"spartan" poems
Spartan shield wall, impenetrable & fortified
Persian soldiers, dying by the thousand
Spears pointed outward, catching flesh & blood
Persian soldiers, dying by the thousand
Sun blotted out by Persian arrows
Persian archers, killing them all
Spartan soldiers, fight to the last
Persian archers, killing them all
Spartans all fallen, not one left alive
Persian soldiers turn back home
Spartans left immortalized, final stand
Persian soldiers turn back home
Spartans, three hundred strong
Spartans, still standing tall
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
444
It feels a shame to be Alive—
When Men so brave—are dead—
One envies the Distinguished Dust—
Permitted—such a Head—
The Stone—that tells defending Whom
This Spartan put away
What little of Him we—possessed
In Pawn for Liberty—
The price is great—Sublimely paid—
Do we deserve—a Thing—
That lives—like Dollars—must be piled
Before we may obtain?
Are we that wait—sufficient worth—
That such Enormous Pearl
As life—dissolved be—for Us—
In Battle’s—horrid Bowl?
It may be—a Renown to live—
I think the Man who die—
Those unsustained—Saviors—
Present Divinity—
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Another Thermopylae to defend.
Our love's a battle we can't win.
And so I'll die a Spartan's death,
You'll leave me with out any breath.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
There once was a time
Gone by, gone by,
Picking blackberries till the vine was plucked dry.
Pricked finger and the blood of kings
washed the riverbed clean again
paving path for new bled love.
Story of my life: Hot Hand-Grenade.
Tripwire tickled by trespassing travelers
Red wire arteries
clipped and clipped and clipped
and simple minded times when birds sang songs to other birds
and chirped lyrical lines in the dusk.
More wonder. More trust. Less wanderlust.
Dust in the air. Still in the sunlight.
Through glass.
Broke. Fall. Cut. All roads lead to home.
Wood, River, Stone. A guide, a path, alone.
We all walk on our own
Striving for independence
Together.
Now is a time of faded glory, daffodils in freshly-mowed fields.
I still catch myself wishing I had the words to share
The bigness of what's out there.
I still hear myself singing your song of longing.
Still find myself longing for days of childish peace and ignorance
when we could pick blackberries from the bush without bombs falling in our basket.
Still a long way to go to hear the sound of surrender and the silent unfurling of egos into how alone we feel.
Still my heart, that lost love long ago, and surrendered a savior forever.
Hart, of dreams, slip into the stream.
Interstitch the seams.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:55 AM UTC
He's broken, he's in pieces, he's trapped, in a black hole
He's crying, he's heartbroken, he's dying of loneliness
He's confused, his mind is overloaded, his todger is dropping off
He's this and that and that and this
projecting your ******* fears and insecurities on him
Hahaha...hahaha...hahaha...hahaha...hahaha
You know what....He's NOT....he's laughing at you
He's happy that you now realize there are still men out there
who transcend your ******* stereotyping and imbecilic assumptions .
He's still laughing because he now sees for ******* real
how immature and mentally underdeveloped a lot of you are
and how so petty, mediocre and easy to manipulate you are
Not to mention how weak, spineless and unable to handle pressure
so many of you are.
He laughing because you just act without fully thinking
You are a shallow lot, cowardly, infantile and narrow minded
You lack sound reasoning capacity and a lot of you are neurotic
He's laughing because most believe anything they are told
Unquestioning drones like a Labrador thrown a stick
Go fetch, off he runs, retrieve stick, pat on the head, good boy
Just simple minded followers.
He laughing because he's attained all he wanted
Got a good education, good self understanding, good morality
sensitivity, compassion, empathy, confidence and honesty
A well drilled man, adaptable, flexible, courageous and brave
A MODERN DAY SPARTAN.
He's laughing because you can't ******* take that away
He's laughing because he's shown you how a proper man is
He's laughing because he's invalidated your stereotypical
assumptions, your prejudices, your bigotry and your ignorance
He's laughing because you have confirmed your inferiority
exposed your fears and inadequacies and make others see how
damaged and vindictive you are
He's laughing because out of all only one woman has shown
magnanimity and she didn't belong to the class of the mediocres
Which proves the point that mediocrity goes hand in hand
with ignorance, fear and lack of Dignity and Integrity.
And he's laughing because he's got chutzpah
a big package
and a hell of "tener cojones"
hahaha...hahaha...hahaha...hahaha
[email protected] Sept 2018,Allrightsreserved.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC
This is not poetry
This simply spoken on earthen tombs
Or was it tomes
Or was that tunes
If it was then it wasn't
Because the past is the future and the present is but a thinned out pancake of a reality
Double bongo tulip termination
Implied with the finger-ly pleasure
Upon my love's blackened buttons
Drunkenness sensibility declining reeling sealing the post-operative convolution of Tarzan's missing breath
Target, TARGET, (target)
Reckless love leapin' side' a train-station tumor
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
"Alexander son of Philip, and the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians--"
We can very well imagine
that they were utterly indifferent in Sparta
to this inscription. "Except the Lacedaemonians",
but naturally. The Spartans were not
to be led and ordered about
as precious servants. Besides
a panhellenic campaign without
a Spartan king as a leader
would not have appeared very important.
O, of course "except the Lacedaemonians."
This too is a stand. Understandable.
Thus, except the Lacedaemonians at Granicus;
and then at Issus; and in the final
battle, where the formidable army was swept away
that the Persians had massed at Arbela:
which had set out from Arbela for victory, and was swept away.
And out of the remarkable panhellenic campaign,
victorious, brilliant,
celebrated, glorious
as no other had ever been glorified,
the incomparable: we emerged;
a great new Greek world.
We; the Alexandrians, the Antiocheans,
the Seleucians, and the numerous
rest of the Greeks of Egypt and Syria,
and of Media, and Persia, and the many others.
With our extensive territories,
with the varied action of thoughtful adaptations.
And the Common Greek Language
we carried to the heart of Bactria, to the Indians.
As if we were to talk of Lacedaemonians now!
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A string of words that flow like the rivers,
Showing enough thought to provide the shivers.
Reflections of the poet within,
The type thrown out in the garbage bin
Or the type framed and hung on the wall.
There's a poet within us all.
Not all are eager to show their inner poet,
But would rather let it set sail
As rivers stream from their eyes
Due to the symbolic lie
They believe, making them pale
As, with their sorrow, they wallow it.
Patronizing executives and farmers
Believe their exterior would be shattered
If their inner poet let slip.
Once somebody gives them lip,
They harden as if it mattered
And equip their shields and armors.
The Spartan with the inner-Athenian
Would be killed by his friends
If they knew who he was on the inside.
This fills him with fear.
He keeps his ears open to hear
If anyone is coming as he hides
So his poetry will have its end
Before this war with the Peloponnesians.
Such beauty gone to waste
All because this facade of masculinity
Everyone puts on to protect themselves
From the beasts in this society
That would love to shatter those dreams.
Artists should gather in teams,
Ready to fight this anarchy
That would place our poetry on the shelves,
Collecting dust with haste.
Collecting dust with haste.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 6:19 PM UTC
In the year 480 B.C., King Leonidas of Sparta lead 300 Spartan soldiers to the mountain pass of Thermopylae. They came face to face with over 200,000 Persians under King Xerxes of the great Persian Empire,
whose archers so multiple, their arrows blocked out the sun.
Bravely the Spartans fought, with no thought of surrender.
After three days of brutal fighting, tens of thousands of Persians lay dead,
yet the Spartans still remain. Then a local resident becomes a traitor, revealing to the Persians a mountain path that lead behind Greek lines. Surrounded, Leonidas sends Greek soldiers back to Sparta to tell of a great victory, that he knew would never be. Valiantly the Spartans stand by their king, and fight to the death. So today, even though the Greeks lost the battle, it is better known for the bravery of a Spartan king and his 300 soldiers.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
I fought
I fought
I fought my friends.
I fought with all my might.
I fought until the air in my lungs dispersed into the night.
I hacked I slashed and crumpled my foes
And one by one they fell.
With victory near, and victory close
Tonight I dine in hell.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC
Cupped hands
an inconsistent vessel
for every drip drip
The precious is forever lost
Spartan moments mirror a watery fate
Traversed, cascade they hurtle
some lashed to a Giant’s thigh
an endless waves breaker
And beneath,
feet mourn little for trampled free fallers
Tiles arranged in patterned logic
frame the arranged sequence for
another graveyard at 0 8 0 1
Splash is the cry of acceptance by absorption
whilst others are the
missed opportunities to reach a higher station.
The tap runs unchecked.
Soon they will be long forgotten
in the chaos of morning traffic
This period is late.
As am I.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
Mysterious death! who in a single hour
Life's gold can so refine
And by thy art divine
Change mortal weakness to immortal power!
Bending beneath the weight of eighty years
Spent with the noble strife
of a victorious life
We watched her fading heavenward, through our tears.
But ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung
A miracle was wrought;
And swift as happy thought
She lived again -- brave, beautiful, and young.
Age, pain, and sorrow dropped the veils they wore
And showed the tender eyes
Of angels in disguise,
Whose discipline so patiently she bore.
The past years brought their harvest rich and fair;
While memory and love,
Together, fondly wove
A golden garland for the silver hair.
How could we mourn like those who are bereft,
When every pang of grief
found balm for its relief
In counting up the treasures she had left?--
Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time;
Hope that defied despair;
Patience that conquered care;
And loyalty, whose courage was sublime;
The great deep heart that was a home for all--
Just, eloquent, and strong
In protest against wrong;
Wide charity, that knew no sin, no fall;
The spartan spirit that made life so grand,
Mating poor daily needs
With high, heroic deeds,
That wrested happiness from Fate's hard hand.
We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead,
Full of the grateful peace
That follows her release;
For nothing but the weary dust lies dead.
Oh, noble woman! never more a queen
Than in the laying down
Of sceptre and of crown
To win a greater kingdom, yet unseen;
Teaching us how to seek the highest goal,
To earn the true success --
To live, to love, to bless --
And make death proud to take a royal soul.
4.2k
Know this—I am well acquainted with the wolf,
Well versed in his ways, his demeanor,
His dispassionate relentlessness,
His pitiless focus on hunt and hunted,
His workaday disdain of pity.
There are those who would laud the mythical Spartan lad
Who hid the wolf beneath his cloak,
Affecting some gallant stoicism
As the beast consumed him without restraint,
But I say to you that is a mere romantic fallacy,
A wanton failure to apprehend the true moral.
I have learned that there is no accommodation,
No covenant to be reached with the wolf,
And any attempt to do so is merely to invite destruction,
And so I choose to engage him openly, without reservation,
Rolling tail-over-teacup in the streets,
Attempting to hold his jaws open with bare hands
While those who find such battle unseemly and uncouth
Jeer and hoot from porch and portico.
No matter, for I will continue to meet the cur on my terms,
For staid suffering in the hopes
Of reaching some accord with the beast
Is the not the act of the noble sage:
It is the mock heroics of the coward,
The sad acquiescence of the simpering fool.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
spartan kick the fat *****
with their freshman album
hallucinogenic state of paranoia
a ******** screamo band
I will be the lead vocalist
I will take a hit of acid before each show and scream poetry while guitarist etc. play brutal ******* downtuned music behind it.
throw rager ******* shows
be like a cult band
get ******* famous
live ******* life
do drugs and be successful
stay classy kids
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:18 AM UTC
Of what to Think, and Thought be Thought-of-Thoughts
Equalling those Clouds no-one tried to reach
And with just a Model-of-the-Board besought
Belated Nations took you to beseech
Parsley that in Sick Reference apply
To One dug-out from Humble Electric
Honour is his beyond the Scythe comply
And carry his Image on so frantic
That is my Code acquired late at War
Knowing the Outcome of this Useless Battle
As that Spartan King drew his Sword at fore
Charged his Army; And the Persian, wrangle.
It's News to me, if I can Speak the Truth
If only I Avoid what seems Un-Couth.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
There are archers in rooftops 270 meters to my east
They account for the wind
They feel the humidity as the air condensates on the back of their neck
Crawling down their spine
They inhale
Let out their carbon in a slow steady sigh
Their target is at the door to my dorm room
My door creeks open
The archers let the cord to their payment slide down the mountainous ridges on the end of their fingers
One archers whispers "for freedom"
The arrow soars to the window that lets light pour onto my covers
Glass shatters
The thud of a body falls to the floor
I sit up
A thousand grasshoppers replace my bones
The hairs on my arms are attentive
The lights illuminate my illusions
I stare at my own body on the floor
I fall to my knees
Meeting my eyes to the dead stare so familiar in mirrors
Finally
This monster is dead
A ****** arrow stands from his forehead
From his toes to his hair, he falls to ashes
The broken window letting in a breeze that vaccums the ashes from the room
All that's left
An arrow stuck to my floor
The arrow penetrates a photograph
I lift the picture to take a closer look
A hole covers the eyes
What gives it away is the smile
The complection
Finally
This monster is dead
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
I'm really sick.
Like ***** is going to come out of my mouth--
an eruption of **** from my ears is due.
I've laid too long dormant
and one by one the hot spots of my petty jealousy,
indignation, and
mistrust are at boiling points:
The Ring of Fire, they call it.
Yellowstone
I'm the ********* Yellowstone caldera.
The great rim,
****** up and blister scarred,
knock-kneed from falling out of bed in nightmares,
weird from the predisposition to volcanic shittiness
(not in a romantic way)
but none the less active,
or reactive.
This vexation is as old as grinding plates.
This repulsion is as old as the poisoning of Aristotle
My head is the Spartan scythe
because I'm a new sign in an old world.
I use old signs to poison this newly dug well between us
But not well can I keep this message
banner
******* billboard to myself.
So let me just wrap the code from ear to ear,
in plain text where you can see
the cypher: **** your red dress.
You see,
those blisters are the gravity between White Dwarves
pulling at skin, and earth, and ending thrown halfway across the universe.
I knew I'd seen you before,
there at the edge of the Oort Cloud
where we tell people we just met:
I stopped eating
I was hurt once
I was ugly too
and no one was really listening.
You and the rest of our red dresses meant too little.
But still then why do you whine over the hungry, and hurt, and ugly
and spit in my face for being there at the Edge,
and for loving the thrill in listlessness,
the passion in mundanity?
And that ******** about the shallowness of victims?
You didn’t learn a thing
traveling and trusting and falling out of beds.
Your drunken honesty is your sober lack of layers.
This isn’t a far reach of space,
your torn dress and cork heels won't work here.
Don’t bring that littleness here,
you're the only one not really listening now.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
Partial laundry
lazy thought
the whites and the colors
it begins with the spots
and we sort it all out
combing crumbs from our hair
and as we slide into our own
we start to feel the pinch of our stares
Never-weather will always be
and evidently you're still
unhappy.
Something close inside of me
begs the question of eternity
but something closer still to see
shines too bright for such a speech.
No one wants your God and bread
No one needs your hand in hand.
The sorted and clean will find a way out;
a scapegoat and a martyr,
an election that doesn't count.
A breathless wonder standing taller than time
and in a few short seconds
&
a rev of the engine
Such a sight is simply lost
with no way to rewind.
It begins with the spots
and we sort it all out.
We fix things, we say
but we really tear them all down.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
A Challenger, Challenging everything,
because everything was a challenge.
A goal was set, I continue to try to reach, do what I must to get there,
to over look one small thing.
And blow it all up.
The plans, they’re building, higher and higher,
higher they climb.
The higher they climb the harder they fall.
Fall, fall, falling they came down.
Nothing left.
Spartan was I, an old Spartan I am,
My shield is still on,
but my head is painted upon it.
For I hold, I hold my ground until the very end.
The very end I shall hold with my dying breath,
I shall not waver, in strength, courage, spirit, truth, loyalty…
What is loyalty? This question is asked when one can no longer trust his fellow
man.
I was a Spartan, my head upon my shield, and my shield up, as the rain of arrows and the trumpets of death may sound, I will not yield.
A Bulldog, an ugly creature, short, stocky,
yet ferocious in their fights, they show no emotion,
and their loyalty, unquestioning.
Their bite speaks louder than their bark.
Now I’m here, I hear,
Throw me a bone,
put me in the ring,
put up the lights,
watch me fight.
You see,
for
I am.
A Challenger, reaching for the stars
A Spartan, who held his ground.
A Bulldog, waiting for his next order.
These Are
the Mascots of my life.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
from a point of ignorance, or perhaps from
a point of common sense...
listening to
jan lamprecht talking
about apartheid in south africa, and how,
apparently, the idea was to create
a poly-state solution, or what would
have been a federation, akin to u.s.a.,
now, i already said, from the point of
ignorance, or perhaps from a common sense...
let's not read too much at this point
for the sake of argument...
if that was really going to happen?
that there were white states, and there were
black states,
but somehow, they managed to work
together...
i'm looking at the map of south africa
right now...
now...
in europe, you have countries
that are land-locked, and we just call them that...
but i'm looking at the map...
and the apartheid beginnings, which
would rather seem obvious to the eye...
wouldn't apartheid have been stalled
once lesotho & suazi emerged?
surely these areas weren't the spartan 300
akin and never being colonised...
it's a "poem", it's not a history book,
i don't feel like i need to be right
or wrong, or need to constantly rely
on precision of facts to write, constantly making
references...
i'm working from: word of mouth,
from someone who was there...
but i can't really imagine either lesotho
or suazi being so ****** resistent to british
rule...
to me, they were the beginning results
of the apartheid project to create
the s.a.f. the south african federation,
federation meaning: there's already a whole,
now we need to cut it up, but retain the original
whole...
united states?
how would you establish
that, if not through a civil war?
it's still a federation,
the f.s.a. ha ha, imagine the chants...
f.s.a.! f.s.a.! no ring to it without
there's a federal bank, right?
federal this that and, of course,
x-files & federal bureau of investivgation.
like i already said, i'm not going to look
into the origins of lesotho & suazi,
as other than from the project apartheid...
and i'll only cite one realiable source:
jan lamprecht...
it's the tongue on the ground (boots too),
and if he doesn't know what he's talking,
how can some historian, in a stuffy library in
england tell me what is and what isn't true?
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
She said:
I am neither witty nor a beauty,
nor illustrious nor an actress
so if u take me u must be either
a ****** or reckless.
He said:
Well, you see i have met countless sleeping beauties
all of which utterly enchanting and bighearted
but not one such a dauntless daredevil
that she leaves a spartan fainthearted.
Never described as prejudiced or foolhardy
she would faster swim the English channel naked
,and she will do so sublimely,
than see a crime or sin go unstated.
If all you have to offer,
is what you are now
then let me tell you that is no bother,
and only say Wow.
Cause you are totally original
nothing short of awe-inspiring,
absolutely phenomenal
and so worthy of this ring.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 7:03 AM UTC
It’s more than friendship for us. We’re closer than that. we never needed the same blood to call each other brothers. We bleed similar ideas and thoughts, like telepathy is our only way to communicate. We’re linked in ways most will never know, See, we’re cut from a different cloth. In our ragged robes we feel like kings because we know we have the greatest jester at our sides. Mind that this is a love poem, love for my friend, my brother, my phone call at 1 am, chatting about everything and anything. I never walked down streets with such confidence before. his are my guard rail, stopping me from slippery streets and inattentive eyes. I don’t think we can count the times we’ve defined our code. It’s not a code of arms, we don’t need to arm ourselves with each other at our sides. I’ve gone from the boy I was to a man I want to be, thanks to him. I don’t think he’ll ever understand how much he’s done for me. It’s been such roller coaster ride, dating best friends and losing loves, we stuck by each other, Spartan warriors would be proud. He’s like a spider web. Hidden in small spaces of serenity. He catches anything that we need to survive and destroys anything that could harm me. serendipitously our friendship evolved like Pikachu and Squirtile. We have that Pokemon type of bond, I’ll choose you, every time. No one will understand when I say, Saving him from SunKist liquids is our defining “broment.” See, in that moment having a bottle rise to his lips, I knew that he needed me to tell him the dangers that lie ahead, as he’s have done for me countless time. Now, It could have been the time you told me you hated me in middle school, or the time you tried to save me from a fire breathing dragon. He became the one person I can count on, in a world where a clock ticks too quickly. It’s you and me against the world, They don’t know what they got themselves into. We are soldiers, brothers at battle, we start wars with words because our poetic voices are needed in the struggles of a lost generation. But, we don’t need to take up arms, we pick pens and write the words that no one has the heart to say. Our words prove that we never needed the same blood to call each other brothers. Because it’s more than friendship for us. We’re closer than that.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC
The wind directs the snow
Horizontally down Spartan Ave.,
But for a moment,
A snow-funnel pirouettes
Like a music-box dancer.
I hum some Tchaikovsky
As it exits.
Act II follows,
I sweep the stage
For the soldiers marching across frozen fields.
The music stops.
I shut the door.
Enough Tchaikovsky for this winter.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
Smooth.
So smooth
it goes unnoticed;
like the winds
plotting a course for the clouds,
or the water,
passing the plains of Africa,
The cradle of the Earth.
Fabricated truths,
Spread to a nation.
Hidden in silk,
Fury of a Spartan.
An unseen communique
not meant to be found,
But to break down,
Control young minds,
Trap them in the confines,
of the stereotypical nature of man.
Honey glazed lies
with the government
in your slavery-earned pies.
Misunderstood is the size
of the web that has been spun.
A labyrinth of life
with no end in sight --
The only end comes from,
when you see the bright light.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC