"howitzers" poems
(for Nietzche, who cowers behind art.)
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every night yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
when there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing.
Yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise.
The world called Canaanites ******
while they traded and toiled along the shores
of land promised to the aged heretic of Sumer,
whose wife could give only love.
The world called Hebrews ******
while they raised Pharoah tombs
Provided respite from the eastern chariots
Stubborn in refusal of the living gods
Drinking only Eloheim's bitter grape
That provides brief respite from his decrees
When delving deep in one's cups.
The world called Britons ******
When flogged Boudicea fought and fought and finally fell
To Roman spear and gladius
When Angles and Saxons raided then stayed
When Cromwell climbed the pale cliffs
The world called the Iberians, Gauls and Teutons ******
when Caesar crossed the Rubicon
Pax Romana for Citizens born
Land for the wealthy, voting rights too
Taxes and tithes from their toil.
The world called the Khoikhoi of South Africa ******
From the VOC to fatal Apartheid
Up rose a man
The heart of the land
A man named Nelson Mandela.
The world called the Viet Minh ******
from Can Vong to Dien Bien Phu
'till they slogged howitzers above
to reign Napoleonic terror below.
And to them it was just
The American War
After the world called them
Vietnamese.
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every day yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
When there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing
yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
'though it never watches its own rising
undoing raiment of fading embers
swimming naked in the royal blue
bathing all with daily newborn naked glory
chasing the celestial tidal tease
that seems to wander where it please
reminding that all are born free
but can grow into ignorance
and be called ******
Seek truths
that hold in unity;
that provide nourishment
beneath the lash
allowing one
to rise, to rise, to rise.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 9:01 AM UTC
So desolate, I walked onward
An expanse of sand running mile after mile
In the distance the sound of thunder
Then as if a mirage at sea a village of ramshackle homes
Single story on a sandbank all with gardens of the strangest design
A flea farm, gooseberry bushes and butterflies in net cages
Children playing, the voices of grandparents
The sea now lapping at my heels and between their twisted porches, where on earth could I be
In reality?
For I no longer walked the earth
The thunder was the howitzers shelling the beach
The vilage, that of my childhood
For my mind in its last throws had given me a thought of memory, that of childhood and family that of loving not war
The sea and sand being of beauty
Now limbless, face down on a Normandy beach drowning.
Then darkness
Silence
Peace
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
Anachronous monogamy
Schwarzenegger gets to the choppa
Invisible maliciousness awaits to those who
Explore the jungles, Danny Trejo just wants help
Crisis in the management takes two eggs to heal it
Two eggs, two dregs, two more lines to make it through
The day. **** like howitzers, snake in my trousers, wearing overalls
Doesn’t make me gay. Pig farmers, snake charmers, **** undercover, pigs
Make the best companions. Dead of night, chill or fright, I’m here so talk to me.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
Farouche people cast lethal ephemeralities, they are skittish howitzers' foreseeing
Tamper and muck around with us
Proceed please, gain potency
Address prowess, then once you've coward in a corner, strain to flee
Michka was languid sáwol (OE)
The bullied ******* not teeming by any means
Always a vexed mind, full of pillage grim
Every day the same prediction
Once the bruises turned healing yellow, they'd regain their blue gray
He walked the plank and served the steak
He dilapidated himself in vile rain
Gained no aplomb confidence
Only verbal abuse that strayed persistent
Only mental and physical wounds surfaced
Strolling down the broken sidewalk of crumbled concrete
A noticement of condemned buildings
6235 Mirnerva LN
Visions he had entering, visions he had slaying
Of the civil and socialble
Torture to the dependable
He walked inside to leaks and floor holes
Ancient 1920 furniture and stoves
More than one stove that could hold coal
To burn bodies of evidence made him feel like gold
He had a place of his own
He mirrored himself as a transfixing carver
Despersing of the bully fools
No more drubbing routs' after school
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 6:38 AM UTC
Hell, or something close to it,
Or worse;
For they would have longed for the warmth of fire -
To feel more than the sodden stink of their boots
And the thunder of Howitzers in their bones.
But they knew the victory was coming.
Eight days, that would be enough.
Letting death fall
In the half-silence of creeping gas
And the unrelenting barrage of mortar fire
Raining like demonic hail upon the enemy.
They knew that victory was coming.
So they walked, that's all it would take -
A stroll to be heroes.
But all the waiting, enduring, lasting out
To climb up onto the crater-filled sludge,
Mown down in thousands,
And only then did they realise:
Victory was so much further away.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
So alive and so in love
Like a single lily in the meadow, there we dance
Our waltz of love putting everyone to shame
We whirl and twirl, until the night fades away
As your coach arrives, I draw for a goodnights kiss
But away you ride, leaving me amiss
I awake to the sound of furious crashes
The ground shakes, It’s those ****** howitzers
The muddy trench comes in to view as my dreams fade
How I long this war to end so you and I can waltz again
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 11:04 AM UTC
"Put a feather on it!" someone whispered.
"Roundabouts!"
The tank was full of fuel by now.
"Well, that's pretty strange!" he thought.
"If you think you can manage, it's fine with me!"
He appreciated her.
"Here's something for you!"
"Rushing sounds."
He ate an apple.
No flowers in the sun.
Woodlands as far as the eye could see, but what lay behind them was just out of view.
"Hoy!"
Magnificent, they were, but they barely would compare to a field of steel watchmen riding the mists of time.
"Cheeky!"
Here were monsters.
Cheeky.
Trust is oftend tried at the most inconvenient of times.
"Friday is a great day to go out, everyone does it!" seemed the only reasonable reply.
"Crisp fries on a platter!"
The people gathered in the streets.
She had a couple of drinks.
Monica likes Waltzes.
He appreciated the night sky for a moment.
A rough bundle of ropes lay scattered around on the floor of the empty appartment.
Rifles were loaded, hats were donned, it was a chaotic display of things.
Heavy traffic slithered trough the steamy morning.
Water rushed into the bathroom, a fish drowned.
Monica was made of different pieces of wood.
Tumbling bumblebees were far from here.
Water.
A gothic arch reaching high and wide.
Howitzers blazed loudly.
Effectively, he got kind of good at it.
Water rushed.
What he was waiting for, he couldn't say, but he was definitely waiting.
Jerry sells plaster.
Commercialising industries seemed like a good plan back then.
Jerry spoke to his female friend, who was unnamed for no specific reason.
Hounds.
Crisp fries on platter.
Radiant mushrooms spoiled the darkness.
Towering high above the the misty clouds, the collection of Eiffel towers spend their time bending to the wind.
I am a narrative voice.
"I am fishing here!"
"Howdy, clowns!"
Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to go all the way.
"Hey now, don't watch that, that's a terrible show!" she said.
Pianos were thrown.
"He shook his head." she said.
What they were looking at, no one could tell.
Very chaotic indeed.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 6:10 AM UTC
Maybe I've been insane since day one and my family
can't find the way to break the news to me ...
I think every night to anyone that would hear me , not to
let me be melted and poured into the 'American Male' mold with
it's false bravado and savage , morale culpability ..
Writing poems for the mind ., clarity and acceptance in a blackened
field of possibilities ..Poetry feeds the pigeons at the park , pets the
lambs at the game ranch , tucks you in with a kiss after dark ...
Prose is simple mathematics , throwing the book aside because you've read the ending , painting with water colors in the rain to incite bleeding , writing help on a wall that no one cares to heed ..Poetry can be lightning screaming into a 440 transformer , heat changing sand to crystal , nitro fueled rocket engines drowning out a locomotive screaming into your field of vision , one five five howitzers pumping rounds into a nuclear reactor . Poetry is Delta Force coming in hard at tree top level , Daisy Cutters dropped over a bivouac in the desert , surrounded on four sides at midnight with zealots committed to killing you ..
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC