"besieged" poems
stand fast
raise your warrior arm
in splendour and dissent
carve the path
besieged on all sides;
the penance of deviance
awaits with open arms
embrace the battle cry
let it ring in the ears
of your foes and their kin
fulfill the oathes
uphold all that is good
in a world of devilment
that crawls beneath the skin
You are a Viking
in this life and the next
do not falter
your name depends on it;
resolution and absolution
await only the brave
the Viking exists in you
do not ignore your dreams
until your grave
your last breath
will be the final kiss
upon this world;
make it count.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
The human soul was threshed out like maize
in the endless
granary of defeated actions,
of mean things that happened,
to the very edge of endurance, and beyond,
and not only death, but many deaths,
came to each one:
each day a tiny death, dust, worm, a light
flicked off in the mud at the city's edge,
a tiny death with coarse wings
pierced into each man like a short lance
and the man was besieged by the bread or by the knife,
the cattle-dealer: the child of sea-harbours,
or the dark captain of the plough,
or the rag-picker of snarled streets:
everybody lost heart, anxiously waiting for death,
the short death of every day:
and the grinding bad luck of every day was
like a black cup that they drank,
with their hands shaking.
10k
It had never once occurred to me
that her protruding skeletal frame
could ever cease my petty insecurities
or abate my incessant torpidity
with nothing but a momentary embrace
but when her spindly arms
besieged my torso
so suddenly
out of the blue?
it did occur to me
oh god, did it occur to me.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 4:13 AM UTC
I am up
Awake
Before the sun
It's arrival
Heralded by
Colors creeping
Out against
The retreating night sky
Do not mistake me
For a morning person
I do not relish this
Nor do I mourn
For sleep
lost
It could be
found
But this
is necessary
Not without joy
Not without sacrifice
Without a word
It simply is
A ride
My Fortress
of Solitude
For a mind
Besieged
By thought
At war with
Itself
Do not
retreat
Into the past
A ruthless place
A heckling pace
That tells you
You cannot
Hang on
Give no portage
To fate
For you cannot grasp
What the future holds
Just
Keep moving
Focus
This ride
It is the only ride
That matters
I wrap myself
In its tight fabric
It's sounds
Clicking and clacking
Racing thoughts
Shifting
Centrifugal forces
Sifting
As I order
Myself
Ride
As long
as I pedal
I am
Present
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
in our
besieged republic
snipers are
popping up
everywhere
taking ***
shots
ending lives
with a well placed
head shot
active shooters
star in
world premier
events
jokers
rise like
dark knights
casting large
looming shadows
on real 3D cinemax
multiplexed screens
sprinkling overpriced
buckets of popcorn
with generous
dollops of blood
others
head back to
school
still ******
about missing
recess and
excessive
sentences
to detention
halls where
bullies tortured
scrawny inmates
with wedgies
and painful
***** twisters
they’ve
come back
to even the score
leaving
bullet hole
pockmarks on
Sharpie smudged
smart boards
declaring endless
summer vacations
for classrooms
of children
who don’t
give wedgies
and only dream
of soft *****
these
urban guerillas
are now working
to liberate airports
from the tyranny
of TSA agents
fulfilling
PATRIOT ACT
duties for
10 bucks
an hour
and
last night
the latest
active shooter
showed up at
the Garden
State Plaza,
-my hometown
mall of america-
mumbling about his
Grand Theft Auto
score, strung out
and crashing
from an unfilled
pharma addiction
script
he grew
up as a
Highwayman
in Teaneck
a former
classmate
working
at Nordstroms
said he was
a really good kid
he was,
one of the good ones,
he could have shot
some people
but the only
person he
shot in the head
was himself
legions of
police officers
surrounding the mall
stood down
grateful for overtime
milling about
in the flashing
red strobes
inhaling the heady
blue fumes
rising to commend
Bergen County
Blue Laws and
next Sunday’s
time and a half
active shooter
training day
Jimi Hendrix:
Machine Gun
Oakland
11/5/13
jbm
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
Somehow it wasn’t right to cry
for someone who
no one knew—for years
though everyone knew about Lil
She was the crazy burden
of an orphaned family
whose memories rearrange the winter shadows
“Are we dressed right?
Are our faces adequately sad?”
They loved the skinny, happy kid
Loved—the ones who loved her
knew her from “The Old Neighborhood”
Two sisters approach the body
echoed in black and navy
holding each other’s hand
They look down at her—
They look her over
They overlook—“The Old Neighborhood”
of the Lillian they had hoped for—
took care of as a child....
And in the din of last respects
a comment from an older gentleman—
“The Goldrick girls were all such lookers”
So I was her niece
and not from “The Old Neighborhood”
I have memories of my own....
I was rich when Lil brought play money
from Misquamicut
She brought whelks and slipper shells too
My ear cupped close
I first heard the sea
Not as beautiful as I expected
nor as beautiful as I would know
She gave them with love—without telling
where and when that I would go....
Her hands were always cool and sweaty
Always trembling
Always a cigarette
and an argument in the background
From the height of three
and hugging knees
I see her face against the ceiling’s
white—with panic
Her eyes are never with me
I know someone is with her
“The Goldrick girls were all such lookers....”
Beleaguered beauty
Frail, with stiff grace
she glances sideways
Checking for my safety?
“Our names too close! Confused too often!”
I was to know her horror— as I know her sea
...Her laughter, too late for the conversation
a smoky hysteria
that will not share with her eyes
She stumbles backward through her childhood
as if she has mislaid something
She wants to go roller skating
with her sister, eight months pregnant
besieged by diapers
with stew on the back burner
...And Lil wants to go back...
to a time at the Rialto
to the organ’s boogie
to the edge—before
The Depression declared WAR—
on someone who
no one knew
for years!
And is it okay yet?
...to let her sea out of me!
It burns so!
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
Shattered Bowed
Clustered broken glass
Dark shadow engulfs
Laid on the grass
Stone piece signifies
People bid goodbyes
Death Lord besieged
Now a graveyard breed
Tested through times
Committing crimes
Resting, Evil Wrath will rise
Avenging my cries
People, friends betrayed
My Wrath, My Hatred
Declared self-destructing
At times exploding
My Wrath, My Friend
My Wrath, My Hatred
My Wrath, My Enemy
My Wrath, ME!!
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
Imagine a warehouse of apples with their individual conciousness.
They are labelled and categorised.
They are segregated.
The apples are gathered and put into boxes marked
by what they want to be known by,
their commonality/mentality.
If a bushel of apples are a stigma, they are put into boxes marked by what the other apples tag them by.
In a self-marked box, by the name of “surat zayifa” an apple lays at the juncture of the pyramid of analogous red,
maggots eating away at it’s heart.
The apple turned crimson hued to an evangelist blood maroon. Smouldering; festering like an open wound.
A stinging aura besieged it,
suffocating the air like sharpnel stuck in the throat.
The apple, consumed by a dark resurgence and a devilish resolve,
spoke in tongues of the serpent and supplanted seeds of pestilence in the hearts of the apples who joined his brooding virtue.
A collective conciousness was supplanted among the fruit,
imprinted with the face of death.
The world of apples, thrive on each other and face the forebodings of life together in spite of their marked differences in a state of throbbing dependancy.
The apples feed on the apples.
Another self-marked box, by the name of “khalas” were set to consume the apples from “surat zayifa” to continue finity,
unwary of their poisoned souls.
The apples fed on the apples and almost every other apple rotted and perished.
The apples that survived were the ones who consumed the apples unblemished in spirit.
All the others apples from all the other boxes blamed “surat zayifa” as a whole.
Even the apples purest, were tainted by the sins of the other apples,
the ones to take the blame for the misdeed of their creed.
The box was now marked in disgrace, a vehemence, a scourge.
The last remaining poisoned apple that was set to perish from “khalas” did something morally unhinging before it’s spirit departed;
the apple smeared it’s tan blood with words on the cardboard and dropped dead.
The singular light bulb flickered, the pulse strained.
Everything fell silent.
The words read “ We are ourselves. We **** ourselves.”
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
When besieged by the
sweeping tides of time
The evanescent of your presence
Has been preserved
In the fortitude
Of my mind
And begins to bloom in
The moment of ecstasies
I have savoured
The sweetness
Of you
That the tongue
Whispers
Unto unknown realms
That I may
****** destiny
To surrender
Her will
To the
Dawning
Of new
Beginnings
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 7:22 AM UTC
This is the new world.
A virtual Vegas crammed with bright lights,
stimulating colours. Sensory overkill
for the new generation.
The mice scurry. A click. Words
and pictures fill up the sad, vacant space.
Information pours into our heads and trickles
out our ears in a few seconds.
No wallet, no coins, no notes.
Objects become ours with no money
in sight. No handshake, no hello,
but a deal has been done.
We are obsessed with the here and now.
A need to know what he’s doing, she’s doing,
surely they want to know what we’re doing too?
A second later, the world can know.
Are you feeling lucky punk?
Plunge into an ADHD mess of those who wish
to be loved by the unseen, unknown.
We are alone, unloved. We need you.
Television without a remote.
Films, music without a disc.
An online Orwellian world.
What was ‘hot’ last week
is recycled into a new fad.
A constant tinker of
layouts, images, ideas,
designed to bind us in chains.
Look at me! Look at me!
Play me, **** the clocks.
Once you’re in, like hell
you’ll get out.
The new world trapped in wires.
Why talk when we don’t need to?
Troops are growing in numbers.
Sign up. It’s free and always will be.
Maybe God created the world as we knew it.
Everything we knew and didn’t stuffed
into a space that grew each day.
The new world is no different.
We stare and sit at reality number two.
There are our ‘friends’, then everyone else.
We are not alone. Anyone, anywhere can find anything.
The life we live scrolls before besieged eyes.
It can go slow, it can go fast.
It can crash when it gets too much.
Maybe it is just like us.
Refresh the page.
Now, what’s on your mind?
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
(Ezekiel, xlviii.35)
As birds their infant brood protect,
And spread their wings to shelter them,
Thus saith the Lord to His elect,
"So will I guard Jerusalem."
And what then is Jerusalem,
This darling object of His cares?
Where is its worth in God's esteem?
Who built it? who inhabits there?
Jehovah founded it in blood,
The blood of His incarnate Son;
There dwell the saints, once foes to God
The sinners whom He calls His own.
There, though besieged on every side,
Yet much beloved and guarded well,
From age to age they have defied
The utmost force of earth and hell.
Let earth repent, and hell despair,
This city has a sure defence;
Her name is call'd, "The Lord is there,"
And who has power to drive him hence?
2.6k
Which face will I wear today
The face I wear at work
Cheerful member of the staff
Underpaid - unappreciated
Tiny office with no window
Paperwork nobody looks at
Rules just for the sake of rules
Which face will I wear today
The face I wear at home
Always tired, depressed, besieged
by a thousand minor ailments
All the things I'd like to do
crowded out by other things
I have to do that are no fun.
Which face will I wear today
The face that sports a poet's cap
Gel filled quill pen clutched in hand
Trying every format I can learn
Gleaning from the published experts
Writing happy after years of sad
Finding sunshine in the shadows that I live in
Which face will I wear today
The face above the helping hands
that reach for places to be used
That garner joy from mucking in
to smooth the path for others
Seldom thanked - often refused
Bucket goal - to save a life.
Which face will I wear today
The face that looks back from the mirror
Mapping all the tracks of age
Searching for the sparkle in the eyes
that joined hands with my youthful looks
and did a conga-line away
Which face will I wear today
Picasso portrait of them all
Ill and hale - strong and weak - sad and glad
When seen together in the mirror
it's a face I do not know
and someone I don't care to meet
So check the clock and choose a face
Paste it on and smooth it out
Comb hair over all the edges
**** the light and close the door
And take this face out for a walk
See if anybody says hello
ljm
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
Shipwrecked heart
Sea of betrayals
Misconceived idioms,
Blindly enslaved.
Was it really worth it anyway?
Fighting with hope; a lost battle.
Fallible carcasses on a wooden platter.
Poisonous Ivy in my veins;
silent heartbeat bursting into flames.
Time is a thief,
buried beneath the sea.
Was it really worth the wait?
Fighting for love; a lost cause.
Permeable holes in an empty cup.
Troubling nature, impatient thoughts.
Infected,
Standing aloof.
Leveled indifference,
taciturn blind goof.
Lost chance; misleading poker glance.
Arms twisted, magnificent ache.
Ashes corroding the mechanical brain.
Bloodbath,
besieged wound.
Abrasive torture,
revealing the truth.
Cursed fortune; insensitive to pain.
Piercing a bullet through the soul,
expressed disdain.
Adamant rapture
with no return.
Imprisoned belief
with no more fire to burn.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
Gumdrops come in many colors
Yellow, orange and green
My gumdrop hides his color
So his feelings can’t be seen
His character is charming
His humor can’t be beat
He’s loving, kind; a friend of mine
Yet, he creates his own defeat
Avoidance is an issue,
Procrastination set in stone
His fears are locked so deep inside
He fights the world alone.
I understand his silent walk
My feet step in his tracks
Circumstances changed the soul;
True confidence we lack.
When tragedies besieged him
His body young in years
He coped the only way he could
While fighting back the tears
He lost himself eventually
Gave in to worldly sins
But, Gumdrop has the strength of few
He stood-up, once again.
With work, he rose above the clan
Temptation everywhere
He faithfully now walks the walk
Recovery he shares
Sadness still surrounds him
Eyes open for dark skies
Preparing for the looming breach,
He limits joy inside
Why would he risk familiar odds?
Reality is rough
To avoid the possibilities,
Is safer than to trust
Don’t try to understand him
He won’t let you in
He’s had to learn the hard way
He won’t get kicked, again.
But I am pretty lucky,
I’ve known him for so long
With memories and good times
and Billy Joel’s top songs
I wish for him bright colors
Prayers I’m always sending
But Gumdrop holds the steering wheel
He writes the script and ending
Yep. Gumdrop is a blessing
My friend he’ll always be
Can he step outside his comfort zone?
I guess we’ll have to see.
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
Thus on my genesis Love's fought Regret
My Ardent Sire whose Merits installed
These English Gifts whom I have thanked just yet
Carried Misconstruction; And docked the Fine Toll
This that Penance be my Honest Attempt
Yet still besieged in case of Bad Timing
The Gold I carry an Issue I Contempt
Will try once more to Win his Best Blessing
My how the Fortunes some drive the Mind mad
And took my Heart back to a Wildman's State
This cannot continue; Much have I had
Sponge this Circled Self back to my Constraint.
The Human in me, the Cause of my Lone
And Sister's Reason I banged on the Phone.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
This is a very important day
A grand and glorious day
The day on which we became a Republic
Thanks to the guiding light
Of Babasaheb Dr. B.R.Ambedkar
The Architect of the Constitution
And the True Father of the Nation
If it were not for the great leader's efforts
In creating such a precious document
Many of us would have been denied
Our basic rights and freedoms
There would have been no equality
Many of us would have been languishing
In the gloomy confines of Tihar Jail
In fact, many of us
Wouldn't even have had the chance to live!
This is a very important day
A grand and glorious day
Or, is it really?
Today is the day
On which we take the pledge
To follow and protect the Constitution
But do we really follow it?
Is there really equality everywhere?
Is everyone getting their basic rights?
Are we really a free country?
Is our human rights record
Really something to be proud of?
This is a very important day
A grand and glorious day
Or, is it really?
If Dr. Ambedkar were alive today
He would have been speechless
With sheer shock and outrage
At the way in which
Our Constitution is being misused
Whether it be innocents languishing in jail
Or the atrocities inflicted by the trigger-happy police
Or arbitrary bills being passed
To benefit the rich and the powerful
Or people being denied a chance to love
Because they belong to different religions
Or an entire state being trapped and besieged
And cut off from any kind of communication whatsoever
And of course, casteism in a myriad variety of forms
At each and every level, whether overt or subtle
The list goes on and on
With no end in sight
This is a very important day
A grand and glorious day
Or rather, supposed to be
In reality, a very sad day
We are cowards at heart
We wear our patriotism on our sleeves
We scream from the rooftops
India! India! India!
But we never question injustice
The sheer injustice perpetrated on a daily basis
On many of our brethren
Especially the marginalised communities
They are also equally patriotic
But we deny them the chance
To even share the stage with us
Till we, the privileged majority
Acknowledge our complicity
In all the injustice and inequality
And start making amends
In action, not mere words
There is no point in celebrating Republic Day
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 1:39 AM UTC
The Paragliders like ravenous vultures flew
to southern Israel to predate on soft targets.
Like swarms of bees, they snuck, ***** maimed, shot, burnt and slew.
Terror did every man's fragile conscience becloud.
Hate made their embittered hearts to mercy forget.
Abductions followed, having to terror avowed.
Then came the IDF's genocidal intent,
having intended global laws to circumvent;
Children, women, all consumed by mighty vengeance.
A disproportionate response beyond balance.
Homes, hospitals, Mosques, Churches and schools are levelled,
as Gaza is by torrents of bombs bedeviled.
I do not with a livid Israel sympathize,
nor do I with a besieged Gaza empathize.
With humanity I have my affinity,
for my deep love for it, tends to infinity.
Oct 23, 2023
Oct 23, 2023 at 4:37 AM UTC
I see my countryman still holding on to the pest
we look to blame of the jar full of gold which fell out of our hand
on the pest, on the men how came from the horizon
the men how opened our eyes
but not without the down hills, deep valleys and the dark part of them
We hold on to the things which drive us into the ground'
for we do not peck the from the shining ground but we still look to blame
whiles the wind of time blows which is more parlous than gold
whiles the wind blows and carry’s away the gold
A hunter enticing his whit bat have our country men enticed us whit sweet words and then stave us in the back 7x7x7 and besieged us in poverty
Putting us in sinking sand whit noting to hold on to.
To the further we must look and loss the burden which we hold on to.
Moving from the past is inevitable if we went to be on the other side where the sun is
reaching for the thing which are in front and living the thing which are in behind .
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
Four lepers outside the gate
of besieged Jerusalem
devoid of pride
deprived of wives
nothing left to lose
least of all, their lives
Perhaps thats why Y'shua used them
to route Assyrian invaders
even rewarded them
They weren't healed
Just remained lepers
Perhaps the most famous
nameless lepers
of all time
Perhaps that's also why
the remnant suffer
rejected, despised
just as He was
There's less to lose
less to impede one's view
of the bigger picture
Father's plan
No doubt that's why
shepherds were invited to Bethlehem
not well-heeled high priests
in pearly porsches
Oh, and absolutely why
the meek will inherit the earth
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 2:30 AM UTC
Once the Emperor Charles of Spain,
With his swarthy, grave commanders,
I forget in what campaign,
Long besieged, in mud and rain,
Some old frontier town of Flanders.
Up and down the dreary camp,
In great boots of Spanish leather,
Striding with a measured *****
These Hidalgos, dull and damp,
Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather.
Thus as to and fro they went,
Over upland and through hollow,
Giving their impatience vent,
Perched upon the Emperor’s tent,
In her nest, they spied a swallow.
Yes, it was a swallow’s nest,
Built of clay and hair of horses,
Mane, or tail, or dragoon’s crest,
Found on hedge-rows east and west,
After skirmish of the forces.
Then an old Hidalgo said,
As he twirled his gray mustachio,
“Sure this swallow overhead
Thinks the Emperor’s tent a shed,
And the Emperor but a Macho!”
Hearing his imperial name
Coupled with those words of malice,
Half in anger, half in shame,
Forth the great campaigner came
Slowly from his canvas palace.
“Let no hand the bird ******
Said he solemnly, “nor hurt her!”
Adding then, by way of jest,
“Golondrina is my guest,
’Tis the wife of some deserter!”
Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft,
Through the camp was spread the rumor,
And the soldiers, as they quaffed
Flemish beer at dinner, laughed
At the Emperor’s pleasant humor.
So unharmed and unafraid
Sat the swallow still and brooded,
Till the constant cannonade
Through the walls a breach had made
And the siege was thus concluded.
Then the army, elsewhere bent,
Struck its tents as if disbanding,
Only not the Emperor’s tent,
For he ordered, ere he went,
Very curtly, “Leave it standing!”
So it stood there all alone,
Loosely flapping, torn and tattered,
Till the brood was fledged and flown,
Singing o’er those walls of stone
Which the cannon-shot had shattered.
1.9k
.....a day's, or a night's inspiration
just walks away
and escapes my mental grasp
an idea, pregnant with possibilities,
suddenly becomes infertile, like
a barren woman, or a wasteland
i try to get hold of it,
still...it glides away, falling along the
edges of my imagination.
i am bereft,
when my muse has left.
::::::::::::::
sometimes,
i eagerly dip, and wiggle my toes
on a sunny blue river that
manifests itself in my mind,
bursting with promises of new insights...
yet, a slightly curving path is hard to ignore
for, it easily presents itself......and
sometimes,
i give in to its swirls of unfulfilled
dreams, and....sublime moments,
hovering, like a hummingbird
quivering...in my own space,
there in neverlandia, where i'm left
pondering, about a life......unlived.
:::::::::::::::
my toe-dipping moments,
my rare moments of serenity,
are short-lived........ruffled,
besieged by old shadows,
because....phantoms of fear
refuse to die.
::::::::::::::::::::::
sometimes,
when treading this curved path,
unwanted, unexpected
circumstances occur,
and, all of a sudden,
my muse emerges from hiding.
inspirations bloom,
like mushrooms,
bolder,
than those that elude(d) me.
:::::::::::::::::::::::
sometimes,
it takes a while,
for love and life
to rhyme.
::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright February 10, 2018
rrab
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
All eyes on me.
Their field of vision lash against my walls.
Eroding them like the frothy waves gnawing at the desolate fort.
These walls that I've raised to hide...
Hide what? I ask.
Surely something that they mustn't know.
Their tongues wade at me.
I strain my ears to catch what they hide from me.
The slightest wind could exalt me to exhilaration
Or, depress me into the tar pit of my own creation.
Where am I headed? I ask.
I am besieged.
The intruder is at the perimeter.
Why am I here? I ask.
The walls are giving away to the tempest.
But they haven't reached me yet.
They are trained at my scent like blood hounds.
I sound the alarm and curl back deep within.
My station hangs precariously.
Will the pillars hold?
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC