"engineers" poems
The engineers they tweak the DNA,
fostering changes to the RNA,
the plants becoming something else,
immunevolution modify man’s health.
And never will they accept the blame,
for their arrogance and dangerous game;
and when the food cannot be eaten?
History recall of the viral cretins.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC
Before you criticize me too soon, I think you should spare some seconds and answer a simple question to yourself...
If Shahjahan loved Mumtaz Mahal so much, why he had a harem of wives to use at his own pleasure?
While I agree that the Taj Mahal is arguably the most extraordinarily beautiful monument in the world, I don't agree upon the fact that it was built as a tomb of love. It is just a symbol of madness if you asked me. An emperor's insecure feeling to get his name registered in the history books. While it may be one of the most beautiful architectural monument, it was built by over 20,000 architects, craftsmen, masons and engineers who took over 16 years to build the magnificent building.
He got this apparently high & prestigious monument of love built but everything that the Emperor did was not pleasant at all.
° The lavishly living Mughal Emperor spent all his - his subjects' money into building this monument of love instead of keeping his subjects well-fed.
° Mumtaz Mahal might have been the luckiest woman to have died and got such a marvelous building built as her mausoleum but she died giving birth to her & Shahjahan's 17th offspring and then Shahjahan who had uncountable other wives was inspired by her demise apparently to undertake what is termed as the biggest project in history build the costliest monument proclaiming his rule.
° The arrogant - falsely proud lover - Mughal emperor didn't know that what he thought to be looked at as the greatest symbol of love will be criticized by some poet in his own land nearly 375 years later. The insane Mughal Emperor got all the builders of the Taj Mahal's fingers cut-off of so that there could be no other Taj Mahal.
But Aurangzeb, his & Mumtaz Mahal's son overthrew his power when Shahjahan got older and locked him up in a jail at the other end of Yamuna river where the emperor then died a sad old lovelorn bedlamite person in prison. Aurangzeb was the exact opposite of his dad, he showed religious intolerance and his habits drove the empire towards its doom after his death.
But let me think this way; when I look at any picture of the Taj Mahal, what I get the first thing in mind is this: Such a CRAZY emperor who got such a beautiful monument of Egotism built!
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
Calamitous collapse of structure forged
With steel and concrete built for time,
Since Roman times a formula endured
With engineers additional design.
Why, then, did this structure fail,
Did mortar crack, did reinforcing strong,
Shear and plummet in an instants time
To crush and doom this bridges song.
In teeming rain a silence hung
Where watchers gaped in stunned awe,
A magnitude of devastation lay
Pulverized in valley floor.
Astonishing this expanse of space
Where seconds past, huge edifice,
Imbued with its’ charge of lives
Unknowingly to meet abyss.
Innocence has lost its’ life
Blame resounds around the room
Someone shall pay the price
For negligence in causing doom.
Truth be told it’s shared by all
For Italy has lagged behind
Cost cutting infrastructures’ purse
Because of economic bind.
Time to reassess the plan
Time to weep and bury dead,
Clear the rubble from the land
Rebuild well then forge ahead.
Blame not the engineer
Nor the man who drew design,
Blame not the hardhat
Who poured the concrete in the line.
Reassign the budget spend
To infrastructure, pay its share
For sentiment is running hot
To axe the fool who pares the fare.
M.
Storeman
Civil Infrastructure
Hamilton, NEW ZEALAND
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
what is this mind that was given to me that is able to see things i print on screen with my digital zip drive of a brain that is stuck inside a laptop main frame, ******* server uploading and crashing sending pings and things to hackers who perform doss attacks and web cracks and serial cracks while eating cereal going over javascript material program landslide juno got bit by emails and other technical software jargin computer guy got the blue screen of death corruption on the web the spider metacrawling and setting it on angelfire i google the facebook twitter and hot wire my car on the trader the wall street journal and the white house, **** sites and white owls, getting arrested and being hired by the government, the money's spent, criminal punishment, in cells locked up no breakfast but lunch under the crack of a door inside ur naked *** on irc chat, the warez rat, pirates on bays and whispers from kittens, brown paper packages exploding a smidgeon, binary, metamorphosis, code program gold, warning anti virus and spywares, baghdad to china, spy on private, eyes on cameras, cell phones like trackers, global position mappers, predator drones, video games, nfl madden, mad men, and happy wal marts, hacking wal mart, with social engineers, traveling the silk road with a cloak ip address revoked
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 4:15 AM UTC
She sees herself as a machine,
Something that can be fixed
By a brilliant engineer, as herself
She's aware that she needs help
Yet she refuses every offer she gets
Cause she believes the broken ones
Can be fixed by brilliant engineers, like her
A day came when she doesn’t know herself no more,
So she tried to know herself once more
And rebuilt it like she used to rebuild a broken machine
Yes, she was slowly destroying herself
Like a mechanic engineer destroying
A broken machine
To know what’s wrong with it
Drugs for her brain
Toxic pills for her liver
Cigarettes for her lungs
Blades for her skin
She finally knew what’s wrong with her
And tried to fix herself once more
But none of her attempts worked
Instead, her attempts destroyed herself even more
She came to a realisation
That humans are no machines
Once broken, no one can fix them,
Not even themselves
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
Sixty-seven children have been slaughtered.
Sixty-seven dreams have been shattered.
Sixty-seven beautiful faces have now vanished.
Sixty-seven vibrant smiles have faded.
Sixty-seven beds are left empty.
Palestinian children, like all children, love to play.
Palestinian children are longing for peace.
The children of Gaza dream to be teachers, nurses, artists, engineers, and doctors.
Palestinian children want to breathe.
Palestinian children's lives matter!
(Palestinian children killed by Israel in Gaza in May, 2021)
Hussein Dekmak
May 29, 2021
May 29, 2021 at 5:05 PM UTC
Library - It is a world full of books
All are interested, whether they are engineers, peons or cooks
Books of all genre you will find
It never fails to attract one's mind
But please remember the Golden Rule
Please be silent; it isn't a sin
Never be violent or else you'll disgrace your kith and kin
You may even make the librarian your friend
And ***** will provide you with books of the latest trend
Harry Potter, The Godfather and The Da Vinci Code
Not that keen? Well you could always try The Princess and the Toad
Books are for everyone; age doesn't matter
Idiot box or reading? I'd rather choose the latter
Whether you want science or fiction
The Library is a world of addiction
Once you pick up a book you will get glued
You'll shout yourself hoarse if anyone dares to intrude
You'll be reading it in class, the toilet or the bus
And when the teacher confiscates it you'll create a big fuss
Oh, Miss please! Just one more page!
It's the ****** part between the pirate and the sage
We should thank Gutenberg for inventing the press and bestowing upon us this boon
Else we'd all still be stuck watching cartoon!
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
"...Ut si globi duo ad datam ab invicem distantiam filo intercedente connexi, revolverentur ur circa commune gravitatis centrum..."
D. Isaaci Newtoni.
From the level of the sea with its worlds of similarity and wonders of nature attracting beautiful birds, these ships fled to find the swirl reaching through to the floor. The ocean bed was dampened with the tears seen by the floating machine.
{ [ ( r - 3 ) d d u d t t ( f ) x ] / [ ( x , P ) ] } =
tau pi g ( y ; hyp N , par Z ) d w d x .
Observation created a self reflection, whereby the cosmic engineers projected the video like winds from outer forests. Engines became magical reverberation arising, if a correct answer could be presented to exist, as quality persistence like pieces of candy. Glittering, colored fragments of glass were scattered along the shore, they all liked as much as they admired the inventor.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
There are boys that cry,
There are girls who have dry eyes.
There are boys that dance or play volleyball,
There are girls that wrestle or play football.
There are boys who drive VW Bugs,
There are girls that drive trucks.
There are boys that bake,
There are girls that shred.
There are boys that like the Notebook,
There are girls that like Transformers.
There are boys that are romantics at heart, looking for love,
There are girls that aren't into flowers or love songs.
There are boys with hair to their knees,
There are girls with shaved heads.
There are boys with diaries and journals full of memories,
There are girls who have no desire to write down all the details.
There are boys with names like Aubry,
There are girls with names like Sam.
There are boys with insecurities about their bodies,
There are girls who don't weigh themselves ever.
There are boys with eating disorders,
There are girls who work out for the ideal 6 pack.
There are boys that prep endlessly for a date,
There are girls who take 5 minutes to get out the door.
There are tidy, neat boys,
There are messy, whirlwind girls.
There are boys in dresses,
There are girls in baggy jeans and a pullover.
There are boys who shop endlessly,
There are girls who can't stand the mall.
There are boys that talk about their emotions,
There are girls who would rather not.
There are boys that look after the kids,
There are girls that work full-time.
There are boys who are nurses,
There are girls who are engineers.
There are boys who cook,
There are girls that change the oil in the car.
There are boys who are complacent and subordinate,
There are girls who are dominant and overpowering.
There are boys with no desire to get it in on the first date,
And there are some girls who wouldn't mind if they do.
And those are all okay. Gender stereotyping only limits what you can and can't do. Let the boys cry and write poetry and eat chocolate when they're sad and talk about their feelings. Let the girls be aggressive and wrestle their buddies and play ball and drive sports cars. Let people do as they please. You're born as you a are, you can't decide what gender you are. You can decide what you do with your gender though, or rather what it won't keep you from doing. Your gender is only an aspect of who you are, don't let it dictate your actions to appease a society that has deemed what is and is not okay for you to do simply because you're either a guy or girl.
There are boys and girls that can grow up to be what they please, do as they wish and speak as they will. Don't be the one to tell them otherwise.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
I am 6.3 miles from home on an 11:30 night stuck worrying about the same thing of perspective.
The way I feel about you has driven deeper than casket nails in the past 10 hours. I know 3 weeks of my time will be a Friday night to you. Maybe it's more lopsided than my asymmetrical eyes, but these emotions go unrequited because of someone who is not me.
It's nothing of your persona, only your perfect idea. A philosopher doesn't fall for the thinker, only the thought. You're the vessel of my one flawless mental creation that came as a broken jar in an antique clay shop. I could have been born decades earlier and I still wouldn't have made it in time to tear you from something you never had to be attached to.
But now as I clarify my final statement on engineers and metal pieces, does the idea of me linger more heavily in her mind than yours in mine? I need a new appraisal and I've got 3 weeks and 18 miles. I have no expectations but I expect the world from you.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
They amputated
Your thighs off my hips.
As far as I'm concerned
They are all surgeons. All of them.
They dismantled us
Each from the other.
As far as I'm concerned
They are all engineers. All of them.
A pity. We were such a good
And loving invention.
An aeroplane made from a man and wife.
Wings and everything.
We hovered a little above the earth.
We even flew a little.
3.5k
Another scar to bear
And another pain inside.
Nothing for you to see,
It's hidden behind my eyes,
But I do hurt, and myself I revile,
After these long months of living as a friend.
Victory, Victory, Victoria
So this is what's become of us.
Another scar,
Something my words did not intend,
Neither of us safe from their path.
We both played our part precise,
We, the engineers of our own demise.
You, with waiting to play your cards,
Unfortunately you played it too close, you played too far.
How long is a guy supposed to wait
Before he wises up,
Before he realizes he will not catch the bait?
You tell a guy just want to be friends, twice,
And you know what, he thinks he gets the point.
You built your walls up too high
To try and prevent a painful ending,
And instead we never got to start.
Victory, Victory, Victoria
So this is what's become of us.
Another scar,
Something my words did not intend,
With neither of us safe from their path.
We both played our parts precise,
We, the engineers of our own demise.
It seems as if I paint it all your fault
But we both played our parts.
I waited patient and tried to be
The best friend and what I thought you needed,
And when you mentioned your friend
Thought I was an "interest"ing guy,
I walked into it with my head held high
And both eyes staring open wide,
Refusing to let myself see
What you really did mean.
Victory, in honesty, I could only wait so long, hating to be alone,
And Victory, in honesty, I never thought I'd be singing this song,
Victoria, as things wound and rewrapped themselves
So quickly after I picked out a new course.
And to you again, how long do you
Expect a guy to sit tight and wait?
It's a lonely life to watch a girl live life
Until she finds she is ready to date.
And as for the poems you quoted at me,
Only one was written about the new "she".
If only you'd taken the time to see what
The upload date would surely tell you,
A different story on who the subject
Of that second poem was,
Of who I wrote that other poem for -
Or maybe you prefer now not to know
So neither of us has more reason to hurt
Beyond the fact that
I never showed you that poem.
So Victory, Victory, Victoria
This is what's to become of us.
Yet another scar to bear,
Something from my words I never did intend,
With neither of us safe from their path.
We, the players, acting our parts precise,
We, the engineers, the designers of our own demise.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
Who else in this inhumane edifice
can dance while the suspecting eyes stare
at his moistened armpit?
Pathetically unknowing music uplifts not just the soul but the intellect.
Who else got the fire in imparting?
or …
did theirs even start a single spark since then?
Who else brings out the best in these hopefuls?
It’s all the worse and worst that they see.
And you think San Pedro would be pleased
when you gloat you made all the priests, doctors, and engineers?
Woe to you who humiliate the chair by your indolent butts
while uttering kindergartenous blabbers you claim to be education!
Then you get all you want while tabula rasa remains tabula rasa.
And you
You seated on the higher chairs!
Why don’t you trample down awhile
and put your cataracting sight to use
before it even brings you to the death of light.
Has anyone of you even heard what your god told to Pontius Pilate?
Ha! The you-have-no-power-over-me’s have always been impervious to you bigots!
And you say to your kin let me handle it.
When it is delayed and their impatience grows
you see they’ll leave.
Did you ever fret about deadlines
of bills, of matriculas, of debts?
What do you feed to your clan? Feeds?
Get Ripley’s here!
Oh how divine to utter all the Fs!
©Glenn L. Sentes
February 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 5:41 AM UTC
In March of 2010 a 46 year old white male was brought to this hospital after a severe 'episode'. He was placed in the Mental Health Intensive Care Unit . He was diagnosed with " Major Depression ". This is considered Slow Death , a treatable disorder by the AMA currently . Artist and Architect will lay out Hallucinations and conceptual designs , Engineers , Mathematicians and Surveyors will coordinate more pills at higher doses because minute details to within fractions of an inch followed by schizophrenia by Earth moving equipment , graders , bulldozers , psychotic episodes , dump trucks , Carpenters and Concrete , bi-polar disorder and Bricklayer will labor different Help treatment methods because the drugs are having absolutely no piece by piece constructing form , pylon , shoring embankments for Steel Worker and Welder ,Pipefitter and Increased risk of suicide was reported for Plumber and all manner of tradesman , supplier and Pharmacist ........
Psychiatrist and Psychologist will formulate a treatment plan which will include drug therapy and counseling sessions with Electrician and patient and Spouse plus other family members if needed in order to reach the island Drowning which will be a difficult task . Emory Hospital is conducting new research because they finally admit to depression drugs not working in Freak more than half the patients today , like every other building bridges in hopes of getting to the island that is depression .
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
I saw you there
And the neon signs and your tears
Reflected in your irises
Made you more beautiful
And the alcoholic haze made me believe
If just one night could work
You could come with me
We could have our happy ending
We could leave this life and place
And your dress ****** from engineers schemes
And I love that forgotten woman
More than the orange trees and John
But for our child she gave her life
And I still love her
That Vietnam Bride
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
where do they go?
to mountains of synonyms
pushing lilac or purple
or puce or lavender
from valleys
of russet metaphors?
do verbs frollic?
nouns place themselves
before mirrors
asking themselves
"who am I?"
adjectives, do they
answer?
do the long words
most people don't
understand
do they go on
spending sprees
with their
million dollar
Lotto winnings?
do conjunctions
play matchmaker?
or hitch up
boxcars for
the more expressive
poetic engineers
to haul through
the long winds?
ghosts of past tenses
invade present
and mixed metaphors
haunt the nightmares
of learned readers.
gerunds run on
their little wheels
and stuff their cheeks
with prepositions.
where do words go
when they die?
they must hang as
DANGLING
PARTICIPLES.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
******* white people;
hide their racism behind
vapid "opinion".
******* white folks will
argue you can't argue with
results and numbers
because white people
can strip race from the issue
and swear it's "equal".
White people without
culture or identity,
strip it from others.
Call you naked as
they strut in stolen clothing.
Full of silicone.
**** with white people,
find out they know the struggle
by the article.
They can sweat big stuff,
but their racism is in
the cracks and seeping.
Disappointingly,
you can't trust white people for
**** not even me.
Not Bush, not Clinton,
Donald Trump, Bernie Sanders,
******* Macklemore,
Not Bill O'Reilly,
and not Jon Stewart, and not
viral feminists/
white feminism,
Taylor Swift's white sisterhood,
their artists, music,
writers, poetry,
actors, authors, painters and
sculptors and bloggers,
their politicians,
obviously, but also
their lawyers, doctors,
their engineers and
scientists and businesses,
economists or
pastors, preachers, religion,
programmers, products,
video games and novels;
They will let you down.
The rich or the poor,
it really doesn't matter.
They will let you down.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
I almost died the other day
And I came back to this place just to say
That you never know when it all can get taken Away
All your life's lessons suddenly play
like a highschool production through your mind's electric grey clay,
a mind managing to keep itself oxygenated enough to operate even as consciousness fades
A body lying there, blue as a mid summer's day, gasping
For breath, and for a chance to stay
Alive.
I woke up, having almost died the other day,
To a room full of strange faces, whose eyes all aimed my way.
A room full of strangers,
My vision regaining clarity,
I see equipment of many types, lying around a well decorated living room, it seemed out of place,
devices dreamed up by engineers a few hundred miles away,
At an elite institution, of mechanical engineering and science, engineering devices that now lay about my horrified friend's living room,
Then the puzzle regained its shape, and I was graced with the understanding that it was all going to be okay,
this time, anyway.
the first responders,
My saviours.
Real heroes,
Who wear no capes,
Nor spandex,
But who know their job well,
And do it without delay,
And these people who saved my life today
Are out of my life now forever, and onto saving another fragile life, on some other street,
On some other day.
I saw people in blues, reds, and greys, yellows and oranges, and then the light of the day.
The light of the day on which I did not die,
But I could have, had it been another time,
Another place.
My stretcher was bright yellow, by the way...
I almost died the other day, and its implacable oncoming rush scared me.
The fear of not having lived a worthy life, an unobserved life,
Of dying too soon, with things left to do
Of leaving people behind,
Of wrongs left to right
Of lying here blue
On my dear friend's plush carpet,
And her child witnessing it as he comes home from school. Innocent as day, then scarred for life.
Luckily I have a few friends and modern miracles on my side.
I almost died the other day, and I came back here, having missed all the poetry, that makes life worth living, day after day.
Beyond the biorhythms we must feed
In order to stay
Alive.
Peace.
Love.
Breath.
Focus.
A good enough mantra,
Wouldn't you say?
I almost died the other day,
But I didn't. I breathe
in with gratitude,
And I exhale with relief,
that I still got the knack
for it.
Dec 9, 2022
Dec 9, 2022 at 10:52 AM UTC
In the year 3131
They come to devour our suns
Terrible, godlike, interstellar giants
Inconceivable beyond all reason and science.
Humanity and all her colonies,
Divided amongst the galaxies,
Finally united once and for all
For our race dare not fall!
To eliminate the threat of annihilation
We constructed planet-sized stations
That house massive and powerful guns
To protect and defend our vulnerable suns.
As our fears vanished behind us
Those in control sought to rebind us
For systems of authority never change,
Not even with pervasive freedom in range.
With the powerful distracted by their lust,
For control over every speck of dust,
There emerged a demented cult
That believes our race is at fault,
And beings that come from above
Do so out of divine, parental love.
These naive and delusional zealots,
Inspired by avarice long embellished,
By a ruthless society lacking empathy,
Have developed an ever enduring apathy.
Seeking to destroy our only defenses,
They mount violent and ****** offensives,
Their rugged, disorderly fleets crucify
As humanity is unable to reunify.
However, there is another cooperative effort,
A last stand, self-organized endeavor,
This vigilante group battles cultist detestables
They call themselves The Solar Sentinels.
Bound by a principled, passionate collaboration,
The Solar Sentinels defend all people and nations,
Engineers and military minds come together
To ensure our survival and prosper, whatsoever.
Now, one existential question remains:
Will humanity break free of its chains,
Awaken, realize that we are all one,
Disregard old orders and save our suns?
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 2:43 PM UTC
How many of us are trapped?
So little are those that make writing
A career
So many of us
Starving
For an opportunity
How many of us are Nurses?
Engineers?
Doctors?
Retail salesmen?
Teachers?
Business people?
Students?
Life is so different outside of
The four corners
Of our screens
But here we are
Forgetting the day-to-day
Embracing
These 5 minutes of
Free
Creative
Salvation
Hellopoetry
Goodbye society
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
Social breaks and cultural ridges,
Double takes and building bridges,
Seems like ages, for twenty four hour wages,
Boys to men in uniforms, training in stages,
To be soldiers, first, Engineers, second,
Every province shares, before The Reckoning,
Hands calloused, hearts as well, hands hold a couple o' beers,
Which will rouse, the parts, when the day is done, with cheers!
Thing, an exercise called a bridge gallop, where
For two weeks and twenty two hours a day we share,
A work ethic to assemble and strip bridges built,
Practice for the real deal, with a unified will,
We all know when some one else is not lift-
ing their load, brothers in arms not using theirs,
But we built bridges, long day into night
we played Euchre, in the down time,
Short night into day, smoky rooms and beers,
In play, we called empty brown beer bottles,
Dead soldiers,
We became a unit, unified, by our trade,
Jack of all trades, master of none,
All of us were from Canada's various parts,
Building bridges, in the light, in the dark.
Assembling parts, to make a whole, bridge,
From bank seat, to bank seat,
It took many bridges, for Canada to meet,
The soldiers and Engineers, UBIQUE.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
When you are swept over by sorrow
And your night is forlorn
When your hours are reigning pain
My compassion will be there.
When everything is taken
And your attachments are all broken
And you've squandered your daily bank of seconds
My compassion will be there.
When rage and retaliation strike home
Alienation, isolation sings loud
When the thoughts are like a spinning whirling twisted train with the most perverse of engineers
And the tracks lead to endless night
My compassion will be there.
When love has slipped through your fingers again
And you're in the deepest hole you've ever known with only a shovel
And your fingers can't grip
And it can't be fixed without a ladder
And there is no ladder anywhere
My compassion will be there.
Whether you're too young or too old
Whether your world is
Expanding or contracting
My compassion will be there.
Countless life stories
Many echoing rooms
The human condition played out
In infinite permutations
When I have nothing else to say
And nothing else to give
As best I can
My compassion will be there.
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC
We are the terraced women
piled row on row on the sagging, slipping hillsides of our
lives.
We tug reluctant children up slanting streets
the push chair wheels wedging in the ruts
breathless and bad tempered we shift the Tesco carrier bags
from hand to hand
and stop to watch the town
The hill tops creep away like children playing games
our other children shriek against the school yard rails
‘there’s Mandy’s mum, John’s mum, Dave’s mum,
Kate’s mum, Ceri’s mother, Tracey’s mummy’
we wave with hands scarred by groceries and too much
washing up
catching echoes as we pass of old wild games
after lunch, more bread and butter, tea
we dress in blue and white and pink and white checked
overalls
and do the house and scrub the porch and sweep the street
and clean all the little terraces
up and down and up and down and up and down the hill
later, before the end-of-school bell rings
all the babies are asleep
Mandy’s mum joins Ceri’s mum across the street
running to avoid the rain
and Dave’s mum and John’s mum – the others too – stop
for tea
and briefly we are wild women
girls with secrets, travellers, engineers, courtesans, and stars
of fiction, films
plotting our escape like jail birds
terraced, tescoed prisoners rising from the household dust
like heroines.
Pennyanne Windsor, from Poetry 1900-2000 One hundred poets from Wales
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 4:27 AM UTC
The Warden roused them early
on this, their final day.
He marched them out on hobbled feet-
Grey trucks took them away.
Doctors, lawyers, engineers,
All captured in a raid.
German Soldiers had been killed
Reprisals must be made..
Fathers, Husbands, sons all caught
within the **** snare.
Among them was a carpenter
Who bowed his head in prayer.
He’d walk the hills of Rome no more
Nor touch a lover’s cheek.
Here, near the Via Appia
He’d find eternal sleep.
Five by five they entered in
to the foreboding cave.
There they knelt for benediction,
the kind that pistols gave.
The cave became a charnel house
Each man shot in the head.
It reeked of blood and excrement
Flies feasted on the dead.
The carpenter fell once or twice.
Can blood for blood atone? .
His killers coveted his coat
and forced him to disrobe.
By now they had grown sloppy
with drink and hate and fear.
The first shot missed completely
The second grazed his ear.
In seconds live eternities
He said his final prayer:
“Forgive them, Father, even this
done out of hate and fear
several shots rang out just then
each found his noble head
they shot him once more, in his side
to make sure he was dead.
Explosions rocked and sealed the cave
With tons of rock and stone
They didn’t think to post a guard
The grey trucks drove back home.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 7:20 AM UTC
It was a highway that brought me here
Stuffed into a expensive car with four adults and good music
We drove for what seemed hours
Arriving on the slick, black streets of the Emerald City
Down a rabbit hole of old cars and termite ridden stairs
Past an old couch and a stray cat
Into a cold room with heaters stacked and jumbled
Full of pianos and good and beer
People I've known for twelve years
And people I've met only once
People I don't know
Different skins, of their own, of animals
Frizzy and cropped hair, wine and mason jar glasses
Walls painted silver, gleaming under forty year old lamps
Mismatched furniture and occupants alike
Sirens singing in the background
Children running through the foreground
Old friends and a blind man with a big dog
Visual artists and IRS agents
Musicians and carpenters
Mechanical engineers
Cobbled together around and old fireplace and a rosewood piano
Sharing stories and songs, sons and daughters
Tales from the road, and wedding pictures
I sat on an orange pleather couch in the makeshift kitchen
Watching theses people's children play with bionicles and dolls
Reading books and drawing on walls
Playing drums and answering calls
Fighting for bathroom stall
These are my people
I know them all
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC