"battlegrounds" poems
The border at Jammu & Kashmir,
One of the highest battlegrounds.
Though that scenery is beautiful,
The soil there is stained in blood.
The blood of terrorists & soldiers,
Sadly defiles the heaven in there.
White peaks often don a red hue,
Those serene valleys face hellfire.
They do not realize that it is vain,
They war in the name of religion.
Disrupting peace and calm there,
They often desecrate the paradise.
Christ is said to have gone there,
After his resurrection of course.
Hindu deities are also fabled so,
The land of Gods and their messengers has been desecrated time and again.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
Dusk’s last breath puff up the curtains
in a flash of the post traumatic kind.
A crocheted-cliché, peach-purple duvet
drape the mountains in war paint;
redwood generals’ shadows on attention,
disorderly pine infantrymen struggle
against the wind,
some broken,
most wounded,
shattered limbs on display.
The war hero sighs into the bowels
of an instant noodles cup; dumplings shiver
((uncooked liver)) when he whistle-whispers
untold stories of courage,
guts served on blood-soaked battlegrounds;
no-one listens,
save spiders
with hairy legs
that hang on his every word.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 9:47 PM UTC
Gymnasiums
Modern battlegrounds,,
Those days...
Blood on the floor,
And spittle.
Rival towns,
White - Red.
Sitting Bull long gone,
Custer long dead.
Native sons,
Sons of pioneers
Still locked in enmities,
Remembrances of treaties broken,
Lying words,
Hatreds long unspoken.
So much of fear
So little trust,
Braggarts claiming coup,
Braggarts thinking war
Through basketball.
So it was one night
I slipped and fell
In a reservation gym,
Heard the hiss and laughter,
Felt the rush of fear...
Anger came.
Before my racist pride
Could grow,
I felt a hand,
Heard a voice,
"You okay?'
Spike Bighorn
Pulled me to my feet
Before a silent crowd.
A quiet act of bravery
That spoke aloud
Made me see the way
Through hate,
Set me on a path
To lead me forty years....
An act of kindness
In a place of fear
Defuses tension,
Ends the wars,
Shames the cowards,
Fills the void
With hope.
-------------------
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
We are drawn to the soft glow of lantern light, wringing out the darkness like ink from our child hood blankets.
And she sits quietly. Embracing history like four walls around her. Colonial castles of red brick and time. Each mortar blast a bond reminding her that her strength is mighty. Like red bricks and battlegrounds.
And the drip of the bottle is an hour glass. Measuring the night in burgundy sips. Soaking her lips to crimson.
Gentle aromas playing in the heightened senses of a heart choosing to mend. A heart choosing to beat. A heart growing stronger as the wine flows, like blood, through it's arteries.
Take in the night. Anticipate the dawn. Sing out.
There was a time. A time when this silence would have been a language. And touch would have been punctuation. But this is an exploration of solitude. And beautiful might.
The crickets sing songs to the fireflies, illuminating the world for the other in a dance of darkness and light. And she hums the harmonies.
She knows them like nature. Like shut eyed kisses.
And the abrupt giggle feels warm and rich like caramel. Musings of the sweet melting on her tongue matching the color of a foreign beach soon to melt under her toes as the tide rolls buy.
The coast is clear.
The sky is clearer.
The wind is biting.
And serves as a reminder that sometimes we must hug ourselves for warmth.
And yet in this. She fights back desire to reach out to strangers.
It is her way.
The melancholy beauty is a sweet wine. That shall never be bottled up.
Just drank in.
And wished for.
Yes.
Laughter.
And growing strength.
This is what her bricks are made of.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
Instincts rising from the ashes
A long forgotten rage
Boasted proudly long ago
Now seems to fade with age
Through blood and war torn battlegrounds,
A fierce loyalty was wrought-
Because even back then the people knew
Happiness can’t be bought
Time may heal all wounds,
And things may change with age
But for those who carry that ancient anger
The future is their cage
We praised them and we trained them
With murderous intent
Then peace dulled our edge
And into the corner they went
And though peace isn’t shameful,
It just doesn’t seem fair-
That for something once so prized
Now they must despair.
Jun 7, 2021
Jun 7, 2021 at 1:04 PM UTC
Oh, planet of the azure,
Cypriot sands,
Nordic beauty,
Amazonian lands,
Nile river plains,
It’s plain to see that our world
is a paradise for the
paradisiacs and the aphrodisiacs,
The business suited men,
The wedding dressed women,
The children of the soil.
But also plain to see are the
oil-stricken sands,
Viking battlegrounds,
Deforested lands,
Dry river plains.
Unknowns and ****** deviants,
Power hungry animals,
Divorce cases to be,
Already dead.
Oh, land of the azure,
Strike up a match and burn us all down,
Won’t you?
Oh, paradise world,
A giant floating blue pearl,
Cut us all down and burn our ashes?
Let us make amends,
Blue and green marble,
For we have doubted your sands,
Lands, and beauty,
We have doubted them whilst we have stood upon them.
For we are too tall to see what heaven lies beneath our feet,
And we look to the skies for heaven whilst we are among angels.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
Dandelion Flights, so Dandy
He's a Swell kinda fella
If you catch him at a proper Hour
He gets the Rosy Red, ya See
Reviews Legends, some about
Storming the Beaches of Normandy
Gritting Power of this Jaws,
Leans in close for Dramatists Pause
An Aged Mouth, the Black of Life
Spits over into his World of Words
Spirits gathering, the Deadening in Delivering
The Tales of the Long Lost Listeners
I Revel in the Imagery, Mindsight Sees
Battlegrounds Soundtrack
The lapping Tide, the remote Tanks and Warplane Engines, the dusty soldiers yelling out commands,
Words too faint to Understand
but the Sound of Fear, Gutwrenching, Rage, Pits of Painstaking, Heroic Strain
I'd so easily slip back in Time
To relive his Stories of Lucid Dreams
WAKE-UP ISN'T CONTRAST
I Only Will my Eyes open
After a Silence has Befallen
My Lids Jolt Open,
As I survey the Scene, Listening, Feeling for any Sign and Everything The Moment collapsed
In to the Present Presence.
Reaching over the Table
I felt for breath and the Old Man's Essence, I sighed and shook my head Knowingly
This Man who fought all Those Battles and Lived to Tell, Would not leave in It's Retelling,
not from this World nor the Next
No way, Not this One....He was just One of the many Spirits that passed through from Time to Time, and needed
an Ear to hear His Story...
I certainly didn't Mind...
Ethereal Sport is my Truest kinda Scene.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
My glass will be half full
half empty 'til
one day when I spill my last
drop wasted
not on tenderness nor on
battlegrounds
I will succumb with a broken heart
numb
from the frequency I have spilled
my need
to only have my gratuities
taken
for granted or weakness
by those I tried
to love.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
Put me on the shoulders of men
and I will not fail
Rise up through the disastrous causes
and I will conquer
For my fellow man I will lead
and cast out madness
Survive now, in the moment
and bleed them with fear
Through the battlegrounds of anger
and civil disobedience
I will guide the willing
and soldier forward into this septic war
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
coming to think of it
the first woman
to whom I ever
had been very close
must have been desperate
to claim a father
for her three-month child
as yet unborn
she came into my bed
out of the blue
with fierce determination
the mission failed
I was too cautious
and her rash parting
left me wondering
at her dismay
not until some months later
when I saw her push the pram
did I become aware I had
unwittingly
emerged fairly unscathed
from ancient battlegrounds
of social order
* * *
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC
I feel, in the soul, in the belly of the beast.
Flaming coals burning holes in canvas paintings of the East.
At least I know I've been learning captioned lullabies.
Uncovering truths as day by day the lyrics have come to unwind.
My dad is a rock,
He is tough, and I've tried.
But I hope that someday we'll find crystals inside.
Or he'll stop punching holes through the walls of people's lives.
With bleeding fists,
I wish his anger would find a cave and go hide.
My mom is like magma,
she sits and she steeps.
She takes rocks and she melts them into pools around her feet.
She erupts in spurts of vulnerable untruths,
And hot anger that scars, chars, and burns anyone standing close to her.
But when lava sits, and when it has dried.
From the infertile past battlegrounds,
Forests will rise.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC
We hear the sounds of approaching thunder
Drowning out the cries and pleas
Of people calling out for freedom--
Urgent calls in times like these!
March!
We hear the words that spit and sputter--
That splatter against mellifluous sounds
Of peace, of hope, of promise, of caring,
Creating verbal battlegrounds.
March!
We see the dark and threatening clouds
Looming above, waiting to rain
On love and reason. The winds of hatred
Equal the force of a hurricane.
March!
We see around the neck of compassion
A cruel, ever-tightening noose,
While the henchmen multiply--
A surge of bigotry on the loose.
March!
We feel in our hearts the constant longing
For dreams that should be guaranteed
By thoughtful laws and not by decisions
Forged from ignorance, power, and greed.
March!
We feel the sadness, pain, and despair
Of all who are trampled and left behind,
Of all whose rights are being denied,
Of all who are hated and maligned.
March!
We know that we can transcend bias;
When myth prevails, wisdom departs.
We can flourish by wisely removing
The chains of intolerance from our hearts.
March!
We know that we have the potential
To live in a country governed by laws
Embracing all the people here
And freeing us from tyranny's claws.
March!
March to demonstrate solidarity
With others who hear the urgent call.
March together in peace for social
And economic justice for all!
March!
-by Bob B (1-31-17, 1-17-18)
*This is an update and reposting of my Jan 2017 poem.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 11:20 AM UTC
the thing is,
we've all waged war on ourselves.
we've all been warriors against our
own body,
our own mind,
thoughts.
we've all told ourselves
that the things we create are not good enough,
that our hearts are not strong enough,
that we are so small compared to this sinking earth,
and we could never do anything about it except
scream and scream
from someplace high
until someone hears us,
saves us.
we've all torn
our bodies apart
whether it be with our fingers,
guiding razors, scratches,
adorning our precious skin with
purple bruises,
red slashes.
whether it be with our state of
mind,
shrinking ourselves,
pitying ourselves.
whether it be the
acceptance of heartbreak,
and the un-willingness to let it go.
we try to find salvation
in tiny, bitter pills,
try to find love in our medication.
the thing is,
we've all held battlegrounds within ourselves
and we're still so unkind.
we've been a shelter for ****** genocides
of creativity, and
we've held car crashes
of broken trains of thought,
in our screaming and thrumming mind.
we've held bombs within us,
exploding, shattering inside,
lodging us with
painful reminders of what it is
to be human,
alive.
the thing is,
we're all war veterans,
with both hidden and violent scars
from fighting
the lethal battle that is
raging within.
and that's okay.
just know
that you will win someday.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
stretching, testing,
finding the truth
of one another.
I enjoy this dance with you-
this rhythmic circling
as we attempt
to figure out one another.
A clash here,
and some tension too-
there's no one else
I'd rather share this
strategic struggle with.
Love, I think,
is enjoying even these
battleground moments.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
*Wooden soldiers, in a golden war
Battlegrounds, with flames and smoke
Terror rises, in hearts of steel
Winners always believe it true
Bitter losses, of existence
Raise all flags, filled with sorrow
Happiness shall come one day
Finding not, the deeper meaning
Starving anger, with inner peace
Distorted thoughts, within the rage
Justice hovers, does not land
To melt the heart, and lead one breath
Chips and ashes, of broken men
Torn apart, while sleeping still
As they are, but do not live
Strive to be, with less effort
Settle down, without a fight
Faced with truth, and knowledge
That piece will win, every battle*
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
The Resistence has an important group of men,
That proved to be heroes time and time again.
They are considered to be the best in their line of work,
They've saved wars in the past ranked first in their class.
The four homeland heroes know nothing but to fight,
The only soldiers with the privelage to **** on sight.
Weapons on their back and grenades on their hips,
But each wear a tag of death on their wrists.
Once sentenced to death for a string of crimes,
Dark and chilling thoughts found in their minds.
But once the 1st war began instead of having them killed,
Their fate remained the same but in the battlefields.
They lived through the fight but serve in the their army,
To The Enemy these men are more than just harming.
With this being their 3rd war they came to a realization,
That they are nothing but slaves to their home nation.
May 13, 2010
May 13, 2010 at 7:25 PM UTC
stage 1 of therapy and i have not
made progress. the whispers
stalk me through the battlegrounds
of school corridors - "she tried
to off herself with anxiety pills and left
no letter full of blood"- there's
no part of me left to imagine.
why are my secrets never my own? do
they not belong to me, do they
not belong to me, do i
not belong to me?
stage 2 of therapy and i
am still so terrified
of funerals
and of coffins
and of suicide notes
and i
am so horrified that my heart is drowning
my body is bleeding i won't admit
this pains me so much and i must've
loved everyone so hard, so deeply
there's nothing left to share
this hurts so
this hurts so
this hurts so bad
the repetition is crushing my skull.
stage 3 of therapy and i am
not dead. i am not dead.
i am not dead. i think i'm
losing my sense of self and
everything lacks meaning
and i am dying
and the breath is struggling
and the lungs are struggling
and everything is struggling
and i am dying.
but i am not dead.
stage 4 of therapy and i haven't yet
shot down the parts of myself
attempting to strangle the blood
straight out of me
but i haven't shot myself, either.
which is progress.
progress.
little
by little
progress, a word which i have never
yet delighted in the pleasures of feeling.
progress.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
They sailed over seas as they prepared thier weapons,
The battle will begin in just a matter of seconds.
The soldiers live in fear but wants to die brave,
Because dying over here will not give them the proper grave.
They are there not only with guns in their palms,
But 88,000 tons of missles and bombs.
The mentality of these soldiers are barbarick-like,
Because they want to shoot first and bury cities under the earth.
This isn't the first time they all have been to war,
But the Enemy has weapons the Resistence has never seen before.
The Resistence is to find and destroy any nuclear threats,
But little do they the know the threats aren't real.
So in this game of **** or be killed,
Fighting over threats that aren't even real.
Because now the Enemy's plans have moved to new heights,
Because here comes the Resistence to begin the fight
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 6:54 PM UTC
You wanna **** what the ****
You're starting to sound like Blanca
The mother of my son
You really think that's what I'm looking for
You got things twisted, sloppy unlike before
I'm original not subliminal, can you copy?
It's amazing yet disappointing
How the world thinks, feels, and evaluates
It's not about incriminating
It's about reincarnating dead souls
Giving life not taking it & destroying it
If you're out to mislead I'll make you bleed
Scream your lungs out with deadly shouts
Until your voiceless, ******* with my beloved
You crossed the line and done it all
You devour my precious lady &
You'll witness a vicious killer cold & shady
She's strong and potentially vital
Spiral wordly elements, into my spiritual twin
Take her down too, and you're best be a fool
Worst mistake you ever do, cuz I'm clever
You stopped me but stop her punk player &
Your dead meat, in the ******* street
I'm serious not delirious evil ***** I'd switch
Like a sudden twitch don't flinch ***** wimp
I'd love by far too long to see this happen
Don't make me come out raw start clapping
Whacking smacking busters on the ground
This the devil's playground war battlegrounds
To my love **** all you want, not interested
I thought you'd be my one of a kind
I guess was stupid *** **** blind
Waiting for something that's been hit hard
Pounded cat, with nasty baseball bats
You let rats, come in and attack your temple
Keep them, **** them, love them,
I don't care about them, I'll ****** them
But it's okay that's you now I must settle
Into sorrows reality and despair
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
All the ghosts / who never sinned
Are gossiping up in heaven again
They say Michael has been visiting Lucifer’s wings again
They say it’s the anniversary / it’s a spring ritual
From when Michael cast off his own dark parts
And Lucifer abandoned his angel wings
-
The grave / in modern day / is now half lit by the Denny’s open sign
Buzzing like neon only half the lights are broken
And Michael himself
Is half shadowed by his cigarette / he tells himself he’s not sinning
Because this drug isn’t against the law / and he can’t ever **** himself
-
The drag pulls at the place humans have hearts
And it hurts like a flaming sword
His hand hasn’t stopped shaking / by the time he breathes all the tar out
He breathes out again and again / like there might still be smoke in his lungs
And is he wrong?
-
All the humans / who were sinning when lucifer fell
Were gossiping on earth
And Michael’s hearing the story again / through the ***** Denny’s window
Some kid who lives off / ego / drugs / and subreddit pages
Tells another around a mouthful of pancakes
“When Lucifer fell he cried and his tears scared his face,”
And Michael who couldn’t watch then / doesn’t know if this rumor is true now
And the other kid in the booth / thinks the boy is a philosophical genius
Just grins around his own pancakes and drugs / says “everything tastes like chalk.”
-
Michael’s stuck on asphalt
Digging his toes hard into his shoes and / his whole foot lays flat pushing into the ground
But he wants to take his own head off
To let it spin away
Or maybe he just needs to lose pieces of himself / let the roses blooming beneath the skin
Cut away at the bone until he’s bleeding enough to be mortal
And sit with the two kids who don’t know themselves
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
The battle over poetry
The soldiers fight
their words, their weapons.
The historic battlegrounds dedicated in honorable memorials,
studied in English classrooms everywhere.
The meek soldiers follow in the footsteps of the noble commanders that have paved the battlegrounds for them.
The quiet soldiers want to fight,
the drafted,
given the gift of perfect aim but can never choose the right target.
I join the fight,
The fight to express thoughts and beliefs
Your words, silver bullets, sink deep into my skin.
They do not reach my heart, however.
They sink deep into parts of me that will not **** me,
but will leave me screaming in pain.
The pain of your words cut deep.
I struggle to fight back,
my pain, my motivation to keep up the fight.
The drafted are invisible
The fight continues,
the soldiers longing to be commemorated for the pain they endured in the fight.
We are the drafted,
the unnoticed.
Our pens, our weapons
and this battle is far from over
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 9:03 PM UTC
We hear the sounds of approaching thunder
Drowning out the cries and pleas
Of people calling out for freedom--
Urgent calls in times like these!
March!
We hear the words that spit and sputter--
That splatter against mellifluous sounds
Of peace, of hope, of promise, of caring,
Creating verbal battlegrounds.
March!
We see the dark and threatening clouds
Looming above, waiting to rain
On love and reason. The winds of hatred
Equal the force of a hurricane.
March!
We see around the neck of compassion
A cruel, ever-tightening noose,
While the henchmen multiply--
A surge of bigotry on the loose.
March!
We feel in our hearts the longing
For dreams that should be guaranteed
By thoughtful laws and not by decisions
Forged from ignorance, power, and greed.
March!
We feel the sadness, pain, and despair
Of all who are trampled and left behind,
Of all whose rights are being denied,
Of all who are hated and maligned.
March!
We know that we can transcend bias;
When myth prevails, wisdom departs.
We can flourish by wisely removing
The chains of intolerance from our hearts.
March!
We know that we have the potential
To live in a country governed by laws
Embracing all the people here
And freeing us from tyranny's claws.
March!
- by Bob B (1-31-17)
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 2:11 PM UTC
Route the dark in light
Ducking down
Masonic freedom fighter
Tend to rend the holy crown
Chalice overflowing
When did this cup pass to me
Empty vessel wrestled from a twine
Entwined fate
Engorged ball of hate
Flattening the gluttons
I've seen it all
Its never right to Intermediate
Limb of light
Invigorated, left unchecked
Balances precariously
Between the seance of death
And the scorn of the righteous
Overbearing and meaningless
And still it beckons
To walk a thin line
Is to take everything in stride
The same stride
We strove for
Through every long night
Waist deep in the sin
Crying out internally
Giving everything to win
Starving on the battlegrounds
Carving up and laying down
Doubting every action
Stained by affliction
Destined to persist
Slaying anything
Monster...
Demonic...
Only light escapes
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
*Jargon mouthed with righteous indignation
That can convince Lucifer to entertain consideration
Of jumping the fence, an act of treason
To his own beliefs cast in stone.
Interestingly, one barely scratches the surface
Of sense, instead clutching at whatever trace
Of reason to at least save face.
One soon realizes it’s not one’s cup of tea in the first place.
Courtrooms are battlegrounds where wits are
Stretched beyond their capacities, placed under the glare
Of powerful spotlights, no wonder
Most “learned friends” fly off the handle appearing immature.
Law’s on a league of its own
A lord unto itself, seldom bends, prefers blowing its own horn.*
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 5:48 AM UTC