A REACTIONARY TRACT FOR THE TIMES

(Phi Beta Kappa Poem, Harvard, 1946)

Ares at last has quit the field,
The bloodstains on the bushes yield
To seeping showers,
And in their convalescent state
The fractured towns associate
With summer flowers.

Encamped upon the college plain
Raw veterans already train
As freshman forces;
Instructors with sarcastic tongue
Shepherd the battle-weary young
Through basic courses.

Among bewildering appliances
For mastering the arts and sciences
They stroll or run,
And nerves that steeled themselves to slaughter
Are shot to pieces by the shorter
Poems of Donne.

Professors back from secret missions
Resume their proper eruditions,
Though some regret it;
They liked their dictaphones a lot,
T hey met some big wheels, and do not
Let you forget it.

But Zeus' inscrutable decree
Permits the will-to-disagree
To be pandemic,
Ordains that vaudeville shall preach
And every commencement speech
Be a polemic.

Let Ares doze, that other war
Is instantly declared once more
'Twixt those who follow
Precocious Hermes all the way
And those who without qualms obey
Pompous Apollo.

Brutal like all Olympic games,
Though fought with smiles and Christian names
And less dramatic,
This dialectic strife between
The civil gods is just as mean,
And more fanatic.

What high immortals do in mirth
Is life and death on Middle Earth;
Their a-historic
Antipathy forever gripes
All ages and somatic types,
The sophomoric

Who face the future's darkest hints
With giggles or with prairie squints
As stout as Cortez,
And those who like myself turn pale
As we approach with ragged sail
The fattening forties.

The sons of Hermes love to play
And only do their best when they
Are told they oughtn't;
Apollo's children never shrink
From boring jobs but have to think
Their work important.

Related by antithesis,
A compromise between us is
Impossible;
Respect perhaps but friendship never:
Falstaff the fool confronts forever
The **** Prince Hal.

If he would leave the self alone,
Apollo's welcome to the throne,
Fasces and falcons;
He loves to rule, has always done it;
The earth would soon, did Hermes run it,
Be like the Balkans.

But jealous of our god of dreams,
His common-sense in secret schemes
To rule the heart;
Unable to invent the lyre,
Creates with simulated fire
Official art.

And when he occupies a college,
Truth is replaced by Useful Knowledge;
He pays particular
Attention to Commercial Thought,
Public Relations, Hygiene, Sport,
In his curricula.

Athletic, extrovert and crude,
For him, to work in solitude
Is the offence,
The goal a populous Nirvana:
His shield bears this device: Mens sana
Qui mal y pense.

Today his arms, we must confess,
From Right to Left have met success,
His banners wave
From Yale to Princeton, and the news
From Broadway to the Book Reviews
Is very grave.

His radio Homers all day long
In over-Whitmanated song
That does not scan,
With adjectives laid end to end,
Extol the doughnut and commend
The Common Man.

His, too, each homely lyric thing
On sport or spousal love or spring
Or dogs or dusters,
Invented by some court-house bard
For recitation by the yard
In filibusters.

To him ascend the prize orations
And sets of fugal variations
On some folk-ballad,
While dietitians sacrifice
A glass of prune-juice or a nice
Marsh-mallow salad.

Charged with his compound of sensational
*** plus some undenominational
Religious matter,
Enormous novels by co-eds
Rain down on our defenceless heads
Till our teeth chatter.

In fake Hermetic uniforms
Behind our battle-line, in swarms
That keep alighting,
His existentialists declare
That they are in complete despair,
Yet go on writing.

No matter; He shall be defied;
White Aphrodite is on our side:
What though his threat
To organize us grow more critical?
Zeus willing, we, the unpolitical,
Shall beat him yet.

Lone scholars, sniping from the walls
Of learned periodicals,
Our facts defend,
Our intellectual marines,
Landing in little magazines
Capture a trend.

By night our student Underground
At cocktail parties whisper round
From ear to ear;
Fat figures in the public eye
Collapse next morning, ambushed by
Some witty sneer.

In our morale must lie our strength:
So, that we may behold at length
Routed Apollo's
Battalions melt away like fog,
Keep well the Hermetic Decalogue,
Which runs as follows:--

Thou shalt not do as the dean pleases,
Thou shalt not write thy doctor's thesis
On education,
Thou shalt not worship projects nor
Shalt thou or thine bow down before
Administration.

Thou shalt not answer questionnaires
Or quizzes upon World-Affairs,
Nor with compliance
Take any test. Thou shalt not sit
With statisticians nor commit
A social science.

Thou shalt not be on friendly terms
With guys in advertising firms,
Nor speak with such
As read the Bible for its prose,
Nor, above all, make love to those
Who wash too much.

Thou shalt not live within thy means
Nor on plain water and raw greens.
If thou must choose
Between the chances, choose the odd;
Read The New Yorker, trust in God;
And take short views.

Surviving a War that doesn’t seem to end, bombing and sniping all around. This is the real story in a book called “ The Cellist Of Sarajevo”, where three characters emerge to face this adversity head on.  You have Arrow once a innocent young girl, now trained assassin to **** her targets without making a sound. Then you got Kenan a person who risks his life to fetch water for his family and others in need, no matter if it weighs a ton. Finally you have Dragan the person hard to explain, he just does what he needs to do, he will come to not care about the dangers of the outside, because he will control his own destiny. Each of them has their place in the race to survive this cruel onslaught from the men on the hills weaponry.

This is for all my battle buddies, HOOAH!
Serving in Iraq,
Serving in Afghanistan.
With a grainy, sandy, hot, and humid desert surrounding you.
Looking into miles of nothing.
Always ready, always on patrol, ready to roll.
Ducking your head to re-load in the middle of the firefight.
Taking a stand against the evils of the world.
To my battles with integrity,
We all bleed the same,
Fighting for freedom of the Red, White, and Blue
Live green die green
Scream it with me at the top of your lungs:
HOOAH!
Soldier people;

This for all the clowns that play Video Games
Talking that 1337 (LEET) speak
Owning some newbs for fun
Screaming at the little kids that they ****
I’m taking on the girls 1 versus 1
Passing by the hours staring at the screen
Drinking Mountain Dew, and eating skittles
Sniping people with your M4,
Blowing them up as they walk through the door
Gamer people;

This is for all my Tech-y nerds
Working with computer components
Make sure you stay grounded
We don’t want an electrical eruption
I hated Network Theory,
But I still didn’t get a B.
The “have you tried restarting,” people.
Surfing the Internets, refer to Wikipedia people.
Tech people;

This is for all the Snowboard bums,
We ride hard, but still chill
Jumping in front of the skiers for a mighty thrill
We do it for an Adrenaline rush
Boardin’ through the trees,
And the snow that is white and plush
Snowboard people;

This is for all the Music lovers
That let the beat move their souls
Bumpin’ to the rhythm
Dancing out of control
Let the beat take you away
Fist pump yourself into the night,
Even though I can’t dance, ‘cause I’m White.
Music people.

It was a beautiful rainy day.The rains showered like blessings from the sky to mother earth.The drops drizzled over several stunning creations of God. The ***** frog winked in fright when the tiny drop thumped on its peeping head which it had kept out from its water world curious to know what's happening outside.The lazy ladybird hides itself in the rug of leaves it hopped and played till then.Little dusty leaves quivered with joy as they rejoiced and celebrated the long waited bath.

      Far aloof,the village looked so spanking new than ever after it was wetted by the light rain.so modest,so composed,the radiating sun put itself out of sight making way to the pompous clouds.Besides all these petite feelings,the livid eagle gaped at the sky sniping for it had missed its daily glide over the rusty mountains.

      All these tiny things shaped out the background,while the main subject remains undescribed yet.The big fat buffalo stands aright in tranquility as if nothing new happened.Its skin so tight,shining so bright,created a beautiful sight as the raindrops tapped on it pitter patter.Its horns like engraved artifacts mirrored each other and stood still amazed at their similarity.The momentary muddy puddle covered up its hooves.

      And now comes the most interesting foreground of the picture. It’s the little cute boy!!! Small dark brown eyes...Umpteen hopes filled in them. He wore the most beautiful jewel on his face....it’s his smile gleaming with merriment. While his tiny hands held tight the wicker, his entire little body hid itself behind the huge gunny he wore to shield against the shower. He hopped over the small puddle creating beautiful waves and exquisite splashes.

      And that forms the most beautiful picture about which my dad told me.The little boy is none other than my dad. :) :) .

Random randomness that means nothing at all
Neurons sniping and watching things fall at random locations.
Connecting dots picking forget me nots and making a pile.
:-)

there's that safe place between cold sheets,
the shivers welcome the dreams that harbor this unknown peace..
so close your eyes just this time and we'll let the substance sing us to sleep
pulsing through twisting veins as we're counting killer sheep
savage teeth rip animal instincts across your outstretched arms
and there lies a broken promise, you're no longer safe, raise the alarm;
these claws are killer digits, these fangs are sniping rays, so softly sneaking through curtains of hair;
their lights pierce through shades of skin, turning you
black and blue as you begin to pale
and now i'm singing siren songs, melodies to lure them in
one by one, my massacre begins
and all these morbid metaphors mean just one thing
i speak of that healing that time is supposed to deliver
and as my limbs curl under these sheets, gathering folds of fabric
while my mind's velocity reels under a veil of false awakenings
i'm just waiting for those shivers
for those ******* shivers that rack my spine, turning my lounge into fetal position
leaving my jaws open in silent indignation, letting quiet sounds drain my emotion
i jolt awake, leaving cries on the stagnant air of this summer night
and clack together these sharp rays of light
grinding these ivories down to soft keys again.
the stars hide from me in their shroud of fossil fuels, saturated, decomposed on the heavy air.
when i open my eyes, you are still elsewhere.
and i close them again, just to be sure you're not a ghost, but here they come again, those god ****** shivers.

We post, tweet, google and skype
We re, fwd, edit and code
We have so much access, to so much tripe.
We log in, connect, update, download


Instant information,
endless exploration
constant zombification
Our wireless Nation

Pale electric shadows,
cast on the walls.
Unable to break from
the gripping siren's call

Camping the bodies
pwning the noobs
sniping their medic
just for the luls

Mining down deeply, into the nether
Waiting for spawns that follow the weather
Collecting the pets, weapons, mounts
Getting achievements that cross all accounts

So much to amaze, mesmerize, and entertain
All the things to look up, argue about, explain
A race with access to knowledge galore
and still we demand faster, better, MORE!

We were down in the province of Basra, Iraq
For reasons not precisely clear.
Our objective that day was a Shia run town;
A town named Sari Mi Dyr.
The road to the town was a minefield of sorts
It was *****-trapped with I.E.D.’s.
Still it was the constant sniping that caused
the bulk of our casualties.
The day was as hot as a woman’s scorn
when the last of her tears have dried.
I’ll remember this road to Sari Mi Dyr
On which so many good friends have died.
The day was near spent when command showed some sense;
We heard our choppers draw near.
They aborted the mission and extracted my men
From that hellhole called Sari Mi Dyr.
I’m writing my after action report,
and trying to hold back a tear;
When I think of the good men and women who died
On the road to Sari Mi Dyr.

We fight delicately, sniping, taking and giving verbal punches.
Our skin doesn't bruise, maybe our egos our minds,
but our bodies no.
Our velvet arguing is seamless, flawless.
Anyone listening would hear witty repartee.
A couple playfully bantering, no more.
Polite meritorious armament of words.
Primed to fire a salvo of cruelty.
Cruelty, covered and handled with crushed velvet gloves.
Textured, cultured, arguing.
Polite parrying, pleasant resentment.
A bottle of wine, remnants of a meal, wounds needing to heal.
Less or more cruel than a punch? This seamless linguistic pain.
Bruises fade, pain subsides, mental cruelty resides.

I found my call of duty
inside your warzone
after leaving my pressurized cabin
and dropping in randomly
I started collecting money and items as fast as I could
to match the competition’s capability.

Everyone’s an enemy, everyone is hostile
I fear them and the weapons they’ll use on me
barraging me with dragon’s breath shotgun blasts
to put me down quickly
or silently sniping from far away
so I can’t defend myself.

The only way I can survive is staying in your circle
which keeps moving away from me
so I sprint through the fields and forests
making my way through already looted homes
hoping no one takes advantage of my vulnerability
racing to your circle before I suffocate.

Once I finally get to your circle I realize it’s too small to hide in
because everyone is so close together
I must engage them before they attack me
but they all lay siege to the small shack I’m trapped in
lobbing grenades and firing at me
I can’t even poke my head out.

So I stay inside
donning my gas mask
letting the circle overtake them and pick them off one by one
as I wait inside anxiously worried someone may try to join me
but eventually they’re all gone and I’m the only one left
and in that moment I have achieved victory royale.

my little heavenward glow
my redeemer with bony knees
you were never alarmed when i'd go
or when the summer burned my feet
you sent me a million notes
gauging new york and it's many beams
and you came home to gloat
with black licorice and beating wings
oh! everyone swayed you, Bonnie
with Teflon coated strings
and everyone had you, Bonnie
the sniping smoke was my reprieve
when my ma asks of you, Bonnie
I see our tails lashing against the gleam
of this filthy ******* town.

Every touch is a devotion,
every soft phrase a prayer
to life, to continue living.

A nightingale, a dove
gowned in heavenly blue
a ministering survival chant.

Thank you
and double checks
are abundant.

They minister
consistent kindness
for they live
among the blasted.  

There is no sniping,
no rivalries,
just respect and support.

They are special.
They are there by choice.
They work double shifts  
or come in on short staff days.

The cancer center has regular hours
No Nights.  No weekends.
Burn out it is low.  Effort is high.

Their patients are a pretty grateful lot,
so their compassion comes easily
from the first tuck to the last.  

The nurse knows
some will sleep
and some will awake.

Everyone dies,
but today they
will  be spared,

for tomorrow
is nearly far off
in the rising sun light.

It is a lonely life to live
And I would seldom recommend
To the weak of heart
But for the hopeful
I commend this struggle
Stirring younger men
To live learn and grow

Perhaps leaving family behind
In the pursuit of the mind
Paying dues with isolation and time
Finding your muse rightly used

But facing a nation racing away from
The acquisition of knowledge and wisdom
A society determined to remain blind
In Plato’s Cave slaves still obey shadows
Sniping at those such as yourself
Who struggle to expand and include
All things within and without

Till the wanderer comes home
Alone better not bitter from the journey
Open and ready to share
Hoping the world is ready to care
About such wonderful things

I’m fed up with Prague, Paris and progress

It’s because I feel like a lonely boy.

I could sweep aside the art and crafts for the day,

pick up my manlier toys,

in an hour of need.

~

Years later I may grow up,

guns in hand.

Yesterday’s fissures show up honourably

on TV, and I may one day be called to fix small arms symphonies

in lands where tyrants trail newly won streets with

glistening gold-plated depleted uranium hypocrisy

~

If they should come close to hurting you, which I could never bear

With titles and a message, or anonymously

I’d stockpile shares everywhere

and raise forgotten silos, for you

in our hour of need,

What’s more, dear

this sniping threat …

I have learned we live more than exist

~

For brief respite we’ll hire those brave, gifted folks to close down this travisty

suspend the dream-merchants

so we can perfect our progeny

(permanence, is, after-all something)

in this, a dark hour of need.

Oh my darling if you would understand just what it takes

to cling on to that last noiseless sigh of power,

to be devoted to all

which will revoke all the old failings

which will enable a better way of equipping

someone to watch for us, with both eyes wide,

as the lesser hand counts round, and again

and inevitably strikes
war

© Copyright David Bosworth March 2014

What now, the loss of limbs in a distant conflagration?
The seeping brains amongst poppy fields?
The myriad nature of violent death, outside of journalistic imagination
A grind of experience on which the lost youth builds.
What now? Within the shredding blasts euphoria
The élan of a soldier, in memoria

Downing drinks in the Stag and Hare
After a tour, ordinary actions reek of tedium
There is, in the conviviality, no rush of adrenalin there
Fermenting trouble establishes a happy medium.
Quarrelling with a man who wears a business suit
Is displaced adventure, smashing his face in is a hoot.

What now? A mate, a favoured friend, dies in the dirt
When whistling a tune, recalling the holiday in Spain, the family,
A shot coursing through his unbuttoned shirt
Deflating his lung, another shattering his knee
When he died, his platoon died too,
Metaphorically; the snipers aim was true.

Bottled up in Basra, aimlessly wandering in Helmand
A shrill event on News at Ten between politics and football,
Another death, another iconic face, the catasphropic end
Of a youthful  life.  What now? The swift end to a morning stroll
Amongst watching villagers in dry breathless mountains
Empty streams and florescent fountains.

In the terracotta dirt my soul leaked away
My final return was like a funeral celebration,
I said nothing anymore. I had nothing left to say.
I’d given my youth to a sniping cynical nation.
What now? It was over for me in a grasping world-
A gooey puddle spread beneath me as my soul evacuated.

The pettiness of people is pervasive.
Those who feel better when others fail.
Feeling contempt and envy when others succeed.
Reflecting ugliness behind their backs.
Makes them feel better , superior somehow.
People sniping at those after leaving the room.
Talking ugly of those behind their backs, those who cannot defend.
The world is rife with such little people.
Those who manipulate with words and deeds, hoping
to bruise the gentleness of others kindness. Seeing ulterior
motives where none can
be found. Those who stomp on the
hearts of others if their sin is wearing it on their sleeves.
The gotcha society so reflected in today's headlines and the internet.
The world is crawling with little people looking to push
underwater all those who cannot navigate the shark infested
waters of our world.
Take a look in the mirror... not a giant to be found. We are all little people, not a Saint in the bunch.
Much work we all need do.

Its begins with the rights of the presumed good
And the wrongs of perceived sin
Clashing together over could and should
Words of pain, stabbed in order to win

Shouting and words, as sharp as a knife
Cutting through the memories we have
Sniping and hurting until there’s no life
Scared one day there will be nothing to save

The sun rises, bathing the life of light
Over the fading battle ground
Of the unmoving mouths, nothing more said
Over the slain strewn bodies of those now dead.

Let’s stop it now, before the battle has begun
Let the love prevail while we are young
Hold each other in the fear of the world
Not in the view of fear of the other.

Crying
In The
Shadows
My Heart
Withers
Wilted
In
Shame
Of
My
Loneliness,
Trapped
Beneath
The Shackles
My
Heart
Rattled,
Hoping
To Find
Someone
Who
Finds
My
Pawprint
In
The
Black
Snow,
Who
Follows
Through
My
Mist
Of
Loneliness
Who
Sniffs
Who
Finds
Hope
For
Me
Emotionally
The
Honest
Ones
Who
Get
This
Message
The One
Who
Is
Honest
To
My
Face
~Paris Styron~

To
My Face
During
The
Black
Dark
Days,
Which
Leads
To
My
Tearful
Black
Tears,
Running
Somberly
Down
An Empty
Hole
Saying
"Where
Will I Go"
~Paris Styron~

My Dark
Sorrows
Grasp
My Hopes
And Dreams
Render
Them
Helpless
Tantalizing
My Emotions
With
Sorrows
And Disbelief
Perfuming
Me
With
Despair
That I
Cannot
Describe
But
With
Black
Bleeding
Tears
Running
Down
My
Face
~Paris Styron~

Sniping
One By One
The
Tones
Darkened
The Gray
Clouds,
Drooping
The Bodies
To The
Grave
The Bullets
Flying
To
Their
Victims
Precious
Light,
Farewell
My Friend
Your
Black
Rose
Diminished
In My
Heart
~Paris Styron~
~Farewell~

The Dove's
Heart
Woos
The Somberness
Of
One Soul
Leaving It
In
Ashes
Shriveled
From
Existence
Wooing
The
Woefulness,
Weeping
For
Its Victim
Dripping
Drooping
Filling
The Room
With
Puddles
Of Blood
~Paris Styron~

Her Heart
Rendered
Helpless
Between
Her
Tears
Weeping
For
Forgiveness,,
As Time
Passes
By Her
Eyes
And Her
Tears
Grow
Dimmer
Of
A Color
Known
As
Black
Then
Her Soul
Shattered
Into
A Grave
~Paris Styron~

We were down in the province of Basra, Iraq
For reasons not precisely clear.
Our objective that day was a Shia run town;
A town named Sari Mi Dyr.
The road to the town was a minefield of sorts
It was *****-trapped with I.E.D.’s.
Still it was the constant sniping that caused
the bulk of our casualties.
The day was as hot as a woman’s scorn
when the last of her tears have dried.
I’ll remember this road to Sari Mi Dyr
On which so many good friends have died.
The day was near spent when command showed some sense;
We heard our choppers draw near.
They aborted the mission and extracted my men
From that hellhole called Sari Mi Dyr.
I’m writing my after action report,
and trying to hold back a tear;
When I think of the good men and women who died
On the road to Sari Mi Dyr.

Is a precious commodity,
Hard won and easily lost,
And once lost doubly, triply,
A thousandfold harder to regain,
A fact of which I am reminded
Over and ever over
By those who appoint themselves
To my judging panel,

No matter any right for redemption,
Repentence or change,
Only the justifief raging of the injured,
The gleeful snarling of the lookers on,
It is enough that a man might
Reasonably give pause and thoughts of ending,
Indeed I have had bleakness
Well up enough to drown me,

Pulled and pushed toward the dark,
Towards despair,
Towards oblivion,
Towards an ending offering restitution to the injured
And entertainment to the chattering hangers on
But my spirit is strong enough,
Or maybe I am just
Too ****** obstinate,

I have survived long enough
To see that other force,
The one that can rescue even a wretch like me,
Even the sorest damaged victim
From this dismal purgatory,
From perennial, repeated argument,
Recrimination and pointless sniping,
A veritable undeniable force,
So gentle yet indomitable,
A force to sunder grief and reconnect aching hearts,

Put aside the rage and hurt
Dismiss the hangers on,
(Prurient perverts all,)
And build anew
A better stronger life,
An edifice anchored
Upon rock
And that force

That thing between us,
That revelation that mystery
All along was love,
Love in all its glory,
Corinthian love,
Patient and kind,
Unenvying and humble
Honourable not self seeking,

Above all
Slow to anger and swift to forget
A slight or insult,
That love I found still feebly burning
In my heart for thee,
And peering through the battle smoke,
Sifting through the wreckage
Of us,

I found that same dim flame in you,
Flame I now gently blow upon,
Nurture and feed,
Watch grow back towards a greatness
Sufficient to burn old wounds,
Incinerate infection and leave behind
Hearts touched by a refiners fire,
Silver-proofed against doubt despair.and trepidation.

OUR hearts
OUR love,
OUR future.
And
I
Am
******
Glad