"carbine" poems
Many have seen it within holy brains.
I've also found Terror on political lanes.
Most have spotted in religious garbs.
I've even seen Terror in Leader's barbs.
In hammer and sickle and in flag red.
Saw Terror when it left believers dead.
It came from skies on land of rising sun.
Horrifying, ugly Terror spared none.
Most have seen Terror in rebellious fire;
But I've even seen it in democratic attire.
In bullet cruel Terror can always be seen;
But I have even espied it in ballot mean.
Each has seen Terror in AK47's shine;
But I have even figured it in M4 carbine.
Things left unsaid may I dare to inform?
At times I have seen Terror in uniform.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
I am a simple thing.
Reviled and admired.
I do the job requested.
I pose no query, why should I.
Indeed.
When called upon do I not serve.
I am a simple thing.
Devil.
Your hands are my volition.
Your will is my precision.
Your skill is my command.
Yet. I am reviled.
Cast aside. What then is my purpose.
But to speak loudly, shudder and recoil.
My message .
Swift assurance.
Bold pronouncements.
Fools rush in.
How am I to make the choice when you have made me what I am
a servant no more no less. A tool a sluggard at best.
Consider me a shovel in the shed. Do you hate me now. Fear me
Write laws to abolish me. Shout from the halls of anger, slander and deride.
Here I sit in judgment . A construct a conduit of your evil. Your callous machinations.
Most assuredly I am neither fish nor fowl.
Nor villain on the prowl. That is your domain.
I am your shelter in a storm.
a stern judgment for the lawless when all else has failed.
Play the De Guayo.
No quarter asked or given.
My friends. I pray for my own demise.
The day when peace abides.
Never. Nature or nurture.
I pray for my dismissal.
Until such time.
Put me away with safety and know that I am at your beck and call.
Your beck and call.
Yours.
I remain your humble servant.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
Those marble plaques in the cemetery
hold no dead beneath them
yet in the rising mists of winter evenings
when night like loose dark pebbles
fall from the sky
can be heard hooves of trotting horses
from the rows of cold white stones
and on nights favored by moon
is visible cavalry in scarlet serge
with pith helmets and carbine rifles
piercing the terror paused wind
with cries of vengeance
mirthful in washing blood with blood
on the fields of Cawnpore
dissolving into marble white stones
steeped in the peace of moonlight.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
can we all hunker down
under the Magnolias
in the sand of the Plantation
driveway under
a confederate flag anymore?
draw our plans like Lee
would have, with a saber
a picture of lines
scribbled in the sand-
our carbine- loaded by our side
at the ready
our heritage the old war
or states rights
or slavery
when so much time and lives
have passed
and people oughta know more
about peoples,
about history,
about struggling
which all races do.
It wasn't pretty then.
Not the least bit.
And cotton , high or otherwise,
needs no slavery,
and bigotry is
ancient as
sorghum and
horse meat.
And man is man, proven to depend on a
falsity or hate to
defend his ancestry, his teachings,
instead of the question.
Here, with a stick
I scribble, while
down hunkering,
the least threatening position,
to ask of myself,
have I done what
I could. And the answer
of course,
the black man and the Mexican,
the Redman, the sensible ,
might answer, is
it will take time.
Do we have enough?
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,
The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.
The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,
With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.
He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vein,
And towards his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein;
Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third,
From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard.
"Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor,
"Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.
Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,
That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood!
Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight,
But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight.
Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see
How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree.
Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife
Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.
Say not my voice is magic--thy pleasure is to hear
The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.
Well, follow thou thy choice--to the battle-field away,
To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.
****** thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,
And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.
Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,
On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.
Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,
From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks.
Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,
And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong.
These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own,
Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone."
She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek,
Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.
1.2k
Some go by blades, bringing forth slices.
Some go with carbine, with a blast of thunder.
Some go by leaping, drop down to the pathway.
Some go with diving, muffled under the waves
And some go by tablet, to ask for a deep slumber.
But the lighthearted go with nature, no need for assistance.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
. [homage to Federico García Lorca] .
Glory to the conversion speed, making statements against the tide of lenses he occupies, the most famous of his legs and each other instead of black hair, waiting for the light of the socks, in the same place, the movement of the legs and patrons, do not just do not be afraid of theft. Satan, throughout Asia, spiritually, ***** and nanny early in the morning in defense of team life in the furnace: and. As for the punishment, from the beginning to the end of the laws of people and their use, safety standards for use, etc., their legs, feet and legs, feet, soles, heels, when only I looked at the Spider, and I love the Asian style and I grew up even in the morning in the morning, in the morning, in the morning dead, I talk to you little by little, so this is more of a wedding dress; it was the very breath of Because there is more stupidity, because there cannot be a song of the yellow efforts of Ralph Lauren for the eternal gratitude of the satellites and the companion of the carbine. The awareness of the quality of life. Call such a call. Thick footprints in a bad witch in Asia. Note: the first thing in the world is a child, a teenager who mocks in the morning, in the morning, in the morning, by inlays, and lets the bones be the father of **** me, this is the height and the point higher on the toes." NP is in the eyes of God for a lover, crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy! um, the color of the Asian cache look to the harmful actions will be condemned, for example and superior, as well as to those who do it wrong. And the king of ***** takes the hands and takes care of them to fly a few feet ... feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs. Standard legs, feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs, feet, legs , feet, legs, legs, legs Levi, thank God God knows for example, on the edge simply and easily. Really hot and heavy bone shower. Those who walk in shame confuse the living. The fact that I thought that in the morning I could not be the Teacher in the morning, in the morning, so I was even Asian, so there was no Asian schedule, and many of these things had to show the area of consumption of drugs. The number of words of Ralph Loren, yellow socks, family games in the field, like a girlfriend, the developers of Lorca, G., by definition, a wise spirit fights with greasy or greasy fingers. A scholarship on the green TMZ Levi sofa is an adjacent price, archery, horseback riding at a morning party in Leon-Asia, to play with the edge of the zipper and the dead socks, and then in the face of the ridiculous . Are you crazy? And what is the child of a child born to win? Sexually, MLK, and the eyes of Jesus Christ for drinks and drinks for beverages and meditation for women. I know you and you Oh, love the lake of the veil skirt; Relying on the legs, feet, legs, feet of people in particular.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
happy valentine
I hope you step on a landmine
I hope you go to hell
then I'd be rid of the smell
otherwise I'll have to shoot you with my carbine
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 11:09 AM UTC
I am aware that the lights of this city always wash up underground.
it is here we stumble upon an abandoned MRT car.
we celebrate her finding.
Maybe tonight we'll finally knit her together!
We'll make her whole again!
Bones, carbine batteries, and all:
creaky joints brittle, flimsier than
the hour hands drumbeat-beating back
the good,
old times.
We are tired.
of forever chasing
your headlamp leftovers through decaying brick walls,
tired,
of forever waiting on your streetlamp-stained limbs to finally reach the graveyard stations of our subconscious.
tired,
of picking up after
the shadowy remnants of your visage,
now a checklist of unfulfilled promises:
pulley - rusted,
benches - mothballed,
cable strings - straining.
paint - chipping,
engine - huffing,
axle - bleeding,
spirit - broken.
we are tired of waiting.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
I can look at an Afghani
and want to **** them
wish the most horrible death uopn them
and yet I can save their life
I can look at the blood, guts and even death
and never bat an eye
or even remember the injuries
until I have to load and unload them once again
I can cry tears of sorrow
and hide them upon my sleeves
so no one can see
what is exactly wrong
I can look down the sights of my carbine
with a round in the chamber
and mutter to myself
its only a job I have to do
Yet i can not express simple emotions
spoken, simple and direct
as if it would make a difference
of whether i am sane or not
I can understand a consequence
as it is the law of nature
every action has a reaction
that is equal and justifiable
I can write something meaningful
and never mean a **** word
if context and understanding
is never understood
I think i understand life
or atleast the simple meaning therein
any creature is meant to have
eat, drink, reproduce and sleep
I think I understand death
or the permenace thereof
when the look of dispair
is transfixed upon frozen eyes
Yet i can gaze upon the stars
in a distant foregin land
where death lurks in the shadows
and still feel so meaningless
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 6:52 AM UTC
WE SHOULD BE PRAISED.
WORSHIPPED.
******* HONOURED!
And all you do on this wonderous day is fill it with the smoke of ****
Instead of shotgun shells and carbine bullets.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC