"gladiatorial" poems
With swirling serves and
Arcing,
Lashing loops,
The Table Tennis King
Of spin,
Attacks his foe.
In gladiatorial combat
He reigns supreme,
Sweeping and swirling,
Smashing,
And feather-touching,
That gyrating ball.
For many hours he’s trained and sweated,
Perfecting skills from very youthful days.
He started in the youthie playing “Ping-Pong”,
To rise, a phoenix, from the local flames.
His coaches now sit very proudly,
Having made him sweat and toil.
With all that stamina-work behind him,
No way will he go off the boil.
At last he stands victorious,
Having made that final ****
There is no game like Table Tennis,
And winning’s such a glorious thrill!
PAUL BUTTERS
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 7:46 AM UTC
In the square circle your reality is sudden you see
what is your intent ?
I mean when one has to face the inner , not winner or loser.
But brutal. no negotiation. No verbal Panzy assery.
How do you assign pain.
In the square circle that is. That is blood for blood.
Blow for blow. Most people tip toe. Dont wanna know.
We should all be made to go. toe to toe
In the square circle.. How barbaric say ye.
Talk is cheap. ink on paper a mere vapor.
Gladiatorial. All we are saying .. is give peace a chance.
There are greater tests. how does one best Cancer or say living on a stoop.
after days in paradise.No time to think twice.
Go take a dance in the circle. Pillar to post.
A brutal analogy. How would you be. Why would one bother?
Next time you see a dumb pug with cauliflower ears and a rearranged mug.
Think it through. How would you do in a moment of truth facing the brute
He wont listen to reason He wont negotiate.
Next stop. Normandy. Pork chop hill.The Mekong.Baghdad......
The square circle takes many forms just wont conform to the norms.
Havoc will be imposed. on the open mind or the closed.
Real men die for reasons why ?
Fodder. Step through the ropes for a thrice
Feel if you have the fire or ice.
Then take a warm shower and slide behind the wheel
to a warm meal and Dancing with the stars.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
(for the unknown You) –
Sweep up a mound of achievements;
layer dogwood and newspaper beneath;
find a small, secluded shoreline to sleep an endless sleep;
shovel money (in at least twenty currencies),
some status and fame
onto the funeral pyre’s unremembering flame;
write furiously with computer or pen,
fill out the days’ whitespace with enthusiastic fantasy;
revel on a fallacy (or three);
win the gladiatorial games in the Corporate Arena;
rediscover a bit of ancient folklore;
set up nice altruistic societies to make orphans feel infinite;
plant a little garden – give guidance in its growth;
build four or five fine-but-small boats
with richly decorated keels;
fight for something worth believing,
though I’m still unsure what that means…
A(my) guess: lyricism and poetry and prose,
musical composition, simply being kind and open;
A suggestion(for You): lay Your hand on a patient’s slowing heart
in a cancer ward, catch their tears with a jar
and meditate on better things to do;
give the old folks a laugh;
steal the Elgin Marbles back for the Greeks,
or, for the memory of ancient Greece;
find where lay a psychopathic fascist’s bitter ashes
and give them to the conspirators for closure;
(for me) place letters on the graves
of John Keats, Percy Shelley,
Wystan Auden and William Yeats;
rescind, abolish, annul, invalidate
my station in God’s dysphoric, existential reverie;
heap up beautiful words and send them off to sea
inside a laptop on a cellophane-wrapped raft;
(for both of us) think thoughts uplifting;
smile thirty-three times a day (or more);
plan for the future of ourselves and others;
give just a bit of love to our mothers;
sweep the kitchen and the city streets for free;
by your garden plant a tree.
Beyond these things for us to do,
be proud-yet-humble, open-eyed and acquiescent;
just accept; all things inanimate and animate, accept.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
You live on the canal,
by the little swan
that whittles the sun.
A sudden rush of clouds,
a clatter of sandals -
caprice of Dublin.
I knew of Dublin
and its grand canal
from old books tan as sandals.
I read Yeats for a swan,
Joyce for castle clouds
that yielded little sun.
But you, you were the sun!
You lit green Dublin
from within. Clouds
fled from the canals
of your eye. "Swansies."
And summer's far sandals
were today's sandals:
time shifted in the sun,
took flight like the night swan
through ancient Dublin.
You sent letters from the canal,
letters that divided clouds,
only to calve new clouds.
I've never worn sandals,
not ever, but when the canal
danced in my dreams, the sun
pierced my foot in Dublin.
You were my swan,
my elegant swansie,
killer of cloud,
conquistador of Dublin
in gladiatorial sandal,
herald and avatar of sun,
romantic of the grand canal.
Let me taste unclouded sun -
let sandals upend the canal -
send swans by the dozen into Dublin.
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC
Frosted lips met rusted leaves,
Surprising both parties at its rightness,
Between the freezing and the warm,
Between the snap and the crunch,
Between Autumn and Holly.
Hearts met in the mix of November,
A tossed salad of a month where both coexist,
They met with eyes of brown and blue,
And to their shock and everything else managed to meet too,
Between Autumn and Holly.
As the eons went by,
They muddled through ice ages, warm fronts,
Surviving only in the holy sanctuary of each others' arms,
And even when their battling storms came,
They came out with hands locked,
Gladiatorial victors of all things wicked their way come,
Possible love strung between them in the month of November,
Between Autumn and Holly.
The world grew below them,
and they did their work exactly as the atmosphere demands them,
They can nearly feel it in their bones when each meteorological tide must come,
It is the way their work happens,
And the way their world, our world turns,
Between Autumn and Holly.
Yet as humankind appeared and grew there was something stirring,
There were mechanisms and smoke clouds and an unbelievable flurry,
A heavy weight of some subversive demon latching itself lightly onto the lovers,
Then deeper,
But they refused to open their eyes; their earth and humanity won't either,
So the demon festered and grew to breathe noxious fire,
Eventually making the air too caustic in their ignorance,
Between Autumn and Holly.
Words could not be spoken after the inevitable occurred,
Autumn's world is near dead from a new, ferocious Holly storm,
A touch of the hand is all each heartbroken season wanted,
But they and the world stayed silent when everything's wrong,
And those fingertips and their vast love and brilliance created this hell,
A silence and death fell onto the possible love that possibly could have been forever,
Between Autumn and Holly.
Silence is their new normal,
Quid pro quo, in a way,
Holly's eyes scream her sorrow and guilt,
Her lips, on the other hand, say nothing,
Instead of their beloved, romantic November,
They now only meet for work,
The world becomes more chaotic and its weather distressed,
And the chasm between them grows larger with each atmospheric catastrophe,
The squalls screaming like their broken hearts,
All created by their ****** brilliant fingertips,
Between Autumn and Holly.
All they have left is staring down at their world and their humanity,
Hoping one day their November, their seasons, their world can be its own again,
It is too late for them to change the tides of the atmosphere,
But across the chasm they both somber and hope one day, some day, something can bridge the divide and:
Calm the atmospheric disaster,
Calm the storms,
Calm the world,
A maybe even fix the possible love that is left,
Between Autumn and Holly.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
We oughtta consider bringing back
old-fashioned Gladiator Arena combat
as retribution or as a chance at vindication,
depending on how well one performs,
for those who are most deserving:
Those who seek to spill innocent blood or to oppress the masses,
the most corrupt Politicians, Lawmakers, Enforcers and Judges,
overtly violent supposed "'Protectors", such as Soldiers or Police,
the scheming Bankers, that is to say "the House",
deliberately misleading Authority figures,
whether in news or in the world at large:
all the malicious Religious figures,
power hungry Narcissists,
abusive Demagogues,
subversive Tyrants;
if these people have a place,
it's center stage in a Coliseum with little else aside from one another,
their choice of melee weapon and/or shield, some leather armour, and a roaring crowd.
Let's not forget the HD cameras with hyper-telescopic lenses so we can see their faces live in 1080p!
Maybe even add a few hungry Lionesses from time to time
or perhaps some ill-tempered Sharks..
or, a pack of quite irate Wolves.
Our Imagination is truly the Limit!
We could even run ads in between rounds
and sell foam novelty items
and overpriced water
when it's 115 outside.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
We have seen your greasy lips
Of supple warmth nibble our geographical space with relish
With your cerebral repertoire of Machiavellian tactics
A savage sage gleaning with resounding skill
And crafty navigational sail
Your masterstrokes through climes and tongues reverberated
With your sparkling craft of vile crypt
Across regions, tribes and locales
Of your fangs that foiled good governance
But this time…
Your gladiatorial glide on this political turf
Shall experience a firestorm of rejection
Your emissaries across territorial divides
Shall be hounded to delusion
For the masses shall maul your mushy mantle of self grandeur
To the abyss of dishonour
For your subsequent arrival shall be booed to your doom
Your waning clout shall swing you to judgement
Of abysmal invasion
We are watching your fragile trot through this fearsome terrain
Of your permutation in levitation
For Damocles’ fiery sword shall haunt your ambition
Your raging mist on this cloudy night
Shall encounter a violent tussle
Prepare for war!
The scarlet venom from your cruel camp
Shall cease with instant visitation
From the warhorses of this fearless infantry
Armed with the right tools to disarm your fortified fortress
As you dispatch your foot soldiers
Of monsters and Leviathans
To play a callous hoax like the cunning fox
Their morbid mien shall encounter an eternal fall!
Let the music begin…
Onuchi Mark © 2010
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
ignorance follows me around every corner
and i’m tired of running away to avoid it
i live in a world where post-rape abortions must be proven to be legit
where ****** is advertised to come with a free **** kit
this world is a place where musicians make more than the president
and foreign residents with phd’s are struggling to make ends meet
a continent is left to die to the beat of the greed and street crime
the faces of the dying people don’t look like mine, so i guess it’s fine
i can carry a television with me in my pocket and make phone calls on it
there’s a hit reality show about a five year old girl dressed up like a corner ***
child molesters are taking fashion notes for their dungeon homes
fairy tales are profitable and everyone is worried about a zombie apocalypse
the living dead exist miserably in mass housing and arthritis has destroyed their threat of violence
we are now split in a rational debate over fulfillment of two thousand year old myths or if aliens will come back for us
and a man gets top billing in a national political conference to talk to a chair about war and the capital deficit
actresses are paid thousands of dollars to put make up on and get punched in the face
gladiatorial arts to amuse the masses resurrected for the television age
bread and circuses but there’s no bread left so let’s give them a show
i’m rambling like a crazy man but i don’t see the cameras rolling so it’s all for naught
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
I wonder if I can write a poem with two voices?
Don’t know mate, maybe you can.
Who the hell are you?
I’m your second voice, you muppet.
Ah. But will they be able to tell?
Well, skim readers might miss it.
Oh.
But if they read “vocally” like you do,
It should be okay.
What, even when I go
Onto a new line?
Reckon so, just about. In any case,
Some websites will format it differently,
But we’ll get away with it.
Is it still poetry though?
Could be, mate.
Really?
Well, it depends on the wording I guess.
So we need some flowery language?
Yes, like the dogs of war are gathering,
As two adversaries square up,
For gladiatorial combat.
MMM. Well, I’d prefer to write things like:
The sun is streaming over snow-capped mountains,
To greet the summer
As we awaken from our wintry slumbers.
That’s okay too mate: it’s all poetry.
But should I really be seen,
Talking to myself?
They know you’re mad already, friend,
No worries there.
That’s okay then:
Let’s get this thing posted.
Yes, go ahead.
Paul Butters
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 5:08 AM UTC
Amid the restlessness of a blood enthused crowd
Stood two gladiatorial practitioners both battle proud
From the inner arena a barking summons rang out
Calling the combatants to engage in battle's bout
The blood lust crowd wanted sport without delay
No quarter was ceded in the gladiator's display
Slashing lashing swords flayed high then to the midriff
Shields clanged and clinked in alternate shift
The foot-work of battle was magnificent of flair
Both took the onslaught with a disdainful air
Around the arena walls went a deafening cloud
The performance of the gladiators intoxicated the crowd
While in the bowels of the arena lions and tigers roared
Battle fervour rose to the gladiators they who are adored
Striking like a lightning bolt the victor's sword kills
His opponents chest dies in blood's gushing spill
Enthused by the spectacle of blood the crowd cried for more
Other combatants offered themselves to the gladiatorial floor
Battle Gods gathered at the celestial fray
Sang songs of battle to the arena's clay
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
O vicious household gods of Rome
you Manes, Lares, Muses, Fates
who justified patrician homes,
whose reign this poem celebrates,
Allow me now, in retrospect
to excavate, then analyze.
Depravity with cause, connect;
depriving you of alibis.
Relax your stiff noetic poise
as my plebeian pen records
through lyrical poetic noise
the crown imperial crime awards.
My lines, like foundlings, long to ****
a mother’s milk in measured draft
and dredge some gold from Tiber’s muck;
Lord Christ: illuminate my craft.
ROMULUS, let that wolf-tit go
and REMUS too – unlatch that breast…
milk of Etruscan madness, flow,
with empire’s crimes forthwith confessed.
We will not blame your leaden wares
nor ergot mold in rancid bread
for genocidal state affairs,
brutality, and martyred dead.
The Circus, leering, restless, loud,
cheers gladiatorial excess.
The haunted forum’s phantom-crowd
awaits the tyrant’s next address.
He speaks. The wind blows through the arches
stirring up the roadside litter.
Trumpets blare. The legion marches.
Empire’s aftertaste is bitter.
You were Antichrist. That is all.
We cannot dignify your past
or glorify from whence you fall
or praise the mold from which you’re cast.
Christ traveled far from Galilee –
came, saw, conquered – and on it goes.
Our king shall reign eternally;
that she-wolf’s milk no longer flows.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
Spring
How many sticky buds, candle ends
sprout from the branches! Steaming
April. Puberty sweats from the park,
and the forest’s blatantly gleaming.
A noose of feathered throats grips
the wood’s larynx, a lassoed steer,
netted, like a gladiatorial *****
it groans steel-piped sonatas here.
Poetry! Be a Greek sponge with suckers,
among green stickiness drenched,
I’ll consent, by the sopping wood
of a green-stained garden bench.
Grow sumptuous pleats and flounces,
**** up the gullies and clouds,
Poetry, tonight, I’ll squeeze you out
to make the parched sheets flower.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
Behind smiles that crease the skin of fake happiness;
Lies dormant ferocity and smirking ruthlessness.
A cunning beast resides in this heart of doubt and grief.
Veins pumping cold blood and fangs grinding;
The mask slithers along cracked skin to darkening blue eyes;
Untrue colors shine through now red irises.
Twisted ********** of a once truly good soul;
Tainted by a darkness that holds it down.
Power that courses under tensed muscles;
Hair stiffening to a stand on the back of a neck.
Persuasion that manipulates, intimidation that scares.
Welcoming grin that harbors words of hate.
Spiteful things that roll of the tongue;
A sweeping waterfall of daggers.
Black clouds encompass the mind, whispering lies;
Fading loyalty and receding necessity.
Unimaginable weight on the shoulders;
Keeping hope down and grounding hate with solid foothold.
Tidal waves of inner tears, The Helpless Hero weeps.
Scars etched on the symbiotic mask;
Feeding on locked away thoughts, radiating negative energy.
Weakness and strength, a double edged blade.
Destiny's call silenced and fate falling into the abyss;
An inner light to be sparked, to wage the internal battle.
A war bearing one victim with two faces of the coin.
Collisions of two factions calling for the death of each other.
But the end holds festering pain and realization;
Coinciding opposites to face the greater threat.
The outside world of a million warriors, just like them;
For we all fight battles with sword and with shield.
A gladiatorial existence, a reason for pain;
A quest for honor, a reason to live.
c.d.l
5/23/12
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
Life is no place for fools like me
Because there are no other fools like me
Cloudy nights wearing purple and grey cumulous
Softly comforting in their silent beauty
Puffy explosions of midnight joy
Quiet ponds reflecting the quiet night
There is safety in the solitude
Wonder in the shifting clouds
I choose this over the hustling daytime
I love this over the breakneck bar scene
Dimly lit lamplights breaking through the dark sky
Giving me just enough glow to read by
And when the evening gives up its sounds
The singing crickets and other chirping things
It’s like a beautiful painting, breathtaking
I choose this over the mangled masses
The mauling throng of throbbing crowds
Rushing and rushing pushing and shoving
Just to get to the next spot
A competition for the best jobs
Keep what you can and leave me the night
I am not a competitor in your gladiatorial bouts
Leave me the silence and I will take it as a gift
Leave me the night and see how my spirit is uplifted
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
The moon adjacent the setting sun,
Celestial standoff.
Two gods fighting for dominance
Of their open air domain.
A legion of stars,
Greys and blues encroaching
On the suns last stand.
Hues of orange and streaks of pink,
Gold covered clouds,
A fiery fortress on the horizon
The last defences.
The battle commences,
A gladiatorial display.
A collision of light and dark,
Carnage painting
The heavenly battlefield.
The sun in full retreat,
As the moon ascends into
His new position
As ruler of the sky.
Aug 9, 2024
Aug 9, 2024 at 7:02 PM UTC
Years of early mornings before the sun would rise. Aching muscles that screamed for a rest. Long nights of study to make up for lessons missed. Pain and self sacrifice beyond human limits with focus on a single goal. From the day of graduation to the halls of higher learning, breathless anticipation awaits. Walking down a walk way where thousands have walked before, headed to the gladiatorial arena. In one instance you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders, should I be here, am I good enough. In the moment in a locker room whether it is for football, soccer, or basketball. This is the hour you have waited for, this is the dream for which you have sacrificed. As you make the hollowed journey onto the field, your blood sweat and tears finally pay dividend. This is the hour of your triumph. When the voices scream and blend into silence as you take the field for victory or defeat. It is you that has worked to get here and this is the hour to shine.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC