"sabres" poems
Your commitment to me
will always be
Competing against that of Lucas
While I stand in the buff,
you want space stuff
You want sabres and jedis a’clashing
If you loved me,
as much as wookies
We’d fly just as smooth as pod racers
While I give you my heart
you’re busy hating the 1st part
I know, the prequels were ******
300 odd days
till the force’s new phase
And Solo returns in the falcon
By then I’ll be brain fried,
I’ll have gone to the dark side
I’ll be just as done as poor Greedo
Solo may have shot first
But man its the worst
always coming second to that nerf herder
Even when I’m gone
just like Alderaan
You’ll dream of Leia’s bikini
Just make like R2,
Say you love me too
And I won’t have to force choke my darling
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
Guarded within the old red wall's embrace,
Marshalled like soldiers in gay company,
The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry
Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace
Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace!
Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry,
With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye
Of purple batteries, every gun in place.
Forward they come, with flaunting colours spread,
With torches burning, stepping out in time
To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead,
We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime
Parades that army. With our utmost powers
We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers.
4.7k
Are you a tourist or
A volcanologist my dear?
With a painful joy
To a live volcano getting near,
Do you want to pay homage
To earth's nadir
Conscious that beneath a sea level
A sweltering heat you can bear?
Then to Erta Ale come you not why
Found under Ethiopia's sky?
With a style jumping high,
Hitting the ground
Beating drums, on their waists,
Sabres tied around
Afro men along with braided women,
With butter greased hair,
The latter ululating and clapping
In a row facing each other
Chant a love song
“My feeling for you is strong!”
The male herd camel,
While women babysit,prepare food
And make short huts
With tiny malleable wood.
Also dot the mirage-forming sand
Huts grand.
Are you a tourist my dear
Eager to see about
Out of the ordinary you heard
Say about multicolored magma
Volcano's dust,
Disgorged out of earth's crust?
Do you want to see a scenery
You have not seen
Since you were born,
How in a motley garment
Mother nature itself
Likes to adorn
Come then to Ethiopia,
Located in Africa's horn?
Visit Erta Ale ,
On earth
To run away from earth
Enjoying its hearth.
You will witness
The extraction of salt
In a volcano-formed fault.///
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
'Tis not with gilded sabres
That gleam in baldricks blue,
Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,
Of gay and gaudy hue--
But, habited in mourning weeds,
Come marching from afar,
By four and four, the valiant men
Who fought with Aliatar.
All mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
The banner of the Phenix,
The flag that loved the sky,
That scarce the wind dared wanton with,
It flew so proud and high--
Now leaves its place in battle-field,
And sweeps the ground in grief,
The bearer drags its glorious folds
Behind the fallen chief,
As mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Brave Aliatar led forward
A hundred Moors to go
To where his brother held Motril
Against the leaguering foe.
On horseback went the gallant Moor,
That gallant band to lead;
And now his bier is at the gate,
From whence he pricked his steed.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
The knights of the Grand Master
In crowded ambush lay;
They rushed upon him where the reeds
Were thick beside the way;
They smote the valiant Aliatar,
They smote the warrior dead,
And broken, but not beaten, were
The gallant ranks he led.
Now mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow,
How passionate her cries!
Her lover's wounds streamed not more free
Than that poor maiden's eyes.
Say, Love--for didst thou see her tears:
Oh, no! he drew more tight
The blinding fillet o'er his lids
To spare his eyes the sight.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Nor Zayda weeps him only,
But all that dwell between
The great Alhambra's palace walls
And springs of Albaicin.
The ladies weep the flower of knights,
The brave the bravest here;
The people weep a champion,
The Alcaydes a noble peer.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
2.9k
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
Someone had blundered:
Theirs was not to make reply,
Theirs was not to reason why,
Theirs was but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging and army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunging in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not--
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that fought so well,
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of the six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble Six Hundred!
2.5k
They either say "We'll spend some time"
Or they say "Well, never mind"
Is it the apostrophe
That makes us we?
Or is it a mentality
That sets us free
To changes
And ranges
Of open thoughts and feelings
That bring us together
Until negativity starts stealing
And our connections we sever
We'll feel well
After escaping the hell
That is the difference between well and we'll
But they will not be the hands that heal
When they act like adding the apostrophe
Is tantamount to apostasy
So they wield sabres
Of different flavors
Like the shallow gravers
And the glow stick ravers
That look good on paper
Until they are erased
When I need their embrace
I'm left hanging
Like an apostrophe
Putting me down
Into a comma coma
Leaving holes in me
Like a drama stoma
Constricting
Like a mama boa
You're your apostrophe
When you take away being
And turn something into a possession
You channeled my overt obsession
Then punctuated with aggression
The end of our sentence
I can't survive this period of my life
When savages cause serious strife
By adding small marks to me
Until it becomes too dark to see
In the shadow of their apostrophe
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 5:06 AM UTC
I’ve read that UFO’s ride the skyways
Looking for a friendly atmosphere
But the way we treat our neighbors
The way we rattle sabres
It’s hard to find intelligent life down here
The space explorers see the humans racing
To see whose bomb can make who disappear
And the visitors must say
War seems to be their way
It’s hard to find intelligent life down here
COMPASSION’S NOT THE VALUE THEY REVERE
THE SMOKE OF WAR'S TOO COMMON ON THIS SPHERE
THE GOLDEN RULE'S OMITTED
IT’S SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
IT’S HARD TO FIND INTELLIGENT LIFE DOWN HERE
They seldom reach a plane for compromising
They don’t trust each other much I fear
And when strangers pass this way
They see morals in decay
It’s hard to find intelligent life down here..
I hope they'll love there brother
Before bombs blow up each other
It's hard to find intelligent life down here
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 9:39 AM UTC
II.
Oh ! vers ces vétérans quand notre esprit s'élève,
Nous voyons leur front luire et resplendir leur glaive,
Fertile en grands travaux.
C'étaient là les anciens. Mais ce temps les efface !
France, dans ton histoire ils tiennent trop de place.
France, gloire aux nouveaux !
Oui, gloire à ceux d'hier ! ils se mettent cent mille,
Sabres nus, vingt contre un, sans crainte, et par la ville
S'en vont, tambours battants.
À mitraille ! leur feu brille, l'obusier tonne,
Victoire ! ils ont tué, carrefour Tiquetonne,
Un enfant de sept ans !
Ceux-ci sont des héros qui n'ont pas peur des femmes
Ils tirent sans pâlir, gloire à ces grandes âmes !
Sur les passants tremblants.
On voit, quand dans Paris leur troupe se promène,
Aux fers de leurs chevaux de la cervelle humaine
Avec des cheveux blancs !
Ils montent à l'assaut des lois ; sur la patrie
Ils s'élancent ; chevaux, fantassins, batterie,
Bataillon, escadron,
Gorgés, payés, repus, joyeux, fous de colère,
Sonnant la charge, avec Maupas pour vexillaire
Et Veuillot pour clairon.
Tout, le fer et le plomb, manque à nos bras farouches,
Le peuple est sans fusils, le peuple est sans cartouches,
Braves ! c'est le moment !
Avec quelques tribuns la loi demeure seule.
Derrière vos canons chargés jusqu'à la gueule
Risquez-vous hardiment !
Ô soldats de décembre ! ô soldats d'embuscades
Contre votre pays ! honte à vos cavalcades
Dans Paris consterné !
Vos pères, je l'ai dit, brillaient comme le phare ;
Ils bravaient, en chantant une haute fanfare,
La mort, spectre étonné ;
Vos pères combattaient les plus fières armées,
Le prussien blond, le russe aux foudres enflammées,
Le catalan bruni,
Vous, vous tuez des gens de bourse et de négoce.
Vos pères, ces géants, avaient pris Saragosse,
Vous prenez Tortoni !
Histoire, qu'en dis-tu ? les vieux dans les batailles
Couraient sur les canons vomissant les mitrailles ;
Ceux-ci vont, sans trembler,
Foulant aux pieds vieillards sanglants, femmes mourantes
Droit au crime. Ce sont deux façons différentes
De ne pas reculer.
Jersey, du 7 au 13 janvier 1853.
2.2k
Remember it well do I ~
Third eclipse of second moon
on Wrote-Clishhen Five
Saw your eyes; full of the force, did I
But full of Love ~ they were ~ a higher power
yesss. hmmm....Delighting everyone
The Cutest nose had you ~ and ears...
Oh ! ...And smile did you
like a thousand light-sabres, was it.
But your way ~ your way, it was
~ that made me love you
Many times laughing, spend, we did
(Yo-da one that I want - joked - you did
~ the best joke ever, thinks I )
Until, intervene and consume us, the Dark Side did;
Tears replacing laughter and hate; Love
Our friendship, to die, was meant to be
But swear I do,
On my six stubby toes !
Forever love you I shall
yesss ~ swear I do...
- Forever... love you
...I shall
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 3:10 AM UTC
These are the teaching of a peaceful warrior
Today, I saw three children burn, six buildings fall and nine families cry as twelve people died.
But **** it!
I’m western,
It’s all cool.
I’ve got drinkable water,
I’ve got central heating ,
I’ve got a National Health Service,
And an education from a proper school…
Regardless of the fact that I arsed about and played the fool.
I’ve got a sorted life.
And the most I have to worry about is an unloved wife,
Or monotonous conversations about other people’s strife.
But maybe I’m wrong?
Maybe I’m repressing the depressing parts of my day?
Maybe I should open up to the possibility that I am after all human and that it’s a part of our humanity not to like my next-door neighbour just 'cause he smiles funny?
But I guess that’s what we do.
We stigmatise, bastardise and anyone who doesn’t match up in our eyes.
So why don’t we stop?
Why can’t we feel safe from the cops?
Why can’t we trust the government to protect our jobs?
I think I know why…
‘Cause it’s a fake system,
Built on the belief that we’re all equal.
Well…
Some more than others.
And if you’re more well off then them,
Then **** your brothers!
So let’s start a revolution.
Let’s cut down pollution both environmentally and mentally,
Let’s free the oppressed and resolve this mess,
Let’s finally get off our chest the injustices of our generation and reform this nation based on equality, sustainability and chivalry.
Not bigotry, frivolity and humility.
And what of the military?
We make of them what you will,
But someone who volunteers to ****
Is either messed in the head or run out of thrills.
But think of it this way,
A workforce of a hundred thousand strong,
Who may not be aware of what they’ve done,
Can transform this world both homeland and foreign.
Commit our military to sustainability.
If they want to serve their country then go build wind farms and H E Ps in plenty.
Still I know what your thinking,
None of this is realistic.
Especially now the economy’s sick.
And whomever we vote… We’re governed by ******
So let’s turn over this government,
Let’s have a proper – civil – war.
But instead of roundheads and sabres,
We’ll strike and protest across cities and acres.
‘Cause the rich and powerful have no sway,
When the people who generate their wealth, get in their way.
But enough of my rants… what’s your say?
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 7:30 PM UTC
I
if I yelled into a walkie talkie,
would you melt, or burn,
blaring noise
glaring sun,
glaze the windows, someone!
II
fade away and radiate,
move the people dis-populate,
we may all glow,
there are leaks, they know,
but that is not all
they are going to build
an icy wall to STOP thoseleaksnow,
some one strong willed
is taking charge of those positive and negatives
keep an i on atom, physically speaking.
III
shake, shake
roll the water
shake shake
roll the dice
shake shake
what happens
in the kitchen
where it is hot
and you bang
plates together
the do break, explosively
this time, no
tsunami, so sue me
but it was a six point one
when we get a nine what then?
IV
they have politics,
they have unrest,
they have strife,
put the ad in
the paper, some
one misunderstood, vehement
denials, sabres rattling cementing
bad relations blame the propagandist
bad formula blame the chemist
bad politics cost elections
bad people take lives
that are not theirs to erase, displace
or otherwise disgrace, I know we will
never know what has gone on,
but it really comes down to ONE,
all it takes is one to die,
and it - whatever the point is
is wrong,
all it takes is a million refugees,
not one in power will listen if we
say STOP please,
think of the creative talent who have died,
think of the number of times you have lied,
think of the geniuses unable to breath through their face,
oh wait, if you did think, in the first place,
you still would have done it anyway,
because that is who you are, makin' people wear sarin, eau de ... deathly
silence is a grave filled with the cries
of the innocents
chaos is a grave filled with violent
death with intent
lashing out first and with such force
is a grave filled with numbers of
the lost, who now are no more
the cost is too dear to bear
except with sadness, and mourning
but there is no time there is danger
and warring
while the world dithers uncertain,
close the blinds
draw the curtain,
cover your ears,
we are doing something
here, umm, there.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
1
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
2
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
3
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
4
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
5
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
6
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made,
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
Sabres,
labouring to stop their rattling
like
cattle in the abbatoir,
where
the next step is a step to far.
I see a dancing ballerina troupe, arms attendant at attention,not to mention vested interests with the dull of bullets bouncing off cash registers,where nothing registers but the profits,not the loss,
who tosses the baby out with the bathwater ought to look before they leap into the frying pan.
I can sympathise with eastern eyes set on the west but would not like to take the test they're taking now.
One more cow in the cattle shed,one more country to be bled and we are fed and once more titillated
by aggravated assaults.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
Across the room they sat;
Sipping coffee and chatting.
Young, engrossed in each other,
Blind to the bustling cafe around.
But in came a man, maybe a bull;
His breath vanished when he saw her.
Boldly he challenged, "A duel!
For that hand, fair and pure."
At once hushed, we watched;
The challenged stood with pride,
"With sabres; at once!"
Aghast she watched lover and challenger
Take up arms for her favor.
Quick as lightning they began
Dancing with death as wounds developed.
Equal they seemed after countless clangs,
Suddenly slash! A **** grew
Across his throat, red blood sprayed
Spattering the victor; a messy trophy.
The challenger threw his sabre
Into the fresh corpse of his enemy,
"Now where is my fair hand?"
He could not find her amidst the cafe;
She had vanished. Enraged he withdrew
The weapon and impaled himself.
Where had the beauty gone?
Away with the victor true; who?
I, the bystander.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
Soft soled shoes skipping silently along sun scorched sidewalks of Sacramento
Singing sad songs of sinners sinning
Slinking into shadows of sky scrapers before the sun has soundly set
Scowling at the sound of sick screaming children suffocating from the smog covered streets
Spectators sighing, seeking shelter from scoundrels scavenging cents for smack
******** clad ***** soliciting STDs to self loathing suckers
Smouldering remains, secreting Satan's scent on 2nd
Sunken sailors slitting throats with sharpened sabres.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
The Queen stepped ahead of the gun carriage
That bore the country’s king,
He’d died, they said, in the early hours
In the palace’s east wing,
And now he rode in a state of grace
As the people lined his way,
His coffin high on the gun carriage
Pulled by a pair of greys.
The Queen was hid by a widow’s veil
That covered the sovereign’s face,
It stopped them seeing the evil smile
Hidden behind the lace,
For way behind in a carriage, mad
With power, and bedecked with rings,
And wearing the crown his father had
He was now, ‘Long live the King!’
The Horse Guards led the procession with
Their sabres raised to the sky,
Then came the Dukes and Duchesses
And never an eye was dry,
The King who died was a pleasant king
And beloved of the people’s grace,
So thousands of flags were waved for him
As he travelled along that place.
Then as they reached Horse Guards Parade
The gun carriage gave a lurch,
It hadn’t been fixed too firmly when
They set it up at the church,
The coffin came flying off the top
Flew open and hit the ground,
That’s when a pile of pale white bones
Were scattered about and around.
And rising up from a mutter, there
Was a roar from the waiting crowd,
It started off with a stutter, then
With a bellowing rage, aloud,
A pile of bones from a new dead king
Just what were they trying to prove?
The Queen was seized by the angry crowd
And her widow’s veil removed.
The Queen with platitudes, tried to speak
But her words were heard in vain,
The people wanted their funeral
There was no way to explain,
They set the coffin back where it was
And ignored her screams and cries,
A single nail in the coffin lid
And a royal to despise.
Then all the way to the cemetery
The people pulled the Queen,
Safe on top of the gun carriage
And only a muffled scream,
The King, arrested, was buried first
In a hole, a deeper drop,
And then his mother, as would beseem
In her coffin, on the top.
And all the while the old king sat
On a terrace in Tuscany,
Sampling all the local wines
And savouring to be free,
Never again to hear the whine
Of that dreadful troll, the Queen,
Or kissing another baby’s head,
Life was but a dream!
David Lewis Paget
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 3:09 AM UTC
O’ Brother,
How important you are,
Don’t listen to mother,
With your joyful smile, as bright as a star,
Your room is dying, the colour changing to black,
I can tell you are not satisfied with the things of this world no more,
But you are Hercules, and these trials are your labours,
Let them make you stronger, and your power shall not lack
Being sorrowful is not your job, not even a chore,
**** those horrible thoughts with your wise sabres.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
Simply put, ***** the school.
Simply put, we exist, too.
We're not complicated, we just need our space.
We need the room so we don't hit your face.
Rifles and sabres and blades, oh my.
Rifles and sabres and blades will fly.
Swing flags and ribbons,
Our equipment throughout.
Six foots, Five-and-a-halfs,
Again we got kicked out.
The gym, the stage,
We're in the cafeteria for days.
The mezzanine, the band room,
Can we get our own place soon?
I'm so tired of not having a place.
Why can't color guard have their own space?
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
I was laying there wondering,
watching diamonds float by,
chandeliers in my eyes,
candle wax on my skin and
the heat from them all drifted out,
lifted in.
Gifted by evening to lay here alone
honing my skills, by
dodging candle wax spills.
Every facet, a caveat encloses
every diamond to hearts full of roses,
trips start with a fall
I lay here or there and watch it all play out,
a round of about and back to the start.
Glass beads stare with feeling somewhere
off the ceiling,
no diamonds, no jewels
flies eyes and in colour makes
all seem much duller than mine.
fools who will duel over glasses of wine
with sabres at eight
breakfast waits only for one.
Pure and random, back on the tandem
room for another to smother the leather
of the saddle.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
Donc c'est fait. Dût rugir de honte le canon,
Te voilà, nain immonde, accroupi sur ce nom !
Cette gloire est ton trou, ta bauge, ta demeure !
Toi qui n'as jamais pris la fortune qu'à l'heure,
Te voilà presque assis sur ce hautain sommet !
Sur le chapeau d'Essling tu plantes ton plumet ;
Tu mets, petit Poucet, ces bottes de sept lieues ;
Tu prends Napoléon dans les régions bleues ;
Tu fais travailler l'oncle, et, perroquet ravi,
Grimper à ton perchoir l'aigle de Mondovi !
Thersite est le neveu d'Achille Péliade !
C'est pour toi qu'on a fait toute cette Iliade !
C'est pour toi qu'on livra ces combats inouïs !
C'est pour toi que Murat, aux russes éblouis,
Terrible, apparaissait, cravachant leur armée !
C'est pour toi qu'à travers la flamme et la fumée
Les grenadiers pensifs s'avançaient à pas lents !
C'est pour toi que mon père et mes oncles vaillants
Ont répandu leur sang dans ces guerres épiques !
Pour toi qu'ont fourmillé les sabres et les piques,
Que tout le continent trembla sous Attila,
Et que Londres frémit, et que Moscou brûla !
C'est pour toi, pour tes Deutz et pour tes Mascarilles,
Pour que tu puisses boire avec de belles filles,
Et, la nuit, t'attabler dans le Louvre à l'écart,
C'est pour monsieur Fialin et pour monsieur Mocquart,
Que Lannes d'un boulet eut la cuisse coupée,
Que le front des soldats, entrouvert par l'épée,
Saigna sous le shako, le casque et le colback,
Que Lasalle à Wagram, Duroc à Reichenbach,
Expirèrent frappés au milieu de leur route,
Que Caulaincourt tomba dans la grande redoute,
Et que la vieille garde est morte à Waterloo !
C'est pour toi qu'agitant le pin et le bouleau,
Le vent fait aujourd'hui, sous ses âpres haleines,
Blanchir tant d'ossements, hélas ! dans tant de plaines !
Faquin ! - Tu t'es soudé, chargé d'un vil butin,
Toi, l'homme du hasard, à l'homme du destin !
Tu fourres, impudent, ton front dans ses couronnes !
Nous entendons claquer dans tes mains fanfaronnes
Ce fouet prodigieux qui conduisait les rois
Et tranquille, attelant à ton numéro trois
Austerlitz, Marengo, Rivoli, Saint-Jean-d'Acre,
Aux chevaux du soleil tu fais traîner ton fiacre !
Jersey, le 31 mai 1853.
503
Can we ever be sure that the intention was pure
or are we the poorer for doubting?
I see a
North Korea
everywhere I look,
a different name,
but it's the same
old game they play.
There's not a table big enough
to sit around and talk over stuff,
such nonsense as there be
such nonsense that we see.
Blame it on the media
or Wikipedia,
both are social
schizophrenia
and I'm just talking to the voices
in my head.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
“When will they ever learn?” - Bob Dylan
Secure in the golden cradle
Of youth, we are schooled to sense
Just who we are and might become
Then tempests toss us seaward –
Reeling in crests and troughs of fear -
Adrift, abandoned and lost -
Hung between heritage and revolution.
Tempers roil, ignite, explode
Sabers are rattled then swung
In heated ****** of lethal madness.
When will we ever learn?
And yet our sun-washed globe spins on -
Impervious to our juvenile conceits
In time wash ashore with new resolve
To rebuild bridges - vessels - public works.
Nations rebound and halls resound
With noble and inspiring speeches
To remind us who we are
And who we might become.
All seems well again until
Time's sermons are flung aside
and hell returns to lacerate our sphere.
When will we ever learn?
When is never soon enough.
Sep 13, 2023
Sep 13, 2023 at 3:09 PM UTC
At the back of my mind is a small peaceful walk
Where I amble alone and I don’t have to talk
Where war in the world is a far distant nightmare
And only my personal thoughts I invite there.
If ever the bustle of life gets so fierce
That delicate bubble of sanity pierced
The final resort to losing my way
Shut down for a moment to this place I stray.
But just for a moment and then on with the show
There are things to be done and places to go
It just wouldn’t do to be all that insular
I leap from the sidelines with a little chutzpah.
So now all refreshed I return to my labours
All buoyed by my moment away from life’s sabres
Get myself to the grindstone and continue the task
Forgive me my failings is all that I ask.
My failings are many and yours may be few
We each try our best in the things that we do
If we just understood that and accepted this thing
Troubles would be less and far more hearts would sing.
Occasionally you’ll find me at the back of my mind
I’ll let your thoughts in if intentions are kind
And you’ll find that I think something similar to you
Our innocence was lost by the road as we grew.
There’s a small peaceful walk at the back of my mind
I like to go there and meet friends who are kind
It’s not really to hard to summon them there
They’re people like me who’d like the world to be fair.
©Joe Wilson – At the back of my mind…2014
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC