"huns" poems
Sure, the Huns may be stronger, faster,
But I’ll tell you first, it’s not disaster.
They may be fearless, vice-less,
And the stakes this day are priceless.
That must weigh heavy on your mind,
And it might away at your spirits grind.
It makes your heart burn, your blood race,
But on this day, they will be erased.
They come, by day, by night,
To conquer us and flex their might.
Tonight, we’ll break their endless siege,
Perhaps we’ll **** their liege!
Let the sun blot with countless arrow,
They fly like the chattering sparrow.
Perhaps most will simply miss,
And you shall brave the wooden blitz.
That one, slash his head from his shoulder!
Watch it fall off like a fleshed-out boulder;
That’s it, keep riding, they’re already breaking!
Your wives will, on your return, be waiting.
Go back to hell from whence you came!
Of the besiegers, we’ve killed and maimed!
Haha, look at them run, back to their mothers;
Keep them running for a hundred summers!
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 6:06 PM UTC
It isn't the foe that we fear;
It isn't the bullets that whine;
It isn't the business career
Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn't the snipers who seek
To nip our young hopes in the bud:
No, it isn't the guns,
And it isn't the Huns --
It's the MUD,
MUD,
MUD.
It isn't the melee we mind.
That often is rather good fun.
It isn't the shrapnel we find
Obtrusive when rained by the ton;
It isn't the bounce of the bombs
That gives us a positive pain:
It's the strafing we get
When the weather is wet --
It's the RAIN,
RAIN,
RAIN.
It isn't because we lack grit
We shrink from the horrors of war.
We don't mind the battle a bit;
In fact that is what we are for;
It isn't the rum-jars and things
Make us wish we were back in the fold:
It's the fingers that freeze
In the boreal breeze --
It's the COLD,
COLD,
COLD.
Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,
The cold, the mud, and the rain;
With weather at zero it's hard for a hero
From language that's rude to refrain.
With porridgy muck to the knees,
With sky that's a-pouring a flood,
Sure the worst of our foes
Are the pains and the woes
Of the RAIN,
THE COLD,
AND THE MUD.
2k
The sound of silence.
Peace after violence.
A mother’s browbeaten servitude.
A child’s coerced gratitude.
The world’s most prosperous nations.
Architects of the most dangerous machinations.
Economies like never before;
A life that still leaves you wanting more.
The embezzlement of public finances.
The settlement of a case’s nuances.
Two colluding entities declaring each other free of ******
With ease, starving YOUR wallet until YOU are down on your knees.
The oath: ‘to protect and serve.’
The reality? ‘To suspect and unnerve.’
A cartel that’s in charge of the guns;
Like leaving a brothel in the hands of Huns.
The lie of representation in government.
The election, expectation of endowment.
Spending your life washing your master’s feet,
Then somehow being surprised by their trickery and deceit.
The mistake of prioritising convenience.
The finalising of our own, eventual obsolescence.
We are a species that will die
Clueless of our role in it, desperately asking ‘why?’
When it’s way too late.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
It’s the Shiite Protestants we fear the most.
It’s the ******* Christians
Scaring the **** out of us now.
It’s those John Birch Catholics
Making us fill our boots with ***
As in shaking, quaking in our boots,
Complete loss of bladder control
(BLAD-CON MED AD HERE.
I invite Pfizer, Merck and GlaxoSmithKline
To get in on this poem:
The poet continuing to reject the
Dying in the gutter-artist track,
Making poetry pay at last, that’s right:
A commercial right in the
Middle of a ******* poem.
Hey Big Pharma:
What are you selling?
What you got for incontinence, Babaloo?)
But I digress.
I was making a point about
Far-right Christian evangelicals,
A significant demographic within the
American electorate.
Jesus was an Aryan, they believe.
Degenerate Art, Literature, Music & Jews must go!
It’s time to purify the race again.
Time for the Huns &
Other Teutonic tribes to
Broadcast insidious seed.
Anti-Semitism rebooted.
Jew-bashing in America 8.0.
Need I remind the Tea Party that
Haym Solomon-- a Philadelphia Jew--
Financed the Revolution.
What about Bernie Madoff?
When a smart Jew goes to jail in America,
Anything could happen.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
À Max Jacob.
Vers le palais de Rosemonde au fond du Rêve
Mes rêveuses pensées pieds nus vont en soirée
Le palais don du roi comme un roi nu s'élève
Des chairs fouettées des roses de la roseraie
On voit venir au fond du jardin mes pensées
Qui sourient du concert joué par les grenouilles
Elles ont envie des cyprès grandes quenouilles
Et le soleil miroir des roses s'est brisé
Le stigmate sanglant des mains contre les vitres
Quel archer mal blessé du couchant le troua
La résine qui rend amer le vin de Chypre
Ma bouche aux agapes d'agneau blanc l'éprouva
Sur les genoux pointus du monarque adultère
Sur le mai de son âge et sur son trente et un
Madame Rosemonde roule avec mystère
Ses petits yeux tout ronds pareils aux yeux des Huns
Dame de mes pensées au cul de perle fine
Dont ni perle ni cul n'égale l'orient
Qui donc attendez-vous
De rêveuses pensées en marche à l'Orient
Mes plus belles voisines
Toc toc Entrez dans l'antichambre le jour baisse
La veilleuse dans l'ombre est un bijou d'or cuit
Pendez vos têtes aux patères par les tresses
Le ciel presque nocturne a des lueurs d'aiguilles
On entra dans la salle à manger les narines
Reniflaient une odeur de graisse et de graillon
On eut vingt potages dont trois couleurs d'urine
Et le roi prit deux œufs pochés dans du bouillon
Puis les marmitons apportèrent les viandes
Des rôtis de pensées mortes dans mon cerveau
Mes beaux rêves mort-nés en tranches bien saignantes
Et mes souvenirs faisandés en godiveaux
Or ces pensées mortes depuis des millénaires
Avaient le fade goût des grands mammouths gelés
Les os ou songe-creux venaient des ossuaires
En danse macabre aux plis de mon cervelet
Et tous ces mets criaient des choses nonpareilles
Mais nom de Dieu !
Ventre affamé n'a pas d'oreilles
Et les convives mastiquaient à qui mieux mieux
Ah ! nom de Dieu ! qu'ont donc crié ces entrecôtes
Ces grands pâtés ces os à moelle et mirotons
Langues de feu où sont-elles mes pentecôtes
Pour mes pensées de tous pays de tous les temps.
1.3k
****** Smily Face by billyraines08
This one, to her, seemed different.
She seldom met artistic Huns..
She thought his little mustache cute,
his smile, a winning one.
With charcoal he made sketches
when his duties were all done.
A man, she thought, of courage.
He wore the iron cross.
It was a time of hell on earth-
so many young lives lost
Perhaps her judgment was impaired
by the alcohol that she consumed.
The sixteen year old French girl
took Adolf ****** to her room.
In time she gave birth to a child,
a ******* if ever was one.
A boy they named Jean Marie Loret-
The Devil’s only son
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 9:35 PM UTC
we took turns toking,
holding the tent pole up
while the rain battered
the canvas
dawn crawled
over the great rocks;
a synovial silence
after the storm
still ******
we finally succumbed
to sleep, for an eternal
minute
until awakened by Huns
on horses, hoof beats ricocheting
off the hard stones, echoing
in the canyons
worse than that thunder,
the eerie emanations riding
the backs of the staccato waves
from the beasts’ shod feet
words flung from the riders’ tongues
slapping our ears, bedeviling our weary wits,
these time traveling tricksters, transporting
us to a world at war
Hueco Tanks, Texas, July, 1969
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
Where do society's extremists abide?
Rallies and Racists go side by side.
BBQs offer up well-done bigots;
On Jordan's lap dance the zealots.
Dogmatists rant in wild front rows,
True believers don't put on such shows?
Sexists cower in coastal Compounds,
Sects marry often in Salt Lake towns.
Troglodytes tan beneath southern suns.
Sepratists hold their final stand
On this side of The Rio Grande;
Fanatics occupy far Left and Right,
Partisans Op Eds are meant to enlight.
Mysoginists grab till they have blisters,
Huns and louts date brothers and sisters.
Philistines take our private spaces,
And whistle-blowers can't show their faces.
Of all the ists I know and abhor,
The musicist is a bigoted boor;
A connoisseur I abjure,
Who chooses tunes he insists
Are superior than my interests,
And disses tunes I like best.
So now I'll lay my needle down,
I've turned the table that goes round,
And plead musicists won't hesitate
To enjoy the tunes... don't discriminate.
May 19, 2023
May 19, 2023 at 9:41 AM UTC
A gashed and gaping pumpkin burns
emits a rancid rotting odor
greeting pre-diabetic heathens
Black cats and screeching bats
startle the littlest of the munchers
in a city decayed by blood and rust
A bridge tilted by a millimeter
lords over rushing river and splinters
struts in metal fashion before the storm
Gladiators hallucinate between concussions
Lions and christians and furry huns
leap from alleys and dumpsters and gutters
Bands play and march and dazzle
rippling brass and silver on a field
before brazen cheering plebians
Hear the song of a thousand dreams
a thousand shouts singing out of key
uncertainty brings the cacophony down an octave
Presidential box matches the drapes
Imagination finishes the vision of a short
master stroke invoking the myth of the tyrant
Setting sun on an amateur showdown
in the shadow of an errant arc
choking the last gasps from a senile warrior
Passing boredom in a controlled climate
Cringes in a backseat with no batteries
dying echoes of "are we there yet...."
Babies and mental patients despair
over loss of closeness and peace
disappeared into dystopic hysteria
Hobbits and goblins and Big Bird frolics
in a sanitized concept of Hell
among treats and smiles and winks
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC
I'm a fool that can't fall,
No I'm resistant to it's spell,
It's charms,
It's torture,
The mystery of it all,
I'm a hopeless romantic,
Too afraid to love,
And that's just sad,
But Love,
Is sorta strong, and strange,
But yet I refuse to let it in,
I got some China Walls protecting me from something more powerful then the huns,
From the outbreak of love,
The glorious disease,
Everyone else was bitten, but me,
I took the vaccine,
I knew the worse before I was able to really want cupid's arrow to enter,
While everyone else was getting bewitched,
I said no,
And ran far away,
Did not stop those others from falling,
No matter how much I advise them,
They weren't as strong,
They were hit,
Struck by amore,
And I stay resistant
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:14 PM UTC
He ,wounded, lay in no man's land
fearful to crawl fro or back.
He'd wait for darkness to try his luck
and hoped the Huns would not attack.
Something was needed to pass the time
He reached his hand into his sack
Aeschylus, in the original Greek,
He read with pleasure
until night turned black
In the Attic tongue he was well honed
and so he never felt alone.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
Throughout the day
Can't keep throbbing at bay
Ebbs and flows like water
Water without the laughter
My Brain is braking out
I let slip, a final shout
As it grows more intense
The throbbing won't let me rest
It has broken down the door
Splinters now carpet the floor
The floor which was once pristine
Will now never again be clean
My head was charged by huns
everything destroyed, running with blood
Throbbing breaks down the walls
With metal chains and *****
And now, it is open to all
A new kind of shopping mall
See this, it's all that's left
Of a mind once neatly kept
Take what you want and leave
This is no place to grieve
As if you cared anyway
Really, I'm better off this way
I'll never try again
Not a single thought through my head
Now prop me up on a wooden chair
And simply forget I was ever there
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 10:02 PM UTC
L- Let's
G- Get down to
B- Business
T- To defeat the Huns
Sep 14, 2022
Sep 14, 2022 at 10:07 AM UTC
Dear murderer,
The rain helped,
Yes,
Those diamond drops helped cover the tsunami you flushed out of my eyes.
The sun helped too
Yes,
Those rays helped wash my scars away from your eyes.
But you?
You never helped,
You never delved deeper to search for my sorrows,
You always thought they were never there,
Just like my feelings for you ,
or at least you never cared.
But let me tell you,
I fell slowly,
Actually- madly for all your huns, babes and oh boy right at babygirl my heart forgot to beat,
Although I knew I was just one of those hundreds who were high on your very generous coquettish drug.
But boy- sorry,
Your waves were too strong
They hit too hard.
I sunk,
I suffocated,
I gasped for air,
But I got it every single ****** time I looked into your deceiving selfish- lovable eyes.
That's when I thought,
This- is worth dying for.
Dear murderer.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC
I'm nostalgic for those old wars;
The coloured Roses kind,
With heroes and villains named Henry or Joe.
Wars that inspired poems about fields and bunkers.
And songs. So many catchy lilts with
Tipperary, white cliffs and battleships.
And slogans that made children want to fight
Against Loose Lips and encrypted blips on collateral damages.
I could be persuaaded to enlist,
To serve along side guys like the Duke,
And **** and **** Tojos and Huns,
While singing and dancing.
And the community. How all chipped in with the Effort.
Congealing around ***** of yarn or tinfoil... and victory gardens!
We'd be three deep on the boulevard, handing flowers to marching children on Main St.,
And the pulpits and towers exalt our efforts:
*God is with us.
Shangdi yu women tong zai.
Dieu est avec nous.
Gott ist mit uns.
Bag s nami.
Dio e con noi*.
Nobody has penned a memorable song
About Nagasaki;
We've seen some brain numbing,
Award winning pics
About Hiroshima.
We won't meet again.
I don't know when,
But how is definite.
A few big boys,
And...
Phsssszzzzzt!
How does that song go?
Dec 21, 2024
Dec 21, 2024 at 10:23 AM UTC
most instances when i initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly,
and madly scratching itchy hairs
dotting chinny chin chin of this hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby a generic home
er run (hitting) mill
(on the floss sing false teeth)
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy Joe,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
(Egg heads, merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst of tangential thread populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),
trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate
coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to ***** cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. **
Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining tour de force
whereat fingers of the lefthand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expended leaves (of grass)
finds me Walt sing whit man nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC
it's truly copernican,
a bit like shaking hands
with buzz aldrin: what's west of the moon?
you do a two-point four with your hands,
and get... very ******* confused...
typing this? moles -
i'm ******* tunneling,
i'm building trenches, i'm thinking of
a border... poles and huns...
czechs and slovaks in between;
no, but it's funnier than that...
it's a very rare drinking game...
it's copernican in a sense...
x left right right left
left right left right right left right left?!
and then
=
up down? down up?
down up down up? up down up down?
and then we're... level.
or up (levelled up;
rather than levelled down).
this is the basis for wording "things" against
the basis for hand-language...
it's hardly about braille -
so... what do the feet do? how about i tap-dance
sign language?
but take into context the encryptions
x & =
left right up down (n
right left centre e
down up w
s).
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
in the air i smell chicory coffee
beware of the Huns.
Their trenches may be close
Achtung ! Achtung !
I am correct.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC
If I ever taught poets to read
the worth of knowing when
in life to pretend to know
what it is that makes
a boy become man,
the couplet
rhyming died and lied,
Here it is, my Ai had it for me…
----
Kipling, Common Form:
If any questions why we died,
Tell them, because our fathers lied.
-------------
Future ever
when the glory
of military privilege lures the young
to follow a National Pride Promotion,
-another war for holy reasons
to end all wars, if we win...
then
Common Form
that one would be read,
in all my classes,
if If were ever mentioned, as essential.
------------ a response ---- how can I say I know
----- or think, why, I know Kipling felt shame
I know I would.
I have wept with men who believed such lies.
If.
If was written at the height of the Great Game in Kim,
Jungle Book was written
for the son born during the Raj
whose eyesight exempted him
but, he was the son If addressed,
as were all his upper class mates.
John died
in his first ww1 combat
at the age
of almost 18.
What son
of the man who wrote If
would not,
confess the pressure
to join the righteous push against the Huns.
What laureled poet would not regret,
the call to courage only faith
in truth commands
-we must believe the call
to defend the faith
stiff upper lip, keep calm, carry on
taken as a lesson
from a horror, drilled deep
into any real warrior,
real men won't miss
a chance to fight...
to learn the price
of cowardice
- who can resist such urge
the charge, ours not
to reason why, ours but
to do, and die
If you can keep your head, my son…
the lie he relied -- any surviving father
would not be proud, he would grieve, just walk in his shoes.
War ought never be given glory nor honor, hate is man made.
May 30, 2025
May 30, 2025 at 4:35 PM UTC