"gladiators" poems
I wish I was Canadian
so this could be my game
But here I stand in GM place
And scream and shout the same
I watch the puck, the stick the skates
and marvel at the skill
As gladiators prowl the ice
Hunting for the ****
Across the blue the offence moves
bearing down once more
A pass, a fake a sudden slap
it's in the goal we SCORE
The crowd goes wild and shouts with joy
our voices become one
And in that moment, I join their ranks
I am Canadian !!!
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 5:14 PM UTC
Nigeria, a Dying country,
Her kinsmen will gather in war to share her sweat
More troubles for the unborn and her growing heirs,
The unfolding dread non-soldiers at heart like me.
Nigeria, she spring forth from the dark soil
Her past never stop to echoe, her Iroko turned void
Blessed with milk, honey and seeds with hearts fixed to the creator,
The sword bearer of coal war-ful gladiators.
A vineyard in the days of her reckoning
A different story after her great hair home coming.
Tale of a true black race
And the down laying of her good moral ways.
Just like how a river side tree dries,
So does her firewood also cries.
Her genuine red caps are nowhere to be found
Her wind, her seed will have to make do with the feeble dust in character around.
Shaking is her government seat on the rock
Still steady is her opposition in their secret walls.
They keep killing her vision in disguise of trying to unlock
While they battle to pluck away all her roses.
The voiceless murmur and watch,
Her pocket papers fly and run
While a once great country keep dying on.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
Another win, another celebration.
Fifteen world championships
That’s inspiration.
But are you ready? For the beast?
Because rumors are swirling
That he’s been released.
Four men are the least of your worries,
Because you’re about to be interrupted
On this golden journey.
You've defeated him once before,
But he is no longer weak.
As he is much stronger
Since he defeated the deadman's streak.
Now he’s coming for you,
And your championship.
It’s not so much another run,
But for the pain he loves to inflict.
So forget Mr. Money in the Bank,
And the four other gladiators.
Enjoy your title run now, Cena.
Because Brock Lesnar is an annihilator
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise
ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in whorey nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers
gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection
finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood and spit
look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull
black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets
*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals
paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip
babbling **** bubbles
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats soil cherry clover
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
Vanquish or Vanish ,
That’s what they said,
Before I embraced the valour,
Of the dead,
Silence since reigns,
These dungeons deep,
For,
I was a Gladiator,
Who chose to weep.
The Arena that chanted ,
My mighty name,
The mellow maiden,
Who whispered the same;
They are but fractions,
Of an empire lost,
For passion sparked,
At honour's cost.
Gladiators will come,
And gladiators will go,
And yet,
None will dare embrace
His fallen foe.
The crowd will cheer,
As the Cowards will roar,
While I will weep,
At my dungeon door.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
Eyes on Ancient times in going back and intriguing the mind
Hercules pillar being his strength
Challenging all odds
A man being his own mode
Hercules strength in conquering evil
Deceit of destruction confined to the Devil
The Greek Gods that sit above
They have spiritual divined powers thereof
The Gladiators have come to attack
But the Greek Gods have Hercules back
The pillars of evil Kingdoms have steadily come down
The rattle of the chains and the demons that remain
Hercules the conquer with the strength of solid bound
A man of force with the lean sound
Hercules stands on a throne with lightening bolts on both sides
The sun casts a shadow with the man of victory
It’s Hercules labours of sustaining history
The mystery of challenges of an unknown tomorrow
The enemy being defeated in sorrow
Hercules legacy with having moral of morrow and eyes keen like a sparrow.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
The unmistakable sound of metal carving through ice,
Armored gladiators move swiftly
Wielding wooden weapons with curved blades
As they chase a hard black disc.
Bodies slam into the boards,
The boisterous crowd masks the sounds of cracking bones.
One team scores, then the other.
The crowd cheers, and then they boo.
Two competitors exchange words,
Then fists.
Seconds tick off the clock,
Before they know it the game draws to a close.
Sweat drips from every pore,
Steam rises from the warriors' helmets.
The game has not yet been decided,
So extra time is needed.
The purest form of competition,
The first to score wins.
A skater breaks away from the defense.
He shoots, he scores, he goes home and waits for the chance to play again.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
The thing that kills me most
Shattering me from within
Is not the absence of your shield
But this abrupt awareness
Of the awful emptiness
That has now settled into the place
Which hope has just vacated.
I ride out into the colloseum
Battle-clad in armour
Club swinging, sword at the ready
A quiver full of arrows
Just to defend you.
But I will fall at the very first shot
This armour I call my skin
Will be the death of me.
Because the truth is
You were my armour
You were my shield
And then I realised you never were.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
We’ve accepted that we’re already dead.
Like the soldier
Like the victim
No, the veteran of love
(and subsequent heartbreak)
We’ve accepted we’re already dead
So we can keep on living.
I was broken.
No longer working
No longer dreaming
No longer wanting
Pushing away
The hands that tried to help me
The encounters that didn’t last broke me.
I was embattled.
In the trenches of my own existence.
Those we met
Under picture-perfect circumstances
When we thought utopia could be real
woefully disproved this theory.
Rude awakening to what agony feels like
And sleeping all day so we could self-medicate
all night.
Self-medicating with ***** and cigarettes
Not because we needed to but
For respite
For the moment
For a friend in the bottle
Or the lighter.
Life is war
Survival is the only option
Death, inevitable and imminent
We are the ones in the ring
We have lived here
We will die here.
There are those who are weak
Succumbing to the needles
The tap tap tap on veins
Or worse
Ordinariness
Boring as the 8x11’s
found in printers
All around the world.
I will not be ordinary.
Surrender is not an option.
Because I am a gladiator
I have adapted.
I’m still in the ring
But I will defend myself now.
They are the lions;
The king of their race
But I
I am a gladiator in a Gap V-Neck Tee shirt.
I will die with love in my heart,
Belief in my soul
My ashes will spell out the word Hope.
Nothing will break me ever again.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
a comeback with
a draw is no
comeback at all
no matter how
rigged the game is
we are demanded to
be ******
to end the fight
with a ****
no matter how
rigged the game is
and for sure after
each fight
the worry never
stops because
the last one means
there is
a next one coming:
another comeback
why do we go back if the
audience expects another
comeback after the last one?
o well
after all
we are the modern shit-gladiators
and before us are
the unentertained gods of insanity.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
BULL FIGHTING
(WITH A CLASSICAL TOUCH)
* By Raj Nandy*
(I)
The Minoan Civilization of ancient Greece,
Was well centered in the Aegean island of Crete;
And around 1600 BC this civilization had peaked!
Seeing their frescoes, and paintings on potteries
and vase,
Scholars concluded that ‘bull-jumping’ was
perfected as a gallant art!
Those jumpers grabbed the bull’s horns, -
And receiving momentum from its violent
head-jerk,
Vaulted over its back in a somersault,
To land on both feet to break their fall!
I was spell bound by Minoans courage and agility,
Their acrobatic feats performed with such
dexterity!
Those bulls were not killed and no blood was shed,
Some acrobats might have been injured instead!
What a shame for our bull fighters of date!
(II)
Today bull fighting has become a popular sport,
Where the bull gets slaughtered amidst loud applaud!
I recall those Roman amphitheaters that remained
jam-packed,
When the Gladiators performed their fatal acts!
But even those Gladiators had a chance to survive,
Our cornered bull has no place to hide!
Friends, to see blood is an age old thrill,
But none would like to see their own blood spilled!
(III)
Our Matador today is like a popular Rock Star,
While the bull becomes a martyr in the pit by far!
The bull’s mighty horns are sharp and strong,
Can lift up a man like a rag doll!
But when the Picador lances the bull’s ****
The bull never gets a fair deal and jumps!
Next the Matador waves his ‘muleta’- a red cape,
The bull makes a final charge but cannot escape!
I wonder if the bull sees red!?
The Matador then amidst much pomp and applaud,
Spikes the neck severing the bull’s spinal cord!
He is greeted by flowers and cheers of ‘Ole’! ‘Ole’!
Let us learn from those Ancient Minoans, -
That's all I have got to say!
- by Raj Nandy
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
they built a big arena in the land of romewhere the gladiators lived this was to be there homethere they fought with lions that they had to killto please the roman emeperor and give the crowds a thrill.then they fought each other the strongest would surviveswords an tridents they would use to help them stay alivethe emperor gave the signal for battle to commence as the gladiators become more and more intense.the winner would go on to fight another dayand find another gladiator he hoped that he could slay.this is the way it was the way it had to be.till there came a day when the gladiator was free
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 1:37 PM UTC
O the mustangs stung like mosquitoes,
fast as lightning & thunderbolts,
liberators & fortresses,
hurricanes & tornadoes,
hell cats & bears,
invaders & dragons,
good grief Lord,
those mighty Gordons!
O wily foxes & quick lancers,
avengers & vindicators,
swordfish, barracuda,
some tuna, albacore.
Gladiators in the gauntlet,
zig-zagging & spitting fire,
spewing molten hot-lead,
bright-tracers in the night,
forever fighting
with their all their might,
bombing their daylights out
and into submission,
la morte, stone dead.
O they sank the Rising Sun,
'cause they had that *****
battling against all wrong
& protecting only
what was right!
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
Lincoln gave you
your official day
but I must say
I don’t suspect he saw
faux green fields
with helmeted gladiators
of a new age
playing for millions of eyes
and millions of bucks
while the thankful, and the stuffed,
sat
glued to the flat screen
hooting an hollering
for cheap victory
belying loyalty to brands
stamped on jerseys
that are valued more
than the grandest feast
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
A harsh wind kisses my fingers into sleeping.
Blurring the movement on the toggles of an anorak,
But my eyes dart quick, oiled and fleeting,
searching for my beloved old salt, looking back.
Funny, how in those footprints,
the piercing night that bites the ears and cries
can feel as soft as sheets
washed in the light of the moon, pulled by the tide.
this darkness which surrounds us.
it makes the world one of thrashing silhouettes
And as the earth breathes in gusts
It gives calmness to a mind, to comfortably forget
this, lulled swoon of nature pulsating hits
the windows, we can't help to be animated.
we cannot be closed to it, cannot obscure it
the call of the waves that past fishermen created.
pausing, that sun-baked, sinuous arm rose
and peering through his cigarette smoke specters.
the steam of my own breathing, softly froze
As the sky illuminated my weary lenses.
the theatre of sky before us fight light polluted filling
My mind left wandering like waking sleep.
These gladiators of light bleed ochre from shining artillery,
Their particles drifting into the night's sea, so deep.
Sparks spat by suns lie suspended above me
held like dew in nets of celestial string.
as the sunlight comes peering through these
the intensity in a pinprick, unearthly passion within.
lancing the sky too are spears of my dreaming
as neon cobras strike and churn to flee.
these heaven-borne beings carving visual song
Cutting luminescent pathways into my memory.
The soundless iron giant is now still as a caryatid.
Holding me before that blacksmith showered light.
an artist plucks flaming dewdrops from the wind
illuminating my foray into this night.
I sensed a small piece of gene pierce his yang
a black taint to his overall brightness.
In my black yin a spark from him i hang
and I'm proud of the infections we posses.
As he narrates this landscape, he narrates himself.
a new side to a shape I felt I knew.
As far into feelings as his masculine paradigm delved
like a square’s seventh face, always hidden from view.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
This is such a trivial game,
Kick the sphere again and again,
Grass stains and next day joint pain,
Yellow and Red squares dictate the calmness of play.
CEO wages to do this all day,
Makes the mind boggle how much the first team is paid,
Owned by the men with most expensive pieces of paper,
Football players are modern day gladiators.
Celebrate! The ***** flown through three sticks,
Let’s get rowdy and call the opposing fans ******
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 9:25 AM UTC
I am this marble statue
wait
take me to the Pantheon
let me there and give me breath
movement like the fluid aqueducts.
Bathe with me when no one's looking--
we'll escape those gladiators
but
gladiators had no choice either
you see
They were just people stripped of their pale, blue skin,
and now they're entertainers
battling the gout, aurora mirth
of a Leo
a fierce, unforgiving Leo--
and then the aqueducts run dry.
So you can't bathe with me
everybody's watching now
Save me from this
crackling
boiling
blistering
mask;
I don't want to be a statue
Fleeing from the pantheon
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
Photographers step out of hazy stairwells, tired eyes adjusting to dim light, looking for
their next muse.
“Works of art take time” they tell themselves
they look for the next spark of intrigue, their next fix.
You’ll find them on public transport, in old cafes:
cameras slung around their necks like billiard boards captioned ‘the end is nigh’.
Buzzing with anticipation of their next good catch, biting the lips of their disgruntled
faces like ancient gladiators biting the dust.
Castaways, oil paintings once brilliant and beautiful thrown into apartment blocks and
grey buildings,
ruins of art cast adrift by time.
Haunted by still frames and possibilities, all burned onto retinas, they stumble across
traffic jams;
finding beautiful people, forcing themselves into their lives.
Fleeting whispers rotate into double takes and flickers on the film of a Polaroid camera;
the subjects become muses,
cities are reborn as golden
flood into spotlights:
vibrant, reckless, insomniac.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
This is for the cell phone renegades
Those who use post its like grenades
This is for the average mavericks
Those who live in defiance of cruel cliques
This is for the subway gladiators
Those who live love over hate even in an elevator
This is for the commuter warriors
Those who ignore the bigots and barriers
To all of you out there , wherever you are
Let's create a better world, both near and far
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
In the time of the Caesars
The Emperors played god-
although some of them were
most exceedingly odd.
The man on the street,
was dependent, for bread,
on the grain dole that started
ere Julius was dead.
The unemployment problem
in Rome was severe
- at recessionary levels
for year after year.
How to keep happy
those unemployed masses?
Put on a circus
and give all free passes.
There were Lions and Tigers
and men with black faces.
Gladiators were drafted
from men of all races.
Roman blood lust was sated
with violence and wine
and all went home content-
having had a good time.
That which made Rome great
by then was a memory .
But, thought too big to fail,
Rome didn't lack for an enemy.
There's a lesson for us
in that circus and wine.
Empires fall
and its just about time.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
Now the first leaves, golden,
Falling, fluttering tranquilly.
Breeze becomes wind,
A slight chill present.
Summer ending,
Fall in the air,
You can smell it, see it,
Touch it, even taste it.
Saturday, Freeway fills with cars,
Flags flying, team colors displaying,
Car Horns honking, people waving.
Mighty Ducks are beating their wings,
Getting ready, who could have known?
That Ducks having no teeth,
Could be so very ferocious,
Tenacious, combative, thrilling.
Tailgating celebrating,
Throngs of laughing people, moving
Pennants showing, blowing in the wind,
Through the gates into the huge arena.
Filling the stands, waiting spectacle’s beginning.
Band blares spirited tunes, people and
Students cheering, Ear splitting, the grandstands
Vibrating, spines a tingling, tension mounting.
Among great fan fare, the Gladiators emerge,
Regaled in colorful Costumes for combat,
Helmets gleaming in the sun,
Muscles bulging young men strut and pose,
In spirited pent up raw anticipation,
Soldier-players moving now as one,
As a well practiced oiled machine,
Each part supporting the other.
Each knowing its own function,
Resulting in precise synchronization.
A time and place where boys become men.
Beautiful young women, under dressed,
Bosoms bouncing, pompoms waving
Add to the Circus flavor of spectacle rising.
Only a game? None in the bowl knows that.
No one cares to think so, it is more than that,
It is war, it is life, it‘s aggression without death,
It is pride without regret; it is a melding of hearts,
And expectations, of loyalties to a common goal,
It is a Saturday in the sun and fall air, a chance to
Yell and cheer for youth in flower, to feel and fear
An inevitable outcome not yet predetermined.
To ebb and flow all human emotions,
To hopefully all, end the day a winner,
Or perhaps display compassion for the looser.
To feel alive, to participate in life’s cycle of living.
Football, just a game? Don’t you believe it.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Aloft in my helium balloon
I watch the cloud formation.
White puffs of water vapor
Play scenes of battle simulation.
Of great dragon wars
and vast rebel forces
Colliding with hellspawn
and gladiators with horses.
Soldiers impaled on billowing swords,
Dragons in full embattled flight,
Brash vivid images up in the heavens
Lead to victorious imaginings this night.
Jul 9, 2011
Jul 9, 2011 at 4:12 PM UTC