"brigands" poems
There he sat
All dark unsaddled
Brains quite addled
From the blow
Brigands laughing
All about him
There to clout him
Should he run
From his good eye
Squinting sneaky
Peeking out
From swollen brow
Primrose Pete
Considered options
Acquiesce
Or fight or flee
Counting up
The five marauders
Such close quarters
Peter smiled
In a wink
The first two fell
Hellbound from
Pete's shining blade
One was cut
From prow-to-keel
Didn't feel
The lightening slash
Two was dead but
Still a-stagger
From Pete's dagger
Through the throat
Pete then turned
His one good eye
Upon the three
Left standing there
"Knock ME from
My gentle ride!"
He chided them
And took a step
In a flash
The third man died
His manhood hung
From Peter's blade
Number four
Jumped up in-close
They danced a rosy
Final step
"One last waltz"
Said Primrose Pete
And short and sweet
The blood ran hot
Last of all
The Highwaymen
The fifth of five
The last alive
A tall man
Taller quite than most
With ghostly eyes
And hammer hands
A man who felt
That pain was fun
This one-on-one
Was just a tryst
So they stood there
Eying up
While trying not
To give a tell
Of their planned
Last brave attack
While Pete held back
To catch a breath
All at once
The fight was on
That bloodied lawn
Would find no peace
Both men fought
With all their might
From Noon til Night
On into dark
No Moon sang
The stars shone mute
A suit of cloud
Hung o'er the fray
Blood and dark
With ought a sound
Save the pounding
Steel on steel
Come the Sun
There on that field
Without yield
For Honor's sake
Cut for cut
Both men held true
And on into
A second night
A third then
Into a fourth
A fifth of course
They battled on
It's said that
Both men died that day
T'was slay for slay
Though neither fell
He fights on
Old Primrose Pete
His ghosted feet
Still dancing true
With his blade
Of shadow pure
Against a worried
******* dark
And it's said
On summer nights
When the wind
Is right and odd
One can hear
Old Pete's mare
Out there braying
On the moor
And beneath
The old hag's whinny
If you skinny
Up your ear
You can catch
Old Primrose Pete
Sweetly dancing
With his sword.
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 12:30 PM UTC
This winter air is keen and cold,
And keen and cold this winter sun,
But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kiosk
The mimic soldiers strut and stride,
Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse cons
Her book, they steal across the square,
And launch their paper navies where
Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee,
And now they rush, a boisterous band—
And, tiny hand on tiny hand,
Climb up the black and leafless tree.
Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,
And children climbed me, for their sake
Though it be winter I would break
Into spring blossoms white and blue!
2.5k
Poets are writers of infinite truths
Shamanistic travelers exposing fear
Paper and pen prophets rousing the obtuse
Quasi-harbingers of new frontiers
Politicians and their paid speechwriters
Lifetime career prostitutes of lies
Cyrano de Bergerac shysters
Writing pledges they will deny
Poetic outlaws of verse redefining
Societal boundaries of acceptance
Brigands of rhyme rocking the boat
Poems with intended disturbance
Every society needs outlaws
Rebuff the system
Fight back
Or
Withdraw
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
On the banks
of the
Delaware
where
memories
of Valley
Forge's
dire winter
encampments
still linger
where sons
and daughters
of liberty
shook off
a mid-winter
rigor mortis
risking the
slow death
of complacency
to seize
the prized
celestial
article of
freedom
America's
Labor
Movement
amassed
in the
streets of
Trenton
a vigilant
battalion of
General
Washington's
invading
brigands
speaking
in tongues
of radical
insistence
armed with
the might
of truth
demanding
respect and
equitable
treatment
from the
lordships
of state
doing the
bidding of
527 llc's
Unionists
stand
firmly
on the
shoulders,
walking
in the
tracks
rowing
the boats
of militant
forebears
pledging to
fight on
in a battle
that never ends
to
liberate
the
******
river
of justice
hijacked
by the
privilege
of plenty
diverted
into
culverts
of greed
a
gluttonous
few
siphoning
off
the spoils
of liberty
engorging
themselves
leaving
workers
wanting
democracies
require
the cup
of liberty
to be
shared by
all
The Spirit
of
General
Washington
has
mustered
new
legions
to turn
back the
entitlistas
the
pelting
rain of
lies, the
flinging
arrows of
ridicule
will not
deter
the workers
trooping
for
justice
the
fight
to roll
back
the ugly
tide of
greed
coursing
through
the veins
of America
despoiling
the blood
of our
democracy
is on
the
explosive
dynamite
of struggle
will blast
the dam
of inequity
to bits
unleashing
the river
of justice
to roll
again
Music Selection:
Pete Seeger:
Solidarity Forever
Trenton
2/25/11
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
Much is lost in times of peace
As shepherds shear their flocks for fleece,
As farmers tiller and toil their soil
And kitchens bubble with pots O' boil.
The ways of war are best not forgotten
For sooner or later the barons boot
Shall have trodden,
Upon that farmers land.
Arm in arm and hand in hand
With brigands and brutes In armored hides of tan.
Though the pastures now lay golden
Beholden to the setting sun.
Keep your scabbard close,
Blade keen not blunt.
For far beyond yon neglected walls
The winds are rising,
The ocean's tidal breath
Brings tidings of war.
This time it may devour us all.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
She stands among the grey scape with
So many muted colours inside her.
But today is a day of monochrome miasmas-
Of grey gulls that skim the pewter river
With wings that know such measures.
The greyness leeches her to the technicolour
World she knew long ago
Somewhere down the river.
A cauldron of rage wages above her
Filled with the bursts of brigands of
Grey restless beauty.
There's a rainbow now!
As it archly
Shows its palette she sees the separation
Appear ever nearer...
Above the rainbow is cobalt
Beneath it a merely flat grey.
Underneath her umbrella she enjoys
The puttered thwacks of soft water indenting
Thin fabric with a firework crack.
Suddenly she's back
Her shoes are black and her eyes are grey.
She wishes everyone was a million miles away.
She wishes everyone could stay.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
If there was a chance that a sliver of hope in humanity
still looms within your hallow chest;
still waves a portion of your resplendent soul like how the Hunyak calls for innocence undeclared;
still looks at the moon embraced by calcium coated rods, wishing it to quench its thirst
Will you let it revel in its over-zealousness?
If not, can you explain to me why,
why have you disowned your responsibilities to mankind despite it, like velcro, wailed when you tore it from your skin?
On the matter of the justice deprived, what say you?
Does it serve a lesser purpose than frolicking on streets, crimson bathed?
Has Billy shown you the razzle-dazzle of murderer's row?
As Legends wreak havoc with twin brigands,
slander who took a page from libel and read out loud —with a projected voice echoing throughout the ages— erroneous eyewitness accounts
and rancor who is bisexual to atrocity and entropy and seemingly engulfs himself in them,
you sat pretentious on your wheelchair
Over looking war from a peephole in a filthy blue washroom
The bombs that we drop are no longer metaphors to modern ears
Neither do sacred extremes keep their insatiable thirst for ruptured streets a thing of faded memory
Attacks on clergymen are no longer a painting born from a misinterpreted dream...
And you, no longer can you regain your innocence for you have witnessed the dilation of dense war, pulling and ******* every ray of light from hope that it sees
Yet you did nothing.
If there is still a speck of humanity in the mind of a mechanical automaton like you,
Will you let it rip apart steel skin and touch the lives of those like you?
Will you let it carve a symbol on your forehead, to let people know you are to save the dying hope in humanity
Or will you let it bid farewell to fair weather forevermore?
Or even more so, will you let it brand you so that every time you hear its call for justice inside you, you cry an ocean of dissatisfaction?
In the matter of a dishevelled world, what say you?
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
I will roll myself one more Cowboy Smoke
Risking spilled tobacco
And ride into the
Valley of your words
I will leave my six-gun on the bar
Daring brave young Hooligans
To draw on me
As I seek you out.
These are dangerous trails you've mapped
With Lost Canyons
Deep
And
Dark
Replete with cause to worry.
But I am in no hurry, Madam.
Let them have at me.
The brigands and
Foul desert
All of your
Dark Designs.
I still got me
One good
Cowboy smoke...
I can walk
Into your words
By that
One
Weak
Light.
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 3:27 PM UTC
A blue door in Paris,
on the streets,
hides behind it secrets,
a knock, to the sharp tap,
allows the entrance of a man,
in what secrets,
does this sonderous doors foreclose,
and holds to its building,
the stories of lovers and tearaways,
that once resided therein,
and lived,
lives either great or poor,
thunderous torrents or gentle drops of rain,
by the blue door,
men and women have met,
they may have left together or apart,
gone in or walked away,
on the grand depart,
a tour de force de France,
London brigands, French vagabonds and German villains,
Spanish pickpockets, Italian bravos and Greek philosophers,
sad fools, great minds alike have stood outside this door,
the tourist, the local, the lost boys,
have found their time taken by this road,
each step a tick of life,
in this smouldering suburb,
this urban chaos and shuddering grassland,
this lawn of cobbled stones,
to the blue door,
of wood and brass,
etched reflections in the frame,
glass captures portraits of those many names,
in the blue door in Paris.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
"There is danger in that night
Where shadows swell and steal the light
And strangers stroll the emptied street
With hooded eye and shushing feet,
Where thieves and brigands skulk about...
Please, my children, don't go out!"
*"Mother! Father! How you fuss!
Can't you hear it call to us?
Can't you hear its music play
Strange refrains from Far Away?
Young blood burns to run and leap
Where shadows crawl and myst'ries creep!"*
"Wards of Evil roam the road
Wanderers from Hells abode,
Refugees from Satans gaol'
Wicked banshies shriek and wail!
Here inside it's safe and bright...
Please don't go out in that night!"
*"But how we yearn to wander there,
Out into the star-spun air,
Out where sacred secrets dwell.
Drink, we must, from moon-kissed well!
So let us go, let us take flight...
For we are children of the night."*
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 3:06 PM UTC
In late 1888, a Wells Fargo stage
Was relieved of its freight-
A strongbox, taken from its hold,
held thousands of dollars in coins of gold.
The brigands had a master plan,
To bury that box,
sit, and wait-
Then dig it up at a later date.
They found a spot on rock-hard ground-
Where it would lie, safe and sound,
So they sank it in a three foot hole-
And hid that box with coins of gold.
But what they didn’t realize,
that in the distance, sat a pair of eyes-
That had watched the whole event unfold-
and watched, as they buried that chest of gold.
Late that night, under pale, lantern, light-
a shovel's blade split those rocks-
and the hole was relieved-
of that strongbox.
William Nelson Riddle, owned that property-
And he lived with a basic philosophy-
“Since it was found, on my ground-
I guess it belongs to me.”
“Nelson” died in ’28, at age of 85-
He never said what he did
With, or where, that chest was hid-
And the legend of Riddle’s gold came alive.
TO BE CONTINUED
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:25 AM UTC
Mulu [Uulhahahi] Hui Fyichichi al-ichi. yekirir gīzēšīšīyowochi
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Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 7:00 PM UTC
HE SAID: "Who's knocking at my door?"
Said I: "Your humble servant!"
Said He: "What business have you got?"
Said I: "I came to greet You!"
Said He: "How long are you to push?"
Said I: "Until You'll call me!"
Said He: "How long are you to boil?"
Said I: "Till resurrection!"
I claimed I was a lover true
and I took may oaths
That for the sake of love I lost
my kingdom and my wealth!
He said: "You make a claim - the judge
needs witness for your cause!"
Said I: "My witness is my tears,
my proof my yellow face!"
Said He: "The witness is corrupt,
your eye is wet and ill!"
Said I: "No, by Your eminence:
My eye is sinless clear!"
He said: "And what do you intend?"
Said I: "Just faithful friendships!"
Said He: "What do you want from me?"
Said I: "Your grace abundant!"
Said He: "Who travelled here with you?"
Said I: "Your dream and phantom!"
Said He: "And what led you to me?"
Said I: "Your goblet's fragrance!"
Said He: "What is most pleasant, say?"
Said I: "The ruler's presence!"
Said He: "What did you see there, friend?"
Said I: "A hundred wonders!"
Said He: "Why is it empty now?"
Said I: "From fear of brigands!"
Said He: "The brigand, who is that?"
Said I: "IT is the blaming!"
Said He: "And where is safety then?"
Said: "In renunciation."
Said He: "Renunciation? That's ... ?"
Said I: "The path to safety!"
Said He: "And where is danger, then?"
Said I: "In Your love's quarters!"
Said He: "And how do you fare there?"
Said I: "Steadfast and happy."
I tested you and tested you,
but it availed to nothing -
Who tests the one who was once tried,
he will repent forever!
Be silent! If I'd utter here
the secrets fine he told me,
You would go out all of yourself,
no door nor roof could hold you!
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 11:03 AM UTC
Bow legged ******* boaters bombard a busking Baltic with berzerk bands of bonafide belligerence. Bravely he bolsters a border of boulders. "Begone brigands, before I bust your bulkheads!" Feeling browbeaten and bullied the ******** beat for a buffet. The Baltic beaming with brashness boasts of his burdensome backbone.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
The doors that looks could open up
Are padlocked to us now.
The passing years have turned the key
And we are locked outside.
Standing in the icy rain, still trying to get in
Where beauty generates the warmth.
The more bedraggled we appear
The more we disappear.
The paper on the wall becomes
The pattern of our lives.
We arch the brows and paint the lips
And dye the silver strands
But nothing short of neon lights
Will draw attention to our mein.
We see the glance like lighthouse-sweep
Wash over us and then away
As quickly as revolving beams
And we are left here in the dark,
Remembering the longing glance-
The interlocking of the eyes
That told us we had been approved
And freed to move about the sphere
Where all the pretty people were,
And we were added to that sum.
How bittersweet to meet the days
We knew were there but still refused to see
Encamped along our road of life
Like brigands poised to steal the last
Of shimmer from the faces that we wore
And leave us all with masks of wrinkled, sagging age.
ljm
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
Once you bestowed your favour
Upon this knight
And won his heart
And sword and shield,
Won his love
His effort on your behalf
And every protection in his power,
But you were and are no lady,
For you ascribe no true value
To a knight's devotion
Nor perceive the value of
That which you cast hence,
As if nothing,
But I remain a knight,
Armed and armoured,
Still dangerous,
Still deadly and inviolate,
Wounded maybe yet bleeding inside,
Not outside where you may see,
And I'll take another's favour,
One day perhaps you will see
The error of your ways,
One day the dragons and brigands
May tear your world apart
But I will not be there,
You'll see my strong arms that once
Were yours
Around another,
Keeping her safe,
Making her great,
Being with her,
And as we walk away
You'll see this knight will not
Look
Back.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 4:39 PM UTC
I sit, I wish
for the glistening moon pools
to sprinkle down my way.
Dreamy starry sky,
and the soft combing breeze
sings sweet lullabies
to the indigo trees.
Sing the same to me,
and I'll go where you go;
river so wide,
wider's my window!
Now dance as you've done
so many times before;
embrace the morning sun's
broad rays on your shore.
Far banks shall appear
with the coming of April,
and strike out I will
through the dusty rock passes
through mountains of yellow
and bridges of gold -- until
I gain the city of friends,
lamplights and streetlights
and buslights and doors
will be closed.
Gone, then, are the wishes
and wonders and wants,
the things that I hoped for
a long time ago.
The trill of the strings
(my only respite
from keen madness
or a tantō
to wish me goodnight)
rises on palm-tops,
floats in cool grasses,
gives purpose my soul.
So much peace I find
in warm charming moonlight....
Tomorrow, concern may put your course
on a laxed and lumberous way,
great river of the dying day,
but as long as my will goes on,
and the wonderful will of the Maker,
those fleet-footed brigands
won't catch me, for I am
faster than they are.
...Calming storm,
you stirrer and squeezer,
present most of the time that I need you:
Set my mind,
for all its vain attempts;
make me relent,
and I won't deceive you.
Till then, I'll be leaving you soon,
but know my April blush
is the same color as in June,
and the fabric of all that I hope for
is the cloth of the comforting moon.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
one small thing may be enough
each day comes layered
some pain persists
slowly
changes
with some interventions
have you heard about the brigands?
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 2:26 AM UTC