"marches" poems
She looks in the mirror
At the age on her face
"I wonder what he thinks
of me this way?"
She considers her weight
and the pores on her skin
She thinks out loud
"I don't deserve him."
She picks apart
the woman he loves
Separating her worth
from all that she does
He looks in her eyes
and caresses her face
He sees it glowing with love
and full of grace
The lines on her face
he views with pride
Recounting the victories
each time they've been tried
The weight that she carries
is that of a mom
Nothing's too heavy
She just marches on
These bodies will perish
and mirrors offer no truth
True love abides
beyond the corridors of youth
No, she doesn't deserve me
Perhaps God can see
Conceivably, one day
I'll be as worthy as she
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
All these kids,
They cry,
Scream,
And *****
"I WANT FREEDOM FROM MY PARENTS!"
That simple freedom does not concern me.
I want freedom, but not just from my parents so I can stay out late.
I want freedom,
From my peers,
From my family,
From the government,
And from myself.
I want to be free to walk down the halls,
Hand in hand with a girl,
Who I'm in love with.
I want to be able to do that,
With no fear in my heart.
No worries or names called,
Or punches thrown.
I want that freedom.
I want the freedom to be able to bring a girl home,
And show her to my parents,
And tell her how much I love her,
In front of them.
I want to be able to talk to my mom,
About relationship problems,
About the GIRL who broke my heart,
But I cant.
I want the freedom to marry.
To marry any person I choose,
No matter the gender.
Male,
Or female,
It should not matter.
My happiness,
And the way I spend my life,
Is not something that should be voted on,
By those with half a brain.
I want freedom from myself,
To accept me,
And be who I am,
Without any shame.
But I can't do that,
Unless I have the freedom from others,
To be me,
And be happy with that.
I want the freedom to be gay.
Some may complain,
That the gays are already free,
Too much maybe.
But that is not the case.
We're not persecuted,
But we're not free.
All throughout history there has been movements for freedom.
There was one of religious freedom,
When puritans came to the New World from Britain.
A war was started,
And freedom came out with a victory.
There was one of freedom for slaves,
So that they could live the lives they wanted,
And not have to be owned,
And treated like property,
By another human being.
Once again,
A war was started,
And the slaves were freed.
There was one of freedom for women,
So that women could be the same as men,
Equals.
There were marches,
And protests,
And women rights came out on top.
There was one of freedom for those of color,
So that they can mix,
And mingle,
With the race that whites thought was superior.
There were marches,
And sit ins,
Protests,
And brawls,
But guess who won in the end?
We are working towards freedom of LGBTQ,
lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, questioning/queer,
And one way or another,
We will eventually get our freedom.
Look at all these past freedom movements,
There were always two sides to it.
Which side are you on?
Is it the right one?
This is not the land of the free and the home of the brave.
This is the land of the *** ******* cowards,
And the home of the "You can be free, if we allow it."
I think its about time we either lived up to our motto,
Or changed it.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
The blunt surface and wooden *****
Confined within impenetrable walls
However reverb dangerously.
Numbers reappeared to disorientate me.
It was the lion I sought advice from
For a dove that had been travelling with a rose
With a weight as heavy as its wings
Against the torrent of winds and sky.
I counted the time as if I were a clock.
Gently did it leave while I was not looking,
Its music turned down by long fingers
That lightly grazed the glasses
Like tracing back the steps that I at first hastened.
Never again will I see with my lashes curled by
Its own Evening Dew.
I only pray that the silver soldier marches
Next to me with armor close to my chest
Close to my eyes so no gaze could ever penetrate.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
i am not your ******
nor your sister.
i do not know the meaning
of these words, mister.
except
in instances where
i hate us
like
they hate us.
a putrid loathing
sprouting from different
colored grounds
but a dangerous flower
nonetheless.
they are not just words,
they are drops of blood
spilled from the lashed backs
of our enslaved
triple grandfathers
and mothers.
our slang replaces
hoses
pushing us back
during marches
and righteous riots.
aggression
equals regression
equals deppression.
and now,
it's all our fault.
now it's
black on black assault.
now it's
fly shoes and ghetto booties.
poppin' bottles and
poppin' caps,
running through nights like
street ******* rats.
what would
W.E.B. DuBois say if
he'd seen this
backstep taken
after we'd come this far,
after reaching for stars
and dropping
the ball?
now
i love this color.
i love this color
and prefer no other.
all i'm saying is,
let us pick one day
when we put the negroidian away
put ****** back in it's roots.
no, not the movie,
don't me toby.
let us get the dream rollin'
Mister King style,
not Master P style.
no big rims, or leather seats.
none of that ****
for awhile.
i'm saying takeover.
i'm saying african-america makeover.
i'm saying,
let's take
our pride back,
like our
homeland lions.
let us make black
a taste not so sour.
i'm saying,
Black Power.
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
They weren’t all cut from the same cloth
*vilified tenders of the iron *****
some were lovers
(or lucid dreamers)
stage romantics
hidden behind jackboots
and skull caps
and switchblade seams
Caste members of a forlorn pack
counting their patchwork and deeds
conjuring up demons
around the console
filling their dreams
with radio reds
and dusted quarries
and faded sepia prints
Brass knuckles
and marches of the few
lightening bolt cracks
from a chilling blood moon
death’s dark specter
cold and ominous looms
the cobalt sea swells
near the nestled, and lost
Clubhouse at Kiusta
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
Extra Extra ...Read all about it!!!..The time for the righteous ***** is dead...You claim Your stature of limitations..But all you got is knowledge...Let me reconstruct the past...That the ones you preaching to don't see...Slavery...to share croppers.. to steal mill workers...Cotton pick en...to bootleg ‘en...to crack rock..slag ‘en...They got Aids from monkeys..So lets give it to all the monkeys..They know to much lets bury the smart ones under all the dummies...Rise up you righteous *** Shabazz..With more medals then Marcus Garvey...but this dispositions is thicker than the stash on Steve Harvey. Cuz the kids they love the Wiz...and all the green he smoke...Forget the yellow brick road...its these white bricks they see as Gold...But you so righteous with black power on Your bumper sticker...And so sweet that your water start to be thicker...then blood...with a hood that attack your own progression..You Been righteous for so long..with hope you feel depression..that you accuse your brother of mental retardation...urban gentrification...when he still live in the same house he did the year before...but you been moved to the east side on the top floor..You righteous *** ***** you been pronounced dead...back when them bombs hit over Bagdad...they waved the white flag..but you just made it easy...cuz you still so righteous...you done Got Fat, Turned Gay...and rallying for pride marches...Cuz you don’t know what else to do...your time is over..Them black cats use to be panthers, now you dress them up...and placed us all in a new minority...just to keep your righteous priority...Are You still looking East, or have you finally excepted the West..
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 1:02 PM UTC
Friday marches in.
Trumpets playing serenades.
Nearly last weeks end.
Banners flying high.
It's five o clock or there abouts.
Hark,
Delighted squeals and shouts.
Buildings locked, off we trot.
To the station, week forgot.
Saturday descends with her restful smile.
Chill at home just for a while.
Wake up in the early hours.
In dream state panic.
Forgot the day.
Thought work was calling me today.
Realise it's Saturday.
Turn over.
Drift back off to sleep.
Sunday morn.
A sleepless night.
Woke up at seven.
Coffee on.
Then it dawned on me.
The weekend's nearly gone.
Make the most of Sabbath day.
Monday's coming anyway.
When back to work.
Off I'll trot.
Satisfied sort of with my lot.
I truly hope Sunday doesn't fly to fast.
Sunday waiting for Monday is never a blast!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 4:18 AM UTC
Time never stops.
It waits for no one.
It doesn't care
whether it's the moon
or whether it's the sun
time just marches on
and leaves us all feeling robbed
and needing more
but the worst thing about time
is the way it seems to pour
through our fingers
like grains of sand
and no matter how hard we try
seems we can never plan
to have enough
to save it up,
to make it stay
time just keeps slipping, slipping
far far away...
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 11:43 PM UTC
WEAVE no more silks, ye Lyons looms,
To deck our girls for gay delights!
The crimson flower of battle blooms,
And solemn marches fill the night.
Weave but the flag whose bars to-day
Drooped heavy o’er our early dead,
And homely garments, coarse and gray,
For orphans that must earn their bread!
Keep back your tunes, ye viols sweet,
That poured delight from other lands!
Rouse there the dancer’s restless feet:
The trumpet leads our warrior bands.
And ye that wage the war of words
With mystic fame and subtle power,
Go, chatter to the idle birds,
Or teach the lesson of the hour!
Ye Sibyl Arts, in one stern knot
Be all your offices combined!
Stand close, while Courage draws the lot,
The destiny of human kind.
And if that destiny could fail,
The sun should darken in the sky,
The eternal bloom of Nature pale,
And God, and Truth, and Freedom die!
5k
What is home without our daughter?
What then of all those folk we meet?
When her dimpled smile no longer
Brightens the coming of our feet?
Days drag onward, long nights grow drear
As time so coldly marches on;
And how we miss her golden cheer!
When now those carefree days are gone.
Things we prize are quick to vanish,
Fond hearts we love to pass away;—
And how soon, e'en in life's sorrow
Yearn we for noisy hours to stay.
Eyes grow sad, fades life's brief glow,
For golden days longtime have passed,
And it breaks mother's heart to know—
Gay childhood's day is o'er at last.
Many folk bemoan their trifles,
Trivial things to pass away,
But a daughter lost to childhood
Breaks the heart from day to day.
Laid away tired broken toys;
Her babyish prattle, antics past;
Upon these times we miss her noise.
She has turned a woman at last.
~Hilda~
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 4:38 PM UTC
In the early morning air
between the Londonderry hush of dreams
and the cry of Belfast on a weary morn
Where saddened eyes embody the twilight haze
of long past marches, the bewildering blaze
Of Beltane fires that scorch the hills
The world shudders to the battle cries
where brother to brother the war pitch fills
the saddened visions that over spills
That a Gaelic tongue can curse its own
To the bitter harvest of the Gael
That wipes away the blood dew
from these fields from which it grew
and damns itself in the pain and sorrow
That relives this war on every tomorrow.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 7:21 AM UTC
Drummed their boots on the camion floor,
Hob-nailed boots on the camion floor.
Sergeants stiff,
Corporals sore.
Lieutenant thought of a Mestre ***** —
Warm and soft and sleepy *****
Cozy, warm and lovely *****
****** cold, bitter, rotten ride,
Winding road up the Grappa side.
Arditi on benches stiff and cold,
Pride of their country stiff and cold,
Bristly faces, ***** hides —
Infantry marches, Arditi rides.
Grey, cold, bitter, sullen ride —
To splintered pines on the Grappa side
At Asalone, where the truck-load died.
4.2k
She breathes fire
That tastes of the cremation
Of her forefathers
Their ashes grit
In her eyes, spit
In her hands
She marches
Atop marshland
Swallowing graves
Of their mothers
And lovers
Her thick, leather skin
Wicked and weathered
Wields weapons
Of resurrection
With commanding force
She breathes life
Into desolate plains
She breathes fire
And they rise
Again
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
In Battalion,
Misery is served in a thousand ways.
Misery is served in buckets of rain
and hours of wind.
Unyielding, soul-sucking cold and wet.
Porous jungle boots that invite the frigid water in and soften your feet for a relentless 30 mile march.
Misery is served in a stifling aircraft flying Nap of the Earth.
A nauseating rollercoaster ride that never fails to elicit
chain reaction vomiting from the paratroopers rigged to jump.
Misery is served at pool PT
When your arms and legs feel like lead
and drowning is a better alternative
than the aquatic torture that you’re enduring.
Misery is served during blistering Company runs
led by the Commander
who was a college decathlete.
Runs where the strongest of us
pulled aside, emptied our stomachs,
and rejoined the formation.
Misery is served by no warning alerts
separating families and lovers
for indefinite periods,
sometimes forever.
Misery is served by the Spec 4 Mafia
Unleashing Hell on new Rangers
testing their threshold for ****
Misery is served by road marches, prickly heat,
Black Palm, and sawgrass. It’s served by desert heat,
Arctic cold, and the stench of the world’s worst places.
Misery is served by the loss of brothers in war and training,
gone too soon to join the Great Ranger in the Sky.
Through it all, misery hardened my body and strengthened my soul.
It made me a warrior and ushered me into a Brotherhood that will be with me until we all sit at the great table in Valhalla.
So on this Veteran’s Day
Embrace the ****
Endure the pain
Invite the Misery
For that’s what makes us
Men amongst Men
Rangers Lead The Way.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
A man he wrote the book
A book for all and none
About a life spent leaning
Leaning towards the sun
In search of all a greatness
His life a distant run
A battle for a giant
He reaches for the sun
On a field of giants
Merely flesh and blood
He disregards the mismatch
And stretches for the sun
Life the fiercest battle
A war that’s never won
Commits his life to reaching
Reaching for the sun
He asks the aged pastor
Disillusioned as the nun
Confides in self and marches on
Onward towards the sun
Saw life and fortune a lady
Took a chance with love
Traded breast and beauty
Traded it for the sun
His only life a sacrifice
A gamble for a goal
With faith and strength he pushes on
He strains his empty soul
Tried to be a good man
Emulates Christ the son
Grounded broken wings he *****
Tragically towards the sun
To advance the course of history
Alexander, Caesar, the ***
A martyr for the western world
He reaches for the sun
To hold the mighty leviathan
With gear to catch a cod
Born with a head of a *******
He aspires to be a god
And oh his quest does beckon
Failure certain done
What else can he do
He reaches for the sun
To god he clings his anchor
Sworn service to God and Son
Hopelessly he leans
Leaning towards the son
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
The King of the World is on his way now,
he always shows up when the chips are down.
Everyone just loves The King of the World,
he always arrives with his banners unfurled.
The King can be a loud chap,
or The King can be quite a quiet mime,
he even puts his pants on
one royal leg at a time!
The King might eat breakfast,
or The King just might not,
he is everything you are,
yet is is all that you forgot.
He's a musician of sorts,
with a very big band,
his arrival is in herald,
throughout every land
-with brass trumpets a-blare,
and snare-drums rat-a-tat,
he makes everyone aware,
that he's now where you're at!
The King marches his forces
through the cities and fields,
assure of his courses,
lying flat beneath his heel.
He revels at the sight of deterioration,
fills his belly with the joy of nations in extinction.
The King grounds everything down to things he scrapes off his boots,
he topples the governs and poisons the cultural roots.
The King's fixations are splashed with spatters of blood,
turning kingdoms into crumbles of ashes and mud.
He bulldozes the bodies into toxic pits of ****
contaminates by obscenity, wringing his hands at the wit.
Lionized by his minions in the empty empires he wrought,
The King's elite ruling class is dictated with rot.
In the aftermath of the bile
of his genocidal, sweet plight,
The King celebrates with great style,
turning the daylight into night.
With bonfires a-blaze on the wicked, windy wasteland,
The King of the World strikes up his big band,
and once marching again will torch and ravish the land,
dropping massive, beautiful bombs for the sake of the thrill,
melting the people and villages and eroding the hills.
The time for The King
always is nigh,
for he is surrounded by
the conjurations of lies.
Some say he is evil,
(but, he's not the Devil, you see)
-He's The King of the World,
he is you, he is me.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
I love...
The way she smiles at the ground,
Whenever shes embarrassed.
The way that she makes funny faces,
When I take pictures.
The way she laughs at my stupid jokes.
How she says "I love you.",
And means it.
How she trusts me with the most important things in her life.
How she let me kiss away her tears.
How she turned to me,
When she needed someone to be there for her.
How she lets me kiss her cuts,
To make them better.
The way she holds my hand,
And leads me down the hall,
And marches on gaily,
Ignoring the comments people make.
The way she snuggles into me when we dance.
The way shes not afraid to be honest to herself,
And be who,
And what she wants to be,
Not what society wants her to be.
The way she loves me.
Her.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Money is a **** producer, who mascarades as a professional film producer, promising fame and fortune to young girls in LA.
Money exploits us all, telling us to cry on his **** as he forces it down each of our throats.
MMM
Money talks its valuable poetry, cha ching as we take the money shot, the money shot, the money shot...
Blaw! we take the money and run. Exploited, every one of us carries this inflated value; running around with our heads chopped off.
Where did we put our heads?
Not a one realizing how.
We put our heads collectively in the sand.
Money talks, but we dont. Money walks, but we wont. Money marches, but we cant stand. Can't form a coherent sentence while we're getting ******
"If my dad finds out he will destroy me!"
"I won't tell."
Money wants us young, dumb, and full of idiom; and as the bubble bursts, we can't help but feel depressed.
Our faces are all over the internet. America the beautiful, I can hardly see your face behind the biggest, blackest ****
If you want to turn anyone into your own personal ***** first you got to get the money!
Money is king. But is he kind? Money is our god, but what kind?
Money money money, MONEY!
The lyrics of every rap song on the top 100
Can we get some hoes and some money that we can throw's up in here!?
It's what we all want, and its what we all fear. Money controls us and rules us without a peer.
Money replaces trust, it replaces common decency, and puts a friendly mask on the face of a murdering monster.
Money makes me sick. It smells like burning flesh if you read it just right, and put your nose up real tight, it can start to burn you too.
Roll a hundo, give Ben a sniff. Money doesn't care if you sell it off to buy drugs or a train wreck. Money isn't ethical and neither are you.
Money wants us all to bow down, and when we rise up, we look like monopoly men.
Give me some money and I can change the world into a paradise on earth; give your local bank some money, and our world looks like a shopping mall.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
Islanded in Severn stream;
The bridges from the steepled crest
Cross the water east and west.
The flag of morn in conqueror's state
Enters at the English gate:
The vanquished eve, as night prevails,
Bleeds upon the road to Wales.
Ages since the vanquished bled
Round my mother's marriage-bed;
There the ravens feasted far
About the open house of war:
When Severn down to Buildwas ran
Coloured with the death of man,
Couched upon her brother's grave
That Saxon got me on the slave.
The sound of fight is silent long
That began the ancient wrong;
Long the voice of tears is still
That wept of old the endless ill.
In my heart it has not died,
The war that sleeps on Severn side;
They cease not fighting, east and west,
On the marches of my breat.
Here the truceless armies yet
Trample, rolled in blood and sweat;
They **** and **** and never die;
And I think that each is I.
None will part us, none undo
The knot that makes one flesh of two,
Sick with hatred, sick with pain,
Strangling--When shall we be slain?
When shall I be dead and rid
Of the wrong my father did?
How long, how long, till ***** and hearse
Puts to sleep my mother's curse?
3.1k
inspired by my wife Vanessa....
Can you walk a mile
In my Sunday shoes?
Go to places I've been long and wide
Or some places you'll pay your dues?
Can you wear my shoes
That danced in God's praises
Cutting a step or two
Head reared back and voice raises high
Those old dusty Sunday shoes.
I walked places far as well a near
And back again to anywhere
To any place I want to go from here
And then again.
To marches long for freedom's cry
To church on a dusty country road
To the fields where cotton grow high
In my old dusty Sunday shoes.
Can you just walk in
These old dusty shoes?
Being foe or either friend
In those old dusty shoes.
If i have to walk to hell and back
I would in these dusty old shoes
But I only walk to church in them in fact
These old dusty Sunday shoes.
I'll keep walking in them until
The Good Master calls me home
Hoping someone will someday fill
These old dusty Sunday shoes.
Dec. 2007
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 7:22 PM UTC
I hate my hips. I hate how the friction between my thighs makes
me feel I hate how the fat on my stomach goes outwards and not inwards.
those are the worst days. the ones when my skinny-fat-gangly body
is an odyssey all on it's own and my mother's home cooked meals
become saturated oceans of salt in my stomach and make me become
this uncontrollable monster that eats everything without mercy
and ravages my refrigerator until my self pity becomes obvious
in the mirror as my skinny-fat hips become more apparent and
until I am left by myself, surrounded by tears that taste like fries
that are much too salty and chicken that tastes all too much like diabetes.
I hate my hips. I hate how they don't move to the familiar beat of the
Spanish songs that always play in my house I hate how they are
not big enough to grab people's attention but not small enough
to please my ideals of beauty. my hips remind me that I am an outsider
in my own culture, a family where you see the women's *** before
you see her face and they remind me that I am not socially acceptable.
I hate my hips. I hate my face. I hate how my forehead is large enough
to be a canvas for the world and how my eyebrows are as
transparent as a Dominican ocean I hate how my nose stretches
when I grin and how my ears stick out like something someone
didn't mean to place. I hate my face. I hate how when people look at me,
they do not see the shape of my lips or my cheek bones or anything
I love about myself all they see is a girl with hips too small and
with a forehead to large and with everything wrong. I hate how I look.
being confident is not an option being happy is only a facade
and when my father tells me I am beautiful it takes everything
in me to not tell him to stop lying. insecurity is not something you
simply get over or something you can hide it is the small voice
in your head that tells you that you are a mistake it marches all over
your mind and sets your self-esteem to ashes. whenever I wake up in
the morning there is a pressing weight on my chest and the feeling
that I should live alone because all people will ever see is my
appearance and whenever I brush my teeth I try my hardest to
avoid the mirror but when I do look in the mirror and I see
my reflection the bitter resentment towards who I am strikes me
so hard that it slaps me into reality. I am me. There is nothing I can change
about my bone structure or the large canvas on my face and I will have
to live like this every day until I die.
how can insecurity not be a problem?
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
Time marches on
and also do soldiers
and widows
and orphans
and property holders
and days become weeks
and weeks become years
and rain soaks the ground
and also do tears
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
Send forth the high falcon flying after the mind
Till it come toppling down from its cold cloud:
The beak of the falcon to pierce it till it fall
Where the simple heart is bowed.
O in wild innocence it rides
The rare ungovernable element,
But once it sways to terror and descent,
The marches of the wind are its abyss,
No wind staying it upward of the breast—
Let mind be proud for this,
And ignorant from what fabulous cause it dropt,
Or with how learned a gesture the unschooled heart
Shall lull both terror and innocence to rest.
2.7k
Run outside to the car
in the dark
in a thunderstorm.
Listen to
the dogs bark as
Earth's drums repeat.
The beats are soft
and then become louder
as a band of clouds
marches across the skyline.
Board an airplane
at 2am
Sing softly a tune
you learned
while your sister
was in the shower.
but skip imitating
the soothing pitter patter
of droplets.
Watch other planes
take-off but be
not afraid of flight.
Date somebody
completely different.
Watch them
and know they may
not be forever, but enjoy.
Lend out your heart
in many places;
for it will stumble
upon mountains
and valleys.
From a valley,
the view isn't as great
but the climb out
is worth it.
The heart may race.
The breathing pick up pace
Headaches
Heartaches
We've got them all.
And valleys will be valleys.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 1:28 PM UTC