"munitions" poems
Goats eat and **** the grass of ramparts,
stupefied cannons sit, garrisoned sentries
primed for nights of buccaneers,
seared by centuries of sun. Down shadowed
cobblestoned ramps, fortified shutters
covet rifle forend and barrel,
wresting rumored slave rebellions
from the locker of history,
while languid waves whisper indifferently
a roll call of human cargo,
chattel displaced, cast to the sea.
Here history sways to sounds
of brown skinned children
at play in breakers,
laughing, shrieking, thrashing,
buoyed by time to this vaulted brick
reverberating chamber,
here a window’s light is cast
beckoning vision past the beach,
to seek the horizon Icarus like,
to fly towards beauty in terror where
an azure sky conjoins a turquoise bay.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 5:14 AM UTC
All I do is win, for I'm an Ace
Painting a bulls-eye on everyone in the place
In my plane I leave everyone else
bailing out of the fight in disgrace
If I was a horseman, I'd be War
'Cuz like the card game
I win against Kings and Queens
and take them out of the deck
like the Joker on the sidelines, alone and bored.
I don't need a Diamond to win you Heart,
and I don't wanna join your Club,
this was skill and not luck from the very start
I am the Ace of Spades,
and I'll use my ***** to dig out your graves
I've been painted on the sides of planes
cars and trains
helicopters, submarines,
and the munitions that deal out the pain
I'm a trick shot Ace with the pool stick
As a quarterback, I've yet to throw a pick
As a pitcher, I make the other team sick
The starter and the backup plan
the Ultimate Ace in the Hole
The best card in a poker hand
lay me down and the money's in the bag
I run solo, streaking across the land
You only need to hold me in your hand
and your enemies will become ****
and I'll give 'em a taste
of this whirling dervish's mace
Leave them breathless upon the ground
as I rob the air from out of this place
you'll stand in awe of my greatness
take a picture, make a statue
Fill up every empty space with my name
For I am an Ace!
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 2:39 AM UTC
#120715 #4:30PM
Just a thought,
To where **everything’s ******
Eyes in leer – flameless –
You are Beauty.
Open eyes, open skies
Open realm, open lies.
White as snow, I was
You’re the apple in spells.
As I lived, I have died too.
With rustic munitions,
You gashed my heart out.
With your circles in hoax,
You murdered me.
A sunless morning,
A moonless night,
An air so humid,
An unsalted oceans.
For in time so impeccable,
Befuddling in misdemeanors,
You’re the Beauty who’s a Beast.
Just in time,
Forgiveness is an erudite.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime
Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies
Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time
Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....
Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood
Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation
Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *************
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression
Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks
Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ************* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines
In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo
Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
Strap on a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men
The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
The rejuvenated year has finally shed
It’s twinkling leaf on my greenness,
Oh yes, my years have tasted the darkest
Side of the seasonal stainless moon,
Causing juvenile mango trees to bath
The malleable aurora dews,
This is my wind howling fiercely in the dark
And sobbing streams of tattoo tears,
My dreams have even caused my essence
To conjure the wordless spells of the ancestress,
Lest the dreary thunderstorm of thirst
Swims over my horrendous firmament,
Give a voice to the air!
For there is not a breath of air stirring
At my munitions of peace,
I can even feel the dry pulse
And the heartbeat of the naked Gods
Piercing the calm natural day,
Oh no, the Sun-Gods has drunk the
Stream behind my coloured walls,
Causing the stretch marks on the
Back of Mother Earth to bleach,
You dare ask Tweaduampon Kwame
To weep on your scorching pepper,
For the friendship of the pregnant clouds
Was indeed for the raining season only.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
ruminating
cogitating
pondering
thinking
the subject matter doth
put the mind into a thought seat
is there sufficient verbs for me
to place on the paper's sheet
verbs by definition are words
which have an action
they on the reader
do have an impaction
so let's explore a topic
worth a thousand of them
how I'll express this piece
shall test my mind's stem
here is the matter I shall discuss
without any duress or manner of fuss
all over the globe there is much trouble
our planet is not as a carefree bubble
the inhabitants often observe strife somewhere
our corners of four not of an according air
were there to be peace and calmed relations
no concerns would beset our world's many nations
yet a propensity for war doth ever prevail
what sane men shall see the wrongs of this pail
verbs shall never explain man's idiocy
as he's ever involving himself in armory
yet a man who did advocate cordiality
lived with his brothers in true harmony
he was a meek man of the Indian land
a message of non-violence he did band
the lessons of history are never heard
man seemingly ever in the warring herd
the middle east is a tinder box of hell this day
exploding bombs and munitions all spray in affray
verbs of dialogue aren't put to good use
an ongoing lighting of the fuse doth suffuse
few statesmen of Gandhi's ilk now exist
so the torture and torment of war shall e'er persist
diplomacy has lost its edge around the globe
our planet shall remain bound in worrisome lobe
the count of verbs in this piece didn't quite reach a thousand
yet deaths in conflicts outdo that number by the thousands
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
He worked at the War Department,
in the Munitions Ministry,
for the Bureau of Cannon Fodder
on the Condolence Committee.
“On behalf of George, our king,
and the grieving British nation
We regret to have to share with you
the following information….”
Passchendaele was at its height,
he’d written letters by the score.
On the Altars of Incompetence,
what’s a hundred thousand more?
It was the sort of sinecure
in which he took a certain pride:
Informing British parents
that their darling boys had died.
His department heads approved
of his selfless dedication,
recording for posterity
each man’s final destination.
Thus it was they failed to notice
when he received a telegram.
That day he went back to his flat
a changed and broken man..
When next day, his chair was empty,
and they received a telegram,
they were grieved to be informed:
He’d died by his own hand.
“On behalf of George, our king,
and the grieving British nation
I regret to have to share with you
the following information….”
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
streams of salt and H2O leak
down reddened cheeks and condense
in a golden beard. a war-torn nation,
half-a-world-away, crystallizes clear as dayspring
in an insomniac's screaming and fragile psyche
at half-past-three in the morning.
what strength must a seven-year-old posses
to persevere amidst the perversity of cluster bombs?
munitions bought and paid for with the taxes
we fork over to the United States. will her blood one day
stain our hands with crimson? will her mother's?
a girl who just wanted to read, to escape
the tragedy that inundates our surroundings,
to a magical realm of pure imagination.
where we can summon spectral stags
to save us from the misery of humanity
and learn to disarm those who would harm
us with the charm, Expelliarmus!
the bastion where i found the first seeds that grew
into a rebellion opens its doors to you, Bana.
there's a crater where your house used to be,
rubble strewn in Aleppo, Syria. but know that Hogwarts
will always be there to welcome you home.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 4:05 AM UTC
Run with this cauldron, ladle out soup
To the soldiers of our land
In the field of battle, lay out a cloth
And let them stretch their bloodied limbs as they eat
Their minds are weary, untrusting
Each spoonful less viscous than its predecessor
A succession of leaders repeated in their heads
Every dead soldier, a reason for abdication
The people hate the war they’ve started
The fools!
No matter how much soup I take to them
No matter how watery the broth
Each day they watch me leave the front
Each day I walk alone back to base
And munitions are airlifted daily
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
T-The gift of life is oft stolen away
H-Horrid weaponry does the affray
E-Endlessly casualties will parlay
G-Gleaming soldiers eyes gone for rest
I-In unforgiving battles so harsh of test
F-Fighting at a land's utmost behest
T-Terrible the deadly toll is to attest
O-Over and over munitions have terminated
F-Flagrantly thieving any quietude generated
L-Loved sons of kinfolk seen to weep
I-Infinite this sadness ever so deep
F-From a beautiful benefit the cost steep
E-Extinguished by war's insane keep
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
They say their is calm now,
smells of spent munitions subsiding.
Lying around and ferried under a different blue the viewers and listeners, the diners and walkers.
One witness speaks of the bodies so high his wife could not climb over,
another of explosions a block away.
Carnage the reporter says as a man mentions the sight of men in black entering a music hall with Kalashnikov rifles, him gifted a choice not to enter.
The news speaks of pierced body parts, an arm, a leg, a shoulder, so many dead, 120 the number that exist no more, rising, many many more the casualties of this next step in a new world war.
Flashes and bangs, whistles and booms, sirens scream as forces reign down.
Tears, shock, the misery on faces, much sadness heaped on a peace seeking nation.
We now know some say why they chose Paris, some claim it is the fault of the west.
Others of ignorance by intelligent beings that choose violence instead,of democracy, though democracy to them has lost its edge to a world full of capitalist cronies who themselves choose numbers over humanity, so's said.
We are left to pick up pieces of what is left behind, we will grow stronger in the face of adversity.
Hoping one day that the so called wise people are wise, seeing solutions instead of this continuous cycle of violence and death.
Nos pensées vont à tous ceux qui sont touchés, nous montrons la solidarité avec le peuple français et à leurs invités.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
Donald J. Trump:
Say what you will, but
He’s the only guy out there
Asking the obvious questions,
Common sense questions like
*“Why don’t Japan, South Korea &
The House of Saud, pay the USA for
Defending them militarily?”*
We sustain their political status quo,
We put boots on their ground, &
We provide them gold-plated munitions of
Mass Devastation
(like Mass Destruction only worse.)
What do we get? Bupkis, as in
“Bupkis Mit Kaduchas"
באָבקעס מיט קדחת
Translating roughly to
*“Shivering **** *****
The 2016 election truly highlights
A profound social shift taking shape,
A demographic division, similar to what
The 1960s called the Generation Gap.
Trump is anathema to most of our
Over-indulged, Millennial offspring;
Our privileged kids, a cohort of Americans children
Reared by blue-collar but college-educated parents,
Those of us who busted *** for our
Bourgeois lifestyle & discrete charm.
We were the Flower Children of the 60s.
We left Yasgur’s farm on a
Hallucinogenic carpet high but rudely
Crash-landed, a consequence of
Altamont Speedway,
Gasoline queues & shortages, &
Years of bipolar economics,
Replete with spinning gerbil wheel of
Double-digit inflation.
We went to work.
We got our **** together.
We settled down.
We gentrified.
Our kids?
They tell their friends they are house sitting,
But the place is the house they grew up in &
Their parents still live there.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 2:19 AM UTC
The war began at Fort Sumter
It was launched by the greys not the blues
John Brown defended his actions
It was now the South's war to lose
Brothers were turned against brothers
The states were at war from that night
The country was clearly in trouble
And with one shot, did begin the fight
It's time to celebrate freedom
On a day eating hot dogs and pie
Towns decorated with bunting
As fire works light up the sky
In the summer of nineteen sixteen
On an island known here as "Black Tom"
Munitions reserved for the allies
Were sabotaged, bullet and bomb
The US now entered the World War
They were allies but not really allied
When another plant blew up in Kingsland
America, came in from the side
It's time to celebrate freedom
On a day eating hot dogs and pie
Towns decorated with bunting
As fire works light up the sky
The second world war was in progress
America was sitting it out
When Japanese planes bombed Pearl Harbour
They were at war, of this there was no doubt
Almost one half of a million
Americans died in that war
They died fighting for freedom
Just think, there could have been more
It's time to celebrate freedom
On a day eating hot dogs and pie
Towns decorated with bunting
As fire works light up the sky
Television brought war to the masses
A young soldier seen from Ojai
Interviewed leaving for battle
He was leaving, not hoping to die
Veterans came back to no fanfare
They weren't hero's, the war was not theirs
Back home, they now fought a new battle
Thrown away, where nobody cares
It's time to celebrate freedom
On a day eating hot dogs and pie
Towns decorated with bunting
As fire works light up the sky
The Gulf War began in the nineties
A war fought like none ever seen
Targets were sighted by missiles
Watched on monitors all lit up in green
And then came nine eleven
The war was now brought to our land
I support the soldiers for going to battle
And if you meet one, go shake his hand
It's time to celebrate freedom
On a day eating hot dogs and pie
Towns decorated with bunting
As fire works light up the sky
Freedom is something you fight for
It's something you celebrate too
Sons, Daughters and wives have laid down their lives
So we can all live like we do
It's time to celebrate freedom
On a day eating hot dogs and pie
Towns decorated with bunting
As fire works light up the sky
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 9:02 PM UTC
Like Newton noted,
You fell from a tree
Unknowing to mankind that the cannon
consequentially altered the history of man
The first fuse ignited,
Alchemy attempted
a potion of eternal life
We met in the middle of where the munitions fell short
Man could **** with this, I traversed from east to west
Fireworks were what we saw when it was lit
A second shot to the unknown dark sky,
we held hands as our experiment rose high
we thought it failed, until the rainbow blossomed
basking in this majesty, we felt so alive
the third explosion we controlled,
a vehicle to explore the unknown,
it was done smart,
Oblong orbits, long been entangled reduced to a formula of dancing bodies
the future was now and like a rocket
our hearts tested the furthest reaches that man had walked
but it has been years; we tested the infinite black sea
In a moment of clarity, as the propellant exploded
I held onto you and you tethered me
with little oxygen in the air,
I gave you what I couldn’t share
Like weighing scales, balanced fragile
a much regretted fall
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
In arms we entered,
Her red hair lit all in Pub,
. . . My firing squad.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
the military industrial complex
likes to make a buck
the production of bombs
boosts its bottom line's luck
the piles of cash go into
a brimming till
as the munitions take aim
and strike to ****
armaments yield a profitable
return at the exchange
while the bodies mount up
on a foreign range
the hawkish men in power are
itching to start a skirmish
so their pals in business can
positively flourish
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 9:03 AM UTC
In a little under a hundred years we've had so many wars.
Men, women and children sacrificed for someones cause.
And truly just what has been gained, versus what was lost?
Can we say that it was worth it, can we justify the cost?
In nineteen thirty nine we had the war to end all wars.
Since then there've been so many, like we've hardly even paused
And what is it we fight for? Do we fight for right or wrong?
Or do we fight to get resources that we feel to us belong?
Now sure there are some victims, of persecutions, genocides
but unless there's oil or riches there, the strongest close their eyes.
We forget that we're not perfect, but thanks to Gandhi and Dr King
We changed our stars from where you are, and now know everything.
I cannot help but wonder though, if they were alive today,
would they see us a failure, shake their heads and walk away?
In a little under a hundred years we've learned not much at all,
except in war lies profit, and to some it seems a ball.
Because if you have stuff we want, and wont do as we say,
then we just roll our armies in and blow you all away.
Or if you do things differently, even as we once did,
then we will "liberate" you, then sell you to the highest bid.
See we want you to be like us, cos were so freakin smart,
sure we got people starving but an unmade bed is art.
"My Bed" was bought by Charles Saatchi for £150,000 in 1999.
£150,000 would feed 3200 children in Ghana for a year.
£150,000 would provide over 6800 prosthetics for children who have lost limbs as a result of landmines or unexploded munitions.
In a little under a hundred years, it would seem we have learned nothing.
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 1:00 PM UTC
Technology in upheaval my beer is full.
*** fills my mind with pheromones while half my hand goes limp.
I can’t feel, and nobody can feel me.
This perplexing relationship is mute resting in a lull.
I go away soon. My brain sees the afternoon and never more sooner do I go lunar.
It’s a language fight, who has the right, I might, with delight I entice the ever bloated fat cat with money scats coming from three throngs of bludgeoning
It’s turning into a symphony you seeing me, me seeing me, you seeing you, you blowing who. ******* the dmca from the caves of *** filled futures of virus infected tri-elected future tumor leaders.
**** the breeders! Heaters is what I have, ******* for the slave pit to go desolate into it, feeling the kit in it my slit, that which you lick. I hit and quit with quite the light of resolution and destitution upon your innovations of new year munitions.
It’s a ******* mind game, stop asking and stop doing the same.You have it [answers] in your hearts.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
He sat with Michaelanglo
a stirring butress, a rife old glutton.
Seething, the temple may be doomed.
And Jude, 'rich' as HELL,
beaming of priesthood. Cursed him
with mired lucher, saying... 'When do
you think our work will be done?"
The stars that shine about the church
over our heads are beauty,
in the Cistene Chapel are the same
stars that line the apothecary of our souls.
How then do we touch a theist?
With brooms over our feet,
with chicken bones to old to feed
to dogs, with lyes that burn the soul.
Tremulous attrition, and godless neoteny.
All munitions to the decks. For
Jude, the job is never finished.
And to a deity, man is completeness.
And the poet says to the unbelieved,
'Why so true?'
"No one will believe in God,...
if no one is in this Church."
The Sandbergs, the Blakes, the Jaynes's.
Here we have felt poetry, awakened to poetry,
and loved every minute of the poet.
What record could democracy create
by Judas? When does the account of
men try femine reason?
'Ill tell You',.. says Mr. Sandberg,
'Ill tell You!,...that naught one of us can forgive a
great poet.' And Jude, replied,... "Whom then
can I believe?"
Carl Sandberg leaned way back and answered,
'You can believe the Truth; she is warm
to the touch and cold for the feature of
treason.'
"Carl why then do we argue in 3rd person?" says
Jude.
Repling again, the Cistene Chapel is open
for marrage, the ceiling is finished because
no one can account for all of the stars, but who
has to pray with us for forgiveness.
My hands prean lust for wisdom with a
pen, my hands pluck keyboards as do
Aeolian Flutes. My heart is a broken sorrow
and my life is just a poet.
Carl has answered a question,
Jude has lies to tell, and a man will finish
painting the chapel with the sound of
Liberty bells.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
A silver platter,
I've never had.
Only words for munitions
By definition im smitten with'm
Slow down the rythym
Let the bass drop and then when it hits'm
Spiznit the wisdoms
Please consider your kingdoms!
Held together by lectric power.
Without it you'd be devoured
By thoughts in the shadow-realm
So batten the hatches-of-helm
Scatter the ashes that fell
Sell your attachments
To hell
And roll on your magical mystical
Fantasical whimsical mythical
journey-of-legend
Let's leave a lasting loving legacy
Lamenting is landing zone.
Loud laffs appose.
Poetry & pro's
Just a thought;
"I suppose"
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
Fire on water,
The hearts smoke
And low rain of her eyes,
What wry lashing they gave,
The currency of night's tender,
My fare to the wandering lands
And makeshift rounds of munitions
Heat, mushroom, slice and plosive gaze.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
Eye of covid
Lipid drops
Sterile cauldron
Now promulgate
Inoculate the many
Blood scouts raising the alarm
Bugles blaring, heat ascending
Cavalry storm an affray
Time to reinforce
Stock up munitions
Train rapacious phages
Prepare the garbage trucks
Its an invasion
Man the barriers
Do not let them pass
Subjugate and destroy
Covid fall on thy eye
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 7:43 AM UTC
as we're celebrating
with family and friends
on Christmas day
give a thought to nations
who are in the fife
of a destructive flay
there will be no peace
all harmony unkempt
the tones of happiness
in these lands exempt
munitions reining down
terror in every street
the frightened war weary
caught in a violent cleat
the wailing of innocent children
the grieving heart of a mother
humanity lost in the woods
the planet's brotherhood in smother
and the joys of Christmas
we'll have to share
yet there will be places on our orb
dowsed with pain and despair
Syria and Iraq
those trouble riven territories
where there is an ongoing
legacy of animosities
merry and mirthful
shall be our Christmas day
but let us not forget war torn countries
far beyond our homeland's bay
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
Note well, all you New Year's mad hatters,
It's the future that really matters,
With all your joyous bevies and beers,
Blazing fireworks and raucous cheers,
What does really matter,
All you party hearty mad hatters?
What's our New Year's resolutions,
As we commence our anticipation?
What about peace as liberation?
Or making extinct extinction,
For all our human population,
And our animal populations?
Can we think of any new solutions,
Beyond reafforestation?
How can we end terrorism?
Which masks the real perdition--
Running the world on munitions....
Very unpopular thoughts, my dears,
One of my muse's strange ideas,
How can we create a better place,
For everyone in the human race?
So, all you New Year's mad hatters,
It's all our futures that matter.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
Fire on water,
The hearts smoke
And low rain of her eyes,
What wry lashing they gave,
The currency of night's tender,
My fare to the wandering lands
And makeshift rounds of munitions
Slice and plosive gaze.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC