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Now when Jove had thus brought Hector and the Trojans to the
ships, he left them to their never-ending toil, and turned his keen
eyes away, looking elsewhither towards the horse-breeders of Thrace,
the Mysians, fighters at close quarters, the noble Hippemolgi, who
live on milk, and the Abians, justest of mankind. He no longer
turned so much as a glance towards Troy, for he did not think that any
of the immortals would go and help either Trojans or Danaans.
  But King Neptune had kept no blind look-out; he had been looking
admiringly on the battle from his seat on the topmost crests of wooded
Samothrace, whence he could see all Ida, with the city of Priam and
the ships of the Achaeans. He had come from under the sea and taken
his place here, for he pitied the Achaeans who were being overcome
by the Trojans; and he was furiously angry with Jove.
  Presently he came down from his post on the mountain top, and as
he strode swiftly onwards the high hills and the forest quaked beneath
the tread of his immortal feet. Three strides he took, and with the
fourth he reached his goal—Aegae, where is his glittering golden
palace, imperishable, in the depths of the sea. When he got there,
he yoked his fleet brazen-footed steeds with their manes of gold all
flying in the wind; he clothed himself in raiment of gold, grasped his
gold whip, and took his stand upon his chariot. As he went his way
over the waves the sea-monsters left their lairs, for they knew
their lord, and came gambolling round him from every quarter of the
deep, while the sea in her gladness opened a path before his
chariot. So lightly did the horses fly that the bronze axle of the car
was not even wet beneath it; and thus his bounding steeds took him
to the ships of the Achaeans.
  Now there is a certain huge cavern in the depths of the sea midway
between Tenedos and rocky Imbrus; here Neptune lord of the
earthquake stayed his horses, unyoked them, and set before them
their ambrosial forage. He hobbled their feet with hobbles of gold
which none could either unloose or break, so that they might stay
there in that place until their lord should return. This done he
went his way to the host of the Achaeans.
  Now the Trojans followed Hector son of Priam in close array like a
storm-cloud or flame of fire, fighting with might and main and raising
the cry battle; for they deemed that they should take the ships of the
Achaeans and **** all their chiefest heroes then and there.
Meanwhile earth-encircling Neptune lord of the earthquake cheered on
the Argives, for he had come up out of the sea and had assumed the
form and voice of Calchas.
  First he spoke to the two Ajaxes, who were doing their best already,
and said, “Ajaxes, you two can be the saving of the Achaeans if you
will put out all your strength and not let yourselves be daunted. I am
not afraid that the Trojans, who have got over the wall in force, will
be victorious in any other part, for the Achaeans can hold all of them
in check, but I much fear that some evil will befall us here where
furious Hector, who boasts himself the son of great Jove himself, is
leading them on like a pillar of flame. May some god, then, put it
into your hearts to make a firm stand here, and to incite others to do
the like. In this case you will drive him from the ships even though
he be inspired by Jove himself.”
  As he spoke the earth-encircling lord of the earthquake struck
both of them with his sceptre and filled their hearts with daring.
He made their legs light and active, as also their hands and their
feet. Then, as the soaring falcon poises on the wing high above some
sheer rock, and presently swoops down to chase some bird over the
plain, even so did Neptune lord of the earthquake wing his flight into
the air and leave them. Of the two, swift Ajax son of Oileus was the
first to know who it was that had been speaking with them, and said to
Ajax son of Telamon, “Ajax, this is one of the gods that dwell on
Olympus, who in the likeness of the prophet is bidding us fight hard
by our ships. It was not Calchas the seer and diviner of omens; I knew
him at once by his feet and knees as he turned away, for the gods
are soon recognised. Moreover I feel the lust of battle burn more
fiercely within me, while my hands and my feet under me are more eager
for the fray.”
  And Ajax son of Telamon answered, “I too feel my hands grasp my
spear more firmly; my strength is greater, and my feet more nimble;
I long, moreover, to meet furious Hector son of Priam, even in
single combat.”
  Thus did they converse, exulting in the hunger after battle with
which the god had filled them. Meanwhile the earth-encircler roused
the Achaeans, who were resting in the rear by the ships overcome at
once by hard fighting and by grief at seeing that the Trojans had
got over the wall in force. Tears began falling from their eyes as
they beheld them, for they made sure that they should not escape
destruction; but the lord of the earthquake passed lightly about among
them and urged their battalions to the front.
  First he went up to Teucer and Leitus, the hero Peneleos, and
Thoas and Deipyrus; Meriones also and Antilochus, valiant warriors;
all did he exhort. “Shame on you young Argives,” he cried, “it was
on your prowess I relied for the saving of our ships; if you fight not
with might and main, this very day will see us overcome by the
Trojans. Of a truth my eyes behold a great and terrible portent
which I had never thought to see—the Trojans at our ships—they,
who were heretofore like panic-stricken hinds, the prey of jackals and
wolves in a forest, with no strength but in flight for they cannot
defend themselves. Hitherto the Trojans dared not for one moment
face the attack of the Achaeans, but now they have sallied far from
their city and are fighting at our very ships through the cowardice of
our leader and the disaffection of the people themselves, who in their
discontent care not to fight in defence of the ships but are being
slaughtered near them. True, King Agamemnon son of Atreus is the cause
of our disaster by having insulted the son of Peleus, still this is no
reason why we should leave off fighting. Let us be quick to heal,
for the hearts of the brave heal quickly. You do ill to be thus
remiss, you, who are the finest soldiers in our whole army. I blame no
man for keeping out of battle if he is a weakling, but I am
indignant with such men as you are. My good friends, matters will soon
become even worse through this slackness; think, each one of you, of
his own honour and credit, for the hazard of the fight is extreme.
Great Hector is now fighting at our ships; he has broken through the
gates and the strong bolt that held them.”
  Thus did the earth-encircler address the Achaeans and urge them
on. Thereon round the two Ajaxes there gathered strong bands of men,
of whom not even Mars nor Minerva, marshaller of hosts could make
light if they went among them, for they were the picked men of all
those who were now awaiting the onset of Hector and the Trojans.
They made a living fence, spear to spear, shield to shield, buckler to
buckler, helmet to helmet, and man to man. The horse-hair crests on
their gleaming helmets touched one another as they nodded forward,
so closely seffied were they; the spears they brandished in their
strong hands were interlaced, and their hearts were set on battle.
  The Trojans advanced in a dense body, with Hector at their head
pressing right on as a rock that comes thundering down the side of
some mountain from whose brow the winter torrents have torn it; the
foundations of the dull thing have been loosened by floods of rain,
and as it bounds headlong on its way it sets the whole forest in an
uproar; it swerves neither to right nor left till it reaches level
ground, but then for all its fury it can go no further—even so easily
did Hector for a while seem as though he would career through the
tents and ships of the Achaeans till he had reached the sea in his
murderous course; but the closely serried battalions stayed him when
he reached them, for the sons of the Achaeans ****** at him with
swords and spears pointed at both ends, and drove him from them so
that he staggered and gave ground; thereon he shouted to the
Trojans, “Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, fighters in close
combat, stand firm: the Achaeans have set themselves as a wall against
me, but they will not check me for long; they will give ground
before me if the mightiest of the gods, the thundering spouse of Juno,
has indeed inspired my onset.”
  With these words he put heart and soul into them all. Deiphobus
son of Priam went about among them intent on deeds of daring with
his round shield before him, under cover of which he strode quickly
forward. Meriones took aim at him with a spear, nor did he fail to hit
the broad orb of ox-hide; but he was far from piercing it for the
spear broke in two pieces long ere he could do so; moreover
Deiphobus had seen it coming and had held his shield well away from
him. Meriones drew back under cover of his comrades, angry alike at
having failed to vanquish Deiphobus, and having broken his spear. He
turned therefore towards the ships and tents to fetch a spear which he
had left behind in his tent.
  The others continued fighting, and the cry of battle rose up into
the heavens. Teucer son of Telamon was the first to **** his man, to
wit, the warrior Imbrius son of Mentor rich in horses. Until the
Achaeans came he had lived in Pedaeum, and had married Medesicaste a
******* daughter of Priam; but on the arrival of the Danaan fleet he
had gone back to Ilius, and was a great man among the Trojans,
dwelling near Priam himself, who gave him like honour with his own
sons. The son of Telamon now struck him under the ear with a spear
which he then drew back again, and Imbrius fell headlong as an
ash-tree when it is felled on the crest of some high mountain
beacon, and its delicate green foliage comes toppling down to the
ground. Thus did he fall with his bronze-dight armour ringing
harshly round him, and Teucer sprang forward with intent to strip
him of his armour; but as he was doing so, Hector took aim at him with
a spear. Teucer saw the spear coming and swerved aside, whereon it hit
Amphimachus, son of Cteatus son of Actor, in the chest as he was
coming into battle, and his armour rang rattling round him as he
fell heavily to the ground. Hector sprang forward to take
Amphimachus’s helmet from off his temples, and in a moment Ajax
threw a spear at him, but did not wound him, for he was encased all
over in his terrible armour; nevertheless the spear struck the boss of
his shield with such force as to drive him back from the two
corpses, which the Achaeans then drew off. Stichius and Menestheus,
captains of the Athenians, bore away Amphimachus to the host of the
Achaeans, while the two brave and impetuous Ajaxes did the like by
Imbrius. As two lions ****** a goat from the hounds that have it in
their fangs, and bear it through thick brushwood high above the ground
in their jaws, thus did the Ajaxes bear aloft the body of Imbrius, and
strip it of its armour. Then the son of Oileus severed the head from
the neck in revenge for the death of Amphimachus, and sent it whirling
over the crowd as though it had been a ball, till fell in the dust
at Hector’s feet.
  Neptune was exceedingly angry that his grandson Amphimachus should
have fallen; he therefore went to the tents and ships of the
Achaeans to urge the Danaans still further, and to devise evil for the
Trojans. Idomeneus met him, as he was taking leave of a comrade, who
had just come to him from the fight, wounded in the knee. His
fellow-soldiers bore him off the field, and Idomeneus having given
orders to the physicians went on to his tent, for he was still
thirsting for battle. Neptune spoke in the likeness and with the voice
of Thoas son of Andraemon who ruled the Aetolians of all Pleuron and
high Calydon, and was honoured among his people as though he were a
god. “Idomeneus,” said he, “lawgiver to the Cretans, what has now
become of the threats with which the sons of the Achaeans used to
threaten the Trojans?”
  And Idomeneus chief among the Cretans answered, “Thoas, no one, so
far as I know, is in fault, for we can all fight. None are held back
neither by fear nor slackness, but it seems to be the of almighty Jove
that the Achaeans should perish ingloriously here far from Argos: you,
Thoas, have been always staunch, and you keep others in heart if you
see any fail in duty; be not then remiss now, but exhort all to do
their utmost.”
  To this Neptune lord of the earthquake made answer, “Idomeneus,
may he never return from Troy, but remain here for dogs to batten
upon, who is this day wilfully slack in fighting. Get your armour
and go, we must make all haste together if we may be of any use,
though we are only two. Even cowards gain courage from
companionship, and we two can hold our own with the bravest.”
  Therewith the god went back into the thick of the fight, and
Idomeneus when he had reached his tent donned his armour, grasped
his two spears, and sallied forth. As the lightning which the son of
Saturn brandishes from bright Olympus when he would show a sign to
mortals, and its gleam flashes far and wide—even so did his armour
gleam about him as he ran. Meriones his sturdy squire met him while he
was still near his tent (for he was going to fetch his spear) and
Idomeneus said
  “Meriones, fleet son of Molus, best of comrades, why have you left
the field? Are you wounded, and is the point of the weapon hurting
you? or have you been sent to fetch me? I want no fetching; I had
far rather fight than stay in my tent.”
  “Idomeneus,” answered Meriones, “I come for a spear, if I can find
one in my tent; I have broken the one I had, in throwing it at the
shield of Deiphobus.”
  And Idomeneus captain of the Cretans answered, “You will find one
spear, or twenty if you so please, standing up against the end wall of
my tent. I have taken them from Trojans whom I have killed, for I am
not one to keep my enemy at arm’s length; therefore I have spears,
bossed shields, helmets, and burnished corslets.”
  Then Meriones said, “I too in my tent and at my ship have spoils
taken from the Trojans, but they are not at hand. I have been at all
times valorous, and wherever there has been hard fighting have held my
own among the foremost. There may be those among the Achaeans who do
not know how I fight, but you know it well enough yourself.”
  Idomeneus answered, “I know you for a brave man: you need not tell
me. If the best men at the ships were being chosen to go on an ambush-
and there is nothing like this for showing what a man is made of; it
comes out then who is cowardly and who brave; the coward will change
colour at every touch and turn; he is full of fears, and keeps
shifting his weight first on one knee and then on the other; his heart
beats fast as he thinks of death, and one can hear the chattering of
his teeth; whereas the brave man will not change colour nor be on
finding himself in ambush, but is all the time longing to go into
action—if the best men were being chosen for such a service, no one
could make light of your courage nor feats of arms. If you were struck
by a dart or smitten in close combat, it would not be from behind,
in your neck nor back, but the weapon would hit you in the chest or
belly as you were pressing forward to a place in the front ranks.
But let us no longer stay here talking like children, lest we be ill
spoken of; go, fetch your spear from the tent at once.”
  On this Meriones, peer of Mars, went to the tent and got himself a
spear of bronze. He then followed after Idomeneus, big with great
deeds of valour. As when baneful Mars sallies forth to battle, and his
son Panic so strong and dauntless goes with him, to strike terror even
into the heart of a hero—the pair have gone from Thrace to arm
themselves among the Ephyri or the brave Phlegyans, but they will
not listen to both the contending hosts, and will give victory to
one side or to the other—even so did Meriones and Idomeneus, captains
of m
When the sun goes down
I have my first drink
standing in the yard,
talking to my neighbor
about the alder tree
rising between our houses,
a lowly tree that prospered
from our steady inattention
and shot up quick as a ****
to tower over our rooftops,
where it now brandishes
a rich, luxuriant crown.
Should we cut it down?
Neither of us wants to --
we agree that we like
the flourishing branches,
shade like thick woods.
We don't say it,
studying our tree in silence,
but we know that if the roots
get into the foundations
we've got real trouble.
John goes back inside.
Nothing to be done in summer --
not to those heavy branches.
I balance my empty glass
on top of a fence post.
In the quiet early dark,
those peaceful minutes
before dinner, I bend down
to the flower beds I love
and pull a few weeds --
something I've meant to do
all day.
Kathleen Nov 2011
I am a peripheral *****.
I brandish my notebook
Like a chef brandishes his dish-rag.
Where do wizards keep their wands?

I build worlds out of words
Universes out of silence;
Universes that can be destroyed
With a single eyebrow.

I am a calculator.
I am a thermometer.
I am a clashing painting on the wall.
I am a question.

I am as much as my pencil.
I am as much as my frame.
I am as much as my stains.
(I am as much as the buttons unbuttoned on my shirt collar.)
Senor Negativo Sep 2012
Life hovers above us,
it generously gives us energy.
Colors rich, and tactile brilliance it bestows.
you and I will still have souls
designed for pleasing one and other,
no matter what pain our flesh endures
through the night.
Do not dwell on the flames of hell,
or the sulfur smell,
it will all flee at first light,
as our love brandishes beams of positivity
in sympathetic unity with the rising sun.
Our fears will run for their feotid caves,
and a kiss will drive them from our thoughts as well.
Through the pale, into the black, until the pale into the bright
I give you the essence of my body to hold you tight,
safe and warm in the cold and lawless night.
Think of me when the walls come closing in
and I will bring us a pair of hammers
and we can break free of these fetters.
Run towards the horizon, hands clasped
Jedd Ong Sep 2013
Gliding o'er all, through all, Through Nature, Time, and Space, As a ship on the waters advancing, The voyage of the soul—not life alone, Death, many deaths I'll sing.*

Sometimes sprawling leaves just don't cut it.
Sometimes, you gotta be a badass.
Grow a beard
Cut the grass.
Get some shades,
Get a hat.

Sometimes a song isn't adequate
To express what you're feeling, y'know?
Sometimes "myself"
Needs a happy fix,
Blue skies,
Stuff blowing up and
Flying sparks.

Every now and then,
The learn'd astronomer
Brandishes a smoking gun.
Hal Loyd Denton Feb 2013
An effusive elaborate scheme the colors advance to bright spellbinding allure then they achieve
Depth of quality by cutting back to softer hues and then the natural dark green is the bold
Touch that succeeds with total symmetry showcased in a view perfected by glass the prism
Most fitting not only to see but to be captivated by perfected expression it is a metaphor for life
The master designer chooses his subjects well one infuses another then by degree others
Foreshadow and glorify it blends tangible and intangible into intelligent coherent order tasteful
And sublime the hint and the elusive wonder all is needed is the wind to bow and ****** it into
A profusion a veritable concert that stirs with appeal life is in motion the players advance and
Retreat each speaking lines unique to themselves what sensations speak tendrils on a garden
Trellis held and fixed a gesture that plays and portrays intricate details the mystery that plays so
Well the stealing of morning frost then the blaze and then restful dying rays that spell comfort
The field rolls and contorts this brandishes excitement exuberance veers and plunders life
Become exploration trails hidden thickets hide and hold expression that is pent up ready to
Explode what vesture we wear it grips our friend’s astonishment is read on their faces but it is
Like a house of many mirrors because their lives are having the same effect on you some days
Are uneventful others are storm tossed with grandness the riches of an all contained realm
Spasms convulse like waves of the sea we stand forth to puzzle and dream what does it all
Mean the sanctity reveals plumes that are invisible that are far reaching and they have given us
This course of endurance that belies longing we grow soft and an inner glowing surpasses the
Stringent the misfit that moans against conforming we are treasure that exceeds all expectation
Life is rich we are its brightest colors and light night is for brooding the day is for shinning and
Divulging the secrets found in the brooding time we accost others we signify to them not only
Our own worth but there’s also fetching is the spray that magnifies the sky we are the bursting
We are the aliveness that is found each day in our lives that is the dooryard of discovery

Kyle Huckins Feb 2013
Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only dirt that, like jellyfish, echoed away

A refugee of the Imperial Court once hid in the Zhongnan.
He survived in silk rags, and would ode The Way

Moss-haired men watch Magnavox in windows,
the evangelical salesman begging them not to toad away.

Across the street, near the top floor, a freshly-ex-student
sits at his desk in an IRS building, told five hours ago to code away

A face, topped with hot pink, brandishes her crop in a field
of signs, screaming at Wall Street's old way.

A yam of a man, braving his new home in the hills,
freedom from obligation, finds a stream to wash the woad away.

Along a country road, a man with a sandpaper'd
face counts his money, having just sold whey

Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only a past that, like jellyfish, echoed a way

Twenty one years have given me many names.
Call me Kyle, or the others I've borrowed away.
Himanshu Koshe Apr 2013
I try to measure the overwhelming depth of the ocean,

And with a sly deception shudder at my fantastic obsession.

The Me Within opens his wings, flies high in the sky,

Lovingly callous about the miles treaded by.

I weave around myself, an aura of hapless piety,

Adorn my helplessness with a cocoon of sincerity.

The Me Within emancipates – out of the golden cage,

To soar the mountains steep with an astounding rage.

I look at my past with guilt, remorse and sorrow,

And search outward for an excuse that I could easily borrow.

The Me Within looks ahead never to turn back,

His burlesque gestures mock at me for the pluck that I lack.

I live in a world of purity, of rituals, of rights and of wrongs,

Content with the legacy of my notes, happy with the tyranny of my songs.

The Me Within is mischievously charming, gamboling in between,

And I hear his whistle blowing, humming a tune so serene.

I count my days, count my time, and count my blessings, to win,

And relinquish the countless moments of joy, scared of committing a sin.

The Me Within is a careless lad, who happily loses with a smile,

And brandishes his joyful hat, every once in a while.


I wish I could be like him, and he’d live my life like me,

I’d paint the sky with freedom, and dive through the depth of the sea.

Reality shrieks yet again, with her deafening draconian din –

When he leaves me, and I leave him, I’d meet the Me Within…
A A Bernier May 2015
I know not if I have ever seen
a night so still as this.
Clouds rolling on a starry sea;
A beautiful eclipse.

But lo, another light appears
now I am on the run.
The man whose gold I stole is near
he brandishes a gun.

A dark alley, a scurried fall
Slowed by the sack I bore;
he caught me trapped against a wall,
and the night was still no more.
Hail to our Christian Nation!
bright light in a dark new world
all nations must become like us
our grand flag we gallantly unfurl

life, liberty and property
a God given natural right
America's rapturous exceptionalism
our birthright and celestial light

for Jesus came not in peace
he brandishes a sharp sword
the Prince of Peace a warrior
its the written holy word

the blessed founding fathers
moved by exalted holy spirit
manifests a divine constitution
with legal slaves for pious despots

forever we must remain vigilant
sentinels of freedom on the watch
poised to launch global drone strikes
righteous retribution is on the march

for we are a Christian nation
bespeaking prophecies of fear
gun sights our holy crosses
a good clean rifle always near

private property a sacred icon
acquisition of more things divine
what's yours is your gladness
but don’t ever covet what's mine

cause I got me a big six shooter
and a Bushmaster just to be sure
if a robber comes a knockin
I’ll drop him at the door

a nation rife with criminals
thieves steal, **** and rob
we pack em off to prisons
in cells forever to rot

cause rehabilitation is too costly
a perps resurrection is no sure bet
criminals are just animals anyway
something we shan’t ever forget

we prefer jails to public schoolin
spare the rod and spoil the man
schools teach secular humanism
blasphemes God’s creation plan

the idle takers are on welfare
make the hard working man poor
God helps those who help themselves
may His grace anoint me with more

when government overreaches
we got 2nd Amendment solutions
Wayne LaPierre a visionary prophet
markets a rise against the Union

we the people alone are righteous
America is one nation under God
Buddha, Allah and blue Krishna
false deities all Baal ‘s frauds

Oh holy of holies E Pluribus Unum
is a God in whom we most trust
our hearts forever invested
for our gold never turns to rust

whoa to jihadists and terrorists
who hate our American dream
mighty God will strike you down
Crusaders will smash your schemes

to all the Godless apostates
may you tremble with fear
Our God will surely smite you
you shall shed bitter tears

so onward Christian soldiers
as our boots troop on to heaven
may providence bless our Canaan
doing the will of the glorious Sovereign

Music Selection:  
Onward Christian Soldiers

MBJ Pancras Dec 2011
I was a mason and am meant for daily wages,
With me are helpers, young, old, men and women,
And we are the builders, but we do not own the building.
Yet, we own the building till the last patch of the masonry.
We sleep in the storey; dry our clothes, cook our food;
We scatter our belongings and we rule the building a while.
People think we’re just masons, but we’re the kings of the construction.

They say it’s their home or shop to make money for their ‘statuses,
But who is the owner of the property,
And no one on earth is the owner of anything.

On morning we brush our teeth; clean our bowels;
We clean our body; we fill our bowels;
And we take our tools to break and cement the walls.
The sun sets that we shall crawl to our beds,
And our body twisted to stretch out from pain.

Every day we the kings till the last patch of our work,
And no one questions our stay under the roof.
We shall permit even the ‘owner’ of the roof.

We become ‘untouchable’ after our last stroke.
We make them ‘comfortable’ for their stay with our sweat,
And they threw coins at our sweat.

Yet we have not lost our kingship, for we shall regain it
When we’re called for another construction.
We’re happy with our kingship ‘cause we are kings of many homes,
But they ‘own’ a bit of the land.

None on earth is the owner of the land,
For HE Who hath created it is its Owner,
And we’re HIS tenants staying a while,
And we play gimmicks to mimic the outrageous traitor,
And the traitor is the law-breaker, who counteracts the Creator,
But in vain he brandishes his sword against the Mighty.
Looking at a mason at work this verse appeared to me.
Death-throws Mar 2015
come on sweet heart
chin up, don't tear yourself apart,
stand tall,
even though your 5'6'
disregard that , wear your six inch heals and strut with  brutish animosity
your a lion whose collar brandishes six inch spikes facing inwards now take of your leather back straps and show them what you've been working on
let the sun glint of your scars and make dam sure they know  how you earnt them

mythie Nov 2017
A tall, elegant wallflower.
Her orchid eyes tell a million tales.
An expressionless face.
A contagious smile.

She's easily flushed, and often hides away.
I love when she talks, her voice is melodic.
Her laugh causes my heart to ache.
Her small hands cradling a book.

Everything about her makes my heart pound.
The curving of her lips.
The way she blinks.
Her methodical way of thought.

I love it all.
She's a little messed up, but that's alright.
I help her as much as I can.
She's scarred, and in pain, but that's okay.

She opened up, little by little.
Making me proud, and a little flustered.
When she brandishes her knife, I feel a sense of fright.
But I know that everything will be okay.

She's timid, polite and talks quietly.
I'm patient with her, she means the world to me.
Whenever we touch, my face turns red.
But it's okay, because hers does too.
Norman dePlume Dec 2015
Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.

The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely

in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in *****-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.

Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.

In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.
An N+7 from a passage by Marx,
copyright (c) 2015
He sings a song so sweet and soft
As he strokes your smooth skin
He soothes your pain and eases your worries
And he blocks out all of the din
The light flickers but you are weary
Your mind is slowing down
Something glints in the corner of your eye
But you're too tired to even frown
Your vision blurs as you slump to the floor
His voice permeates your soul
You realise now what was glinting
You struggle to rise but can't reach your goal
His song has grown sinister and twisted
As he brandishes the knife
You are helpless and hopeless
In the final moments of your life
Happy Halloween everyone
Lewis Bosworth Sep 2016
The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.

The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.

Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.

What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******.

“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”

Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.

A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.

“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.

All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.

The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.

A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.

“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”  

© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Nicole Fernandez Jun 2010
Her face, deceivingly empty, like that of a mask
Concealing what lies beneath
Her mask, carved from a slab of marble -
Cold, unyielding, stoic, unconquerable
She cowers behind it like a suit of armor
And brandishes it like a sword against anyone who threatens to come near
But in the darkness, she surrenders
The mask stripped away to reveal her in all nakedness
In solitude, she weeps
In solitude, she longs
In solitude, she succumbs to weakness -
Vulnerable, bare, exposed, trembling
Come daylight, the mask is on again
Deceivingly empty, concealing, hiding
Nobody sees beyond the mask
No one hears the silent cry or the whoop of elation
No one sees her eyes light up or witness her break down in grief
No one feels her longing, no one sees her pain
All they see is the mask.
Lewis Bosworth Sep 2016
The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.

The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.

Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.

What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******.

“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”

Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.

A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.

“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.

All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.

The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.

A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.

“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”  

© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Don’t open the door Mary
Look after those children upstairs
When they cry your name in the night
Cause they will
As you know better than anyone

Don’t open the door Mary
When the man calls out your name
All gentle and soothing
Like a preacher at the altar
But it’s not him

Don’t open the door Mary
Cause hes not the man you knew
Resist the curiosity wriggling inside you
Ignore him calling outside
As he brandishes his knife

Don’t open the door Mary
To the familiar voice you hear
Things have changed inside him
A strangeness has taken over
Now a darkness waits at your door

Don’t open the door Mary
Just sit and wait in your chair
Eat the beautiful chicken resting on the plate
Drink the wine velvet in its glass
And dream on this beautiful evening

Don’t open the door Mary
As he’s banging on the door
Cry into the night if you need to
And let god listen to your head
Let him save your soul tonight
In Science class
he brandishes the stick
of wood, alight at the tip,
wafts it against
the balloon’s skin,
his students awaiting
the expulsion of colour,
a bang to jangle the eardrums.
He moves in, the pumpkin flame
prods the hollow shape
and it vanishes
in a second of a second
to a spiral of fire,
the sound spreading
through the room faster
than teenage gossip.
Written: October 2016.
Explanation: To mark National Poetry Day on 6th October, I wrote 25 poems over the course of eight days, and sent one poem each to one of 25 of my Facebook friends. After some deliberation, I am now posting the poems on HP (in order of when they were written), albeit not all in one go. 'Firework' is poem one, for those of you who wish to read the series in full, in order. None of the poems are about their recipients. All feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
Zukiswa Mvunguse May 2019
Whenever I think of putting pen to paper
Intangible thoughts into words
And translating the foreign tongue of my heart
My body starts to shake, my cold blood begins to boil
And tears fill my eyes, but they refuse to flow

Explaining depression is like trying to conquer writers block
Unfortunately, I suffer from both
To my parents, I’m just stressed
To my siblings it’s typical me
And to my friends, it’s taking a joke too far

My mother says she doesn’t understand
Depression doesn’t exist in her culture, but patriarchy does
So, I smile and say it’s nothing, but the ***** in me rears her ugly head and screams
‘Look at me, don’t you recognise the face you wake up to everyday
The feelings you were taught to stomp out and ground down for your husband’s morning coffee
I am you…’
But the coward in me smothers these silent pleas

My father is more eloquent than my mother
He brandishes words as if they were swords
But throws them like poison daggers, twice as deadly
So, he twists and mangles my words, skewering my perception
The heart’s silent screams turning into never ending tears, turning into rivers of blood
I tell him how much I despise him and how I wish I were dead
But one look at my mother’s stricken face, her warning glare,
Reduces my courage into ash and I degrade myself further with an apology

My siblings are a confusing, unpredictable bunch
My brothers don’t know what’s going on, but they understand
How I envy their innocence and ignorance
My older sisters are more complicated
One is my rock, the only thing keeping me from ending it all
She says she’s been here before, that I need to be strong and that she understands
But that only makes me feel guilty for never being there for her
She’s leaving home soon and all I can think is ‘What about me?’
Our eldest sister is a nassistic sociopath
She thinks she’s helping…

Now I don’t have many ‘friends’, but I do have a Best Friend
When I tell her that I’m depressed, she doesn’t ask me why
On most days, she’s my polar opposite, the Yin to my Yang
She’s as skinny as I am fat, loves horror movies which I hate
She can’t stand anime, this is her only flaw
But on some days our stars align
And it’s eerie how much our life experiences mirror each other
To my other friends I just laugh everything off
As if curing this emptiness was as easy as getting over a broken heart
Bardo Jun 2019
My! The beach it looks so cool today
With the sun shining down, the tide in
The golden sands, the lovely blue sea
How I'd love to be down there now,
    messing about among the rocks
Fishing for *****, lookimg in the rock
Paddling through the water,
    swimming out in the tide,
Having a picnic with my Mom; she'd
    have the blanket laid out
For us all to sit upon
She'd have lovely scones with butter
    and strawberry jam
And lovely hot sugary tea
And "Go on, go get an ice cream from
    the ice cream man".

But No! I can't, I've got to go to school
With this heavy schoolbag strapped to
    my back with all my books in it
Yea, I got to go to school today and
    face the scary teacher
The way she shouts at us and
    brandishes that ruler of hers
And she'll slap you if you don't have
    the right answer
Scary! Scary! Teacher
She's not at all like my Mother, my
    Mom she's soft and kindly.....
And she worries a lot I can tell, Mom
    you mustn't worry,
She looks so sad sometimes I could cry.

At school how time, it moves so slow
O! I wish, how I wish I didn't have to  
As children we're all thrown together,
    it gets so noisy and there's quarrels
And some of the bigger boys from the
   older classes
Their nasty, they push you around
    and want to fight with you.

Coming back to class from the
    toilets sometimes, on my own
I stop there & look out the door at
    the empty playground
The leaves blowing in the wind, the
    sparrows busy about
And then I look at the school gates and
    I think
" Beyond those school gates lies Home"
How I wish then I could just run home
I'd run and I'd run
Run past the gates of the houses with
    their angry barking dogs
I'd run ! Run the whole way, I wouldn't
I want to be at home with my Mom
Up in my room with my books, my
    comics and toy soldiers.

But No! they say the Guard(policeman)
    he'd be doing his rounds now
And if he was to see you, he'd catch
And then there'd be trouble then, Big
    Big! Trouble!!!
Mum would be brought down and Dad
    would have to be told too
At least, that's what they tell me,
More trouble for Mum
So I can't - I must go to school then.

Yes! I've got to go to school today and
    face again the scary teacher
At least I got my homework done, but
    there's still so much
I don't many things...
    so many things to learn,
Scary! Scary! Teacher! she never looks
She laughs at us and calls us bad
Just sitting there we tighten up inside,
    under her gaze
And we pray "please don't ask me,
    please don't ask me
Please don't call out my name",
How we watch that clock up on the
Praying for 3 o'clock to arrive.

Why is it I had to come to this place?
I don't want to be here, I want to be at
     home with my Mom.

Yes! I'd love to be down there today on
    the beach
But I got to go to school today.
I travel to work on the train that goes along the coast so I see beaches and boats. I was thinking how as a child we had to go to school but longed to be elsewhere and here I am today going to work on a lovely day, wishing too I was elsewhere so nothing much has changed. -I did a painting once of 'coming back from the toilets to class but stopping to look out the door at the empty playground & wishing I were home. It brought up a lot of old memories. This is where this poem came from. Is a child's eye view. Hope you enjoy.
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
You coated your words in spice;

fragrant lies perfuse deep inside.

Wrapped and bundled and brandished

in bouquets of flowering excuses.

You’ve taught me a lesson;

after letting those words of yours

taint the inside of my head,

dripping into my heart.

Spoilage, wasted.

Never could you have committed

any crime more cruel.

When your flowers wilt

and fade,

when your spices turn rancid,

I will know what it was.

You never loved me at all.

You can replace me in days.

Find a new love to call.

Apparently she fills the voids

I couldn’t anymore.

Take those fanciful dreams of yours,

of you and me and memories,

and bury them alongside what’s

left of me.

I don’t need to be pulled along

into your little playground;

your little fair, exhibit, of

times gone by when we

once touched.

Just know that I’m still the one

who took you exploring.

I’m the one who offered you a different


I’m the one you worshipped naked before you

not very long ago.

And you, girl.

I can only offer you such sympathy.

Because you’ve opened yourself to the same shadow,

the predator in all loves;

the one that toys and bends and preys on that

vulnerable little parcel of yours.

The one that beats for him.

But don’t forget it also beats for you.

And do you really want him to tease and taunt and

hold that thing?

Poor girl.

When he brandishes that same bouquet at your door,

you know it’s time, poor thing.
touka Apr 2018
windows open in winter
lonely, hiemal caress

I feel my veins curl
wilt like pulled ribbon

they cramp under the muscle
cold stifling the crimson

the blood collects in my cheeks
pools there; potent, pressing

but he brandishes the pain –
I watch him thrash the world
off of the hems of his cuffs

offer a fist to his cries

I watch him dance around his ills
like they are open flame around his feet

bold, loudmouth
his thoughts bounce right from the brim
of his broken lips
with no caution; it is to the wind

only a fool could be so confident
"we have set these tears flowing for all time, in you,
and they'll always have sufficient reason to fall."
Nun Fun Undone
by Michael R. Burch

are not for excesses!

*** Hex
by Michael R. Burch

Love’s full of cute paradoxes
(and highly acute poxes).

Saving Graces
for the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter
(wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter).

Conformists of a feather
flock together.
—Michael R. Burch

Winner of the National Poetry Month Couplet Competition

Feathered Fiends
by Michael R. Burch

Fascists of a feather
flock together.

The Whole of Wit
for Richard Moore
by Michael R. Burch

If brevity is the soul of wit
then brevity and levity
are the whole of it.

Laughter’s Cry
by Michael R. Burch

Because life is a mystery, we laugh
and do not know the half.

Because death is a mystery, we cry
when one is gone, our numbering thrown awry.

If every witty thing that’s said were true,
Oscar Wilde, the world would worship You!
—Michael R. Burch

Multiplication, Tabled
for the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

“Be fruitful and multiply”—
great advice, for a fruitfly!
But for women and men,
simple Simons, say, “WHEN!”

Not Elves, Exactly
by Michael R. Burch

Something there is that likes a wall,
that likes it spiked and likes it tall,

that likes its pikes’ sharp rows of teeth
and doesn’t mind its victims’ grief

(wherever they come from, far or wide)
as long as they fall on the other side.

Fierce ancient skalds summoned verse from their guts;
today’s genteel poets prefer modern ruts.
—Michael R. Burch

Long Division
by Kim Cherub
after Laura Riding Jackson

All things become one
Through death’s long division
And perfect precision.

Meal Deal
by Michael R. Burch

Love is a splendid ideal
(at least till it costs us a meal).

Vice Grip
by Michael R. Burch

There’s no need to rant about Al-Qaeda and ISIS.
The cruelty of “civilization” suffices:
our ordinary vices.

by Kim Cherub

Let’s not pretend we “understand” other elves
As long as we remain mysteries to ourselves.

by Kim Cherub

And so it begins—the ending.
The narrowing veins, the soft tissues rending.
Your final solution is pending.

by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.

Fleet Tweet: Apologies to Shakespeare
@mikerburch (Michael R. Burch)

A tweet
by any other name
would be as fleet.

Fleet Tweet II: Further Apologies to Shakespeare
@mikerburch (Michael R. Burch)

Remember, doggonit,
heroic verse crowns the Shakespearean sonnet!
So if you intend to write a couplet,
please do it on the doublet!

15 Seconds
by Michael R. Burch

Our president’s *** life—atrocious!
Asian markets are all hocus-pocus.
Politics—a shell game.
My brief moment of fame
flashed by before Oprah could notice.
a Halloween
standout in
a costume
that bellows
in neither
lake that
clouds their
garnishment that
brews the
heathen in
this gallery
only to
bear false
witness with
euphoria that
brandishes the
wine here
a mark of celebrity counts here
nico papayiannis Jan 2019
A world so cruel
Brandishes me a fool
Uses me as a tool
And now I worship
The Gods of power
I pay my tax
To take just five
And relax
Watch a pixilated screen
To furnish my dream
Live as an imposter
Someone else's life I could foster
But as the smokescreen lifts
They disappear
My golden gifts
Now naked to a world
At first glance , weird,
Taught in the old days
To be feared
But here they do not punish
You are left alone to flourish
Grow wild with the land
On your own feet stand
Exist to experience, to enlighten,
And to purely exist
Authority looms
Yet autonomy blooms
Forever to fight
Forever to resist
Heavenly Mar 2018
Sometimes I go for so long outside the window I forget the mannerisms of a human race, and what its like to be in a home, to be in my skin
Rather than miles outside of myself hearing and living off everybodies small everythings rather than tending to my own everything
Sometimes I really do leave myself and when I get back, only when im back in my veins do I find the meaning in all of you
Because by then I have found the meaning in all of me
When im missing from my tendons nail a sign to me reading my buisness hours
When all I can find is the meaningless in your meaning tape my ears shut and feed me to the tongues of my world
His name, her name, their names should be on speed dial
Sometimes all I hear is from the outside of an everything that brandishes nothing to me and god when this happens shove me back in to the lining of my skin
It tears at me, everything that somehow always manages to leave this ribcage
Everything that leaves to listen comes back bleeding and feeling like something is missing,
Missing from all of you
But there is nothing missing in your words, they just hold nothing for me, I am just missing a part of me.
So strap me to myself and send my gods with their wars from my speed dial to cement me back into my bones with their saliva
***** me in with teeth
Yenson Nov 2019
Winter is coming

and in faded light the white-walkers cry

the drifts are in the drift of things melting

without substance and core agog-ed in chilled flippancy

heads hung in drivel they cast aimless spells in gauze satin

Shapeshifting maiden sacrificed to appease the white walls of pain

inchoate minds drums and beat hides in soundless menace and sins

the salt goddesses pine for fire logs within caves and stallions to ride

feeble and ungainly the white-walkers hurl spittle and bile in rancour

the lickers are licked in mind body and soul in chaste snow-blindness

the black knight in amour an ermine brandishes the sword of swords

and burns the hottest of flames in a kiln so rare and fine

all around the hot air of squawking swirls to nothing

the drifts of drifts hankers in igloos fermenting

winter is coming
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.

I wrote this poem for a great blue heron who visits a pond that I pass on my daily walks — a truly majestic bird and the ultimate spear-fisher.
Arlene Corwin Mar 16
Everything Has An End

Light waves and bends.
Comes from the sun, reaches its object.
Lo, it ends.
(its start to other aims the subject for another poem).

You know what I’m talking ‘bout.
A teeny, microscopic lout
Which at the moment rules our days -
It will not always,
But die out.
Once it’s found a final project
To project its deadly darts at.

Where things go
When they appear to disappear
We do not know,
Can only guess and speculate,
A date out of the question.

All we know is all things end:
The bending light, day, night,
Humongous, slight;
Even the alphabet, A to Z,
There still a further mystery
And further question:
Which came first, the egg or chicken,
Cause where, when
Or even why?

The keys lie in philosophy,
Material, its -ality.
And so we end with unclear hope
That we can cope until the finish;
That the crash is but a hyperbolic gnashing
Of the teeth that brandishes its blemished face
And ends.

Everything Has An End 3.16.2020 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin

— The End —