"snipers" poems
One more day is fading away
as we ride this bus to the city
The storm is coming nearer now
And your bliss will turn to tears
We've almost reached our destination
Countless parachutes in the sky
These mosquitoes are swarming
before your eyes,
Just a moment's time til someone dies
The skies are getting darker now
Not a shard of light in this room
You'd better make good choices now
Or meet your impending doom
I hear your steps from the other room
And I'm already locked and loaded
You'd better get on running now
Or I'll destroy what's left of you
I walk upstairs to higher ground
and hear your cowardly whines,
I look in the eyes of my colleague
And said don't move, this **** is mine
I've made my way to my snipers' nest
and my eyes are set to ****
I've got my sights on your head right now
To pull the trigger, you know I will
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
I feel like a friend-- a true friend,
is more than a profile on a website.
And peace is more than a handshake agreement
brought by the outcome of a gruesome fight.
I know that self worth is more than someone's opinion,
and in no other dominion but mine own to foster and care for.
And I can see that happiness is more than having money, sure,
cause most of us laugh everyday here, and come on, we're dirt poor.
And I pray the human soul is more than Casper's counterpart,
somewhere between the heart and the pancreas.
And God, faith is so much more than cryin' and dyin'
over spilt milk between religions.
And in case you were confused, "I love you", is more than
pet names, bed games, and ***
Music is more than pimps, hoes, and MTV Shows, and T-Pain singin through a computer.
Believe that life is more than grades and degrees,
or drugs and disease,
or the 'ABCs' of success that some old man wrote a thousand years ago.
This poem has to be more than words strewn together
to voice my discontent at the status-quo..
Hell, the word "more" itself is more than a one-syllable statment
that what we lack in the present
is just a larger quantity of the **** "we already have",
and no!
The power of your silent agreement is more than that
of my voice alone, so...
What is "more"?
In many ways, "more" is the friend you never had.
More peace in the world would end all the mindless bloodshed.
More respect and selfworth would bring beauty back to youth,
especially to the women in the world,
that sell their unique souls to look like the cover of Cosmo.
More faith, that grants serenity in the times of hardship,
will be the soothing hand of an Angel on our shoulders as
we say, "I love you" to our enemies, martyrs for a better world.
More positive music will inspire us,
to be the change we want to see in the world, today,
instead of, "Waitin' on the World to Change "♫ ♪ ♫♪
So ladies and gentlemen, make a decision: if you want to be
critics and vipers,
war mongers and hope-snipers,
ignore my intention, and live with more division.
But, if any of you are artists starving for meaning and inspiration,
if you envision a world of more than... THIS...
Then let a word change a feeling,
change a thought, change a meaning,
change your mind...
And get more out of life.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 1:38 PM UTC
Tethers that prevent flight
from shaken swollen tears
feathers spent in woeful plight
and a snipers cross-hair sight
amid muffled explosive cheers
Brothers in Arms
never lost to forgotten years
and the sound of a distant gunshot
is all that he hears.
R.I.P. Sgt L.J.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
I'm One Off 7 Billion Crying,
I'm One Off 7 Billion Slowly Dying,
Half The World Trying,
The Other Half Lying,
Starvation And Disease,
Criminals And Thieves,
An Empire Grows,
Then One Is Diseased,
The World Is Cruel To Say The Least,
A Look At The Past,
Brings A Good Laugh,
But In The End,
Two Wrists Are Slashed,
Erie Flashbacks Crowd Millions Of Minds,
Snipers, Terriorists, And Grenade Mines,
Litter The Worlds Beautiful Face,
All This Human Violence Is Such A Disgrace,
Diwali Everyday In Cities Around The World,
But Not The Festival Of Light,
Just The Light Pollution Smuthering The Stars,
I'm One Of 7 Billion Being Lied To,
One Of 7 Billion Inclined To,
Believe In Humanity,
To Believe There Is No Insanity,
I'm One Of Just 7 Billion Wandering This Lonely,
Yet Crowded World
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 8:39 AM UTC
in our
besieged republic
snipers are
popping up
everywhere
taking ***
shots
ending lives
with a well placed
head shot
active shooters
star in
world premier
events
jokers
rise like
dark knights
casting large
looming shadows
on real 3D cinemax
multiplexed screens
sprinkling overpriced
buckets of popcorn
with generous
dollops of blood
others
head back to
school
still ******
about missing
recess and
excessive
sentences
to detention
halls where
bullies tortured
scrawny inmates
with wedgies
and painful
***** twisters
they’ve
come back
to even the score
leaving
bullet hole
pockmarks on
Sharpie smudged
smart boards
declaring endless
summer vacations
for classrooms
of children
who don’t
give wedgies
and only dream
of soft *****
these
urban guerillas
are now working
to liberate airports
from the tyranny
of TSA agents
fulfilling
PATRIOT ACT
duties for
10 bucks
an hour
and
last night
the latest
active shooter
showed up at
the Garden
State Plaza,
-my hometown
mall of america-
mumbling about his
Grand Theft Auto
score, strung out
and crashing
from an unfilled
pharma addiction
script
he grew
up as a
Highwayman
in Teaneck
a former
classmate
working
at Nordstroms
said he was
a really good kid
he was,
one of the good ones,
he could have shot
some people
but the only
person he
shot in the head
was himself
legions of
police officers
surrounding the mall
stood down
grateful for overtime
milling about
in the flashing
red strobes
inhaling the heady
blue fumes
rising to commend
Bergen County
Blue Laws and
next Sunday’s
time and a half
active shooter
training day
Jimi Hendrix:
Machine Gun
Oakland
11/5/13
jbm
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
It's an army I'm facing:
A hundred marker-wielding,
Bespectacled preacher-teachers
With a set process, a formula
Defined by science
And tried by no child
Without consequence. It's
A national army, banners waving.
I pledge each morning to my
Country. (Thank you, great army,
For my life as a free child!) Then I
Sit in my assigned seat; I finish my
Assigned work. When the lesson
Ends, my friends and I discuss
(Thank you for amendment two!)
Our distrust of double-meanings -
Our distrust of everything - too
Many contradictions in a day.
All this while the snipers aim, (like
Strikebreakers coming to claim
The rabble-rousers) (Thank you for our
Peaceful assembly rights!) they remind us
To work hard for faraway and free days,
College parties with dean( drill sergeant)'s
Iron eyes over our (soon-to-be) soldier
Shoulders. (Thank you for privacy rights!)
We are reminded to
Complete our assignments quietly.
(Thank you for free speech.)
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 3:57 PM UTC
As a child
I wasn't really afraid of the dark,
There weren't really monsters in my closet and the feeling of checking under my bed was never something that I had to fear,
But as I grew older,
I learned that the monster was always in a far away place,
I learned in school that monsters didn't really exist and there was nothing I should have to fear,
I grew up in a Christian home
Learning that in some way I needed to be saved and I accepted that protection
Learning that living in hell for eternity was worth being saved from
But in my innocence I forgot about the monsters that live here
As planes are crashed into buildings
And snipers in cars
Inciting terror upon innocence
As a child in a free nation is oblivious to the fact that there is something to truly be afraid of
Something that's hidden
The cracks in the glass of this facade only seem to spider across the dark crevices of my brain wishing to...
Wishing to be free
Clawing their way up my throat
Asking for forgiveness instead of permission
Wishing to let go of their bonds because the only thing that's keeping them there is the thought that they could be kept at bay
Brittle chains with keys in the locks and the only thing that stops them from being set free is us
I've been told the eyes are the window to the soul
That if you look closely you can see their thoughts and desires
And demons
And as it turns out I'm blind to the fact that when I try to look in the mirror
That monsters won't chase me in my sleep and claw away at my soul
That no one is in control of the monsters
The monsters are in control of me.
Humanities greatest lie is that we can save our selves.
The monsters won't be free because we won't let them take control until they do
And this great deception has conceived this monstrosity that nobody has seen because everyone is afraid to look inside ourselves to see how awful the wound really is
We can't see our own glass houses caving in
The monstrosities of this world are our own creation
With homicidal tendencies
and a Picasso like disposition
Spraying our own blood upon this ripped apart canvas and calling it art
As a child I was told monsters didn't exist
That, the monsters were in a far away place
They couldn't attack me in my sleep and that there was nothing to fear in this world
I just didn't realize it was all in my head.
As children we are afraid of the monsters under our bed
Asking our parents to look under neath them for us so that they can prove that it's just our imagination,
"There's nothing to be afraid of" they tell me
Running to the parents room in the middle of the night to ask to stay with them because we don't grasp the reason why we are scared to begin with.
I wonder if nightmares are from the monsters trying to be free
Breaking out of their shackles of our parents lies telling us that monsters don't exist,
That there's nothing you have to fear because the monsters can't touch you.
And you as an innocent young child convince yourself that they only tell you facts because you can't comprehend that,
It's all in your head,
The greatest lie that the devil ever told was that he didn't exist,
The second is that there are no monsters,
Lying to ourselves cause we are the monsters
And they lie to us so we put them off as non existent
It was all... in my head.
I'm gonna ask you to look in my eyes,
I wonder,
I wonder if you can see mine
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC
Like ******* a **** and you can't get hard,
Like rolling a blunt that's full of glass shards,
Like a bowling stunt where the pins are yards,
Away and you must stay put loaded with gin and not on guard,
While there's jaywalkers walking cross the alley and snipers far,
Up both sides, moss covered camouflage dilly dallying,
Falling comets, planets and stars while you ***** black tar out your scars, Sick spurting **** out the pit of your face and tripped on a lace falling down along with Mars.
Faster than my **** grows when I'm hitched, race-cars, bullets, and the suicide of a suicidal emo ***** with a mullet, grab the **** and pull it off and roll it up like the glass when you rolled it in the paper faster than a rapers hips going twitch twitch twitch, ***** you know it, she's on the list.
But you're soft and no fist can fit and what the **** is this about, just **** I coughed up and spout out my mouth, if it makes sense, even a little, I am not dense with my rhymes, raps, and riddles, there's meaning to it all, whether its beaming or dull, but I guarantee it's full and fits and flows when I say it to a T, you say my **** blows, well that's just mean, you say it's great, my confidence ovulates, so use it as bait as I eat off this plate, this 5 star rated treat elevated to six star cuisine meat.
I'll continue later in few poems that are greater and like haters, I won't stop planning and plotting out **** like these lyrics, I'm a creator.
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
The snipers rifle hung from the parapet
still warm, cordite drifted from
the business end.
It resembled a cigarette,
dangling in the groove of an
ashtray which was given to you
as a souvenir from a place
you had no desire to go.
And you had no desire to go there
as you had read stories of donkey
cruelty and the militias’ refusal to
accept Greenwich as the
centre of time.
Their struggle against the meridian
has been well documented in film and
prose.
Stories and rumours filtered in
from the hinterland, carried home in
economy flights from different time zones
arriving at the terminal, milling around the
carousel.
****** victim 4 lay in a forensic
scene, white tapped surrounded by
duty free bags, and the secret dossiers
exposing the militias plans drifted, blood
stained in the breeze.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
On the first day of Christmas, the meat man sent to me, a couple caps of some broken knees.
On the second day of Christmas, the meat man sent to me, two hands in gloves, and a couple caps of some broken knees.
On the third day of Christmas, the meat man sent to me, three killed friends, two hands in gloves, and a couple caps of some broken knees.
On the fourth day of Christmas, the meat man sent to me, four hundred herbs, three killed friends, two hands in gloves, and a couple caps of some broken knees.
On the fifth day of Christmas, the meat man sent to me, five ****** things, four hundred herbs, three killed friends, two hands in gloves, and a couple caps of some broken knees.
On the sixth day of Christmas, the meat man sent to me, six obese a-weighing, five ****** things, four hundred herbs, three killed friends, two hands in gloves, and a couple caps of some broken knees.
On the seventh day of Christmas, the meat man sent to me, seven palms a-skinning, six obese a-weighing, five ****** things, four hundred herbs, three killed friends, two hands in gloves, and a couple caps of some broken knees.
On the eighth day of Christmas, the meat man sent to me, eight grenades a-killing, seven palms a-skinning, six obese a-weighing, five ****** things, four hundred herbs, three killed friends, two hands in gloves, and a couple caps of some broken knees.
On the ninth day of Christmas, the meat man sent to me, nine babies relapsing, eight grenades a-killing, seven palms a-skinning, six obese a-weighing, five ****** things, four hundred herbs, three killed friends, two hands in gloves, and a couple caps of some broken knees.
On the tenth day of Christmas, the meat man sent to me, ten lords a-peeping, nine babies relapsing, eight grenades a-killing, seven palms a-skinning, six obese a-weighing, five ****** things, four hundred herbs, three killed friends, two hands in gloves, and a couple caps of some broken knees.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, the meat man sent to me, eleven snipers sniping, ten lords a-peeping, nine babies relapsing, eight grenades a-killing, seven palms a-skinning, six obese a-weighing, five ****** things, four hundred herbs, three killed friends, two hands in gloves, and a couple caps of some broken knees.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, the meat man gave to me, twelve brothers ******* eleven snipers sniping, ten lords a-peeping, nine babies relapsing, eight grenades a-killing, seven palms a-skinning, six obese a-weighing, five ****** things, four hundred herbs, three killed friends, two hands in gloves, and a couple caps of some broken knees.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 5:27 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 bullet was made by an expert
discovered when removed.
At the autopsy of a young guy
one of several just arrived.
Not a gang war it was known
but a ****** working alone.
The public scared out of their wits
the police under pressure.
Three dead this boy the latest victim
attacks in varied locations.
Was it by somebody from the military
an expert with a unique ability.
No clues was not good to hear
the public afraid to be here.
Tall buildings made them easy targets
when would the next strike be.
Though summer the temperature cold
through information they trolled.
As another victim was gunned down
more evidence was found.
Two teenagers saw a man with a case
get into a city works van.
Contacting with what they had seen
a new image came on the screen!
Every law officer was instantly alerted
a face found to fit description.
An ex soldier with traumatic stress
caution the critical word.
Quickly a sighting was received
the entire force relieved.
A gun battle ensued policemen hurt
not killed in the line of duty.
A swat team eventually shot him dead
in a disused ammunition factory.
News soon spread of the snipers demise
the gloom factor began to rise.
You can never argue with a bullet!
The Foureyed Poet.
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 1:20 PM UTC
“Doc, over here.” I heard them cry.
I raced on black volcanic sand,
I know snipers target medics with
a corpsman's pouch in hand.
“It’s Mike Strank, they got him bad.”
Mike was down, writhing in pain.
He was losing blood
and awfully pale.
Shielding his body with my own,
in a depression in the ground
I cut away his Khaki shirt.
Until the entry wound was found.
A ******* wound, an evil sign-
red frothing bubbles from his chest.
A styrette of Morphine- all I had
to ease the pain of every breathe.
Suribachi loomed above us.
Barely had a week gone by
since this man had helped to raise
the Forty eight Stars on high.
Now he was dying, fading fast.
A grave awaited, far from home.
There was nothing I could do
except not let him die alone.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 9:30 PM UTC
*We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been, must ever be.*
William Wordsworth
stunning and stunned,
perhaps even life momentarily,
stunted angry but enraging confusion
this notion, stirs a commotion,
primal sympathy, spawns poem
not a broken totem
not a stolen token
hand writ, inked in pen,
no golems in a modem
to assist
this just pure human spoken
an omen giving,
notice total,
this is one true ether,
or either it is not!
this primal essential assertion
a conditional propositional
that it is natural for man
to be deep sympathetic to his kind,
*for which having been,
must ever be*
in Syria, snipers shoot children for sport,
in Nigeria, young girls to slavery sold,
the list, matter of many facts, well known,
needs not embellishment or addition,
the history books teach the children well
so vaunted primal atmosphere,
in these places,
are you absent, non-existent?
when primal was pre-creation,
spelled first as primeval,
in the era before the appearance of ratiocination
of life on earth
Prime and Evil,
was a combustible fuel of necessity survival
primeval became primordial,
man essayed to improve,
aging onwards himself to enlightenment
yet rooted in this prime number of humankind
is a cellular tissue that springs to life
in those who allow it, residence of the remnants,
original origin of the evil that can subsume
and assume
do not allow it
I can tell you I
will not lay quiet
for the murderers of children,
I have primeval hatred
the rage of primal sympathy denied
unleashed ten times greater
be wary when the best of us rises up
the snipers and the enslavers will die
by their own weapons
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
The lines have been jammed
Very difficult today
Horrific violence from the voices
That are coming out
The brave people going out to protest
Randomly shot in the street
By snipers in buildings
And planes from above
They have no choice now
But to continue
I think the Libyan people
Now have nothing to lose
They are willing to die
To get rid of a repressive brutal regime
And also you should apologise
It's fine to say you made a mistake
But he obviously doesn't believe
They made a mistake
You welcomed him in
You made him respectable
And sold him the weapons
He's using on his people.
You made a mistake
Say that you made a mistake.
- He doesn't believe that he made a mistake.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 4:39 PM UTC
Lip locking over the fishhooks in our cheeks.
I would have bled for you
Even if you never asked me to.
You love feels less like torture
And more like a special type of ****
A type that transcends a fleeting ****** high.
You keep me high.
We are poisoned harpoon heads
Biting into each other’s flesh.
We are swords clashing in battle.
We are refracting magnets,
Opposing armies holding atomic bombs
On our tongues.
My ribcage is Hiroshima.
Your hands are Nagasaki.
When we come together we make Chernobyl.
Your radiation setting my broken bones.
I just can’t get enough of your
Post apocalyptic voice singing funeral songs
Over the snapping of embers.
Your teeth clacking together like wind chimes
Reminds of the steady pop-pop-pop of machine guns.
Your eyes are the barrels of snipers.
We love in red and black,
Black and blue.
We love in cracking knuckles.
Scars like constellations telling lost stories in the sky,
You reminded me of a vampire
With the way you licked the blood from my lips.
You told me I was the sweetest thing
You’ve ever tasted.
A raspberry in a basket of blackberries.
We just can’t shake this red and black haze.
Remember when you tore my vocal cords
Out of my throat with your teeth?
Remember when I screamed horror movie
‘I love you”s into your mouth?
Remember how it echoed until you swallowed it
Along with my bleeding heart?
You left me ****** and broken,
Do you remember?
Do you remember your baseball bat arms
Breaking my ribcage?
Committing the burglary?
Do you remember the lacerations?
The scabs blooming in the shape of chrysanthemums?
Our love is a car crash.
Crazy and messy and deadly and sad.
But we just can’t look away,
Just can’t walk away.
Our love put me in the hospital
And I’m happy to pay the bills
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
My world came crashing to a stop
Thirty four years ago....on 8 December
I can tell you all just where I was
And I'm sure that you'll remember
I mourned the loss of a legend
I sat and cried for he who died
And like people the world over
Our emotions could not hide
Three years before, another
Died, but it didn't mean the same
He was found dead in his bathroom
A brand new image for his fame
I mourned the loss of a legend
One who died, but at what cost
He was a victim of his excess
I didn't feel the sense of loss
Two Men of peace in Sixty Eight
I was not yet seven at the time
Assassins changed the world we knew
It changed direction on a dime
The King of Camelot in waiting
His brothers shoes, this man would fill
But, for a bullett in Los Angeles
Would hit their mark and get the ****
The other man was destined
To die, because he had a dream
But he united those who heard him
It was a surreal as it did seem
Five years before in Dallas
A President brought down too soon
Was it a single snipers rifle
Or another on the knoll there in the gloom ?
For each of us, a moment,
When our world did change it's way
When we asked why did this happen ?
There was nothing left to say
Imagine or Remember
We all have that certain date
Be it November, or December
It was not ordained by fate
Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray
Sirhan Sirhan, Mark David Chapman
Elvis Presley, John F. Kennedy
Martin Luther King Jr, Robert F. Kennedy
John Lennon....ask which ones we should remember.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
Oh, brave new world,
What the **** is this
Phenomenal metamorphosis?
I was cocooned by Kafka in Prague
Drank too much absinthe
Shocked by Tesla in Budapest
Shot by Serbian snipers in the rabbit hole
Saved by Jesus in Rome
Had a hell of a time with heathens on a party bus
Walked the rim of Vesuvius
Met a gypsy princess
Came home to mama's basement
Finished reading The Names by Don Delillo
Went back down to Florida
Where I lived with grandma in Spring Hill
Fell deep for a siren
An angel who saved my life
Had a nasty fever dream
Hell broke loose and I wrecked my car
Flew back to Los Angeles
Went to church and prayed
Stayed and worked for the family business
Explored Hubbard's cult, smoked *** and played
Too many sins to mention
I must confess the motherlode
No human here is much like God
How sad it is to know I'm in control
A butterfly pinned down in hell
You can reflect your face or soul
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Abdul and the pirates
Often used to boast
How they had impunity
Along the Somalian coast
Taking ships whenever
The opportunity appeared
Holding them for ransom
So the ***** could be shared
Then the Maersk Alabama
Came into the sight
Of Abdul and the pirates
Quite to their delight
So they came aboard
Making their demands
But the unarmed Maersk crew
Took it from their hands
Abdul and the pirates
Had no idea at all
That they would be the ones
Eventually who would fall
So they took the captain
Who had volunteered
To become their hostage
As towards home they steered
Hoping they could reach
The Somalian shore
Where they would be successful
In demanding much much more
Abdul and the pirates
Had no idea at all
That they would be the ones
Eventually who would fall
A team of Navy snipers
Were quietly on the case
Looking for a target
When the order was in place
Abdul and the Pirates
Unwillingly complied
And that perhaps explains
Why it is they died
Abdul and the pirates
Had no idea at all
That they would be the ones
Eventually who would fall
So they took the captain
Who had volunteered
To become their hostage
As towards home they steered
Hoping they could reach
The Somalian shore
Where they would be successful
In demanding much much more
Abdul and the pirates
Had no idea at all
That they would be the ones
Evenually who would fall
Abdul and the Pirate
Aren’t around to boast
How they had impunity
Along the Somalian coast
Quite unfortunately for them
They’ve become burnt toast
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
at standard cruising altitude
sipping my digestive
after a quite decent hot lunch
on the flight from Vienna to Athens
I gaze through the scratched
double plexiglass bulleye
shielding me from the outside world
and try to pierce the blinding haze
of a lazy spring afternoon
hiding from me
the people shot by snipers
the shelling of suburbs
the burning houses
the crowded hospitals
of Sarajevo, Gorazde, Mostar, Zadar ...
suspended in diffuse light
all I can see is
the silhouette of an occasional
snow-capped mountain range
there is no sign
of human suffering
May 1992
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
Several moons before
when we were still strangers
under the darkest veil of the velvet curtain
we lay dormant beside each other
whispering words of white wash
under the cover of a deceiving peace
waiting for the next shell shock.
Dizziness would rise
quickly in as the water in the brain
fizzed like soda
bursting into effervescent bubbles
lining oozing cracks
smelling like petroleum.
And then we'd rise
from our self-made graves
sprinting across no-man's land
leaping over the gorge of death
playing with the volcanoes below
and dancing snipers.
Juggling that we'd be able to
sweep through the next jungle
burn its corpses
gorge on its juices
dismembering the world
and in its infanticide the clouds
would wail in their wake
spitting contempt on our rejoicing backs
while we danced our hollow victory
and onto the coming thunders.
Days and days passed and here we are
lying in graves dug for others
watching the star trails as they pass us by
oblivious in all eternity.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
Tyres and fires burning
circles of rubber
Rolled down black tongued roads
Heading to city centre
Where others meet
To greet the mighty ruler
With sword and soldiers dressed
In fibreglass shields, green helmets
truncheons with spikes backed water cannons
snipers on rooftops searching for vipers
to drill bullet holes
The tyres rolled in and rounded in a circle
Cutting off escape routes and
Dividing believers and non-believers
Piled high, pulled tight with pitchfork patience
The leaders orders more tyres.
Anything from cars, buses and bicycles
that could hold up the chains of freedom.
Last desperate attempt - not to escape but die
In the ring of fire -soon lit
Underneath the tyres
Which created bursting black flames and bluegrey smoke
Rising above the rants of leaders and shooters
and crackling. Sparks that dulled the day
And lit the night with sparklers of power.
The paratroopers soon retreated into barracks
and the rioters took hold of the city keys,
And over broken glass and burnt buildings
settled in for the long haul to freedom.
The pawns moved on the chess board
knights moved in the night,
The queen was cornered
and checkmate came when the hollow president
flew the palace with his coterie of
ear chewers and shoe polishers!
The tyres burned slowly
the fires burned down slowly.
Freedom came at dawn on the 21 st day
when the rubber factory churned out again
many new models of tyres with tougher treads.
The circle begins again today.
Author Notes
The Revolution continues. All common day gadgets that could burn and blister the new agenda is rolled down the road into the city centre where the
protesters gather to set fire to ambitious policies, unpopular with the people.
The fires from tyres will rage all night and day.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
Texas 1959, And today Out of Time
Oswald... The CIA Admits As Role Prime
To Play Lee Harvey... Until the Time
He could be used... And hid behind
The Asassination of Castro He Failed
Still Playing Him along... to their Avail
The Victim of the Ruse.....
Never Realised his Use..... in the End
They Plied him with *****
Hookers and Promises.....
Trips to Cuba and Secret Meetings
A Snipers Rifle with Desperate Leanings
Keeping him fed with Lies
The CIA Cast the Die
Feeling Let down by JFK that Day
Over the "Bay of Pigs"
His Truce they regarded For
A weakness that Moscow
Would Subvert Somehow
For the President Folded
Then Came that Fatal Texas Day
In 1963, Lee Harvey at the Depository
Smiling Waving JFK in a.....
White Lincoln Town Car Parade
The Shot Rang out where he sat
Blood splattered on Jackie's Pillbox Hat
Jack Ruby ready was Very Fast
To make sure the Truth Didn't Last
The CIA Made Numerous Omisions
Of Evidence to the Investigation Commision
Keeping it all Hid away, Till the CIA Historian
Opened the file of Lies, from the day.....
The President Died....................................
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
The Proclamation had met with silence,
he must have known the fight was lost,
But, Connolly, faithful to the Cause,
Was accepting of its cost.
They took the Green, The inns of Court,
the Post on Sackville Street
De Valera stood at Bolandʼ s mill
the place where five roads meet.
Their commander, Pearse, a scholar,
Apportioned his menʼ s lives,
To garrison each strong point
Till the British would arrive.
Their tactics were pure suicide-
They could not hope to stand,
But their strategy was brilliant
Meant to rouse a sleeping land.
Sure to die of a snipers bullet-
Or a British firing squad
These unabashed Republicans
Held out against long odds..
Bloodied by the Rebel guns,
The foe paid dear for ground
The general post office was in flames
as their gunboats shelled our town.
The week crawled past and Dublin burned
The post Office glowed White hot
Pearse watched his troop dwindle and fade.
Faint from shell and shock..
They surrendered to be crucified
In Imperial British fashion
And by dying saved their country.
Their deaths brought her resurrection.
The British with their firing squad
Could ready, aim and fire.
The Brotherhood by dying
Could persuade, convince, inspire
Upon the graves of these patriot men
Was the seed of a Nation sown,
their struggle at the post office
Still captured in itsʼ stone.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:20 PM UTC