"bulwarks" poems
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o’er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering’s Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy’s brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
6.8k
*Soft underbellies of corruption, impropriety and moral decay
Blatantly masquerade as societal bulwarks to aggression and disintegration
Minions fine-tuned to dance to the tune
Of godfather functionaries champion
Progressively retrogressive causes that follow
The course of destruction.
Is there light at the end of the tunnel?
Reason and logic persuade otherwise
It’s thus “safe” to conclude that
A compassion filled individual
Quintessentially embodies a positively radicalized individual
Wielding immense unbridled power
To impact society in ways unfathomable
Whilst in complete understanding of the fact that
“Absolute power corrupts absolutely”
Are you that compassion filled individual??*
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
I stand before the sea
and it rolls and rolls in its green blood
saying, "Do not give up one god
for I have a handful."
The trade winds blew
in their twelve-fingered reversal
and I simply stood on the beach
while the ocean made a cross of salt
and hung up its drowned
and they cried Deo Deo.
The ocean offered them up in the vein of its might.
I wanted to share this
but I stood alone like a pink scarecrow.
The ocean steamed in and out,
the ocean gasped upon the shore
but I could not define her,
I could not name her mood, her locked-up faces.
Far off she rolled and rolled
like a woman in labor
and I thought of those who had crossed her,
in antiquity, in nautical trade, in slavery, in war.
I wondered how she had borne those bulwarks.
She should be entered skin to skin,
and put on like one's first or last cloth,
envered like kneeling your way into church,
descending into that ascension,
though she be slick as olive oil,
as she climbs each wave like an embezzler of white.
The big deep knows the law as it wears its gray hat,
though the ocean comes in its destiny,
with its one hundred lips,
and in moonlight she comes in her ******
flashing ******* made of milk-water,
flashing buttocks made of unkillable lust,
and at night when you enter her
you shine like a neon soprano.
I am that clumsy human
on the shore
loving you, coming, coming,
going,
and wish to put my thumb on you
like The Song of Solomon.
2k
Wee black-eyed daughter Sakina was the first to notice it. The guava that had the hairs on it, prickly like a stray alleycat’s. We didn’t know what to do with it so we left it by Nana’s backyard swing next to the pond. When we came back the next day, the hairs had grown longer, this time like crooked peacock’s feathers slim, indolent Saleem’s father used for his broken down rickshaw. “Wow!” bushy eyed Hidra, “should we eat it?” Our piqued response thereafter was that Hidra should be excluded.
All throughout the monsoon season, we trekked back to Nana’s backyard, our hungry, empty Ramadan bellies growling in loud protest but we slathered on, bulwarks against chaos. Each day, the guava became more human, on Monday the smallest hint of tooth, by Tuesday three limbs, and after Jummah prayers on Friday a whole mouth! We poked it, bruised it, no regard for ****** integrity, evince the monsters we hid underneath. It was a sensation that haunts us today. Demure Dafne was the first one to clothe it, placing a ragged sun-bonnet over the eyes. A soft smile emerged then, a genteel kindness. Imbued with flimsy protection, she slipped into the pond.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
**Songs of Zion from the distant shore,
They are pealing , sweetly pealing,
Zion's sons are firstfruits unto God,
In their mouth no murmuring.
They are virgins, holy , undefiled,
See them standing - great high calling,
In their trials they were sore oppressed,
But were dauntless through His grace.
From the heights of Zion they reign,
All their loss has turned to gain,
They shall see His face, they bear His name,
And sing a song unique,
What a meeting over there,
Oh, the glory they do share,
And with Jesus they shall stand on Zion evermore.
Heights of Zion is the pilgrim's goal,
They are shining , brightly shining,
Voices there like many waters sound,
Breaking forth like thundering ,
They are servants wholly sanctified ,
In their counsel , God directing,
They shall ever and for ever reign,
This is Zion's heritage.
Holy Zion is the Father's choice,
God is planning , greatly planning,
City Crystal, richly garnished there,
Perfect rest and harmony.
Where the saints are truly magnified ,
Harps there strung show love prevading,
In that land where love for ever reigns,
All in perfect symphony.
Christ on Zion is the corner stone,
God is building , surely building,
Holy temple with the bulwarks rare,
Zion's work is far reaching .
See the Lord comes amply satisfied,
For our Christ has great discerning ,
Since He has built all her structures fine,
Great this Zion's mystery.**
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
I, whose sleep gloats
searching for answers, steering for a dream
I take my place amongst men
in parks, in alleys, in trains,
and the Sun unmasks itself
like timeworn skies of linoleum.
trees their bulwarks realize such oneness
and birds start to rain
where time wounds all feelings
and lovers innumerably lay flat on their bellies.
mountains ***** as tall as truths,
and the sleuth more than my body’s engine
turns less than a seraphim – dizzy with the
night’s utmost haranguing.
I, whose soul returns not with garlands
but with chains as my phantoms go with them
swimmingly across the blue Earth
and a man brindled, tussled against
space that so distant the star becomes so near
and all sleep lose names of dreams.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
if the theatre breathes like a rancid lung
it must exhale into the rafters;
ledger-scent and sour of iron...y,
and hours congealed into one bleak bruise.
then it must be that only (i) inherit a vessel
as one inherits a house wrecked by fire:
walls still too warm with other lives,
wallpaper peeled into letters that spell me.
never (my) name.
heart-beat / heart • skip
(these syllables only ever tally debts.)
(my) palms are tax-collectors with gloves far too soft to grasp mercy.
(my) ribs are two little vaults where accusations slumber.
and there are ceaseless receipts folded inside the sole of (my) shoe.
evenings most beautiful
with rain pouring down their face,
have stopped pooling and now,
they sediment, layer upon layer...
in the strata of one’s rues,
as ossified bulwarks for crimes (i) never learned.
a braided tongue of smoke
knots through (my) chest,
insisting on words (i) never even conceived,
sighing a confession to a jury of
absent eyes.
they led me to the scaffold
palisaded oak, blade polished to a sunless gleam,
and the (crowd), silent as those ledge
pages,
watched
as i was sentenced for the mere act of knowing.
and even as the head fell,
i felt the phonetics of my existence
spill like tarnished coins across the wet cobblestones,
and the (spectators), formless and meticulous,
gathered them as though i were (theirs).
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 9:46 AM UTC
Death is but a step away,
but love is always in us.
10,000 illnesses threaten
our lives each day,
but love is our great protector.
Acts of empathy, compassion
are bulwarks against our strongest foes.
It goes without saying that love has many allies:
an open heart, arms extended, a consciousness of kindness--
all are redoubtable measures to allay our fears and misery.
Many suffer, but to ameliorate their pain is
but one swift sweetness away. Alas,
we shall offer succor to those who feel no hope;
we shall displace despair with an air of caring
to bring our bodies home. There is room
for all in this world that seems so bleak.
We seek only goodness to spread like a goddess
to all who hurt and hunger, to help our Earth's rebirth
and realize God's goal.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 2:15 PM UTC
Belgrano
Can you hear the curses? I hear them still
dead in the air rolling on the grey high seas,
fluttering, stuttering, up in the cold stony clouds,
frozen like kites in the middle of nowhere.
I hear the silence too, of the boys, the young young boy's
pressed against the bulwarks and the dead eyed iron,
sense their gun metal faces hidden inside the masks
of home spun green wool - skittering eyes peeping
through knitted balaclavas worn as cold comforters
dripping in Atlantic spume.
I can hear the whispers, the trembling pampas whispers
of near men, close men, light shaven, cropped near-to skull men,
some with dark, bull herding eyes , hearts full of Spanish guitar
and pampas whistles and beside them the rich city blond men,
quiet and bookish, alone with their poets and pebble black rosaries
running like the southern tides through their cold chapped fingers.
All hugger-mugger equaled by forced conscription, circling in silence
within their sea shrouded fears - crammed like live fish quivering in their ancient tin of old victories.
Yes I hear them still, calling out for a distant mother's arms, ripping
loose their little boy screams that are clear as over head seagulls
yet eight thousand miles away. I can hear their raw primitive panic,
ancient as the whelps of beaten camp fire dogs echoing back
from the steely grey clouds; I see them tearing at the
sea born mist, slicing the strings of their pampas kite curses
with broken bones and shattered skulls, loosing curses that rise to run
above the waves to our shores carrying the lost, little boy simpers
of clamour and death that found roost in our forgetful hearts.
Yes I still hear the screams, the sea drowned, salt soaked screams,
a cold southern ocean full of drowning young Argentine boy dreams
(pronounced men before their time), those fire soaked screams and I remember how we the civilized danced on their sad lonely deaths in our distant dry victory soaked streets of triumphant,disregard and screamed ;
"Gotcha".
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
If I could hear the conversations
that you speak only to yourself,
I would invest the rest of my life
in search of just the right words
to respond:
To assuage your Fears;
To build bulwarks around your Confidences;
To wholly express to you
that I marvel at your Voice,
that mentally I worship your Face,
and how luxuriously I burgeon
at even your lightest glancing Touch.
Because for you, my dear,
it may be enough to simply hear
"I love you."
But to me, my dearest,
even if I fervently chanted
until my lungs gave out,
"I love you"
could never say enough.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
'Quit!'-- the most powerful word
I know
one that
I'll never let go-
sounds grandiosely onomatopoeic
( a word that never fails to stick)
it shakes
the existing foundation
and order of things
it compels
listening and reckoning-
the establishment
is held aghast and asks:
'Is this a sting
to everything
we hold sacred and dear?'
( why should the present masters fear
if of their own stand they stand sure?)
'Quit!'
a word
so final
affirmative
decisive
prophetic
as though
the bulwarks of the old
must give way to the new
(and what's that 'new' happening?--
those who are threatened are asking)
' Quit!'
how glorious the word!
audacious
pugnacious
cantankerous
unrelenting
uncompromising
non-conforming
unflinching
unyielding
irreverent
intransigent
belligerent
most triumphant !
unashamed
contemptuous
of the current state of being
virtuous
as it would not prostrate
before what it deems to demean
human morality or decency
it would not cow
to suppression or tyranny--
' Quit! if you want to be free!'
How often
in my youthful days
' Quit!' swamped my mind
before those who controlled and bullied me
as I was poor and weak
with no recourse
to any safety nor sanctuary-
how they took delight to see
me at their mercy--
my misery made them happy
' My time shall come'
myself I did promise
through sweat and tears
I laboured waiting for the dawn
when I would shake off the yoke
of my unhappy years-
' Patience, patience, patience'
to myself a thousand times I said
' The time has not come, you must still wait
in more patience, yet more, more and more' --even in the dead
of night the word returns to haunt
weeks followed days, months followed weeks
years followed months, decades followed years
my struggle took three decades-
the price of freedom didn't come cheap
then came the crowning moment
and before the inquisitors I threw my gauntlet
looked into their fearful and perplexed eyes
and exclaimed : ' I QUIT!'
(the most senior of them fell from his seat!).
Quitters of the world
unite!
you have nothing to lose
but your chains!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
for all trade, a tariff- for all debt, a war
in my hand, the future and a **** to its door
under my hand, dear empress,
now you must understand
under my will, this nation
under my will- this land
a strongman's ire
to those who oppose
tear down the bulwarks
- who dare arose
Orwell, dear prophet
your tales of future design:
"you delusional *******
This nation, a reign of infamy,
this nation of mine
for you, dear empress-
costs any you dare
for your comfort, o empress
no expense to spare
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 3:57 AM UTC
In the presence of bulwarks,
I present myself with love
In the hopes that one will soften,
Perhaps you,
And maybe together we can build a home.
But the tempting, silky, soft, malleable nature of love
Is too intoxicating to leave alone.
So instead of caressing me with your lips,
You sink your teeth in.
It was almost all that I wanted,
And I'll take almost.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
Guarded tiles bar creation's codeine laced butchery,
Fostering at-arms engrossed with fictitious prospects of eternity,
Fearing the necrotising bodies plastered with senseless agony,
Psychologically detrimental for there is no withdraw from insanity.
But exodus is inevitable within the institution of bereavement,
Mint frame spurn the cracked Psyche of the drafted disorient,
Forcing jittered terror in lieu of beholden for this malcontent,
Thrusting the mortal from snug bulwarks into a morbid accent.
Real dread torrent the battering heart before it spill over,
Clotted plasma fling and flood the metal enclosure,
All breath was taken by the creator’s exposure,
For only it dominates the grand tour.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
set your love free in hopes to repair the livelihood of controversy. yesterday’s savages are tomorrow’s saviors. in confidence under dimly lit familiarity, you whisper “the dosage makes no difference” as you sink into me like poison-tipped daggers securing a sought-after throne. we ward ourselves off from rumors of western winters and confide in the solitude of reciting famous one-liners with the Oujia board. you always hated how i didn’t take your obsession with unhallowed legends and celestial bulwarks seriously. it’s still hard to believe that the eyes that safeguarded my miserable legacy are the same ones wandered at the first sight of trouble. arguing over conjured arguments. talking **** about the screen door at your friend’s apartment. you were quiet on the ride as i finally threw apathy out the window, red eyes in tow, pretending to sing along with “I left Tennessee very much alive” creeping through the static of the country radio.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 9:31 AM UTC
Steel bars stream
from my eyes, are the
bulwarks of my heart.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC