"cutlasses" poems
See them standing on the podium of promises
Tickling us to wed them into power
As we stand under the burning sun, sweaty as ever
All ears to their flowered words of which they caress
And powdered our minds with.
They donate maggi, salt, wears and the root of all evil,
To further blind our minds and instinct.
Like goats following a hand with a palm fruit,
We chased them with high hopes to the polls,
Like Esau of old we repay their donation with our votes.
Their desires were met, now in power
At serious battle against their promises,
Our faith getting lean, our hopes bleed in response to their policies.
The opposition jubilant for the failure of the electorates.
Soon, they awoke into reality, spur to abort incumbent reign.
Some took to bombs, guns, cutlasses, few to the streets.
The opposition soldiers are thugs, always hungry to ****
The masses weapons are their mouth, placards,
And solidarity songs, they walk and sing.
They say when elephants fight the grasses suffer
I wonder who are the elephants or the grasses indeed.
A place that suppose to be our home now a battle field
Where everyone fights for self survival
Forgetting the unborn, our toddlers, our heroes past.
It is high time we talked and sack the thugs
But who will moderate
Who will faithfully give audience, who will sincerely talk?
The elite, the elected seems like they are war ready
They have well set up their political troops
A war they won't stand to fight
But escape through thinning air off our sight.
In a molding state
Pigs dare to preach sanity
In a world of questions, ignorance remain the worst cancer
And the apex poverty.
Let not fold our hands and live to die in this doom
If your lips are scared, let your pen speak.
Let not throw in the towel
Until we justfully elapse the reign of the unwanted in one peace.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
I'm not a writer trying to share a story,
I'm a survivor telling you a true story.
I'm not just a poet having fun and living,
I saw bad things when I was younger.
That was when things were harder.
when women and old people were helpless and young people were hopeless.
It was that time when good parents were powerless to protect their underage girls from **** and molestation at the hands of drugged-up child soldiers with bloodshot eyes.
I did something other boys were too scared to do,
I turned into a man
and took survival into my hands.
It was that time when men and women used the same place to bathe and go to the loo.
I saw many many hungry people
eating palm cabbage and wild grasses
malnourished children and dying people.
I saw hands chopped off with cutlasses.
I saw thousands of families separated
and fathers killed or incarcerated.
I saw silly young men pick up arms
and chopped off people's limbs
like hideous things were their aims.
I saw really bad things
and cried to God for wings
like an angel to fly away
because I saw no other way.
I saw people running to God
and getting murdered in his church.
I don't know, but he didn't say a word
It's like He just sat down and watch?
I saw bad things
I planned my escape from poverty,
from a war-torn country.
It was that time when your parents, who come from the same generation as I, were looking up to their mom's for breast milk.
It was that time when no one wore silk,
it was a time of fear,it was wartime.
It was that time when bullets determined eating time and bedtime.
It was that time when pretty boys had nothing in their wallets.
It was that time when PYJ ate dinner
and played gospel on his guitar like he was our savior and not a sinner.
© IvanBrooksPoetry
12/9/2018
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
Though I splish
Though I splash
*** I drink so fear my wrath
Behold my mate
Behold my captain
Cutlasses ring and we are laughing
Pity me not
Pity the foe
Sink him to the godless unknown
Plunder the hold
Plunder her chest
Strife we be so do not rest
Sink the English
Sink the Spanish
We rule here so we **** them
Free we are
Free we be
A lavish life is the one for me
If I am hanged
If I am dead
Fear not mate I swam to land
Cut your foes
Cut their friends
We rule this kingdom
In the Queen Anne's Revenge!
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
You pick every word I say
With rapt attention.
So I tell you about tangerine skies
In Vermont, how I shape them.
I tell you my dad invented Cuban cigars
In Argentina.
You heard about the prawns,
The ***** and the lilies. A story only I could tell.
I could tell it in fluent Yoruba.
You watch me sleep like I don't have a care in this world
Snorting away while chasing dragonflies and seahorses
In my oblivion.
You watch me walk in the shadows
My gait like gridless frames of a restless gate
blown open by the wind.
(If I was the night, I would be bright.)
Finally you see my hands well adapted to cutlasses and owes,
Irrespective experienced with oriental oils
and manicures.
'One day I will be king', I thought I said.
But you heard it from my mind.
You heard it alone.
Yesterday we owed this to ourselves.
Tomorrow we will be lovers
Today let's be friends.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
Fawaz Poems
Published 7 Drafts 3
DRAFT EDIT
Fawaz 3m
Untitled
Justice in the cage of injustice*
I saw the justice being robbed and **** in the broad day light ,
I touched Justice in the Nature but in the societies I didn't really touch it,
where is the justice? there are no justice in this country but not in the world,
even if we see it the question is did the justice see us?no, They have covered it face.
they made some people rich and made some poor ,They say they saw
Then they go and lie ,
They put the innocent people in the prison,
for a crime they committed not,
They let the guilty get away
And make the innocent people rot aways
is this the justice we are clamoring for
they made injustice anywhere to threat justice everywhere ,they made law below some and made the same law above some ,Justice must be for all ,not just for the criminals
and the riches.
The justice is the only purest shape of the voice,
Justice with no partial is what we, the innocent people, long for,
justice is for all not for some
but if there still no change,
I think a time is coming when the children of injustice will not show how educated they are nor how tolerant ,
they will come out with guns ,they will come out with cutlasses and **** the justice by themselves and the atmosphere will never be control again , give us the justice not the Caprice.
The fragrance pen
*The fragrance pen
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 3:39 AM UTC
Let’s not forget our childhoods
Like playing in the rain, getting drench, and loving it
The scene I remembered most, was i watching Peggy the small dog,
in the window across the street.
While, the neighbors keep up their lawns, and areas neatly pruned
With the dull chopping sound of the cutlasses, early in the morning:
I generally held a book close to my face, while reading
But somehow, on that day, I kept staring at the house across the street
I don’t remember if I had done my chores or not,
before the lady in this photo came home that day for lunch.
For her, it was all about keeping up appearances,
Dinner at six, all school shoes must be polished before seven
and our Immaculate uniforms, must be hanging on the ironing board.
And no matter what,
all lights must be out before ten o’clock.
“Don’t forget to say your goodnight Prayers, she would have said”
Lately I've been thinking about childhood a lot
Suddenly, my thoughts turned to my first soap opera, Peyton Place,
Woody Allen, Mia farrow, and all my childhood memories came to a haul with…images of my friend Dolly Benskin and her daughter Paige:
Paige die at an early age: which haunted me for years..
why so young?
I use to love smoking candy cigarettes, but not between my toes
This morning of all mornings,
bonds with the carpet fibers is a piece of candy
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
On the Embarcadero, winds carry clubbers' words
to me: sound of a satyr's desperation:
*maybe she'll look at me.
Maybe even with pleasure and not repulsion*:
the silent plea of devil-may-cry men ---
all blood and lusts, more beasts than heart.
Some swing blunt cutlasses that never cleave,
sip hypnotic wine from offering hands, unknown beneath a coverlet.
Others dance into the lacuna of their lives:
decade(s) of searching, yearning,
yoked like juments, under the mortal whip:
sad boys in need of love;
infatuation;
amity;
acquaintance;
lust;
pleasure;
a look:
anything.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
Has he not been beared
From seas to streams
Marked with cutlasses and ashes
Forced to swallow cowries
Why would he not wear down his face?
Has he not been living
On his choiceless delicacy
Concoction of gmelina roots
And garlic sap
Why then would he smile?
Why would he dance?
The voilent drummers in his skull
Were pounding thier drums
Like groups of carpenters
Driving pieces of nails
Into a hardwood
Has he not been marched
Round the village on pant
Bearing a *** stained with dry hen's blood
And rotten bones and stenching earth
Why would he not dash out his wealth
To seek a neater heath?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
I didn't have the wrist of Osundare
Nor the tongue that speaks Wole Soyinka
Yet, my anthology is not up to a Canto
Not until I make for you a Bible, ahead stretching Water
I lingered through the facets of beauty
A million turning a second up in my head
Nothing, no one soothes the burrow like the sky crying
No touch is so tender like the blow from Mama nature
Can you you feel the Lullaby she sings on the Roofs?
Tell me! Does your Mama placate so tender to lure you to sleep better?
A drop triggers a race,
Its menial calls for buckets
Her late stay claims furnitures of ages
A flow of bliss that built Eden here
In her pour makes Marmaids glitter
Puts the smile on Cutlasses and hoes
As more pockets surely would smile
With no paint,
Brightly, she paints the sky Grey
Your Ex-GF would wanna stay more Late
Make sure you didn't make it rain, else, you are in soup!
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine
There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate
By Phil Roberts
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine
There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate
By Phil Roberts
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine
There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate
By Phil Roberts
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
I pull open the cover,
a trap door to the deck.
“Weigh the anchor!”
and with a splash the adventure begins.
”Trim your sails!”
and the curtain ***** behind me.
The bow of Old Salt splits the waves
and I wipe the spray from my glasses.
There’s mutiny aboard the ship.
With cutlasses drawn I hear them charge,
the “pok-pok” of a peg leg
is my dad at the door.
“It’s twelve gone”, he says
and I see them fall to the deck.
In the heat of the action
there’s no time to count the loss!
There’s a shout from the door,
“They’ve scuttled the ship!”
My feet get cold
as the hull fills up.
The water is rising
it dowsers my candle.
The crew is sprawled awkwardly on the still, red-dyed deck,
as the leather bound novel falls from my bed…
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine
There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate
By Phil Roberts
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 12:27 PM UTC
In helter-skelter everyone scatter.
I joined the rest of
legs to jump gutter.
Everyone is an Africa jet.
Flying dug above the moon.
Countless permanently fell to
the earth.
Now east is a hell
and north,an earthquake.
While west is a flooding ocean.
Forked lightening
and thunder guard the south.
Yet the center is slippery.
Death is calling everyone.
Our Eden became ***** and Gomorrah.
I ran to undestiny
destination,
being pursue by guns and cutlasses.
Panting like hunting dog.
I stumbled and fell into a trance.
I saw an old blind woman,
too blind to behold darkness.
Jubliating with hands
placed on her head.
Mother can't recognize her child,
let alone an eye desirer.
I am as helpless as
helpless herself.
I was so paralysed to stand up.
I gazed at her with eyes of mercy
but was posses with
legs of paralysis.
Because life race is forever.
Continually falling
and rising
in dying and living,
I ran to an edge
I lifted up my head
and saw a gun
pointing at my forehead
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine
There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate
By Phil Roberts
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
the Chicago headlines
this morning read:
thirty-two wounded
and nine dead,
my thoughts moved
slowly sinking
into my dark coffee
so simple and reassuring
me and my cup there,
for now –
then back to the
violent banner
of pulling triggers
on irrational and
divided spots
that burn out existence
with deadly power
settling the look of the other
existing and struggling
for status and spurred turf
and resources
in a hastily forceful system,
where chambered rounds
are shot from
cracked windows
like ordinary memos
by windy city herds
that graze on concrete
and charge with their swords
held high in waxed cutlasses
while the mountain cloud
and blue sky turns
pale in response
rains ultimately come
to wash the chalk
and blood away
from the open pastures
the audience hesitating
with indifference
holding their
little crosses
waiting…waiting,
and nothing
to be done.
by: W. A. Marshall
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC
You left me at the doorstep,
Packed all my **** and left,
You did me *****
Again ,again and again
Ride or die,
I never was,
One and only,
Nope I never was,
You shoot your words like a flamethrower ,I barely finish my sentences,
You accept beating me,
Not once but twice,
With the sharp cutlasses ,
I don’t even care anymore because I love you,
But love should not hurt when I touch you...
I’m alone again.
Domestic abuse is never ok you should never feel alone :tel:08082000247
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 6:31 PM UTC