"batons" poems
**The band starts playing at a ***** and crowded backyard.
Rebellious youth gather to cast their vote with the stomping of their doc martin boots.
Beer cans everywhere, everyone's trying to let loose the raw stranglehold their society has produced.
The guitars go off and the ritual begins.
First they assemble in the heart of the pit.
In the center individual tragedies bring fourth the wrath of a God's army.
Anarchy you call it, Ha! I call it reassurance, reassurance that this anger is surely communal.
I never saw it more clearer, the youth's power to resist: If the government wont hear us, we will create our own sound even under the batons of fascism, we spit on your rule, your control of our art.
We wont bow down to a law with our names written all over it, while another politician walks free from corruption.
While another officer guns down an un armed child and calls it self-defense.
While suspicious mass shootings continue to occur and mass cameras grow in recording.
While you send more people off to war for another countries resources.
These thoughts explode out of me into shoves, screams, ****** cuts, reckless behavior, and then finally release. Pure psychiatric release.**
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
Life clings on
In deserts, ice sheets and hot acid pools.
Those selfish genes persist:
Batons in a Marathon relay race.
Generation follows generation.
Clone adds to clone.
So life spreads:
The mightiest empire,
Covering all the globe.
A world full of living wonders.
All manner of plants, insects and animals.
Oceans teeming with fish.
From tropical paradise
To awesome glaciers.
We must be mindful
Of this glorious beauty.
Mother Nature reigns supreme.
Sing and rejoice,
Party hard
And put aside
The awful truth -
That in the end
Everyone dies.
Paul Butters
© PB 26\7\2018.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 4:10 AM UTC
I will stand in the shadow of the sun which burns a scar
on the back of people who like
to shift in the shadows of the night
and blame everybody for giving them a homeland
for their excuses.
I will stand where the teargas
melts my eyes and the batons write their scars
on my coloured skin
because I asked for bread.
I will stand in the light and hum
my soulful music that echoes off
the walls of pop charts and make
everybody dance because they do not
understand my words.
I will stand in the pools of streetlights
and sell my body, my baby, my beauty-
because nobody cared
to ask me a human question on want.
I will stand before God
and question why he taught me
the language of worship
amd wisdom to know the difference
between skin and colour and asking
and read the book he has to offer
that says the truth in so many pages.
I will stand alone.
I will stand alone.
Author Notes
?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
A big fire breathing robot boom box
played loud dance music
while a ******** clad girl danced
twirling fire batons.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
The boys marched off to war one by one,
They thought that war would be very fun.
Hunting and killing bad guys,
Destroying the ones that plot our demise.
The boys marched off to war, O' war.
The second squad came in two by two,
They heard that the first squad went, "kablew".
Scared a little they marched on,
Spinning their little tiny batons.
The second squad marched off to war, O' war.
Body bags came back three by three,
Blood dripping down to their knees.
Mothers and fathers gather around,
As their children are put in the ground.
We just let them die, for lies.
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 4:49 PM UTC
matt’s hats tom’s tools & tobacco lou’s liquors fred’s beds dale's doors frank’s planks bill’s drills jane’s drains & panes chuck’s check cashing cheryl’s barrels hank’s tanks tina’s trucks & tractors walt’s asphalt sean’s pawn rick’s rifles mom’s guns terry’s tires charlie’s harleys rhonda’s hondas jim’s rims art’s parts gus’s gas mike’s bikes frank’s feed gwen’s pens ann’s cans nancy’s nursery joes‘s clothes jess’s dresses bert’s skirts steve’s sleeves paul’s shawls michelle’s shells & bells al’s pails & snails sam’s hams & jams patty’s pancakes phil’s chili don’s donuts betty’s spaghetti bob’s burgers alycia’s quiches jean’s beans jerry’s berries anna’s bananas andy’s candies cathy’s taffies tony’s ponies roy’s toys ron’s batons kim’s whims marty’s parties jill’s pills rick’s tricks alice’s palace debbie’s disposal dave’s graves
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
thinking about how cops are beating protestors senseless not even 20 minutes from where i live.
thinking about how they block off the streets and stand unmasked, batons in hand, other hand resting pointedly on their gun.
thinking about how it could be me next— another unspecified black face and black body and black existence snuffed out— a hashtag, a mural.
(and those are the lucky ones.)
thinking about how a memorial is the best case scenario for a black life.
thinking about the bodies in the street.
thinking about blood splattering the ground, mixing with paint and obscuring the “black lives matter” lettering on the road.
thinking about the chalk art and loud music in a neighborhood soon-to-be-gentrified.
thinking about how we’ve grown used to the stench of rotting flesh outside our doors.
thinking about the taste of blood in my mouth from my nearly-severed tongue i didn’t realize i was biting.
thinking about the tension in my neck and jaw.
thinking about the way my eyes never seem to close.
thinking about the eyes that will never again open.
thinking thinking thinking.
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 4:27 PM UTC
"Teachers tear-gassed,lathi-charged "--
Reads a bold-letter news item.
One law binds the teacher, not to cane,
another law
canes, flogs and batons them.
With frustration writ large
they still teach.
India, only in India,
where teachers demonstrate
and lie prostrate
where scientists commit suicide
where a teacher grows
bald and blind in hope
where but to teach
is to be full of sorrow.
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
The unstoppable war
The cause of suicidal rage
Twirled batons connected to saw blades
Carriages for the dead
well-prepared
Shields are nowhere
Only offense
Everything to the center
All come in
None go out
Sounds of organic materials being cut
Precious ****** fluids spilt
Fire surrounds all
Charmander stands near his throne
"Charmander-Char" in a high squeaky voice
The dictatorship ruled by a monster
who could have fit into his slaves' jeans
He was now the master
and these humans were his to command to fight.
"Ember Amber, I choose you!"
Trainer **** it...
May 21, 2011
May 21, 2011 at 11:38 PM UTC
She ran a boarding house in Boston,
But they used her size to terrorize men
And lead them to the lock-holes.
Or was she a lady clad in black ruffles,
Presented to the Queen in 1844?
Perhaps she was a racehorse
Foaled in Harlem and won a prize.
She had peddled drugs and run a gang
In the chaos of Civil War,
Black Mariah escaped from the darkness
Of Edison’s studio to roam the world,
But in it found herself re-imagined.
They named police wagons after her
It’s said, but no one knows the truth.
Did she cross the battle lines again,
To tread on civil rights?
Or swing the batons in Chicago
And fire rifles at Kent State?
She seems to take time out to charm
Gruff-voiced men who sing her praise.
She prowled the streets of Brixton,
In 1983, with truncheons at her side.
Through gas clouds, dragging men to jail.
Black Mariah is with us still,
Helping to create tyrants and traitors,
To stop the mouths of those who defy
She’s an accessory to the killing.
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 7:09 PM UTC
The white noise has direct interface
with the synapses in my brain
making ants sketch across my skin
in a drunken address.
Bellicose shadows raise their fists
and wrap me in flags of color
while merging into a large edifice
with a wide open mouth
and protruding nose.
Wrenching my feet from the baloney trap
go take a round of the mulberry bush
counting the pennies dropped on the ground
by the ones who crossed onward
with the ferryman on the boat.
Footprints on soft mud
thud like batons against a hard thigh
easy to miss but not to be dismissed
they are like camouflaged quarry
in a kept heap of rye.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
1.
You can never go home,
not to the home you left.
When you leave, you get bigger.
Not necessarily in girth, but in consciousness.
When you come back, everything,
even the walls of your parent's house,
seem to have shrunk.
2.
Look.....
Here comes the parade.
With its paper mache floats
and twirling batons.
Cub scouts and boy scouts,
all in a neat blue and drab green row,
followed by a high school marching band
playing "Stars and Stripes Forever".
From bygone wars, limbless surviving soldiers flinch with every cymbal crash.
3.
I watched billows of cottonwood clouds
swirl down a summer hometown avenue,
they met on the street corner for a song........
"Alley Oop", or "I Like Bread And Butter"
These ghostlike voices will live there forever,
innocent, asleep, numb, waiting.
Soon, the postman will bring your future.
Soon, you will be just a number on a lotery ball.
Soon, you will have to dissect luck or fate.
4.
I took my 87 year old Father to gather his tools
from his long time place of work.
The instruments of his livelihood.
He did not need them anymore, he had retired.
Some tools he had used since World War II,
some he made for a specific job.... never to use again.
All neatly placed in toolboxes built in the 30s and 40s,
yet not a trace of rust.
These were the tools of a tradesman,
a (Tool and Die Man).
He once told me, “Son, if I can’t fix it because I don’t have the right tool, I will make the tool”.
I thought him to be Superman.
But there I was, loading up my Father’s history,
to take home, to be sold to the highest bidder.
I myself have made my living playing music for audiences.
I also have tools.
Guitars, amplifiers, harmonicas, microphones.
There will come a day, in the not too distant future,
when I will have to “retire” the instruments of my livelihood.
Though I will not be as stoic as my World War II Father,
I will go kicking and screaming to the pawn shop,
remembering every song that fed me,
and every chord that made people dance.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
Stone hall with concrete walls
Perched with colours of the crown
Ripped down for united minds
Dole queue patriots hyped with delusions of grandeur
Camped upon corners, moaning ****** ******
Laying claim to title of white line champions
Still the law sheath batons
Sharing guarded desire
With debased brethren
So united the occupied stand
Defying foreign lords who oppress ancestral land
Awaiting the day the crown falls defiled
And high flies the green, white and gold.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
Found on the corner of sleeping dogs lie
Came to the spotlight with one crooked eye
Painted a portrait in spite of the light
Hoping the canvas was centered and tight
Poured off the foam before going to bed
It’s easy to sleep when you don’t have a head
Dreams are the reason I tend to escape
Picking up pieces that fell off the cake
Coupled with sailors now off on a trip
Some sunken treasure on some sunken ship
Last time the cannons did roar at the sea
Green was the canvas of the canopy
Blown into port with a quart in your bag
Looking quite close at the half masted flag
Wondering who might have swam with the fish
And ended up sinking and getting their wish
The mist in the air hung so thick on the ground
The bell in the lighthouse could broadcast the sound
Ringing that rang as the tide wandered in
As night storms from southern most points did begin
Anchors were dropped to the depths of the deep
Big leaks were fixed but the little ones seeped
Batons were hatched or whatever that means
Opening gaps welded closed at the seams
Swabbing the deck seemed like pure wasted time
As buckets were emptied with rain in the sky
Sails were pulled down, pulled in, put away
While clouds housed a marvelous lightening display
A bottle of *** and a parrot named bill
They drank and they sang until they had their fill
When off now to sleep they did fall with a thud
Tomorrow the war and the spilling of blood
The enemies’ close they could feel in their bones
Because of the bank and some late payment loans
They shuffled us off to some brightly lit rooms
And offered low interest in brand new doubloons
They had us signing here page after page
As if fountain pens were just coming of age
Now put them away this place sure is a mess
Or move them to somebody else’s address
If the dog is not home and the cats on the chair
Licking his tail with the long flowing hair
For after this voyage we look up above
And whisper a poem that doesn’t speak love
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
People say I’m loud,
I just wish my voice would carry with the wind and
into the ears of everybody who’s not asking to hear
what I’m talking about.
You didn’t invite yourself,
I invited you to hear me out.
You won’t hear me,
you’ll hear my object of choice
held high with two hands, to the sky, to the spray of your tear
gas in my eyes,
but be not blinded in sight as you are deaf to the ear,
loud and clear
you see my poison spilled on the mattress my body was mutilated on,
shoving out through my sweaty hands,
drip, drip, dripping onto the streets you defend with
your devices of destruction.
My words weight is less than a million dollars,
less than a tuition,
less than my fore father’s current colleagues
who are counting down days from suits to polo shoes,
making face on the last of their public legacy,
they don’t want a face like me writing slogans on their cities about ignorance and inconsistency.
I guess I’m not loud enough,
it takes more than volume to raise
The roof the roof the roof is on fire.
Save the pen, the paper, your voices and chairs,
your mattress and umbrellas that protect us
from your outrage at my outrageous voice
Silenced by a shield. Silenced by batons.
Silenced by political power without political people,
incorrect intentions, raging with rovers 100 feet above my head
exploding like an overfilled balloon.
You can beat my words down
but you can’t burn my furniture,
bigger than you, bolder than you, screaming louder
through a mouth it doesn’t even possess,
looking on the face of a choir, a whole choir,
asking to cure our disease.
I will hold my symbols of faith, **** and freedom in my right hand
and swear to tell the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but the truth
until our protest has made a difference,
until my metal chairs have molded your thoughts
into signatures on a page of on a page of social justice.
It just is, bigger than you, bolder than you, louder than me,
Don’t test me, Test my furniture.
It will always be heard.
People say I'm loud.
I just wish my voice would carry into the ears
or everybody not asking to hear what I am talking about.
Well, I'm not talking,
My object speaks pretty loud.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
Stiff-spined pigs clawing at shins,
thighs, torso; arms and head.
Effervescent atoms spit
from pressurised cans
to clouded, burning eyes.
Batons drop, judging
my ever rolling sins;
breaking bland sheet
of skin into blue, black,
red, swelling purple canvas:
mounds of flesh,
batted time and time again.
Arm twisted, mud faced being, sinking.
Face first dirt. Cuffed, bony wrists
annoy broken-back shoulders:
unforeseen angles.
Frustrated muscles stretch
bemused tendons.
Freedom demolished,
kicking screams provoke
further chest knocks,
ambushed four to one
your body flops;
sagging over tight-gripped,
blue and black jackets,
helmets, batons, badges.
Tossed to the backseat;
prisoner of the siren.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
do i want to lie flat in your prison cells? perhaps not.
but i do know that the curse of our words is that
they will one day swap out our air for oxygen,
and we will breathe ink down our throats; gasping
for sound.
it is inevitable. these vestiges of mind matchless to those
who give chase - we who disappear like ghosts - one day
to resurface - our bodies in exchange. we will be beaten
by batons, cut open by silver: a cuff for a tongue. we perish
for our
speech.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
Amandla!
Locked in societies cages where the sunlight streaked in with
black and white uniforms with bars and batons
to hold them in place
shackled to their destines
to die in policies polluted by skin and colour
these people fought against
The oppressors determination to reduce
An entire nation to subservience
Until one man swam against the apartheid tide
To a prison of meaning.
At last in the wide open spaces
Where freedom grew with the flowers
With chains of people dancing in the streets
Of hope in the future
Alas the high tide turned against
Them and those at the front row who lead
The back row to brutality soon found
The dancing invited the shackles again
And they all locked themselves in the same suffering
As before, one by one.
Except no one they could blame somebody else
but his own black brother.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
First of May.
That peach tree you planted
now blooms, flushes pink,
the cherry ones burst purple.
Umpteen types of daffodil
sprout up to gulp sunlight,
flower beds house seeds,
beans and peas in abundance
in your vegetable garden.
Plum batons of rhubarb
protrude, threaten
your little portion of Devon.
But the finest thing
is the girl, the daughter,
a great blossom skipping
from spring to summer,
beaming like a lighthouse
to guide both of you home.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
You hear the sound of couples
dressed high and fancy,
mingle as their souls tap the floor outside,
to the sound of strings, brass, and percussion
tempering themselves for the heat of music.
The passionate movements of bows,
batons, and fingers, to form the wonderful
elegance, behind the masterful music composed
by fellows now long gone.
Ah, to the sounds of majors and minors
my heart feels at ease, to the subtle creaking of chairs,
to the rhythmic chimes and strums of instruments within
the skilled orchestral ensemble. All this,
topped by the eccentric and emphatic movements
of the swift conductors hands, and arms,
watch the spring, when the crescendo arrives
his spring is let loose, and jolts,
currents, swift, sleek, fluent motions, baton in one
passionate turning of pages as music flies on by,
at 4/4 pace.
Oh, the fine thunder of the percussion,
and deepest strums of bass at the right,
combined in a movements finale, to make an
awe-inspiring harmony, that one does not
really expect, with two previous movements
just elegant and peaceful,
such a quickened pace and depth of drum
and strum takes us all by surprise.
Then, Silence,
joyful applause,
continuous applause,
then its all over,
and we head home.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 11:12 PM UTC
Pop culture died off
but media executives
were pretty attached to that horse
and they have one hell of a swinging arm
they got their bats, paddles, batons, and fists
and they really let that horse have it
breaking bones and crushed organs
a pool of blood held by gravity
rests lazily in a bloated stomach
and after the melee is all over with
all we are left with
are shoes and reality t.v. shows
what an achievement
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
I gone fishin', ma Cheri
I built us a house on Blues Bayou
And set it on batons
To keep out the water
And Mister Raton
But the bayou gets bluer
As new days come to view, Cher
It was me, you once adored,
Hugged and cherished
Me, you've lately ignored
I thought real hard 'bout it
Decided it weren't worth it
To go huntin' for squirrel
So today I just go fishin'
See a vision of my next expedition
Ignorin' the light is impossible
Forever; you're bound to notice
Especially when it's not there
Even a flickerin' candle furnish
Enough light to see, I no longer care
So I step out the back door
Feel the rush of my fall
Into Blues Bayou for a quick swim
I'll dry out soon in my boat,
Find Mister Raton and trick him
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
Before we were born, the earth was ravaged
Then came man, a proud desperate savage
And all that was good, he came to disparage
For the earth and man formed an unhealthy marriage.
We spend our whole lives in search of bliss,
But there is no jinn who can grant this wish
And its in this search that our purpose is missed
We stab one another with knives made by the Swiss.
They order the crowds, to cease and desist
For if they do not they will cease exist
Gas and metal slugs bring forth the red mist
Knuckles are shattered as batons connect with the fist.
Man embraces fear in response to innovation,
Beating down thinkers into deepest degradation
Unable to stomach these new variations,
He herds himself like cattle into old formations.
Evil inspiration born from futility
Laying aside all thoughts of humility,
Manufactured our own creative sterility
Crushing ideas in the name of stability.
Yet the from the rubble of all we despise,
When many are dead, and the stars are aligned
Will our species awaken, stumble and rise?
Look up to the cosmos and then our open our eyes.
Not to God but to our own coalescence
Or will we choose to embrace our own evanescence?
We expect truth to emerge from the heavens,
But only through virtue can we hope to find essence.
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 7:44 AM UTC
A Feller's Opera
She sits upon
a bracken grave
with arms like
twisted thorns,
weeping in the
undergrowth
the soprano
widow mourns,
singing
haunting melodies
portentous
and forlorn,
the dying forest
will gaze no more
on sunsets
nor misty dawns.
Her haunting voice
will echo
'tween hollow trees
she calls,
a crescendo of
crotchet splinters
over timber
acres sprawl,
to summon
silent her aria
as mighty oaks
then fall,
to rise no more
in glory,
to stand no more
so tall.
Whirring,
snapping,
crashing down
as the whip
of progress cracks,
rolling,
beating
like a drum,
carving its
gruesome track,
a tympany
of lumberjacks
wave their batons
like an axe,
to the rythmn
of a wooden heart
as the wistful
chorus hacks.
Sweet the sound
of wailing song
across the land
does sweep,
devastating
landscaped eyes
in eerie silence
shall weep,
'tis her prelude
to the end of time,
that was never hers
to keep,
she sits upon
a bracken grave
to cry herself
to sleep.
©RJVHorton2014
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC
for Kate and Nicola and Wayne and Paul and Cameron and Skye and Kylie and Nathan and Cameron and the weird guy next door.
Here’s to you, my crazy friends
You ******** misfits too cool for my school
But you liked me anyway, you let me
read you my book of poems
You played Bone Machine while I was tripping
We walked through the suburbs looking for fairies,
We slept with each other despite my huge crush on you
You liked me anyway.
You taught me to smoke ****
To stop hating on op shop clothes while
I wore Country Road and cashmere vests.
We watched the sun come up, smelling of sweat
and drugs and DJs’ last hurrahs and dark old
warehouses, kerosene fire batons and your menthol
cigarettes.
I gave you Siddhartha and Guildenstern and Rosencrantz,
though it wasn’t the first time.
I loved it all: the guitars, the punk chords, the dodgy old houses
in run down parts of West End,
the random houses, the secret nights smoking your
Champion Ruby in my old *** pipe because we’d
run out of **** and Henry Miller wouldn’t settle for just plain *****
Bohemian Cafés and curries,
girlfriends turned turncoat then lesbians,
your secret *** parties that I never found out about ‘till years later
your Mezz Mezzrow typewriter and bright candles of novel beginnings
that never saw the light of day. Her sweet little hips showing a little too
clearly with the the shining light from inside as it lit her silhouette on
your balcony. I miss you guys, with your madness your friendships and
deep inner hipness that wasn’t in me.
So it’s years later now, we’re old and I ain’t seen you in years.
Wayne showed up in a café one day with CDs of his latest, still cool
I was studying Mandarin, and I wanted to reconnect
He gave me his number but I didn’t call him, I can’t explain why.
You showed up one day, “weren’t you going to come and say hello?”
I was but I still don’t know how.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC