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"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.
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Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
THE REIGN OF THE UNWANTED.
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.
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39
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
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Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
A Poet,A Survivor,A True Story
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
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40
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!
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Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
He is a Pirate
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.
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May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
From Friends To Lovers
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
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Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 3:39 AM UTC
Injustice in the cage of justice
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
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Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
Smoking A Cigarette Between My Toes
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.
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Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
On the Embarcadero
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?
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Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
The Sickler
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!
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Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
"Just For The Rain"
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
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Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
THE ROOTS OF CYNICISM
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
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Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
THE ROOTS OF CYNICISM
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
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Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
THE ROOTS OF CYNICISM
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…
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May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
The leather bound novel
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
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Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 12:27 PM UTC
THE ROOTS OF CYNICISM
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
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Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
THE DARK WAR
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
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Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
THE ROOTS OF CYNICISM
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
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Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC
Status
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
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Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 6:31 PM UTC
Alone again