long gone...
i'm basically living
the enterprise in re-experiencing
a slow death...
feral lands...
these Polacks are like...
please don't land in Warsaw....
i know...
Krakow has Auschwitz as a tourist
destination...
but... but...
you will not see the generic
schematic of globalization...
every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love,
and then i think of "it"...
**** marriage..
no thanks,
you have it covered...
on your way;
i might not be on the winning side,
but sure as ****
i'm also not on the losing side either...
and t think...
that i could even concise my
life within the confines of
imitating my father...
i could have...
but then... life...
isn't exactly a chance on bet within the confines
of a roulette.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC