"canons" poems
Oh do not look at me like that.
Although I pulled the trigger you loaded the gun a long time ago.
Oh do not complain that my loose canons of speech are finally repulsively soaring.
When you gave me a deadly spark.
If you do not blame,
Then I promise I won’t too,
The collateral damage of two wishful hearts needs no ownership.
So stop trying to win a forgotten war,
What’s done is done.
No more friendly fire.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
You brave heroic minds,
Worthy your country's name,
That honour still pursue,
Go, and subdue,
Whilst loit'ring hinds
Lurke here at home with shame.
Britons, you stay too long,
Quickly aboard bestow you;
And with a merry gale
Swell your stretched sail,
With vows as strong
As the winds that blow you.
Your course securely steer,
West and by South forth keep;
Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals,
When Eolus scowls,
You need nor fear,
So absolute the deep.
And cheerfully at sea,
Success you still entice
To get the pearl and gold;
And ours to hold
Virginia,
Earth's only Paradise.
Where Nature hath in store
Fowl, venison, and fish;
And the fruitfull'st soil,
Without your toil,
Three harvests more,
All greater than your wish.
And the ambitious vine
Crowns with his purple mass
The cedar reaching high
To kiss the sky,
The cypress, pine,
And useful sassafras.
To whom the golden age
Still Nature's laws doth give,
No other cares attend
But them to defend
From winter's rage,
That long there doth not live.
When as the luscious smell
Of that delicious land,
Above the sea that flows,
The clear wind throws,
Your hearts to swell,
Approaching the dear strand.
In kenning of the shore,
(Thanks to God first given)
O you, the happiest men,
Be frolic then!
Let canons roar,
Frighting the wide heaven!
And in regions far
Such heroes bring ye forth
As those from whom we came,
And plant our name
Under that star
Not known unto our North.
And as there plenty grows
Of laurel everywhere,
Apollo's sacred tree,
You may it see
A poet's brows
To crown, that may sing there.
Thy voyages attend
Industrious Hakluit,
Whose reading shall inflame
Men to seek fame,
And much commend
To after-times thy wit.
8k
I can't deny it anymore.
I am in love with you.
I didn't fall mind you.
I chose this.
I chose you.
And I can't help but feel
that I have chosen wrong.
That I have chosen too soon.
And it didn't help
that you chose me as your beta.
As your apprentice.
As your most trusted photographer.
Didn't help
that you nursed
all of my fangirl tendencies.
Didn't help that you claimed
to be my alpha,
my coach,
my captain.
Didn't help that you made me feel
like it is just the two of us in the pack.
Didn't help that you
verbalized my feelings
and told me
there is only us in the crew.
That I am your first mate.
The co-captain of a ship
That only the two of us can set sail.
The only thing is...
I am the only one shipping us.
And one day, you'll go canon
with someone else.
And believe me darling,
those canons can sink our ship.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
Where the sunlight splashes through
The barely moving branches of the Magnolia tree
It makes a fascinating pattern on the patio.
Amy Lowell wrote of patterns in a lovely, angry verse
When she was writing about how she hated war.
I bend to trace the patterns with my toe
And focus on the possibilities of now
With monster canons rolling down the boulevards
And goose-step imitators marching by
While in the stands a devilishly evil Buddha smiles.
A zephyr gently stirs the leaves
And all the patterns rearrange again
I look at them with half closed eyes
And I can’t find the symmetry
That I saw just an hour ago.
The Kraken still is held by chains
And though he gushes fire and venom
The patterns on the wall contain him
As he thrashes to replace the sun
With a new one of his own creation.
Amy walked a peaceful garden path
In dappled sunlight long ago
Creating lines that live today.
I trundle down a brick-lined walk
And hope that I will have tomorrow.
ljm
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
Fire suns out of canons of old and decay in daylight. There might not be blood under your fingernails if you'd refused to laugh. Don't doubt it though, you're being watched. It thinks about your thoughts in thoughtless ways. Dance, pony, humor it. Fail to see the source. Research more. Someone else already answered your stupid questions. Go home. Go broke. Go on as long as you go away. Get a job, you idiot, and make sure it's a good one. If it isn't, fire yourself out of a canon into the Sun. Morphing is addictive. So is heroism. Go, sally gently forth. Froth. Growl low in the gut. Yeah, breathe the fear; die ******* mad about it.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 7:47 PM UTC
Neither Nightingale or Crow
Neither Whippoorwill or Sparrow
Perched on phone lines, never trees
Still those birds have the right to sing.
Target of bad boys’ B B Guns
Splashed with water canons
They fly til they can fly no more
And tremble in the shadows.
Their feathers have a bit of shine
When sunbeams fall just right
But all too often that just makes
Them that much easier to find
And targets them for hatred rocks
Thrown by those who only
Recognize a Woodpecker
And a Robin Red Breast.
Too bad their music goes unheard
Most often it is beautiful
If they could sing with the other birds
The music would become symphonic.
ljm
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:15 AM UTC
There Is But One Law (The Dancer's Coda)
There is but one set of laws,
One that need be obeyed,
One that brooks no heresy,
One that gives no absolution.
One that needs no priests, no canons,
One that that refuses disobedience.
We all bend knee at altar invisible,
Though feasance never requested.
The Laws of Physics.
A body at rest, a body in motion.
Laws immutable, unconditional,
Equations, proofs, demonstrable,
Inequalities inexcusable, banished.
Dancer says:
I am heretic, even these laws I refuse.
My body denies limitations,
My mind believes I will make do
What it could not, but yesterday.
Defiance from wire to wire is the
Fuel in my veins, fear but a detail,
Leaping from from ten meters more,
My Declaration of Independence.
My body plastic, my mind ethereal,
Some mock, call it trickery,
Some hail, call me hero.
There are forces greater than mine,
Forces irrevocable, mathematically superior.
Each day my force grows as well,
Visions imagined supersede the
Tedium of definitions, of boundary lines.
Bend the law, conquer the null, fill the void.
Each day sketch, devise, organize a
New rebellion, follow only one command,
Honor but a single battle cry.
Leap, then fall!
That dancer, your only law,
That heretic, thine only coda.
Action is freedom.
For you are dancer,
Whisper as you leap:
The Fifth Freedom I possess,
The Freedom to Fall.
May 17th, 2013
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
the child's house
domicile of estrangements
his parents dressed him like a little girl
against his will
a pox of gender confusion
glum aura
he ascended by violence
and lived through the logic of a mirage
except for copulating with demons
which of course
was ruined by
the good Christians
they who always hate ***
not wanting to be reminded
they are animals too
their heaven withheld
their halo's sullied
the vulnerability of desire their crime
Eros a disgrace
still beating their genitals until a wicked thunder
the pro-creative
an affirmation of paradox
between the continuity of life
and the dread of death
***** resurrections
a second *******
**** flood
without redemption
Satan standing on their necks
while God pulls them up by their hair
rebels to reason
bewitchers of wit
deranged by the myth
of dolls
wood and plastic painted corpses staring
and a blossom throated Goddess
ham handed monkey fist
jerking off in search of a bulls eye anyway
eyes bleeding on bare legs; lifting a white cotton dress
a bulwark of erections
like canons blasting puce spats
under his frilly skirt; a red rain
haunted by dead girls dancing
like homeless hip bones sway
a bewildered phantasm
in a doll house dream
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
On Bosworth field the die was cast
As banners flapped and arrows flew
The King of England breathed his last
A new one crowned before the day was through
Spewing lead the canons roared
Armour glinting in the light
When Henry's banner Richard saw
He led his men into the fight
The standard bearer he cut down
Then ten feet from his foe it's said
His horse got mired in boggy ground
So failed the charge that he had led
As Henry's men surrounded him
Richard stood his ground and said
I shall not flee, I'll die a King
England's crown upon my head
For the House of York the cause had failed
His skull was smashed, the deed was done
The House of Lancaster prevailed
On Bosworth field the war was lost and won
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
Bazooka that veruka
Wage war on your warts
Charge the canons against corns
And ills of other sorts
Conscript regiments of Rennies
Antacid to supress indigestion
Establish naval fleets
Of fisherman friends sweets
To banish nasal congestion
smear your chest with Vick
To ensure victory is quick
And if headaches ensue
Aspirin will win and subdue
If your enemy is constipation
Let senna be your friend
And if your throat is sore
Let strepsils make swift amends
Show viruses they're not welcome
Fight back with all your might
Give germs no easy terms
And soon you'll feel alright!
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Puisque de Sisteron à Nantes,
Au cabaret, tout français chante,
Puisque je suis ton échanson,
Je veux, ô Française charmante,
Te fredonner une chanson ;
Une chanson de ma manière,
Pour toi d'abord, et mes amis,
En buvant gaiement dans mon verre
À la santé de ton pays.
Amis, buvons à la Fortune
De la France, Mère commune,
Entre Shakespeare et Murillo :
On y voit la blonde et la brune,
On y boit la bière... et non l'eau.
Doux pays, le plus doux du monde,
Entre Washington... et Chauvin,
Tu baises la brune et la blonde,
Tu fais de la bière et du vin.
Ton cœur est franc, ton âme est fière ;
Les soldats de la Terre entière
T'attaqueront toujours en vain.
Tu baises la blonde et la bière
Comme on boit la brune et le vin.
La brune a le con de la lune,
La blonde a les poils... du mâtin...
Garde bien ta bière et ta brune,
Garde bien ta blonde et ton vin !
On tire la bière de l'orge,
La baïonnette de la forge,
Avec la vigne on fait du vin.
Ta blonde a deux fleurs sur la gorge,
Ta brune a deux grains de raisin.
L'une accroche sa jupe aux branches,
L'autre sourit sous les houblons :
Garde bien leurs garces de hanches,
Garde bien leurs bougres de cons.
Pays vaillant comme un archange,
Pays plus *** que la vendange
Et que l'étoile du matin,
Ta blonde est une douce orange,
Mais ta brune ah !... sacré mâtin !
Ta brune a la griffe profonde ;
Ta rousse a le teint du jasmin ;
Garde-les bien ! Garde ta blonde
Garde-la, le sabre à la main.
Que tes canons n'aient pas de rouilles,
Que tes fileuses de quenouilles
Puissent en paix rire et dormir,
Et se repose sur tes couilles
Du présent et de l'avenir.
C'est sur elles que tu travailles
Sous les toisons d'ombre ou d'or fin :
Garde-les des regards canailles,
Garde-les du coup d'œil hautain !
Pays galant, la langue est claire
Comme le soleil dans ton verre,
Plus que le grec et le latin ;
Autant que ta blonde et ta bière
Garde-la bien, comme ton vin.
Pays plus beau que le Soleil, Lune,
Étoile, aube, aurore et matins.
Aime bien ta blonde et ta brune,
Et fais-leur... beaucoup de catins !
3k
I go unwilling and unarmed
Recruited by age I lay me down
The medals gleaming on my coat
Mean nothing now, my vessel weak
Hard for my ship to stay afloat
The ocean once sparkling blue
A dingy grey of lowering clouds
Dark and foreboding as a storm
I recall standing proudly on the prow
My crew would not know me now
There are things to accept, things to learn
Time to know my place, take the stern
My orders once barked in strident tone
Now a whisper, not my own
My ship becalmed, canons disarmed
Her flag that once flew with pride
Is still, no wind can stir her, colours bled
I salute and a gust raises her high,
A blood red pennant in a star filled sky
I am not afraid to die
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 8:15 AM UTC
She has glowing eyes
Gracing the land of skies
Where dreamy times collide
Lily Pad, her float
Lotus flowers, speak
Her fingers trace East to West
Grasshoppers make their leap
Earth fires off canons
As she prepares her sail
Green eyes strike a match
Do you hear that distant wail
Do you smell that burning flame
She certainly is wild
Arrows shooting higher
She was the Archer’s child.
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC
I fashioned myself a dress of black lace;
Dark and elegant, epitome of grace;
Soft on my skin, caress like a lover's,
My comfort, my design, a haven of covers.
They called it macabre - filled them with unease;
Dangerous, they said, termed it a disease.
And yes, I'm unwell, but darkness is my veil -
A reprieve from hell, solace without fail.
I am the tailor, the sculptor of shadows,
The reaper of melancholy my art sows.
And yes, it is odd, fragile, morose -
The marble thorns of an obsidian rose.
The judging whispers that follow in my wake,
Can't comprehend I do this for my sake:
The sharp edges they call jarring and cold -
They are my palace, impenetrable stronghold.
Where others see emptiness, I notice lace,
The gossamer threads of a misty embrace;
They are but blind to the kingdom of nothing,
Only see moats, and wall canons jutting.
My castle of ghosts, the court I control,
Those remain hidden, deep in my soul.
The siren song, my foggy lullaby,
The velvety clouds on which my thoughts lie.
It is morphium, made in my mind
Embroidered dullness only I can find.
The words bounce off my protective bubble,
Your bombs shatter into a gray rubble.
I blow it away, along with my fears,
I got good at this, during the years.
Give me some credit, I am no fool,
Where others would drown, I can rule;
I know not to freeze, when water's too cool,
The fire you'd burn in, I use as fuel.
Yes, it's a thin line, I know it best,
But I'm a trapeze-artist, can pass the test;
A veteran of trade, the air is my nest,
I've learned to live without getting rest.
And I know my limits, how far I can press,
Worry you not, I've survived on much less.
I'm not glass, disperse your concerns,
If need be, the lace to razor wire turns.
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 6:16 AM UTC
For he was a young soldier
Who loved his Germany
With all his honest heart
Like a son and a Father
They belonged together
As he sank into his trench
On the north side
He was aware of a tide
And had no one to confide
For each each day he battled
Against all rumor
There was no where to hide
As he felt trapped inside
And had no one on his side
As what were quiet whispers
A fluttering humming bird
Were now great big Rhino's
All angry and stampeding
Into the forefront of his mind
Whats happening to the Jews
And were did Alwin go
Were did he go
And why did I blank him
The week before he went
For I am lost and confused
As Germany has sewn
Razors around my heart
What had he done
Where had he gone
As his heart ached
With an almost ancient hollowness
That echoed over his battle field
His eyes all embedded
Became a blood reded
Two hot ball bearings
Carving with a burning envy
Into the enemy lines
As pierced through the sky
He said to himself
At least their gallant fight
Is in the just cause of right
And he picked up his rifle
Like a fire breathing dragon
He roared lead every where
As he drank up death
Like a tonic it quenched
The fiery hatred in is heart
A hot lava that dripped with venom
As his blindly sprayed his gun fire
For he was truly lost
And ran like a headless chicken
Into the arm of battle
As he sort peace down the
Canons of a Russian tank
How he loved his German uniform
A beautiful rich blue
With shiny new boots
As I paint over my regrets
For I have covered my rusty imperfection
In a gold plated uniform
I wear my thin skin of righteousness
So that I may point
To the naked imperfection of others
I live within the narrow trench of my own pride
As there is fear on every side
As I call upon all my regrets
As it is time to retreat
Into the hands of my imperfection
For I stand naked in the sun
My ego no where to hide
For I will not pick a side
As it is time to let go of pride
Regret is the Axe
that chops down my pride
The splinter that wakes my soul
To its duties in this world
Regret exposes the Viper
That hides in the jungle of pride
The pointing finger
Is a sleeping soul
Resting within its own pride
Pride draws you into the
Narrow trench of war
While regret is the angel
That offers you peace
In the tranquil space of
Your own imperfection
That brings you new hope
Made up in heaven
That we can call on
To save us from our own imperfection
That one day we are perfection
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
II.
Oh ! vers ces vétérans quand notre esprit s'élève,
Nous voyons leur front luire et resplendir leur glaive,
Fertile en grands travaux.
C'étaient là les anciens. Mais ce temps les efface !
France, dans ton histoire ils tiennent trop de place.
France, gloire aux nouveaux !
Oui, gloire à ceux d'hier ! ils se mettent cent mille,
Sabres nus, vingt contre un, sans crainte, et par la ville
S'en vont, tambours battants.
À mitraille ! leur feu brille, l'obusier tonne,
Victoire ! ils ont tué, carrefour Tiquetonne,
Un enfant de sept ans !
Ceux-ci sont des héros qui n'ont pas peur des femmes
Ils tirent sans pâlir, gloire à ces grandes âmes !
Sur les passants tremblants.
On voit, quand dans Paris leur troupe se promène,
Aux fers de leurs chevaux de la cervelle humaine
Avec des cheveux blancs !
Ils montent à l'assaut des lois ; sur la patrie
Ils s'élancent ; chevaux, fantassins, batterie,
Bataillon, escadron,
Gorgés, payés, repus, joyeux, fous de colère,
Sonnant la charge, avec Maupas pour vexillaire
Et Veuillot pour clairon.
Tout, le fer et le plomb, manque à nos bras farouches,
Le peuple est sans fusils, le peuple est sans cartouches,
Braves ! c'est le moment !
Avec quelques tribuns la loi demeure seule.
Derrière vos canons chargés jusqu'à la gueule
Risquez-vous hardiment !
Ô soldats de décembre ! ô soldats d'embuscades
Contre votre pays ! honte à vos cavalcades
Dans Paris consterné !
Vos pères, je l'ai dit, brillaient comme le phare ;
Ils bravaient, en chantant une haute fanfare,
La mort, spectre étonné ;
Vos pères combattaient les plus fières armées,
Le prussien blond, le russe aux foudres enflammées,
Le catalan bruni,
Vous, vous tuez des gens de bourse et de négoce.
Vos pères, ces géants, avaient pris Saragosse,
Vous prenez Tortoni !
Histoire, qu'en dis-tu ? les vieux dans les batailles
Couraient sur les canons vomissant les mitrailles ;
Ceux-ci vont, sans trembler,
Foulant aux pieds vieillards sanglants, femmes mourantes
Droit au crime. Ce sont deux façons différentes
De ne pas reculer.
Jersey, du 7 au 13 janvier 1853.
2.2k
(Life is living art)
AGAINST THE BRICKS
****** leans
Against the bricks
Gotham gothic walls
Left thumb hooked on a pocket of his
Faded denim jeans
Right hand caressing a carnation
Steady
Ready to go
Mr. ****** in a James Dean glow
Mean
Black leather jacket
Shiny slick like
Ghetto pothole puddles
Wet lacking rain
Only street lamp
Spot light
Backstreet dangerous
****** leans with
A flower for Ms. Green
Come hither squeeze
He waits
There in the sallow
Glow
Another shadow
Against the bricks
Graffiti Canons spray paint art
Masterpieces
Within living scenes
Cool as concrete rain
Patient as an evening breeze
Passing moments
A Smiley face
Honest pain sculptures
Poetry is exploding
Street Glean
Art full in appreciating
brick walls
In his ****** lean
Worth is in / our noticing
This
Life's living work of Art.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
Arcane rumblings bellow out from the infrastructure.
The secrets swell out from the wealthy infidels. Their water has broken.
The top-hat henchmen gather their whiskers.
Stuttering shock and leaking their whispers,
vulcan-loud.
The wise old casualties know all of what’s to come,
so they pack their sacks with their old guns
to fortify their army of one.
The news skips the billions of ignorant families
condemning daughters and sons to an army of none.
The first bullets abandon their barrels,
the kick-off to pain, from poise.
Eager to byte flesh, fur, faith,
eager to make some godawful noise.
The following blasts are a metallic symphony
Quickly looming, swooning,
booming into cacophony
in shrill-major.
Blood spatters pavement, under marching feet,
is dragged, looped about the streets in a homicide calligraphy,
paralyzing the squinting mercenaries.
Out come the canons,
dancing on their wheels,
silencing the gunfire,
spinning on their heels,
dissenting the sonata with rifle-explosion accompaniment.
Warrior sighs greet the late auxiliary:
armadas sing in baritone
while civilians scream soprano.
Children cry in alto.
Blood flows in legato.
Today some of us will die
so that the rest will open their eyes
to an oversky, cloud-bloated with lies.
While down below we blaze away our requiem.
And by the hand of this same melody we die.
Here lies humanity,
fashioning,
always,
a bellicose smile.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
A lonesome voice began a mournful air,
As bowing low, it moved amongst the trees;
Its booming tones exuding sad despair,
Disseminating, on a wistful breeze --
A soft sweet voice came drifting down from high,
As bowing swift, it moved with fluent grace;
Its ringing song effusing endless joy,
As two lost voices shared a first embrace --
Their unity, a ringing pack of bells,
And canon drawn midst Ursa's watchful gaze;
Their song a tune that nothing ever quells,
Its tempo strong until their end of days;
Oft’ times, the canon booms, the bells will ring,
As two more lonely voices learn to sing
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
When I read, I speak,
And when I speak, I read
Words rolling off my eyes,
Filling my tongue full of free--
Style rhyming and rhythm.
The canons of thought rolling out with a boom.
Pachelbel changing your direction of flow
Through some Perverse, Obscure, Rehearsal
Suddenly Reversed.
Back where you started,
Starting over again,
With a pen in your hand
The words crowding your head.
Gotta jump and tumble
To the jiggle and flow
Of the individualistic,
Unrealistic,
Even cannibalistic
Creations that grow.
From your stylus,
Rife.
Words.
They're the stuff of life.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 7:47 PM UTC
The world’s smallest basket lies tucked away
Inside a jar for field-trip wide open
Eyes of wonder to chew on, settled in
The drooling smiles of truant minds like most
Sticky wads of gum that hang dried to the
Undersides of every desk throughout the
Pine Belt area of Free State County,
And all that surrounds circled about one
Solitary clandestine blade of grass
Tucked & woven into antiquity
By enchanted hands, & no doubt the work
Of Ma Universe slippin’ her divine
Fingers inside the dirt-caked skin she’d
Herself sewn onto one of her very
Own living/breathing marionettes,
Borrowing the gloves of ancestors called on
All the way to back to the first blade of grass
Plucked, & the first dreams that woke young shaman
Poets mad with visions streaming like
Images from celestial antennas
Into intricately knit blades of grass,
Sharpened on dewdrops & the unforgiving
Wilderness of frontiers, like a sea of
Green knives crashing their piercing waves on prairie
Shores while dull eyes attempt to draw blood with
Sharpened pencils on a sketch of its beach.
The towering sandcastles & woven
Baskets & cosmic canons are canonized
Eternal in that magnificent
Fireworks show behind tempered glass, in that
One simple blade of grass.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
The voyage to my soil is long ahead
while my fire still burns in my mind.
Pirates that dwell in the murky waters
sleep with one eye open,
to loot the treasure of
my destination they can never reach.
To the oceans I sail on, I have a last wish.
When they shoot their canons
towards the timbers of my ship
that I sought to build with all might,
swallow me in with my ship and all
before they shiver my timbers.
Lest they get hold of my honour.
Oct 22, 2021
Oct 22, 2021 at 2:14 PM UTC
David slings a rock
Cop holsters a glock, Lizzie Borden packs an axe
Mac he packs the knife, Billy battles with a club, Tommy’s gun is a sub
Kelly’s got 1 too, Bazooka Joe Is Gum, Peter Gun not, Colt 45 is not malt
Nor a horse, hand grenades, canons w/big ***** Doc Holiday had TB
Rock Hudson *** James Dean crash his car,Hank Williams in his bar
Natalie Wood don’t float, Cain killed brother, Juliette poison her lover,
Whitey Bulger, he killed and got paid, deadman walking gets to eat
Rodney King he got beat, got beat Mama Cass Elliott choked on ham
58,000 gone in Nam, 4 dead in Ohio, Kamikazes fall 1941, again 2001
Iraqi leader w/ a rope, John Belushi too much dope, C. Manson is alive
Michael Jackson isn’t, Saturday night special is very ordinary
Fast and furious is the crime, **** Clark just his time
Pirate victims walk the plank, THINK,
Next I’ll come rolling up in a tank
Hear the whistle of my missile
***** Harry had the biggest
The Derringer is small
Smokey Bear forest fire
Greek funeral is a pyre
Too many +’s or -’s
Is electrical surges
Woman and child
sing the dirges
Walking dead
Are zombies
Fat man and
Little Boy
Are atom
Bombies
as for me
in a blaze
of glory
BOOM
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC