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1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch,
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.

The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the ***** songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.

The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.

Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve a
peoples republic
in a futile last stand.

The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.

The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.

The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of the grand prize.

The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.

Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.

In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.

As the
inertial ******
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.

I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.

The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.

First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.

The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.

Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.  

History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.

A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.

As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.

We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.

The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.

The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting ***
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.

From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the ****** union?  
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?

Was the illusive
article of liberty  
worth its weight in
the blood expended?

Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?

Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?

Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.

The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.  

Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.

Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered  from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.

I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.

2.

The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.

WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.

During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.

As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.

Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.

Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.

The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.

Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.

We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.

The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.

Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.

America desperately
needs a new narrative.

The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.

The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.

It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.

Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.

3.

During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.

Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.

The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.  

They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.

They will spare nothing.

Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.

The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.

From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing  
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.

The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.  

The capitol is
indeed burning
again.

Looters are
running riot.

The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.

Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.

MLK has lost
his humanity.

He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
**** Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.  

MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.

Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument,  I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.

I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.

This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.

Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.

They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.

4.

A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her
Fountainhead teet.
He takes a long
draw as she
coos songs
from her primer
of Atlas Shrugged
Mother Goose tales
into his silky ears.

The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.

Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.

Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.

To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.

5.

DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.

Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.

USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.

The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.

A crowd  
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.

I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.

DC is all surface.

It is full of walls
and mirrors.

Its primary hue
is obfuscation.

Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.

The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.

Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.  

Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.

Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.  

They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.

They are the children
of privilege.

They will never
alter their path.

You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.

These young ones
portray a countenance  
of benevolent rulers.  

They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.

They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.

6.

Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.

I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.

I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.

Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.

America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.

Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.  

I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.

I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”

The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.

The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.

I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.

The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.

7.

Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.

The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.

Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.  

The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.  

Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.

Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.

I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?

I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.  

In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.

The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.

As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.

They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.

I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.

If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.

8.

I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.

My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.

My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.

The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.

Yet they remain
inert.  

Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.

The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.  

They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.

They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.

America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.

Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.

I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with th
nivek Aug 2014
the children playing in the dirt;
we are warriors before our time
make no mistake we are killers
and all the age ready bodies
blown to bits yes bits if they were lucky
jumped screaming over the trenches
of mud and wooden defences
against machine guns and mortars
and devils who used to be men
sporting daggers and bayonets
Terry O'Leary Feb 2015
The Rulers wield their silver shields,
             wear golden coronets
while warders guard the prison yard,
             boast brazen bayonets
and unicorns flaunt ivory horns
             defending martinets.

While Bankers beam Their self-esteem
             (bailed out of broker's debts),
and Bureaucrats grow rich and fat
             in six-star luncheonettes,
the deep, devout and down and out
             survive as silhouettes.

The Press take pains to wash our brains,
             Their words have mesmerized.
So, mild and meek, we fear to speak
             in worlds They’ve polarized,
and rush to war, through Satan's door,
             watch cities vaporized.

The Lord of Lore tells tales of war,
             of victories far away,
where eyes stare stark within the dark
             and death is painted gray
on faces cold, some young, some old,
             in spectral disarray.

We're taught at school the Golden Rule
             for all to live in bliss,
but in the wars on foreign shores
             the only rule is this:
“Yo! You and I must fight and die
             inside the black abyss!”

But well alive, the Merchants thrive
            on sales of armaments
that Barons built (with pride, not guilt)
            to quell the dissidents,
while Partisans are posing plans
             to conquer continents.

And back at home, the rumors roam
             “Good times are soon to come,
despite the breeze on frozen seas
             in weathers wet and numb.”
When we’re in need, They’ll intercede
             with prayers if we succumb.

A Tabloid screams of phantom dreams
             to keep our minds at sea
and TV skews the evening news,
             ensures we all agree:
“With dynamite we fight for right
             and not for tyranny.”

The brain aborts when drugged with sports
               and fashions of the day,
and sevenfold, men think as told
              and so are led astray;
and like some sheep (unless asleep)
             they baa when they obey.  

In search of sense in sounds intense
             of droning drum tattoos
(the beat sustains the endless reigns
             which swamp the avenues)
souls, thin and worn, traipse by, forlorn,
             delayed by shackled shoes.

Ten thousand eyes belong to Spies
            who watch us day and night
to track our trails and read our mails
             and say They have the right
to know our thoughts and thwart our plots
             to cease Their oversight.

Behind the scenes, behind the screens,
             the rules are fixed, arranged
(contorted smiles conceal Their wiles -
             Their goals have never changed).
When upside-down, a grin is frown
             and common sense deranged.

Along the roads, the future bodes
             in legends made of dust,
and ashes gray the alleyway
             'neath lampposts scaled with rust.
While Divas dine with cakes and wine
             pale orphans share a crust.

Dead colonies of humble bees,
             a ravaged hornets' hive,
rain forests, dales and minke whales
             soon nothing left alive…        
a world laid waste is to Their taste,
             as long as They survive.

As sunlight wanes in winter rains
             and sullen shadows crawl,
the evening ebbs, and spider's webs
             seem tattooed on the wall.
Upon the night the Masters write
             The Final Protocol.
Andrew Parker Aug 2014
Skinny *** Poem
(8/11/2014)

Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
They picture perfect future families with puppies and kittens,
but for me something was missing.
I just wanted to be happy.
Maybe my vision wasn't so great though,
because 'happy' looked like it had 6 letters to me, and spelled 'skinny.'

People used to throw bricks at my glass house.
Shouting that I’d be skinny enough to slip through cracks.
Cracks of life,
cracks of struggle and strife,
cracks of everything not nice.
They'd tease me and say I looked like I smoked crack,
when I'd lose weight,
I'd gain it all back,
in the form of their extra hate.

But I didn't feel skinny on the inside.
Although I had skinny bones and skinny skin,
brittle enough to break within.
Under the pain of that pang
as their bricks shattered my glass house.

Tell me, have you ever been afraid of words?
Thoughts can be terrifying but once turned to spoken word,
that in turn will turn to shouted word,
that in turn will turn to incoherent nonsense.
Which starts a sensation of ear drums ripping,
being sawed in half immediately,
no time spent ticking,
by shrill shrieks and violent vocalizations.

As if a sound wave could burst your body parts faster,
no, more efficiently than a barrage of fists.
Because it will know exactly where to strike,
in fact, it will sneak through your solid surface,
into every single crevice,
knowing where the best place to hurt is.

All it takes is a whisper strategically said in your ear,
'skinny.' 'skinny.'  'skinny.'
I could feel it float away from me,
carried off by the wind.
As if a sound wave could carry an army of statements,
piled up and armed with bayonets of every decibel level,
ready and willing to siege each individual joint crack and muscle ache,
being pushed under imposed stiffness.
It will ooze out your pores, as if your fat face was an instrument amplifier.

They thrived on the thrill listening to my shrill shriek.
As I stepped on shards from my shattered glass house,
And stared into the million fractures,
each a broken reflection of the million me’s I could be.
But none of them skinny... enough,
skinny for everybody else,
but never for me.

I’d envision each day, blood drops staining my glass carpet.
Each ounce of that luscious red,
each day left my body filled with an ounce less of dread.
An ounce less to fit into a size small shirt,
and 30 inch waist Skinny jean.
My body became my own private ****** machine.

Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
I just wanted to be happy, I mean skinny.
Underneath the leaves of life,
Green on the prodigious tree,
In a trance of grief
Stand the fallen man and wife:
Far away the single stag
Banished to a lonely crag
Gazes placid out to sea,
And from thickets round about
Breeding animals look in
On Duality,
And the birds fly in and out
Of the world of man.

Down in order from the ridge,
Bayonets glittering in the sun,
Soldiers who will judge
Wind towards the little bridge:
Even politicians speak
Truths of value to the weak,
Necessary acts are done
By the ill and the unjust;
But the Judgment and the Smile,
Though these two-in-one
See creation as they must,
None shall reconcile.

Bordering our middle earth
Kingdoms of the Short and Tall,
Rivals for our faith,
Stir up envy from our birth:
So the giant who storms the sky
In an angry wish to die
Wakes the hero in us all,
While the tiny with their power
To divide and hide and flee,
When our fortunes fall
Tempt to a belief in our
Immortality.

Lovers running each to each
Feel such timid dreams catch fire
Blazing as they touch,
Learn what love alone can teach:
Happy on a tousled bed
Praise Blake's acumen who said:
"One thing only we require
Of each other; we must see
In another's lineaments
Gratified desire";
This is our humanity;
Nothing else contents.

Nowhere else could I have known
Than, beloved, in your eyes
What we have to learn,
That we love ourselves alone:
All our terrors burned away
We can learn at last to say:
"All our knowledge comes to this,
That existence is enough,
That in savage solitude
Or the play of love
Every living creature is
Woman, Man, and Child."
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
Through grain fields with bayonets fixed,
from Belleau Woods the Germans came.
The sixth Marines in shallow pits
unleashed a deadly metal rain.

The French collapsed upon the left
Their flank exposed by craven fear
The Marines held fast when urged to flee:
"Retreat?, Monsieur? We just got here."

By June the sixth, it fell to them
to take a Hill to save the French.
A German company with machine guns
waited for them, well entrenched.

Their tactics from another war,
Audacious yes, but not too clever
"Come on, you *******" Dan Daly roared,
"Do you really want to live forever?"

With casualties high, so many dead
The Marine Corps held the hill by night.
Counter attacks were fended off
some times with fists and K bar knife.

Now the cannon of both sides
rained steel where the combatants stood:
A once beautiful preserve of princes
was turned into a shattered wood.

Through mustard gas and cannon fire
The Marines advanced into the Wood.
Silenced machine guns and cut bared wire
till the enemy fled, this time for good.

Before the flag at Iwo flew,
Before  the Canal's jungle squalor
Marines were nicknamed "Devil Dogs"
by the Germans who admired valor.
A battle of World War I 06/01/18-06/26/18
spysgrandson Nov 2015
he's someone’s grandson
his body bag just like the others
viewed from the outside

inside with him
are stories, waiting to be told
over, over again by the mothers,
the mothers' mothers

who imagine they keep him
from the ground with their telling:
bassinets, bicycles, back seats with girls
finally bayonets with the boys

some of them
his buddies, beside him now
with their stories, waiting
to be told
war death bodybag generations
andy fardell Nov 2012
Poems of Remembrance

War is defined as a form of political violence however I rather hate to like the following quote by this Prussian military general in 1832

"War is thus an act of force to compel our enemy to do our will."

We vote in our leaders to refrain from such yet allow them to use us as pawns in their world.I will be remembering and thanking all those who have will and do give up their life's so that i can at least be free to make such thanks

............................................
Lest we forget

The stench of decay hung in the air
Along with the gases from the badlands
Rain had turned the trenches into another bog for the day
STAND TO LADS !!!
the Sergeant barked his mornin song

Spell broken by the first shell of the morning
lucky day ...BOOM .....lucky day
Breakfast usual as the new boys showed no fear
Hide ya head son as another disappeared
Snipers doing their work already...
A scream now silenced short

The morning hate over
Patrolling life began
SHhhhh!! no gunfire
The 2 sides master plan
Machine guns a ready shall cut you complete
Hand to hand and man to man
Bayonets flash besieged

Returned to base to lick their wounds
A fight amongst the rats
Black and brown did rule the roost
A feeding frenzy plan
The lice did all they could to help
Trench fever did its dance
Another day
STAND TO!!! he barked
We stood with baited breath

This was what they signed for
A short war all at plan
And what did they all die for
This life I thank you man

Lest we forget

.......................

A Poppy Remembered

A flower held hand as the young girl
reaches up for her mothers grasp
The reddest of velvet's reflected from
her tears on eyes as her poppy
stands proud and straight

Remember their sacrifice
As you join in their stand
An honour to hold one
Red poppy to hand

She knows why she's standing
She know no return
Her father not here now
His never come home

He fought for his country
He fought for his life
He fought for his honour
His family
Our life

Remember this girl that cries every night
No father to hold her
Is gone from this earth
Yet she is the proudest
A daughter could be
Because of her father
Gave life
For you
...and for me

........................
Poppy day

In between the hills lays a land of green green grass
Where the heavens made their love of life
And gods sung of such sight
Be the lands that they did fight for us the green green grass

Oh green the land of warriors
The land we all do dwell
Green the grass the layman loves
True paradise be felt

In battle times and truces found the land did best it could
Yet all of them who fought for us they knew and understood
The green land see found their place to die for poppy's blood
A land we wished we all could live a world of peace and love

Oh green the land of warriors
The land we all do dwell
Green the grass the layman loves
True paradise be felt

Someday the land will fill our souls and peace will win the day
The green green land will be our rest god bless to all we pray
In those who fought so we could see the green green land this way
We praise and silence once a year remembrance poppy day
.....................

Remember

Remember what they fought for
Remember why they fell
Remember all the killings
The living life in hell

Remember what they did for us
Remember who they were
Remember all the people
That they did fight and fall

A day to show our pride
A day to bow our heads
A day to mourn our family
Lest we forget
If thine eye offends thee
pluck it out....

War offends
my eye.

All my
senses
defiled
*****
disemboweled
by the
abomination
of war.

My mind
disregards
denigrates
reneges
warps time
destroys values
alters psyches
lays waste
to my
conscience
of hope.

Mine eye offends me
the complicit witness
complacently
ambivalent
turning deaf ears
to groans
of the wounded
wails of the aggrieved
silence of the dead;
shutting doors
to sanctuaries
where refugees
seek safe houses,
locking factories
where men seek work,
level homes
where women nurture,
strafe playgrounds
where children laugh,
raise cities
where people
learn to be human,
immolate mosques
where
God's Children
cry out to the
Beneficent One.

Mine eye offends me,
my gut sickens,
to witness
the slaughter
of innocents
droning on
no angels to save
the million Issac's
savagely smashed to bits
by a Tomahawk's blow.

God's vengeance
escalates
the celestial ledgers
dripping red ink
from excessive
collateral damage,
people reduced
as objects used
to secure a loan
indeed an ARM
on a real time
American nightmare
whose reset rate
is mounting body counts
and massive budget allocations
protecting undisturbed flows
of corporate profits
valued in barrels
of imported blood.

Mine eye offends me
an innocence lost
Veritas vanquished
life is devalued
humanity debased
compassion defunct
empathy a twisted satire
an indelible weakness
incidental hostage
to the torridness
of the lurid play
of savage nations
projecting will,
a devastation
of action.

Mine eye offends me
the message of
sweet Jesus
a way of light
transformed into
biblical justification
agitprop verse
stoking blood lust zeal
for apostate infidels
sons of Abraham's
unworthy spawn,
of Hagar the *****
******* child Ishmael
turned out again
from tribal tents
of an absentee father
from an unfriendly
paternity.

This black *******
an abomination
in the sight of Allah
celebrates
a zeal to ****
unholy disciples
yearning to fill
banana crates
with body parts
draped in
drab Hijabs
decorated with
satanic verses
from a
Holy Quran
carved with
bayonets
of self righteous
Crusaders
armed with rifles
inscribed with
Gospel verses
on deadly gun
barrel stocks
to ramp the passion
of the righteous Crusade
against Godless apostates.

Mine eye offends me
as I witness
the **** of
corporate mercenaries
churning bereaved
Blackwaters
beholden only
to shareholders
gobbling spoils of war
to safely exit
to private vomitoriums
to expunge the excess
of gluttony
only to
quickly return
to engorge themselves
at the public troughs
again.

No constitutional
restraints
save the
strict guidelines
of holy
corporate governance scriptures
ruthlessly enforced with
golden carrots
of multi-million dollar
stock options
and the brutal stick
of shareholders divine right
to quarterly dividends
and above average
equity returns.

Corporate warriors
anointed by
holy oil
proffered
by capitalist shamans
and US Senators
conferring
jurisprudential deferment
on civil law
recusing them from
any behavior
to recognize the humanity
of captive insurgents.

Mine eye offends me,
as the flag
draped coffins
of returning
servicemen
and women
continue to pile
on the boiling tarmac
of Dover Air Force Base.

Tearful salutes,
folded flags
and mournful dirges
of prerecorded Taps
are small compensation for
shattered families,
and a wasted life,
unnecessarily spent,
criminally sacrificed
in a pointless conflict
in service to a lie.

Mine eye offends me
as I watch
my country's soft parade
of growing militarization
xenophobic fear
compelled patriotism
salute and goose step
to the flash of sword
and the sound of guns
and the glittering
medals of valor
adorning the chests
of a nations warriors.

How barbaric
are we?
allocating
overstuffed
apportionment
of weapons
and armories
while
people are
foreclosed
forcing armies
of unemployed
Joads
to ride
en masse on
an Acela Express
to a crowded
poor house
a listless journey
on pock marked
highways
arriving at
dreaded
destinations
to defunct
townships
offering
empty factories
and closed schools.

Screaming in silence
I scratch at my eyes
with numbed fingers.

Matthew 18:9

Music Selection:
The Doors, The Soft Parade

Oakland
3/17/10
jbm
'O Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped - In vain! vain! vain!
Machine-guns chuckled, - Tut-tut! Tut-tut!
And the Big Gun guffawed.


Another sighed, - 'O Mother, mother! Dad!'
Then smiled, at nothing, childlike, being dead.
       And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud
       Leisurely gestured, - Fool!
       And the falling splinters tittered.


'My Love!' one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,
Till, slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud.
       And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned;
       Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;
       And the Gas hissed.
(C) Wilfred Owen
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i hate it when a ~haiku is forced upon me, but such
is the case, and it's not a case of dittoing out
a mechanical aspect of that body that's
known as vocabulary:
thus, suddenly, as if a ****, or
a reflex the tongue commanded
the entire body -
left-wing obstructions gave way to
right-wing rebelliousness -
    the left said the tongue was no dagger,
the right said: merely a dagger -
the gyroid: or the muscles we never thought
existed! lanky tendons, etc.
    never the microscopic proof reductionism
and never the telescopic proof           ",
always somewhere in the middle:
and that's about right.
               i wrote a poem, it sounded about right
and then i get the wanked-over shoulder
calling it life-support dandruff
because of the many sprouts possible -
as ever: some come and give a voice unto
the people, and some come and give an ought
unto the people.
               a choice that's mutually inclusive
of thought and choice as a battleground
for the mechanisation of language into
sulphur gas and bayonets
and a thousand wildcards charging and screaming
lost toward the bewilderment of
   forgotten sexting.
      what a mighty affair:
the only country delving the prospect of
an atom bomb being dropped again doesn't believe
in munition economics and doesn't see
that the paranoia can be stopped when the capitalist
sober-heads enter and say: but where's the profit?
there's not profit in an atom bomb:
it ends too soon,
     you never got a Hollywood chapter yoyo
      concerning Hiroshima or Nagasaki...
you got one about Pearl Harbor...
a competent act of war... but not like our
civilians really matter: we civilians got the treatment
of being active members of the army,
while the army personnel were given civilian
Pilate status, the army was given civilian status
and the Japanese civilians were given army status...
oh forget the noodle swindler -
that handwritten hoola-hoop spinster of
carbohydrates is long gone...
          or the greatest paranoia against all other
nations comes from a nation that actually used the weapon!
       i could write a haiku version of what i lost,
but i'll still have to write something about you-tube
vloggers and how they are the newest version
of the objective propaganda machine that's in
the Islamic camp of merchants...
       prophet-merchant? give me a break:
if his word doesn't sell, then who's does?
my endorsement? less of a cosmetic light-touch surgeon
attitude, my endorsement is that of
Morphy Richards' Soup Maker...
cooking pumpkin soup...
  pumpkin... well: it's hardly an easy peel when it
comes to cooking butternut squash...
it's a disaster! a hell to endure! no wonder it's the veg
that frighten offs the ghouls and the ghost
you can't peel it, you have to Apache skin it
like getting a colonial wig: scalping your way into
the high court, albeit minus the greyish curls -
******* is a king of culinary demises
that were sought out expeditions -
you have to knife your way beneath the snail-like
shell and then there's that cobweb of mush
with intrinsic fake seeds / flies lodged in
the orange cobweb - for all that effort
i appreciate it more as a lampshade than a food
source... but then the advertised starving Africans
as anti-colonial compensation for "our"
grandfather's recollection of monochromatic cultures,
before globalisation took off.. hmm.
the soup? pumpkin, potato, onion, garlic,
nutmeg, paprika, chicken stock,
salt and pepper to taste...
tomorrow? a pumpkin risotto...
hey! seasonal abundance, Spanish strawberries
in late winter are too watery anyway...
   people forgot that certain things taste better
in season, that's namely fruits and vegetables...
   go outside your fancy, outside your whim,
you'll finally have to say: my eyes eat
at the very credibility of such things being
there without the season... but my tongue does not
taste the thing that requires a pentagonal sense
honing in toward an agreed to democracy:
it ain't there... as ever autumnal fruits make their
way toward the culinary redcarpet -
                   apples, pears....
     but the real ice brokers remain tangled in
the gnostics of dairy *****: you only see the *****
when the milk turns sour...
              and the two segregate
their cauliflower bergs and that pristine seethrough
        matrix -
then it's like watching the 1054 schism:
          aquasal herring
                               and aquadulci tench -
as painful as listening to my father speak english:
it's just ****** painful,
i write english and speak it like an Anglo
   and he speaks it like an Arab:
with me it's: left right left right left right
and his is an ancient form of actual Latin
              right left right left right left -
of the tongues that appropriated the Latin lingua
optics that weren't conquered it's the same as it was
for Seneca of Virgil, e.g. red beast / proof of all
scientific generic category principle: **** sapiens
                  upright man / bestia rufus -
and that's still orange beast - then aliq for yellow:
then liquid and runny khaki - a monetary equivalent
of money.
          but of the tongues
                      which is why i kept my mother tongue,
i can't imagine what would have been the case
had i not kept it intact... i'd be whitey boy bleached
into an anaemic Arian with those rubbery red
             lost for words rabbit crazy irises that
albinos sport when on the sociopathic treadmill:
that's a daily commute for most people.
i should have anticipated something better coming
out of a forced bad gateway message when
i tried to published and didn't save the outcry...
but it was never a reality when defined by a few
people... it always necessarily the many,
the market square, the hustle and bustle,
     then again few took to ****** to say love...
understandable: if something is called private
it's not called reality, because so many people
have so much **** to say in public that they
treat private life as a tabernacle -
reverse that and suddenly you find people
who possess a "voice for the multitude",
but not (not oddly enough) a thought -
ah the caring scream when not bound to
the horror genre of politics: it's too late!
               end here: a prior to rather than, a
desirably said to appease and conform:
by now we're all cited as having only said
an onomatopoeia of what words should sound like -
we're found hacking a door to shreds with
an axe, rather than merely curling our hands
so the knuckles can be used to knock on the door.
still, i made pumpkin soup today,
tomorrow i'll make a pumpkin risotto -
and the pumpkin is, rightfully, the halloween king
of all vegetables: i am not surprised it's the perfect
lampshade people leave outdoors -
hell of a thing to peel, a butternut squash
would have been simpler to make...
but for the first time in my life:
  i actually appreciate the colour orange...
as said: cooker orange is beyond that fluorescent
acidity of a citrus fruit:
  cooked orange is actually grand...
raw citrus orange?                and a handful
of creepy crawlies.
    funny how the spectrum necessarily made me
endorse a soup maker, rather than the next
big thing in the realm of toothpaste and mascara.
Mike Arms Dec 2011
Staring with the spider
into semantic oubliettes
The cats have all gone mad
The hounds growl at shadows
The guards in the tower
hone their bayonets
The night is red
The shroud of crow
follow my car
past sleeping windows
then lift like one
legendary rook
The snow falls in my headlamps
and my mind is a cemetery
Maria Vera Oct 2014
it became a perpetual motion
a dance
someone hands the card, another lights
the amount of aching discolored grazed fingers was immense
put your finger on the flint wheel
press it down

karen thought we should make a sign
the scrambles of bruised fingers for a piece of cardboard
my fingers throbbed as i scratched our message on the board
i kept the pink flower locked in the crease of my hand
and threw them in air
“draft card burning here”

it was 7 00 in the morning
october 21 1967
i was only 17
my brother jeffrey was flying a plane over dien bien phu
a friend richard was screaming in the trenches of xuan loc
a lover michael treading through a swamp in mui bai ****

i stepped up to The Police.
The. Men. In. Suits. Stared. At. Me
Blank. Faces. And. No. Expression.
I picked up my Pink Daisy, and brought it up to their bayonets
this is for Jeffrey, for Richard, and for Michael

the men in suits stared at me
in a world of chaos and confusion
all I heard was
Silence.
“La Jeune Fille a la Fleur,” a photograph by Marc Riboud, shows the young pacifist Jane Rose Kasmir planting a flower on the bayonets of guards at the Pentagon during a protest against the Vietnam War on October 21, 1967. The photograph would eventually become the symbol of the flower power movement. I wrote this poem from this photograph.
Who was the person in  Colonel Muammar Gaddafi
Was he a deadly Libyan tyrant as the west put
and dictator as the Western media and press
oftenly portrayed him  , here and there
as power voracios bent on assuming the leadership
of the Arab world and super sahara socialite
in the stamapede  of Gamal Abdul Nasser?
That Gaddafi was a driven and desperate man,
what a cruxificative tribe  of  question,

he gloriusly deposed King Idris
from the then rotting  Libyan throne,
President Habib Bourguiba of Tunisia
omenously  warned him that he had to stretch
  miles and whatever to go before he could claim,
to be un fettered  successor to Nasser's sceptre,


Gaddafi was a wildly and spotlessly  popular
among the Libyan masses,the earth's wretched,  
and even those in the rest of the revolutionary  world,
till the eyesore of his brutal ******,
  the tragics and haunting episodes,
of his life points clearly to the   truth of  truth:
  Gaddafi was a reasonless  hunted man
they way bin Laden was labbelled to be hunted,
for so he was a hunted man.

Gaddafi never had the time or the leisure
to do anything but run, but run and run
as an escape to hell, a clear testament
in his classical poetic, quilled properly
behind the dunes of the sahara desert,
His parting shots were true essence
of his compassion and generosity  to humanity,
a humongous  gift of a soccer stadium to Pakistan,
a plan to gift thousands of computers and laptops
to schoolchildren in  idyllic poor African countries,
and dollops of oil aid to poor Arab countries.

were these not totally dispassionate acts
For the Colonel was trying to build a support ,
and network throughout the  revolutionary world
because he was actively tracked and pursued
by the English and French dogs of ******,
tacitly supported by the United States.

The Western powers were committed to teeth,
to removing Gaddafi from his genuine power
lest he prove troublesome to currents of avarice
in furthering their interests in the oil imperialism,
for his daring rhetoric and outlandish capers
were sharp pedagogies to the oppressed.

western powers moaned and yelled doggishily,
for cheap Libyan oil well and item markets,
for  construction and drilling projects,
English and French origin companies
as well as American multinationals,
moaned daily  like female hyenas
when they  stood to lose  monetary gain,
if  Gaddafi remained entrenched in holy life
and  in power as the arbiter of Libya's destiny.

but that indeed was the holy  mandate
he had from the Libyan masses of peasants
even though it was imperially  questioned
by those of his cowardly enemies
moving in tandem  with cosmetics
of capitalism and burgeosie  development.

Gaddafi ****** the French presence in Chad,
as he did roundly criticize the United States
over its foreign policy of Bullish syndrome,
as he gloriously  shielded  the two Libyans
who were  accused without forgiveness
of plotting  and carrying out vietnam like bombing
of an American passenger jet over Lockerbie
in Scotland that led to Kissinger like  killings,
of hundreds of innocent civilians like in Vietnam.

History is yet to absolve Gaddaffi,
to glorify the dreamer with poetry in his eyes
who composed escape to hell in a desertly week,
exculpating him off false accussations,
of committing a crime of such magnitude,
good consicence must question the role of Jews.

It was only the status and stature
of Nelson Mandela as  a fellow comrade,
that managed to implore  the Colonel
to hand over the two accused Libyans
to the International Court of Justice
to face trial or even forgiveness,
The whole sordid drama of the Lockerbie bombing
is an enigma wrapped in mystery, jewish tricks center stage,
Sooner or later, posterity will  absolve out
with the truth and  save Gaddafi's name
and honor as leader of  the voiceless.

President Ronald Reagan did not even wait a little
before he launched those deadly missile strikes
against Libya,  against Gaddafi's private quarters,
to **** Gaddaffi's beggotten  daughter.

Was this not a base and cowardly
act unworthy of America and its great traditions,
Gaddafi, like Saddam, was a victim of labbelling
by  Western media who had painted his character
with satanic evil and malice , as if evil is alien to them,
even when there was no genuine evidence
to justify such a heinous depiction
  Gaddafi was seen to act irrationally,
was supposed to have mental delusions
why not  being mentally unstable!

Gaddafi's antics inspired acts of conscience
and a genuine and fitting response to a life
lived under mortal fear and terror  of terror
the fear of being tracked and hunted down
by Western agents who were out to eliminate him
with full backing from their governments.

Gaddafi, like Saddam  was not a criminal
although all sorts of demonic tendencies
were attributed to both leaders by the Western press,
All sorts of media scoops were ceaslessly  hatched
and all kinds of media blitzes  were  mercilesly launched
to create Muslim helots who overthrew Gaddafi,
and pursued him in armored cars and trucks
to his hometown Sirte deep in the Libyan Desert,
That he was killed with such horrible cruelty
with bayonets and gunshots,
pumped into his royal  head
such  is evidence that his assailants,
were  not  true Muslims whatsoever !

These enemies were petty paid murderers
and butchers who after the dastardly act,
proudly displayed Gaddafi's body
in a meat shop kept open for public viewing,
By committing these very desecrations
Gaddafi's foes had unwittingly revealed
their true un-Islamic and butcherous natures .

And what were Gaddafi's last pearlish words
to his assailants when he lay writhing in pain of death
on the ground unable to move because of the mayhems
of his injuries and wounds: WHAT DID I DO TO YOU?
Gaddafi had died like a Muslim Christ
on the American  cross with no words of abuse
or blame for his enemies, as they knew not
whatever the folly the were executing.

History will have to wait for generations
before another soldier and such a  leader
of Qaddafi's ilk and human  mettle surfaces
again  in the poor man's  world
to bravely  taunt the West
for its imperial perfidy and cowardice.
nick armbrister Mar 2022
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…
B Woods Dec 2009
Antsy aardvarks all
accept ants accordingly
as an addiction

Bamboo bayonets
bought by barbaric, beastly
barons bite beatniks

Cloistered cobblers can
color candy-cane conches
concealing crooners

Daffodils doodle
daydreams down, debauchery
demons deafening

Every eon each
electric elephant eats
eleven elk eggs

For fun fantasies
file films filosophic'ly
filling filaments

Go get greens
Get grass grayer gal
goonie ghoul

Hello high hammock
how hooligans heave haddocks
heathenly hecklers

Igloos ixist in
icy islands interning
internationally

Jello jam jizzy
Jacks jostling jewels juney
jump jump joop jail
More to come....
Amariah Clift Oct 2015
Aluminum foil teeth
Enamel taste bud bayonets
Molars initiate waging war
On the soft pink left cheek
Gnawing away radiated flesh
Sawing off fat
Eating through layers of rotten blood
These
Metal dentures cut gums
Tonguing out iron spit
ehhhh stream of thought
'Talk of pluck!' pursued the Sailor,
Set at euchre on his elbow,
'I was on the wharf at Charleston,
Just ashore from off the runner.

'It was grey and ***** weather,
And I heard a drum go rolling,
Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,
Awful dour-like and defiant.

'In and out among the cotton,
Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,
Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows--
Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!

'Some had shoes, but all had rifles,
Them that wasn't bald was beardless,
And the drum was rolling Dixie,
And they stepped to it like men, sir!

'Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,
On they swung, the drum a-rolling,
Mum and sour.  It looked like fighting,
And they meant it too, by thunder!'
Marieta Maglas Aug 2015
There are spiritual healers getting in touch with those spirits
To ask them why they are present, ' said Erica. „Usually,
When you call them, they come to tell you some secrets.
Some sad lovers that passed away can't leave this world peacefully.''



„They can be demons, too, ' said Maya. „We must talk with the priest, '
Said Geraldine. „Let’s search in the storage room, ' she continued,
„We’ll find something, and we'll face this truth together, at least.''
''I hear the steps of someone walking away from this window, ''



Said Carla.'' Maybe it's the rain tapping on the sill, ''
Replied Geraldine. Surak opened the window and said,
'It doesn't rain; in the soft wind, I hear only the birds' trill.''
''But I've found some books in a big box for safe keeping instead.''



(Maya and Erica went to buy fresh fish from one of the many fisheries existent in that village.)




Fargo entered the Spianada, the largest square
In the Balkans, which was created by the Venetians.
The sound of the sea waves was like a stir in the air.
The peaks of the Old Fortress looked like swords of the Titans.



He passed the lighthouse tower and entered the underground
Tunnels that linked the Fortress with the main parts of the town.
Then, he entered the New Fortress, and when he looked around,
He saw the gates, the sea shore, and the land that sloped down.



(The port has been an important naval base since the Roman period. Considerably, Corfu was called the Gibraltar of the Adriatic. He bought a galley.)



The Ionian Islands belonged to the Republic
Of Venice; they were slowly conquered, one by one, in time.
Corfu voluntarily became a colony; its public
Gardens made the Islands' governor reside on that sublime




Territory; its economy was based on exporting
Raisins, olive oil and wine, whereas the Venetian lira
Was the currency of the islands; while incorporating
The culture of Venice, these people used a plethora



Of Italian words, because this language was official.
Venice had garrison soldiers, scattered in island forts
With muskets and bayonets made of the iron material.
The impromptu recruits and mercenaries were hired in the ports.



(Fargo started to talk with the infantry captain and with the lowborn ship’s captain.)



'' It's hard to eradicate the piracy from the world.''
''Because of money, the soldiers are recruited as needed.'
''Only with the convoy protection, the sail with the ships is furled.
When it is no longer required, their claims are unheeded.''



''The Muslim pirates attack the Christian ships to enslave.''
''I've heard there are Jewish pirates, too, '' ''Because of Inquisition, ''
''The corsairs are dangerous, '' '' Our ships hardly can face on this wave.''
The Christian navies are weak; don't have enough ammunition.''



''The Muslim opponents are fast; you need a large convoy.
You will be convoyed by us until you enter Italy-
After fighting the pirates.'' ''On our ship, there is an envoy.''
''To let you sail, they wanted some protection money.''



''Europe pays its duty to protect its own action,
But accepts the growth of piracy in Indian waters.''
''The piracy is bad in theory, but usefully practiced-
A cheap way to expand their economic and naval powers.''



''The governments don't want to eradicate the piracy.''
''The anti-pirate campaigns are only documents.''
''These pirates mean business behind the wall of privacy.
In bars and brothels for crews, the money means strong arguments.''



''This eradication needs a revision to the law.''
'' Only in the Spanish colonies, they are executed, ''
''Spain has a court of officers, '' '' This is a Britain law, new.''
''In return for the pardon, these pirates are persuaded.''



(The captain gave Fargo two galliots, each one having 80 oarsmen and 60 soldiers.)

(To be continued...)

Poem by Marieta Maglas
R Dickson Jul 2016
Take a moment to stop and stare,
At memorials in your town,
The named names that never came home,
Some had died at The Somme,

No shouts no shots no whistles,
No guns no bangs no shells,
No barbed wire or trenches,
And no gun powder smells,

All is very quite now,
After one hundred years,
Unlike the time the dead were named,
When families shed their tears,

No khaki uniforms no tin hats,
No bayonets to stab a heart,
No body parts no blood no gore,
No grenades to blow you apart,

Silently remembering,
Their memory lingers on,
They fought for King and country,
And died there at The Somme.
Remembering The Somme
Randy Vera Nov 2013
"BUG"

I saw a Bug Battle,
in the cracks of the street Blood and Struggle
Their plastic screams and cellophane curses were almost like yours and mine.
Until a brave one crawled to my ear,
and he told me of his trial in the street crack theater,
I grinned as if I cared, he smiled like he had the time
He said "in whose camp does your banner fly, and can I have you on my side?"
He loaded a Pistol while I replied:
I said: I'm anti-pro no shout catechist, so keep your pamphlets political activist,
You take your cause for lack of a purpose in life,
pursuit of happiness, "eudemonia"  good spiritedness
you're living proof that ignorance aint bliss
Pray "Libira nos a malo!" and Free Tibet!
But you never prayed for the souls with affixed Bayonets;
so I wave like the man being shot from the cannon;
born on this chunk of warm rock hurling through nothing;
who only on the front of spirit can fight;
Storm the Bastille of desperate life;
and dance in the street every night till the day I die.
The Bug Replied:
Know All, Know all, in the dialog to win,
two grants are a Franklyn one Lincoln's just a fin?
Posit value for this bug since you're so well balanced,
gaining perspective from the outermost valence;
you never killed what you eat and confuse "labor with action,"
  but you think you're to evolved to fight for my faction;
We're currency baby as we live and breed,
BASTILLE for you ATTICA for me!
better get in the frae my anti anti teacher
before it ***** you along with every other fighting creature;
I'm going back to me cell where I breathe a little freer;
but let me give a final though like I'm Jerry Springer:
If happiness is purpose than you can call my purpose love,
to survive I fight the Battle and to me you're the bug.
Thunderstruck, I sat on the curb,
realizing I could be a "social surd;"
then I saw my small confessor get killed in a raid;
I would have stomped out his assassin if I wasn't so afraid;
instead I rose to my feet, and walked straight home,
locked myself in, and wrote out this song,
I think of the bug while I'm dancing in the street,
every time my neighbor throughs a sneaker at me;
I feel his wrestles spirit longing to fight,
while I'm drinking and singing in the middle of the night,
than it hits me:
The bug was right
Bravely Burn Barbaric Books of Belief Belonging to Bad Bigots to Become the Bearer of the Bright-less Broken Banners of Both and Between Bruised and Betrayed Beleaguered Borders to Begin Benevolence Before the Beings Below Be Benumbed and go Berserk for Bloodshed .
Boldly Bestow the Blessing of Brotherhood to the Blind and Brutal Blood Beasts and the Bound Brethren of Brazen Ballads.
For a Bare Bundle of Burnt Books can Barricade a Braced Battalion of Bayonets, Block Beyond Billions of Battle Blades, Buffer a Bunch of Big Booming Bullets, Backfire Boorish Ballistae of Bribery and Bury the Barmy *******'s Baleful Brusque Breathes that Brings Back the Bedeviled Beacon of Blame.
wordsbywords.blogspot.com
It is strange
yet not
being back here on
the isle of my forefathers
Of I

Everything is different
yet
nothing has changed

Seagulls call and
the air smells of seaweed
There are pink flowers in baskets
and the sky is blue
That endless blue of timeless childhood summers

Here my name is not an aberration
'ueu' is an everyday tripthong
'Le' a rule not an exception
I am not an exception either

After half a century
discovery
I am one of a tribe after all

Ancestors
people I have never known
not even in name lest alone body
Reaching way back in time
Predominantly French
or of this isle

The Germans
photographed every islander
when they occupied this dot of granite
as bombs fell on Europe in a rain of death

The Occupation was a dark period of
hunger and cruelty
but thanks to these photos
I have seen my heritage
etched on faces so familiar
yet never met

I learned just now
my paternal grandfather had gunshot wounds
along his right side and arm and leg
Mementos of the Somme
of Passchedale
and Ypres

I discovered he died of
carcinoma of the lungs
like my mother
my uncle
several aunts
and my Pa

He survived four years of the Great War
water logged trenches
blood-rusty bayonets
horror and starvation
Just one of a few to come home
Military Medal pinned to his chest
5 feet tall yet battle hardy
witnessing things
doing things
no man nor woman should ever do

But Grandpa (how joyous to hear that word on my lips!)
couldn't defeat
the silent enemy
that waged its war within

All this new knowledge
somehow makes me feel older
Not in years
but in history

Tattoos of my heritage
now pattern my bones

My parents are both dead
I have no siblings
no partner
no children
but now I am
no longer alone
© Jacqueline Le Sueur 2013. All Rights Reserved
Edna Sweetlove Mar 2015
A famous "Barry Hodges" poem!

I was strolling along the Normandy beaches
In the close vicinity of Caen one day
With a very tasty piece of arm-candy to hand
When I found a bleached human femur on the beach.
Oh dear me, what thoughts this conjured up in my brain
As I imagined whose bone it might have been!
Perhaps some pathetic soldier boy landing in forty-four
Who got slotted by a gallant German gunner,
His eyes feasting on the sacrificial cannon fodder
So foolishly supplied for his target practice.

Then, as I grabbed my lady friend's juicy ****,
Causing her to turn and sink her tongue into my earhole,
We sank onto the sands in order to sate our lusts,
(enflamed by a very delicious meal of *moules marinières

and a bucket or two of well-chilled Muscadet sur Lie)
I thought, what the **** does it all matter?
This is now, and that was then, and this old world
Has become a much nicer place nowadays;
But how mistaken I was in that fond thought;
Oh what an idealist I am in a world of woe.

For, all of a sudden, a contingent of fat dwarfs appeared,
Totally naked apart from their luminous Uncle Sam hats
And the Stars and Stripes hanging from their arseholes;
How I marvelled at their disgusting shapes
(and how surprised was I to find their genitals
were of normal measurements and thus
rather intrusively large by comparison
with the rest of their miniature bodies).
O dear Lord and alleged Father of Mankind
Forgive their horrid ways verily and forsooth.

With a whoop, those demented military retards, [see note below]
The famous 118th battalion ****** Marine veterans,
A contingent of whom emerged from a portable toilet
(which must have been a bit of a tight squeeze),
Chopped my girl-friend up with their bayonets,
Whereupon I crapped myself in terror and pity,
Before retrieving the purse from the eviscerated corpse,
Realizing that her PIN number was still useable
Until 'les flics' discovered her unfortunate remains
After the shore ***** had partaken thereof.
NOTE *: The 118th ****** Marines were a very brave battalion of dwarfs of whom unfortunately 91% drowned on the Normandy beaches on D-Day as the water was too deep for them. Their tiny descendants visit Normandy from time to time to commemorate this sad event and usually get totally rat-arsed on too much Calvados (being gnome-like in stature, they have a smaller capacity to absorb large quantities of *****). It was my bad luck that my visit coincided with one of their trips as their brutality is world-famous and their lack of intelligence is wondrous. They are basically retards and best avoided.
jeffrey robin Jul 2010
i was walkin across centrsl park one night when all a suddenly was 75,000 green berets charging

with bayonets flashing in the moonlight screaming "death to da hippie dog jeffrey, death to da hippie dog jeffrey!"

what chumps!

but!!!!!!

i ALMOST felt compassion for them which woulda distracted an thus kilt me

but i overcome

there was a burst a light from inside

an i continued walkin home

lettin them was responsible take it if they chose to
Eliot Greene Jun 2022
We celebrate Juneteenth as if the war was not still being fought
Across news stations and echoes of Jefferson's dreams
The last slaves freed, but this country was never
Reconstructed, just patched up just replaced
Chains with debt, a Theseus ship of spoils pulled
From the wreckage of ****. And I sit the echoes
of police sirens slung like clubs across the backs of the
Boys that sat in my classroom and wondered
Why every white person they met always had
To yell so much. As if there was nothing at all
to be exchanged besides recreating Hegel’s dialectic.
As if the only way to win was in blood. And perhaps
That is what Juneteenth really teaches us, that blood
Shed long enough will lead to ghosts, whispered
Warnings we ignore. As if a million bodies buried across
The South was not enough of a reminder that we needed
To **** to have the enslaved seen as people. We celebrate the
Day we no longer had to bury bayonets in bodies
To treat humans as humans. And they still can't see it.
Don’t realize that if you take away the last plate of food,
That if you turn off the power, that if the dollar can't fill the tank
What comes from desperation is a blood-born tsunami
full of the ghosts of dead racists and stolen children,
full of collateral damage and crackheads hooked on crystal
                    Sold to them by the CIA.

This country cannot swallow the blood needed to clear its cup.
But at least we gonna barbeque and vote, and Dream, and read.
At least we gonna explain to the children that this was the day
The last slaves were freed when there are still hungry mouths to feed.
At least we gonna sit with Baldwin, or Miles, or Kendrick, and unhinge
Our throats like snakes swallowing what the storms sing from suffering.
At least we can carry that truth. If only for a day. If only to free the last
Mind slaves still believing that the war is over, the dead silent,
The constitution holy, the senate fair, the president controls gas prices,
The bullet not already loaded, the school doors not already locked,
The rich earned it, the news aint propaganda, the children martyrs
The blood in our bodies not singing requiems to the pain of our ancestors,
At least we gonna pretend that this country actually free.
Gaffer Nov 2015
Timelike and the decaying bodies piled high cease to amuse the vultures now

Single shots give the rebels confidence

They attack in force

Heavy machine gun fire from the west toss bodies into the air like ragdolls

Textbook

Vultures  tearing at eyes of the dead and dying

Bullets to precious for mercy

The night brings natures other cleaners

Muffled screams heighten the reactions as night vision survey death in technicolor

The ponderous wait continues

Stroking metal like some *** provoking act

Followed only by counting lives little savers, bullets of love

The vultures dance impatiently

The stroking intensifies

Hairs stand ***** as movement waves majestically towards its final objective

A sudden calm unfolds

Nature watches in awe as love is unleashed in her garden for the final time

The call to bayonets now, takes man down to his lowest form of savagery  

Eyes now meet, screaming death the ferocious last act of  men past the point of madness

Blood flows as metal slice through skin and bone, swaying death the final frenzy as screams die the days end

Men cry as they survey the last atrocity of human barbarity

Battle ended, vultures marvel feasting on the final meal

Battle hardened men massacre memories  leaving Celebrations a distant Country as blood red hands refuse to wash

They would never return.
In damp
cellars of
Baba Amr,
women and
children
huddle,
waiting
for the
Arab Spring
to arrive.

They are
arrested
emigrants
on the road
to freedom,
now hostages
to tyranny
seeking asylum
from a season
of discontent
lashing another
poor generation
cowering
deep within
the bowels of
a crumbling
city.

The hajis share
the solace of
desperation,
pressing
this wretched
commune to haunt
dark catacombs
where collective
hope takes refuge
only to discover their
dream of freedom
lying in state
waiting for
a struck match
to consume
the decrepit
effigy in a
final funeral pyre.

The chill of winter
moves through
these poor
pilgrims like a
messenger
of death.

An indifferent
world has allowed
the scrapes of
the besieged
to fester;
growing
into mortal
wounds.

The grim reaper
chuckles from
a dark corner
in these
underground
rooms.

He deeply
inhales the
exhilarating
stench of death
creeping in from
the street,
musing about its
complementary
qualities to
the soiled rags
robing colic
infants.

Allah’s beloved
are famished
from the feast
of acrimony
playing out
on the streets
above them.

The hunger
for peace
dances on
their tongues
like the taste
of a mocking
Hors d'oeuvre
for a starving man.

The wages
of dissent,
protests, the
armed resistance
of revolutionaries
have led them
to the shelter
of this profane
place.

Outside this
god forsaken
bivouac, the
sounds of
cold blades
threshing
insurgents
have entered
the city,
moving with the
facility of a
frigid wind.

The terrible
sword of
a Baathist’s
revenge
eagerly slits
the voices
of dissent;
silencing
the last
songs
of an
Arab Spring,
once joyfully
risen from
the streets
in a chorus of
militant
insistence,
replaced
by mournful
dirges of
horrific
lament.

The
realization
that the
promise of
an Arab Spring
will never arrive
for some
strikes
winter in
the heart
of all.

Have our songs
of liberation
been nothing more
then the baying
of a starving
dog begging
for meat
from a
terrible
master?

The dialog
of gun battles
on the street
above have
abated.

The soliloquy
of grenade
launchers
have been
silenced.

Partisans
defending the
city have left the
streets.

The taste of
recrimination
will be the
prize for
those still
remaining.

The sound
of insurgents
fleeing
boots
gives way
to the pinch
of hissing
bayonets
deflating
the lungs
of prostrate
children
kissing the
dust of
the streets
that will
entomb them.

Abandoned
fighters
too wounded
to retreat
face skyward
to glimpse a
last mortal
vision of
heaven
from their
beloved
city;
gargling
final
prayers
from the
bubbling
blood
of their slit
throats.

It is time
for the
hoveled
pilgrims
to leave
the dank
basements
of Homs.

Care
must be
taken as
we
travel
the midnight
roads,
avoiding
checkpoints;
ducking into
dark doorways
to evade being
caught in the
headlights
of passing cars.

We must
remain
invisible.

We must
be one with
the black
midnight
that swaddles
us in darkness.

We will
follow
the trail
well marked
with the tears
of Hama’s
survivors.

We hear
the whispers
of unresolved
vendettas
leading
to unrequited
sanctuaries
of revenge.

The last
to exit Homs
will follow our
trail of tears as
we trudge
toward Mecca
in search of our
Arab Spring.

We pray
that Allah
will rendezvous
with his tired
wanderers
there.

Music Selection:

Bob Marley, Exodus

Oakland
3/6/12
jbm
Raymond Turco Feb 2018
The Führer smashes his fist down, sending millions into the void.
An S.S. man in the Lager directs his gaze into the void.

British boys lie entrenched, gambling: mortar rains on German lines.
They charge at dawn with bets and hopes, but each pays into the void.

Sailors smell petrol and hurl themselves to the murky waters.
Fire explodes battleships, and grey Zeros rise into the void.

The Angel of Marzabotto buries the dead, wiping his brow.
An officer lodges a bullet there; the Angel prays to the void.

Green GIs go romping through the jungle after Victor Charlie.
They come upon rice fields, and set My Lai ablaze, into the void.

George III holds tight to colonies that raise muskets and new flags.
The Ministry of All Talents leads him, crazed, into the void.

Nippon men flood Nanjing and throw a maiden to the ground.
They ****** their bayonets to send her, dazed, into the void.

Fascist youth march the Bedouins across the Libyan sands.
Captors fence nomads in; the Duce looks, unfazed, into the void.

A young captain and his Bedouins shoot Turks without pretense.
Lawrence, disillusioned, fades out unpraised, into the void.
An English-language ghazal (غزَل in Urdu). The form has ancient pre-Islamic origins in Arabia.
We tied a knot in heaven
and left it there
suspended in the air
unaware of the care that lent there
we stare, bare of emotions
for those we sent there
prematurely
surely it was god’s plan
between that ISIS and
the American man’s man
but wait
I don’t rate the
Wests lack of responsibility
they attest not to the culpability
and without an ounce of timidity
suggest that their
interactions are near
the vicinity of humility
when really Iraq
was left gutted like a
listless fish
to be added to the list
of countries
America and Britain not great
Felt the need to mend
not with gentle hands
but with the bayonets hate.

left without infrastructure
a poor suture on
a shambling wreck
Iraq limped on
to suppurate into civil war
which we condemn and abhor

but somehow haven’t the
nous to implore that we have been here before
The imperialist shadow looms like
a hound, as we espouse civility;
Irony abound.
(Hate Isis for what they’ve done; palmyra particularly hits home, but we should have sorted iraq out properly before leaving.)
Jim Sularz Mar 2013
© 2013 (By Jim Sularz)

Let me muse a bit,
below the parapet.
And bask awhile,
in the sun and grit.
That I should ****,
or be killed instead?
Come my battle cry . . .
“Fix bayonets!”

. . . Dare I charge headlong,
beyond this pit?
Through War’s slaughterhouse,
past the blood and spit.
Do as I’m told,
without regret?
As I plunge over . . .
my epitaph.
(Commemorating the 100th Anniversary of WW1)
1914-1918
Michael McLean Apr 2014
I can't help but look left

while long words march valiantly into the field

before the order was given

stretching strides molding the Earth around their shoes

peeling bark

chipping marble with bayonets

shaping you and I

until paints run

mud capturing their shoes

for interrogation
Terry Collett Apr 2013
You walked down Bath Terrace
having been to Jail Park
on the swings
and slide with Janice

and she had her red beret
on the side of her head
like some French girl
I nearly bayoneted

my old man last night
you said
I had my toy rifle
he brought me

with the rubber bayonet
and I was charging out
of the sitting room
into the passage

and caught him
in the guts
as he entered the room
what you doing?

he asked
I was bayoneting Germans I told him
I’m not German he said
I’m your father

and he stormed off
into the sitting room
to his favourite chair
by the fire

and I stood there thinking
it’s only a toy gun
and I was only having fun
Janice looked at you

and said
if I’d done that
to Gran she’d have spanked
my backside

but you wouldn’t
have had a rifle
with a rubber bayonet
you said

girls don’t have rifles
with bayonets
I might have done
she said

ok
you said
you can borrow mine
and see what happens

no thanks
Janice said
I know what would happen
you climbed over

the metal fence
by Banks House
and sat on the concrete remains
of the bomb shelter

looking toward the coalwarf
where coal wagons
were being loaded
with black sacks of coal

and the horses stood there
in front patiently
eating from nosebags
Janice was sitting pretty

in her red beret
her hair tied
in a ponytail
her coat buttoned up

to the neck
talking about her gran
and the pet bird
in the cage

and you listened  
to her taking in
her hands on her knees
her small fingers

not the kind
to hold a rifle
with a rubber bayonet
more the kind

to hold a baby
or rock a cradle
or stroke brow
you wanted to ask her

for a cowgirl’s kiss
but didn’t know how.
Ace Malarky Aug 2015
Five Hundred miles deep
where the work has just begun
the sweaty backs of Chinamen
reflect the high noon sun

Their hammers strike the iron stakes
with a sharp resounding ring
and they murmur ancient melodies
to the rhythm of their swing

a hundred miles deeper
in an oaken-wooded glen
rusty-bearded lumberjacks
take up the axe again

every man together
brings the forest to its knees
and grumbles songs of yesteryear
to the beat of falling trees

deeper still, the boys in blue
staying true to form,
pointing with their bayonets
upon the village swarm

they spill the purest blood
over sacred ground
their muskets singing fiery death
with that wicked, wicked sound.
Picture this Jul 2016
The Pals battalion,
Young soldiers of nineteen,
The total death toll reached a million,
On the Somme in nineteen-sixteen.

The men in splendid spirits,
There was optimism in the ranks,
With co-op bombs and bayonets,
Gathered on the sunny banks.        

The first bombs fell on Picardy,
Now they stood in lines to push,
They will annihilate the enemy,
No need to charge or rush.

But the German men were ready,
Their intelligence was good,
They knew about the enemy,
Their intention understood.

Our men walked into open fire,
So many lives they stole.
Shot and maimed before the wire
On their gentle morning stroll.

Bodies crushed in defeat,
In a field of flying lead,
Soldiers dropped to their feet,
Leaving many dead.

The slaughter would not stop,
In this futile ****** game,
All deserters would to be shot,
The only gain was being maimed.

Battle planning was inferior,
Senseless death was inhumane,
In the carnage and hysteria,
On the pretty red poppy plane.

The cold touch of steel masonry
it's violent barrage of iron shell
and the crashing thunder with raining shrapnel

2.
The rain, the mud, and ****** terrain
swiftly it crashes through the enemy lines
with it, a swarm of bayonets and steel helmets

3.
Piles of broken bone and empty artillery
raging inferno's and gray smog
****** bodies and a white flag....
Bayonets that shatter
with ****** clashing:
a war waged solely for the self.

Without help,
Without the continued aide of those once wise.

Now we battle for something greater than ourselves -
individuality falls by the wayside;
morning fog fades from humanity's mural.

No great dividing line,
no false romance of identity

                - fluid -

the way of water through rapids.
separate and yet whole.

We fight for the entirety this day,
without ever once seeing the landscape
of shared belief.
I'm disappointed in the lack of text options on HP - what is bold should be struck.
Loxlei Blaire Aug 2012
Knees quake, stagnant faces caressed
smearing red, smearing salt across painted dress.
Some eyes barren, some eyes gone,
stomachs lurched and stomachs drawn.
Mountains with their moss play bed to fallen boys,
to their wasted lungs powder does still cloy.
Rivers play mother’s cool arms
washing way the mess of harm.
Within in the field are stepping stones of flesh,
made colored canvas with wounds still fresh.

These boys have died a thousand deaths
a thousand different ways
sometimes several thousand a day
losing each and every choke of air.
All morning rebirth is an unlucky fate,
for fellow friend’s faces freeze
mid-word
mid-breath
mid-life.
Their warm splatter upon your skin,
a hole in their head you were yours.  

And these bullets, these bayonets
are bombarded on you,
on your boys
by your brothers.
Who you have loved.
Who you have touched.
With whom you have sung your song.

These boys
Are not fighting for cause or crime
or love
or what heats the mind.
You fight.
You die.
Your bodies are reborn.
You bleed
for those seeming Caesars
for those napping Napoleons
who dust powdered sugar off their
plump lips and
canter over each cobblestone as if it were a country.
Surrounded by mud
our feet make love to the surface
                                                        the bullets kiss us, the bayonets hug
                                                      our intestines.....

                                         The blankets
                                        cuddle with our cold, decaying corpses

we write to our wives, letters that will never be delivered

                    the wet ground gives our feet an unpleasant present
                    in the form of gangrene,

the rats  make themselves at home,

feasting upon the rotten
                                 flesh of fallen comrades.....

the maggots make use
of newly formed skulks and aged decaying bone

                                         then comes the symphony of artillery....

    the roar of gunfire, the marching of tanks
                                                    the mighty foot soldiers, and
                    the majestic golden smoke of mustard gas

          the trenches become our unwanted love
         and our unholiest of homes......

"The tears do not shed
the blood does not spill, and the soldier does not die"
is the common the battle cry sung upon us


            these bitter notes of blind fate forever sing to us
                                          

                                               the illusion of life and the irony of war.....

— The End —