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Living is a cross
That any one of the rock-faces
Comprehends.


We are drawn
To many seas.
We drown wholesomely
In the failures of confrontation.
The rain
Drenching
Our doorsteps
Has nothing to do
With the simplest desires
And lacerations
We bring
To the smallest acts
Of living.


The child
On the broken catwalk
Hearing the sounds of our hunger
Without understanding
Throws echoes back
To the earliest abandonments
Of love.


Minor devastations preceding
Horror
Resonate the ineffable.
The mothers that wake
At the slightest sound
And the fathers that
Smoke all night
And the rest of us who are
Vigilantes from the demons
Of oppressed sleep
Find at dawn the clearest
Images of bewilderment.
Even the best things
Collapse beneath the weight
Of ignorance.


Living is a fire
That any one of the wave-lashes
Comprehends.
___
Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
They say farmer’s son will learn to take care of seedlings;
smith’s son will learn how to forge and beat the iron;
baker’s son will learn how best to bake
to conquer best the market…

They say some birdies grow up knitting nests;
***’s foals grow up carrying loads;
cubs grow up learning how to roar most

to scare most the jungle…
The blood brothers2 were brought up
like sibling cubs of the lion
as if Mesopotamia was forest.


On birth day3 they learnt to blow lives out of bodies as candles;
a witness will tell how a citizen was received
by Mukhabarat4 waiters
one of such days,
and describe conviviality at Saddam’s
where the evil has born the arch evil5,
and where they learnt the art of making people yell!

At bees biting babies6 Uday was taught to find rejoice;
at parents wearing Adam’s garment7
in front of children
his father’s great power was worth of praise! 8
and he burnt to rule like father or more!



Would the Maker of the Heaven and Earth hold the fit
at the fate of Nahle Sabet9, the cake thrown to swine?
Would Mucius’s10 soul hold the fit
at the fate of Saad Abd al-Razzek Nihaya11
whose medals and stars were made spots
fit to throw to bin after the half of his life
hurled down from the sky?
Would the pearl Ilham Ali al-Azani12 be thrown like dirt to bin,
father’s fear of Allah tried,
and shot like a sneaking thief,
and the abu sarhan 13 stay without a prize,
and cause more devastations in the garden of Allah?

1. The lion and his cubs: Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti and his two sons Uday Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti and Qusay Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti. - 2. The blood brothers: The criminal brothers. Though crimes committed by Uday, the first born of Saddam Hussein, have been the most reported by media, his young brother was not less cruel. In April 26, 1998 he ordered Colonel Hassan al-Amri to ****** on a grand scale at Abu Ghraib, Iraq’s largest prison, and more than 1,500 prisoners were all massacred the next day. – 3. On birthday: Reports say that Saddam’s sons received pistols as presents on their birthday! – 4. Mukhabarat: Saddam’s secret police. – 5. Where the evil has born the arch evil: such is the description of Saddam’s house. He taught criminality to his sons, and his first born became crueller than father. Uday told Latif Yahia, his body double, whenever he seemed weak or squeamish as a child his father would beat him with an iron bar and then force him to watch videos of prisoners being tortured. – 6. Bees biting babies: This is one of the tortures applied: naked children in a room with a bee hive, being stung hundreds of times, and their parents were forced to watch behind glasses! -7. Parents wearing Adam’s garment: men forced to **** their wives in front of their horrified young children! - 8. His father’s great power was worth of praise: First you note the irony. Uday told Latif Yahia, “Just wait until I become president. I’ll be crueller than my father ever was…” - 9. Nahle Sabet: A pretty architectural student. The girl resisted and rejected Uday publically; he threw her naked to his pack of wild dogs which ripped her to pieces while he watched, drinking champagne and laughing! Here is the testimony by Latif Yahia: «It was the look he was sporting on a crisp, dry winter day in 1987 when he drove around the campus of the University of Baghdad looking for action (for women to ****). He caught sight of Nahle Sabet, a pretty architecture student from a respected middle-class Christian family he’d noticed when he occasionally attended classes. He cruised past her slowly now, honking, trying to get her attention. She refused to even look in his direction. Two days later Sabet was a few blocks from her family’s home in a Baghdad suburb when a Mercedes sedan screeched to a halt on the sidewalk in front of her. Two men in dark suits got out and identified themselves as secret police. They told her she was wanted at headquarters for questioning and led her into the car. Headquarters turned out to be a farm Uday owned several miles from Baghdad. The frightened girl was hustled into a drawing room, where Uday sat at an antique desk. “You’re very lucky,” he said. “I’ve chosen you as my new girlfriend.” “You’re insane,” Sabet stammered. “I want to go home!” “Strip her,” Uday ordered his guards. The burly men pounced on her and ripped at her clothes until she was cowering naked on the floor. Uday towered over her, unrolling his favourite wire cable. “First I will beat you. Then, if you’re good, I’ll allow you to please myself and my men.” It took Uday and his men almost three months to break Sabet’s spirit. Then Uday was tired of her. Her face was ruined; her body was a mass of bruises. He had the guards take her out to the kennels where he kept his attack dogs. He’d told the keepers several days before to stop feeding them. Nahle Sabet was then smeared with honey and tossed into the kennels, where all evidence of the crime disappeared.» – 10. Mucius, (Gaius Mucius Scaevola): God of bravery and heroism in Ancient Roma. – 11. Saad Abd al-Razzek Nihaya: An Iraqi army officer decorated for bravery in the Iran-Iraq War but that didn’t help him or his new wife. Uday saw the couple walking together, took the girl to a hotel suite. She pleaded with him not to defile her - she had only been married yesterday. Uday beat her until she was ****** then ***** her. Then they heard a long, piercing scream, then silence. The girl had jumped from the seventh floor. Her husband cursed Uday, and he was soon sentenced to death for ‘insulting the president.’ – 12. Ilham Ali al-Azani: Uday always slept with the winner of the Miss Iraq contest. But when attractive student Ilham Ali Al-azami won she turned him down. Uday abducted Miss Iraq to his palace. He ***** her over and over again and then as ‘punishment for her defiance’ allowed all his bodyguards to **** her for an entire week. Then Uday circulated a rumour that the girl was a **** and let her go. The girl’s father, a devote Muslim, was so ashamed that he killed his own daughter. When the aging father appeared at Uday’s palace Uday had the old man shot.- 13. Abu sarhan: Uday seemed proud of his reputation and called himself abu sarhan, Arabic for "wolf".

Excerpt of Gallows Bird in Heaven, http://www.amazon.fr/Gallows-Bird-in-Heaven-ebook/dp/B005JKMW66

Source of the note: www.meritummedia.com, visited 2013/05/19
Excerpt of Gallows Bird in Heaven, http://www.amazon.fr/Gallows-Bird-in-Heaven-ebook/dp/B005JKMW66
1.
Noong unang panahon, doon sa lupain ng Mindanao
Puro katubigan ang nangingibabaw
Binabalot nito mga kapatagan
Kaya mga tao’y nakatira sa kabundukan
(Once upon a time, in the land of Mindanao yonder
Rising almost was water
Covering the plains
So people reside on the mountains)

2.
Sa loob ng mahabang panahon
Mapayapa’t masagana doon
(For a time lengthy
There’s peace & prosperity)

3.
Hanggang sa dumating halimaw na apat
Salot at kasawian ang sumambulat
(Until arrive four monsters
Pestilence & death disperse)

4.
Si Kurita na maraming kamay
Kayrami ring sinaktan at pinatay
(Kurita with many arms
Also many it kills and harms)

5.
Nananatili ito sa bundok na tinutubuan ng rattan
Sa bundok na ang ngalan ay Kabalan
(It stays on the mountain where grew rattan
On the mountain named Kabalan)

6.
Mabangis na higante naman ang pangalawang halimaw
Kung tawagin siya ay Tarabusaw
(The second monster is a giant not tame
He is Tarabusaw by name)

7.
Sa Bundok Matutum ito ay nakatira
Panghampas na kahoy sandata niya
(On Mount Matutum it lives on
A tree club is its weapon)

8.
Ang pangatlo kung turingan ay Pah
O kaylaking ibon ng Bundok Bita
(Pah is the epithet of the third one
Oh bird of Mt. Bita so gargantuan)

9.
Kapag mga pakpak niya’y ibinukadkad
Kadiliman sa lupa’y lumaladlad
(When its wings are opened wide
Darkness on land do not hide)

10.
Sa Bundok Kurayan ang halimaw na panghuli
Isang dambuhalang ibon iri
(The last monster on Mt. Kurayan
Also a bird gigantic one)

11.
May pitong ulong lahat ng direksiyon ay tanaw
Grabeng maminsala ang nasabing halimaw
(With seven heads that can see on all directions
This monster brought so great devastations)

12.
Lubos na mapaminsala itong halimaw na apat
Kaya sa kanila takot ang lahat
(So destructive are these four monsters
That’s why them everyone fears)

13.
Maliban sa isang prinsipeng mula Mantapuli
Si Sulayman itong kaytapang na lalaki
(Except for one prince from Mantapuli
Sulayman is this man of bravery)

14.
Si Haring Indarapatra nagpabaon
Isang singsing sa kapatid niyang yaon
(Given by Indarapatra King
To that his brother a ring)

15.
Isa ring pananaim inilagay niya
Sa tabi ng kanyang bintana
(A plant he placed also
Beside his window)

16.
Kapag daw nalanta ang halaman
Kapatid niya’y inabot ng kasawian
(If that plant withers
Death to his brother enters)

17.
At si Sulayman nagtungo sa Kabalan
Tinalo si Kurita na kalaban
(And Sulayman to Kabalan went ahead
The foe Kurita he defeated)

18.
Pagkatapos ay sa Matutum dumalaw
Pinuksa naman si Tarabusaw
(After which to Matutum visited
Tarabusaw too was exterminated)

19.
Sunod na pinuntahan ay Bita
Napatay niya doon si Pah
(Next destination was Bita
There he was able to **** Pah)

20.
Pero dambuhalang pakpak sa kanya’y dumagan
Inabot si Sulayman ng kamatayan
(But he was crushed by the enormous wing
Death to Sulayman was reaching)

21.
Sa oras na iyon ay nalanta ang pananim
Kasawian ng kapatid batid ng hari’t nanimdim
(At that moment the plant shriveled
Brother’s death perceived by king and lamented)

22.
Labi ni Sulayman tinunton niya
Binuhay ang lalaki gamit ang tubig na mahiwaga
(Traced he the corpse of Sulayman
Using magical water resurrected the man)

23.
Si Sulayman ay nagdesisyong umuwi
Si Indarapatra’y haharapin ang kalabang panghuli
(Sulayman to home decided to go
Indarapatra will face the final foe)

24.
Sa wakas ay napuksa rin ang ibong may pitong ulo
Sa pag-uwi ng hari may nakilalang dilag ito
(At last slain was the bird with heads that are seven
Upon the king’s return he met a maiden)

25.
‘Di nagtagal nag-isang dibdib ang dalawa
At muling nagbalik katiwasayan sa lupa
(Not later the two wedded
And in the land serenity reverted).

-08/25-26/2013
(Dumarao)
*for Epic Day 2013
My Poem No. 223
Josiah W Menzies Mar 2013
You grip my throat sporadically, erratically – not often.
And trickle in through passages and pores I can’t defend.
Treacle through fingers.
But you avoid me too, and I hate it just as much.

I wait for your hand to loosen,
I breathe cool air,
Then I feel your absence.

Your gloopy venom is addictive.
I tasted you once, and now my tongue yearns,
And eats itself –
It flickers and twists and spits its serpentine-self out. In vain.
A vague, dull shadowy lustre remains,
Undulating under baited breath,
For another foul injection.

In reality I fear you. I despise you. I hate you.
If you’d only never return,
I could spit you out forever,
And tongue sweeter, healthier, more benign stuff.
No more swilling,
No more idiosyncratic sways upon social norms,
High Society and empty smiles that stifle natural intentions.

You are a disease, and far from untreated.
You are the last drag, the last hit,
The very last dose that no one actually wants.

I rebuke myself wholeheartedly
At even entertaining the idea of having you in my company. Yet there you are –

In every message, in every ransacked draw,
In every turned out rucksack, every old coat pocket,
Every ***** shirt, every unstitched button,
In every visitor’s news, every car back-seat,
Every dusty notebook, every empty fruit-bowl,
Every old, long-unseen smile, every dowsed fire,
Every man woman and child I sit across the table from.

There you are. Somehow. In some form.
Turning my sweat cold like cheap wine,
In what is otherwise an already disturbingly depressing
Struggle to maintain some kind of equilibrium or serenity,
Let alone with your smug mug cropping up scornfully uninvited.

You ****** me before I recognise you.
Helping yourself to the food on my plate with a wink,
While I do nothing as if handcuffed, and chained at the soul.
Then I move to eat.
Hand to fork.
Fork to mouth.
And it tastes of you.
It reeks of you.
And if I were anything but human,
I’d spit you out onto the kitchen floor,
Stamp on the bile you’ve stolen from me,
Burn you with kerosene,
And wage a third world war on the very concept of you ever existing.

But I am a human.
And moments later you have me
‘******* and thinking of death’
As coy and Marvellian as you like.

I indulge in full-knowing paralysis,
Lapping up your unvanquished honeyed venom,
With a voraciousness that redefines Lovesick –
Giving it a whole new meaning
Going beyond the epitome of disgust.

Enslaved, you have me smash myself against the ceiling.
And eat myself over again from within.
Consuming me like the fire I found you in.

You have me rage and conspire against those I don’t know.
But I will conspire against you one-day.
You have me hate others, but I will forever hate you.
You have me search my soul and grate it upon street corners
And the pavement of city-centres,
While you gleefully, whimsically **** my past
Or polish vain, rose-tinted hopes that without you
I’d know were futile and unjust –
Until I ruin them myself, knowing all the while
That you are the author of my unnecessary devastations.

But I will smash your green demonic skull into obsolescence
In some back-alley where none will find your
Bubbling frothing corpse.
You will be utterly repudiated even by the rats.
And the flies will drop you,
Iota
By
Iota,
Onto the tracks at Dalston to be rendered into absolute oblivion.
And I will go, a man unshackled, about my business –
Whether it be of importance or not,
It will be with a conscience cleansed.

But for now, vile sham of an emotion that you are,
I do your inglorious bidding.
Zombified and putrid, my actions smell of you.
They reek of you.

You intoxicate what should be left alone
And endured with silence and rapidity.
Yet you elongate these private, personal trails torturously,
In some sensational Cold War.

It goes without saying,
The world would be well rid of you.
Yet godlike, you endure the ages
Just as we endure you.

Perhaps Keats was too afraid to admit it –
You are the original
La Belle Dame Sans Merci.
Pluto’s daughter in persistent disguise.
To be seen presently
‘******* and thinking of death’.
Dear feet,

Bring me to places where my heart will be tried; my mind be blown; my faith be tested; my reason be questioned.

I want my life to be a worthwhile walk. That after all the devastations you brought me in. And the cuts you got where the blood spilled.
I could write on this uneasy ground,

"I have had a hard one, but at least, I fought to live and was not defeated."

Yours,
-*
qyf
Here I am bleeding again
Taken aback by mortal fear.
                     Staring at faith
                   Staged by hope--
Pouring rain on visceral cage–
               The sound of deep
                       Calling to deep.

Repressed feelings buried by time.
Epitaph reads on the forgotten grave:

"Here lies the child now grown.
  His hopes and dreams
       Dashed to pieces.
  This is where the child died."

I often hear the Mystic Keeper
        Calling from night
And tradition calling from artificial light

As I run through scorched barren
                          Fields of doubt.

Walking barefoot over these coals
    Crouching low
                   To hide my eyes

As I run    
         And as I hide    
  From what has already been revealed--
The tombstone says it all.

When I am out on the water
Lost in the Channel fog
I often see fleeting glimpses of
                White cliffs of hope
Like the white cliffs of Dover
Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea. 
But they often turn out to be
Withered white
     Seeds of religious platitudes.

      And then there is the ready reflection
Of the looking glass
        That often tricks the beholder.
For in it truth is not seen.
What is seen is graffiti of soul
       Hiding the crumbling
                         Cracks of age–

The threshold where
         Sanity meets its end.

Isolation has become
       A shining steel blade
Cutting deep
    Into the heart of hearts.

Nothing lives after amputation.
Depending on emotional prosthetics--
Phantom pain
                  When nothing is there.

But in the midst of these devastations
I am learning to take--

     Howbeit reluctantly--

The hand of trust and grace.
Allowing
            Hope to build
      A fortress for dreams…
Set boundaries better
       Than no control at all.
©2017 Daniel Irwin Tucker

This piece was written at a time when I experienced a debilitating physical illness which still affects me today  (not physical amputation btw).
But pain, caused by self-inflicted or extraneous traumatic experiences such as myriad forms of assault and losing or cutting off people or things in our lives, can be severely felt as a type of phantom pain. This, of course is a universal aspect of the human condition.
Serge Belinsky Apr 2015
You are still keeping heavy arms,
You did not stop explosive devastations,
The earth is clamings trials – not once,
Have troubled vital forces for whole nature,

United Nations orders been ignored,
Intrudes feeling free for invasions,
Increasing wars revising what agreed,
Incoming time inclining independence,

Indifference for all asleep,
Discourage poll possessions intentions,
Remaining backwards countrys in need,
Would left among nations in faceless,

Despite foggy announcements on stand,
Among the stars would shine the planet,
Don’t leave your children on the sand,
And face cold judgments for a wild,

Pretending for the future bright,
Its hard to watch hearts children crying,
Forgiveness doesn’t have a chance,
Missed way to all the human kind
louis rams May 2013
I often wonder if our voices are actually heard.
If people read our every word!
Or is it like life where you skim through it to get to the end
Never realizing that you might lose a friend.
We don’t stop to see and admire the picture as a whole
And “ that beauty” will never unfold.
You know ! I also wonder !
That GOD could have made this world, humanity
And the entire universe in a split second, yet he chose
To do it in six days
To enjoy all the beauties that he created.
Then why do we rush in our lives?
When he has given us time to enjoy his creations
Without all the devastations.
If we work eight hours, sleep eight hours
Then the other eight hours are for us to set our goals
And pursue our dreams and take care of our to do lists
And to smell the flowers – ‘HE has given us enough hours!”
         “THAT BEING SAID” let’s move ahead!
The words you put down in black and white
Are your joys and your struggles in this life?
It is a path to your heart and soul, and a story that must be told.
Your hidden thoughts and dreams can now be seen
Your wants, your needs, your hopes, your dreams, your desires
All of this created that burning fire.
If every living creature can communicate with each other

Then why can’t we?  My sisters and brothers!

(C) L .RAMS
louis rams Sep 2012
( 9/6/12)

They had gathered in the square
And a feeling of unrest was in the air
A message of freedom resounded out loud
you could  hear the talk amongst the crowd.

Their voices started off very softly
And rose to a high pitched frequency
And in their faces the anger you did see.

The world is changing and so must we
We must fight poverty and bigotry.
Families are starving all around this world
Just look at the faces of the boys and girls.

There are children who are skin and bones
And are left without a home.
Mothers have no more milk in their breast
And not a morsel of food for them to eat
As they lay dying at their feet.

When they do have food to cook
They need clean water and a plate
And a spoon , fork , and a knife
So their fingers they would not bite.

A netting for where they sleep
To them is a treat.
Insects flying all around
And the children s crying is the only sound.

People being condoned because of their
Religious beliefs ,color, and ****** gender
And it’s not getting any better.

I live in a world of political corruption and hate
But I always try to keep my faith and
Hopefully one day they will open up their eyes
And take away that disguise.

This is the reason you hear  FREEDOMS VOICE
Through out the lands - because people just can’t
Understand why our politicians turn their backs
And refuse to pick up the slack.

They say that these are third world nations
Who have all these devastations
But don’t they have rights just like we
So lets try to help them stamp out poverty and bigotry.

I know it’s nearly impossible to do what we say
But one by one we can find the way.

ONE BY ONE !

© L.RAMS
She lived through a lot.
A poetic soul
Who's magic entertained generations
of Suspense and Joy her writing brought.
After many years of continuing through
devastations and personal trials..
Until her end..she never quit.
He writing moves me, still...
Unique of many styles.
Dedicated To The Memory Of Louis Duncan. Writer and Inspiration for my poetry.
louis rams Oct 2012
They all went to their houses of worship that day
And to GOD they did pray.
Every disaster known to man
Was hitting each and every land.

People finding their lands under water
Ravaging winds, and civil disorders.
Food supplies down so low
And they had no place to go.
Stores all torn to the ground
Family and friends no where s to be found.

People being pushed to the ground
Lives being trampled and screams abound.
Panic in every nation, coping with these devastations.

People were losing hope and becoming in doubt
As to what this was all about.
Then from the church pews someone started to holler.

Most say that you are a merciful GOD
And others say you are quick to anger.
We as mere mortal men can not say
What’s in your heart day to day.

I tend to believe that you are merciful
For why would you create us in your own image
And send down your begotten son
If there was no hope for anyone?

These I know are signs from you
But you must tell us just what to do.
Is it that our fellow man
Refuses to give a helping hand
And you’ve finally taken your stand.
Not a sound or a word was heard
Just the fluttering of the wings of a bird.
All the eyes looked up to the rafters
This was the sign that they was after.
The cross of CHRIST was all aglow
Why this happened they did not know.

As fast as it appeared, it disappeared
And in their hearts they all knew
Exactly what they had to do.

So like the apostles on they went
For the feelings they had was heaven sent.
they had to spread the word of GOD
To everyone near and far.
They knew that this world needed prayer
And this love they had to share.

© L . RAMS
this is in regards to all that has been happening these last few years
LOVE, HOPE, FAITH
Mirza Lazim Nov 2017
I began to rest in the shade of grey,
The colors of life are constantly blur...
If you asked, 'how are you dying today?'
I would say 'like I have never lived before'

Shallow ones need restrictions to live
A deep one lives restrictions to survive
Whenever, wherever I planted feelings,
Only deep amity, concord would thrive

You wanted opposite, I do not blame,
You can't fly if you were born for crawling...
You don't hear melody, but deem dancers mad,
Just for this dissonance, I was brawling?!

I've faced up to all devastations from you
And I will lose nothing even if you disdain
I have own dimensions of perception -
'The higher you soar the smaller you are seen'

How long will this continue? Forever?!
But I wish you would change and be gracious,
I admit, I also had heedless mistakes,
Anyway, I try to keep you precious

That was the difference just between us,
I tried to exalt, but you disgraced.
You could still be admired by a mad poet
But you chose to be loved by a dishonest...
With deep respect to Friedrich Nietzsche
louis rams Feb 2013
(2/11/13)

Blood, sweat, and tears he would shed
On the path that lied ahead.
Imagine a child preaching the word of GOD
When even the adults had found it hard.

Can you picture him walking into town?
And his followers sitting on the ground
Listening to what he had to say
Their hands clasped together as they prayed.

Can you picture him in your mind?
Telling his mother that he is fine
And not to worry, not to bother
That he is not alone but with his father.
He was just a child, but he was the son of GOD
And preaching for him did not come hard.

From his birth she knew that to his father he would be true
For she was told ahead of time, what GOD had on his mind.
That he would be the leader of men and nations
And stop many of the devastations.

His childhood was about as normal as can be
But there was so many things that only he could hear and see
He knew that he was different from the others around
For they could not see the visions or hear the sounds.

This was the child called JESUS that we’ve all come to know
Two thousand years later and he is still loved so.

© L. RAMS
The effects of the recent devastations are still clear , this downward turn of events have left this nation in pieces

Strong winds of thoughts and unsaid words storm the mind and wishful thinking , daydreams have left the minds in need of help

The stocks of hope are low and scarce but broken promises
and unkept words are high

Flashfloods occur more often , waves of unshed tears wash the   planes of rosy cheeks

Wreckage of homes due to typhoons brought by you left no home to find refuge  , forced to look for a new heart to seek shelter in

And strong winds of memory blow , leaving everything that was in place , everything familiar , off course.

These chain of events have left the heart in a state of calamity , donations of love and comfort of words are appreciated.

This nation has been in a better state , let us wait and hope for better days.
Kìùra Kabiri Feb 2017
Whoever brought war to this world
Must have been an evil devil
See, fertile fields idle
Greenness they cradle
But inside them life crumbles
Lives many lives inside their bellies
They cruelly cuddles

What a human’s riddle
When masses in concentrated camps retires
As slowly they falls and expires
A heap of thin eaten bones
Humans as zombies-hell rotten clones
Just stashed skinny skeletons
Returns to humanitarians huts heartbroken
To wait to be just shrines
Of the fatal or battle famines

Fields sleeps still untilled
Occupied only by healthy bushes and shrubs
Humanity die unfilled
Fast of unsanitary outbreaks and scab-scrubs
Land lay undisturbed
Weeds wishing for someone them to pick
Humans perish perturbed
Of traumas, stigmas-too weak and so sick

Of hunger and starvation
Of thirst and malnutrition
Of deaths and devastations
Of infections and infestations
Of war-executions and explosions
Humans die of war-poverty and slavery-suppressions

Whoever brought war
To this well world’s wall
Must have been a devil for all
Can you look at them?
Once or if twice grace you've
Do you see little children?
If still they merit-forbidden!
Withered, shriveled like leaves in dry droughts
Just leanly stretched skins of skeletons  
It tries to cry, a hiss like a yawn comes out  

A malnourished mass-flame of fragile bones-
A stillborn foetus silently hibernating-mercifully striving living
Patched head becoming deserted and barren
Shrunken skull, inwardly bony discoloured eyes
Bony mandibles, jutting chops-sharp clavicles  
Increasingly round tummy above thinly matchsticks of legs

A child hanging on a shrunken shred
Of its slim dermis and her was tissues of coveted *******
And we say she is breastfeeding
Fingers bony like satan's claws, feeble and brittle
On her thin slowly leaving heaving chest
Enjoying mother's nourishing milk
An image, an illusion of her and it sufficiently suckling
Who brought war, war to this side of the world-Africa, Africa!?

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Remembering South Sudan, 22.02.17
maelstrom of moribund memories
shortlist of long-lusted envies
amalgam of devastations frenzied

i would have died long ago
if i'd known i had it in me

cajoled choruses of conceit
abject persuasions of defeat
adjunct desolations unceased

i reckon there are worse things
than a man being deceased

uniquely embittered heartstrings
sophisticatedly littered hope-dreams
unashamedly delivered hurt-schemes

but the loneliness was the worst thing
cameran Aug 2014
some of the
most beautiful
things
started from
the ugliest
of devastations.
"seeds to flowers by the hours"
War
I am the firstborn of conflict,
Cataclysmic in nature,
Panic and fear is what I inflict,
On my dreary adventure,
          A hard hit,
          A sad stint,
I strategically ensure.

I am a trader of damage,
Dogged to my targets,
I am a walking carnage,
Humans are my puppets,
          My machines,
          I vaccined,
Against the disease called peace.

I am a disastrous pastry,
Difficult to resist,
And with a commanding mastery,
Humans from me couldn't desist,
          My tricks,
          A risk,
They gladly embrace.

I am the trusted servant of death,
And when I purr,
Devastations encompasses the earth,
I am war.

#El_Magnifico™
Both sides of the Arbela militia remained frosty, failing to tear the wrath of the throne from the depths of the charter and from the expropriation of the votive temple, in view of the strength of leaders who were reinserted and rewritten from the plaster of Parnassus, where the beatifices Mortals are seen competing without having references or additions in the washer that predominated by chance referring to athletes and gladiators who were not, but today they could be spiked in the crushing Syntagamatarchos table, captaining two units all with their abdomen semi open, re liquidating again the entrails by the Ghosts of Shiraz, who came from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), from an underground channel that carried water from the spring to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Profitis Ilias, from where until then they were commanded, with dispatches of their designs before a voluntary prodigy that emancipates a perplexed Meltem i that he was haphazardly swirling in the funerary fields, but descriptive of returning to the fields their souls, which abstained after ephemeris towards a knowledge resigned to abide by it, and to get rid of transcendental limitations commanded by his blowing, and not his body that was clouded before the conspicuous epistemological reason flashed and relaxed when comforting them for having to calibrate their bones when they returned to Mosul. The Colosso pedestals were breaking when it intimidated everyone to flee to their homes, in this way it calmed them down from the quicksilver of the world that was no longer their typical dwelling, from a dwelling of transit to a story that deals with the flys that are they hover, pretending to be the same, banishing themselves from the pain that rises up the cervical spine and that dismisses the ridiculous voices of Aeschylus with their acting choruses that they seemed dilapidated in cries impossible to personify. The ******* brave pieces of deployment began to drain from the secondary positions of the penultimate physicalities of suffering that one felt without being affected, rather it manifested itself in the contents of an essential muscular container, of the subsistence of the cosmos installed in what does not think nor decide on its retraction. Vernarth and Alexander the Great knelt in front of the larnax of the torments of mercy, like ***** language that lashes out rhetoric in rebellions of thousands of hoplites who expiated themselves from their hands, empty spiked race contained in the perjury of Zeus, enrolled in apocryphal images in tombs of those who were going to be faced with pseudo refractory that was recluses of the fleshless breath, but anarchic when trying to return to their places of origin of warlike Tikun.

The traits of annihilation were shed from buried reanimates that became slime in the reverie of a mythological God who never accompanied them and invited them from a cohabiting sun, which was only the fantasy of irresistible permutations. It should be noted that the subplot was in intangible interfaces that would never be stitched together as an annexed story, but the words of parapsychology were captained by themselves more than the sub plotline that transcended the apostrophe of death, and the Pronoia of the Peri Kousmos. The doors of Patmia were finally released and speculative vines re-flowered were Lotos and Astragalus, as courtesies of Operandi and impairment that replaced the ****** elderberry, with chalks that made the winter raging when Persephone rampaged what was merely monthly erratic of those who exiled her. The senses of Patmos were the property of his Institution, which was what it is and is not, for a holistic consequence of fast ideology but of minimal intuition, which lay in multiple reasons for tissues that were filled with crop fields, animals in Magna prairies that agreed to serve the man who loved him, in which the causes were two meters before the limen that sent her off the cliff in other causes of confusion, in a real creation of zoological Hellenic neuroscience, where all forms of mythology were made of submithology, always at the side of man but this time redeemed from the origin and cause, they only persevere to offend a certain space of ignorance where the like all prevaricated by large amounts subordinate to their lineage, in the kingdom of paradises from which only animals protect the doors that only Cerberos and Cherubim open, scrutinizing food for them and making use of them.

Patmos was remade of all the waterfalls that completed the rigors of the precept, and not the chaos that subordinates cognition to make night day or day night, pouring specimens that were and will be ignored but extremely useful for the preservation of the body of the unsupported objective and sumptuous, but of a systemic nature that does and sustains it. The Souls of Helenikká and Trouvere graced all the inhabitants towards a comprehensive evolution of the ***** of dreams, giving it the fruits of conservation where the lords of the future will have to bow to the laborious principle of the Mashiach, conciliating the arrest of the stars and not of what is reactive of an invasive action. Thus ended this subplot rhetoric of intuitive formality and metaphysical channeling character, leading them through plumbing that led from what was coming out from the Raedus Codex, from the wind tunnel, and what was coming in from here identical to its elevation towards the direct apotheosis of the Megaron that was splendid in four composition buttresses with more than two drops of laudanum, which will be insignificant ***** to save the cosmos from falls of vitality in the conclusion of Vernarth.

Saint John the Evangelist after several sleeping episodes of his spiritual experience, reappears in the sucker of modality and intentions that the drops of laudanum manifested to fill the pain of Vernarth's tragedy, and those that are manifested to him that they became resurrected entelechies of component solutions speculative, that were reborn from certain internal devastations, and that returned vague automata to the Achaemenids that emerged from the depths of this professorial subplot, to bring them with the simplicity of lexicons that were loving realities that would lie behind the veils of illusion, transgressing properties of a totalizing daphnomancy. Due to his parliament, Áullos Kósmos eliminated himself braided from the road when he expresses fatigue and regret, calming the reasons in the flight from himself. He starts from demoralization and hidden impotence of the Hoplite that would not come out of himself, because it is a frenzy of consternation that makes him start from the unshakable grief of his compassion, without reaching the surface of the ethical plane.
Battle of Patmia Part VI
Beth Decisions Mar 2016
All she knew was that nothing in the world could be more perfect than this moment. With the sea spread out infront of her lightly crashing to the shore, the sun tanning the bridge of her nose, and the wind softly blowing through her thick hair. Nothing could make this moment better; except of course one thing. Though she knew better than to think of such devastations. The pain and sorrow was far too much. She always dreamed of coming here with him. However, that was before he left and everything changed.
George Jones III Aug 2015
These animations that color moving movements
Moments of fractured memories.

The actions that ripple effects through lives I have not seen nor felt
And the feelings buried beneath emotional trauma
Have become what I, regretfully have accepted, as the essence of my soul.

Yet

The destiny of Today belongs to no owner
Today I no slave to the devastations of Yesterday's transgressions
The future of Yesterday belongs in Today's discovery.

And the story of I, an unwritten, unheard, and undiscovered poem
Of a dismal character, hidden within, a narcissistic entity
Is a mirrored image of my soul
That has yet to be dipped in an once of ink.

I know not what these chapters have in store for me
I know not the ending of my poem
But NEVER
From this point forward
Will allow the chapters of Yesterday to curve my pen.

These words are my words, and mine alone.
I am the God of my destiny
I am the Creator of my own fate.
Ylzm Nov 2019
Dreams, the soul's cathartic sojourns
Bizzare dramas of things avoided,
unacknowledged in consciousness

Of loves lost, fears dreaded, anxieties unresolved,
disappointments ran away from,
victories missed, and failures’ devastations

Of desires suppressed
yet constantly desirous
even separated by death or law or man

Of journeys never travelled
across the impossible chasm
into lands unimaginable

Of evil undisguised,
sheer horrors of men’s wickedness,
that even Satan cringed  

Compelled to experience
the emotions, the terrors, the sweetness
the fulfillment of a life never lived

To confront death in its face and to die
And to go beyond the other side and yet live
And to wake up disturbed, changed, and refreshed
Kawsu Sanneh Mar 2020
If Manifestations were not enough for our daily devastations
For what an endless evil eye shall we look unto?
Shall we woefully explore in the jungles of scared destinations
In Oder to deep our feets into richdom, as we look up to.

Why all those indecent quest against the innocent ******
Had the panther not eager to pull the trigger
What a fearable havoc could you raise?
In spite of self insinuations against heinous crime.

Let's retain reliable personnel
That could be needed to counsel,
The rampant rampage revolving restlessly on the ground
That had tamper Hamper against honest souls

Where were those insightful intelligentsias of the era?
Had their thoughts not ought to hove
Us unanimously in that fretted Shove (?)
Which have been anchored in our ancestral shrine?

Let our deeds never be odious as a toad,
Hence we were being mewed to be eliminated
But the invincible creatures were future to lead
And born to bear the threatening of the thunderstorm.
Butch Decatoria Sep 2017
Devastations’ deeps:
Such Chaos drowns all petty
Wars, and last concerns.
Rewrite edit.
Gr8Ryzyngz Aug 2018
Empty hearts and hands
Foreign citizens
In strange familial lands
Gauntlets unseen
Running from pain
To devastating devastations
Destinations unknown
Bypassing liberation
Literally
Not confused
By the chaos around me
Fearing my own overstatings
Leaning on understanding
Far beyond rational practicalities
I stand waiting in faith humbly...
Vinnie Brown Oct 2017
Trying to make something timeless
Begging to stay tireless
In the hour of devastations
Words and self representations
Fed up and I'm tired
Book isn't finished and I'm thinking of retiring
As I'm not sure when to stop and what you demand of me
Is my soul and mind the fee for you to be complete?
How far are we gonna go? There's only so many sides to me
So, dear reader which side do you wish to see?
KorbydAngyle Sep 2022
A Pterodactyl a predator using vicious sites  
Wings opening and closing like the verses of the emaciated
     sweeping dreams under a rug through all nights
Stretching claws the talons so strong and pure
    Pleads of the nascent young the innocent fodder for the taking
        Billowing religious signs just as injustices ring from the
              clash of striking nails pulling blood from the victims
Learned ones stray from their holy path as the Godless skies
    soon reform into the sensory of loss from all deepest depths
Old are now trying to be young and the young freeze in their own tracks as an ancient force delivers more than they can find in the pleadings of an iconoclast
Hold still little worthless free born soul drat and confusion have taken control!
If we are the mighty and finding ever elations in new innovations?

Then why are the devastations of all environments and the rapturous claws of evil death our only call our only renditions of a future deigning its conditions?
They brag but what really has anyone done to protect and
   improve our planet for the next generations?

— The End —