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veritas Jul 2018
gods and goddesses stilled mid-flight,
immortalized in a glory fast fading.
distilled sunlight filtering through, unheeded,
as a devastating dawn for redemption awakens.

     dust scattering over marble hands, forever supple,
as angels fall from grace,
wings clipped and torn asunder.

the sigh of a thousand lost souls, searching;
the thunder of a thousand chariots, unbridled.

     a wing outstretched, a bow pulled taught;
drawn, not fired.

frozen heroes lifting voices unheard;
     the calm before a storm, a fight unforeseen,
silver linings beckoning victories
of heaven's epics left unsung.

look up into the clouds and you'll see a history unwritten,
for they speak to you in murals
of smeared colors and pure light.

but hush! sweet child,
off you drift into an insincere sleep,
until these stories buried beneath your lips,
     singed, searing, burning away memories of the battles that
   linger ,over your tongue  ,
are no more than a shadow of a flame.

   and as his lashes flutter closed over blue eyes
   and his heavy golden curls fall on white sheets
   she whispers,
        the renaissance was not painted for you.
look up. and then higher than that.
Yuz Jun 20
They say lose 'the battle' so that you may win 'the war',
but please; can I lose 'the battle' AND lose 'the war' as well?
Because Only after losing 'the war' will I be able to lose 'the fight'  and only after losing ' the fight' will I be able to overcome 'the fight in me'.

Because it's only after I have conquered 'The fight in me' that 'the fight' dies, there is no need for it !
When 'the fight' dies then 'the war' dies there will be no need for it'
and when 'the war' dies, 'the battle' must die. There will be no need for it.
When man knows that he wrestles not against flesh and Blood but against principalities and mental strongholds that feast in the highest places of man's mind and reality.
laura Jul 2018
river in the joyful times
river in the elegiac
you give and take away
in your eloquent tongue

wagon, sunlight, lawn chair
subtle victories that make me smile
breathe and melt inside arms
that hold tight to the lapidary

memories that stud themselves
in my brain and the photos
not being old enough to go to the festival
interrupted, the soft fall into the river
Cora Mar 18
you should appreciate your little victories
i do

for example today,
i conquered my telephone-phobia

if only you could see
my hands
valiantly reaching
to
call
off
that
dentist
appointment
coping with my dumb decisions through irony
Ira Sep 2018
Writing a story on a topic,
Hazing away at the microsoapics,
I write stories that aren’t meant to be fun,
Just the basic humdrum.

Reality is my Inspiration,
No matter the mood I’m in.

Dragons and Wizards are to be left on the bookshelves,
As I run to work,
And meet my colleagues for a day of writing reality.

We walk the world in actuality,
And see people with all different vitality.
People of all different ideas of reality.

They speak,
I listen,
I ask,
And they answer,
And we both learn about reality together.

I then write what I heard,
Tell what I saw,
And let the ideas fly like birds.

I've seen all people of life,
I've heard many of there trifes.

I laughed at their victories,
I cry at their lost,
And I hear all their vivid histories.

I write all types of reality,
From the memories of all different types of vitalities.

And as I write about how reality unfurls,
I write about the greatest dreams of this world
I'm in Journalism so I wrote a poem, about it.
Rachel Rode Jan 2018
I am afraid of you
But not really of you
More of what you do to me
You make me feel more intensely than I have felt
For the large part of a long while
And it is a foreign feeling
But one that I welcome with open arms
I am sure that you know that men have not been gentle with me
My eyes alone could tell you the story even better than my tongue could
I have spent too long with hands clasped around my throat
Your hand gently on my waist is a welcome respite
You treat me as though I am made of glass
To be fair, there are days where I feel
Like cotton candy caught in a rainstorm
Fragile and fading
But I want you to know that lately I have been feeling okay
I feel your worried eyes when I shake in the cold or when I push away a full plate
But I am trying and most of the time the victories are mine
And oh how wonderful it is to come to two roads in a yellow wood
And not care which one I pick
Because I know that no matter what
You’re the one walking beside me
Paras Bajaj Jan 30
Fall in love with the souls,
not just pretty faces.
Fall in love with the whole,
not just good phases.

Fall in love with the scars,
not just what you can see.
Fall in love with the battles,
not just greatest victories.

-Paras Bajaj #PoetrybyParas
Instagram : @mr.parasbajaj
J Lynne Sep 2018
I am one soul, one body, one mind.
I am consciousness and intuition, knowledge and emotion.

I am sun and moon, light and dark. God and Goddess in one space.
I am Earth. Air. Water. Fire.
I am the Queen of Hearts. King of Clubs. Sage of Diamonds. Ace of Spades.

I am my ancestors. I am my mistakes...and my victories.
I am an artist, a hunter of the truth. I am what I create.

I am Dawn. And I am Dusk. Noon and Twilight.
I am life. And death. And decay. And rebirth.
Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer.

I am forever changing.
For I Am.
On the second day of class, my ethics teacher posed a question. He wonders out loud "Who are you? Change the question and ask your self 'who am I, what am I?" Seemingly a straightforward question.

Logically, each of us should know who we are. We spend a few quiet moments writing about this question, till he stops us.

He askes one boy what he wrote. It was the predictable and reasonable answers: his name, where he's from, his age, grade, favorite baseball team. Not a wrong answer by any means.

The teacher stops us again. He askes what makes us who we are. No one answers, no one was expected to.

He brings up how, scientifically, each cell of our bodies is gradually replaced over the course of seven years. Meaning every seven years you are a new person. Yet, still the same person. How is this possible? If this is true, then what are we really, what makes us who we are, what decides this for us?

He then tells us what we are not.

We are not our names, our ages, where we live, what are hobbies are, what we have. "But," he questions "you all 'have' bodies. If we are not our bodies what are we? Are we are our souls? Do you have a soul, are you your soul? Where is this soul? Where does it dwell? Your body. And what of your mind. If you can lose it, then you have it. If you have it, then you are not it. So, if you are not your body, or your soul, or your mind, then what are you?"

As it turns out, the question is far more interesting than it seemed when first presented to us.

However, I disagree with the teacher on some points. You are your mind, body, and soul, but you are so so much more.

This is what I am...
Secret-Author May 2016
Do you ever feel confused?

I see a million different
            r      r      r      r      r      r      r­      r      r      r      r
            o     o      o     o     o      o     o     o      o     o      o
            a     a      a      a     a      a      a     a      a     a      a
            d    d      d     d     d      d     d     d      d     d     d
            s     s       s      s      s      s      s      s      s      s      s        ­in front of me.

Yet I hesitate to move.

All are entirely d i f f e r e n t,
                                                       yet distinctly the same.

I can make out face
                                     f a c e
                                                 f a c e s
                                                             ­           in the distance.

But they merge together
                                            into every possibility.


They are:
warm.     cold.      livid.       smiling.      
                                                  ­           mine.     yours.   ours.

All  S M I L E at me.
Some show their teeth.

They are:
there.      here.    nowhere.       everywhere.        
                                           ­                                   past.    present.      future.

All  H I S S  at me.
Some have no tongues.

They are?
living.     dead.    or somewhere in-between.

Where your prejudice is my pain -

                          The grey reflected so brightly
                                        from your black and w h i t e  eyes.


In a space where your victories make me warm,

                           Or when your pain is bursting
                                         through my own heart,


Only then will we truly understand what road we should take.

For we are all one.
                    
                          We are all the light

                                                   all the dark

                                                           ­     and every road.
Mark Edwards Jr Apr 2013
Do as I say, not as I do
Lest you become a failure too

Despite many victories, days in the sun
The cost of it all? Millions to one

For every American alive today
The blood of another paved the way

****** the Native, enslave the Black
This is how free men freely act?

Power to the rich, naught to the poor
Remind me again what we left Britain for

We are America, filled with greed
Squeezing the world, we'll make it bleed

Ironic are we, despite the Red Scare
We let the Chinese produce our wares

The Romans did fall and so can we too
Here's hoping my words strike fear into you

We cannot repent for sins of our past
Make a bright future is all that I ask

America the Beautiful, I scoff at thee
Make me a believer, prove unto me

Until that day, a skeptic I'll be
Saying a prayer for you and for me

A future unwritten, lets make it shine
Aspire for greatness, or intervention divine

10/13/2011

Edit:  03/10/2012

Edit: 10/30/2017
marla Oct 2018
Thunder strikes
A dying heart,
Drowned in sorrow
And pacified since
Yesteryear.
Upon it's pentultimate breath,
The sweet music chimed
And saved the heart
From a bitter death
Filled with hollow victories
That shan't last till tomorrow.
Ah yes, the Queen with her
Rock of Brighton hath come
To make me smile.
After a little while
I conceded,
'Tis this joyous muse
That makes this product of abuse  
Yet again a child.
Rock n roll is for the children
We were teammates
We suited up
We showed up

We weren't stars
But we rolled in the dirt
With the best of them

Our blood ran red
Like the rest of them

Our sweat tasted salty
As the most athletic of them

Wounds and bruises
Ached like the most
Stalwart of them

We were Bulldogs!
We anted up our
Gifts and talents to
Forge a winning season

A flair for humor
Wry observation,
Encouragement, fortitude
And intelligence were as
Valuable as speed,
Agility and strength

We all pined for the
Affection of cheerleaders,
Bandmembers and the
Adoration of fans

We equally joined
In the chorus of
locker room banter
And honored the
Confidence of camaraderie
Such intimacy bares

We endured thankless
Adversity, while wending
through anonymous toil

As brothers
We grudgingly drank
From the vile cup of defeat

And passed the chalice
Of victory among us
To share the savory
Taste of triumph
As champions

The Duke of Wellington
Said “the battle of Waterloo
Was won on the fields of Eton”

I trust my teammates and
Not forgotten friends
Tasted sweet victories of
Happiness and success
As they coursed through
Their prodigious fields of life

And at games end
I hope their heart swelled
With pride to know they were
A beloved and Valiant Bulldog

David Irving Korsh #75
BCSL Champion 1973
Rutherford Bulldogs

Well done Valiant Bulldog

God bless and Godspeed

Music Selection:
Bruce Springsteen
Thunder Road

5/5/18
Puyallup
jbm
the passing of a former teammate
Tori Dec 2018
'Neath a cover of black faux leather
bursting with half-written verses
Lie coffee stains, old bird feathers
and lines of illegible cursive
the bitterness of heartbreak
on lines by brine besmeared
of victories and of mistakes
and thresholds I have cleared
This is my skeleton key
a glance into thoughts long passed,
for my broken memory
I hold a looking glass.
Every day you fight to get out of a world you never made
Maybe there are no great victories so you celebrate the
Little ones.  Soon enough you realize This is your life; it is
A process and you are in it; and so you say with a laugh
You call this living well maybe the worst is over. This may
Be less than  repentance; this resignation but there is a charity
In having lost what you would not lose there is still a way
So what your dead you say there is still a way forward
Fever felled you rise again and again  in the in between-
Still in the process making a gesture on the Grecian urn
The lover ever chasing the green child that is and is not.
There is peace in doing what you do; anticipation in the
Constant;  in the moment before you will hold your love.
Is there a greater Joy than this then I do not know it...
aleet Mar 2018
Count blessings,
or count sheep.
I count victories--
the number of times I made you laugh.
Extra points
for the kind that live so deep in your belly
you must toss back your head
to let it escape.
for NdG
And I gave her my heart
My soul
That selfish
Twisted
Unkind
Excuse for a woman

She was sick
From cover
To ******
And I only knew it
Too late

But I'm self destructive
And sitting here, wanting
To share my victories with her

Maybe it'd **** her
While killing me too

Martyred
For the sake of
Selfishness

That god awful woman
Deserving of nothing
But burning coals
And

I wish she'd burn me down
Terry O'Leary Feb 2014
NOW

Well, GI Jack is welcome back, he left his legs in 'Nam.
He wakes at night in sweat and fright, then drinks another dram.
He doesn't know quite where to go, so seeks his uncle, Sam.


                           BEFORE

One can't ignore - his ma was poor, and seasons sometimes cruel,
yet Jack was brave and well behaved and surely no one's fool
so joined the ranks that man the tanks, as soon as he left school

He learned to **** our foes at will (ordained a sacred rite)
then packed his bag, unfurled his flag, when sent away to fight.
And yes, the tide was on our side (for, clearly, might makes right)

Through tangled days in jungles' maze, he sought the enemy
behind the trees where, ill at ease, he fought the Yellow sea -
upon the waves of gravelled graves he sailed a killing spree

The ****** dropped and cooked the crops, charred huts along the way
and tanks, with zest, erased the rest, their villages of clay.
(Yes, turret guns are loads of fun with roaring roundelay.)

While on the hunt with other grunts, he burned some babes alive
and wondered why frail things must die, while evil's phantoms thrive -
<When folly ends, he'll make amends if only he'll survive>

With ***** traps (sticks smeared with crap), yes, Charlie fought unfair.
He hid in holes with snakes and voles and snuck up everywhere
and like a mite within the night, caught Jackie unaware

At battle's end, Jack sought his friends - their souls were washed away
and only he and destiny were left in disarray -
with bed and pan, just half a man, the man of yesterday

When Jack awoke beyond the smoke, his frame no longer whole,
he found instead some suture thread neath wraps to hide the hole,
and realized a further prize: a chair on wheels to roll

His head felt light, as well it might, at Victory Day Parade
(across his chest, you've surely guessed, his medals shone, arrayed)
for when he rolled, while others strolled, his boots no longer weighed


                           AFTER

Well, Jack stayed home (no roads to Rome) to start his life anew
receiving dole which took its toll as largess went askew
for sure enough, when times got tough, his uncle, Sam, withdrew

To walk the streets with fine elites (or else some *** who begs)
or find a job (or even rob) requires both your legs.
And those who can't, are viewed askant like those we call the dregs.

For getting by he tried to ply and mine his medals' worth -
a wooden cup, a mangy pup, a smirk when miming mirth,
and best of all, at midnight’s call, beneath a bridge, a ‘berth’

He clutched a sign 'A dime to dine?', if anybody cared,
but soon he found, as time unwound, that victors seldom shared.
And Jackie's pride was slowly fried by vacant eyes that stared


                           ENLIGHTENMENT

He took to drink to break the link with thoughts of what he'd done
and threads of doubt began to flout the yarns Big Brother spun
of freedom's ring and other things, like what it was we'd won

His vague unease arrayed a breeze
with words that chilled the air
and like the fogs above the bogs, they floated through the square
where people sat at tea to chat, and shrieked 'How could he dare?'

Yes, freedom's price is never nice: like storms before the flood
the Daily Rag was on a jag, was looking out for blood,
deemed Jackie's thoughts untamed and fraught, then dragged him through the mud

By hacking clues, they plucked his views like grapes upon the vine.
Big Brother came, blamed Jackie's name for thinking out of line,
shut Jack away from light of day, eclipsing freedom’s shine

The Junto Brass, with eyes of glass, were robed in fine array
to hear the words (though slightly slurred) the witness gasped to say,
while Justice snored (the waterboard awash with Perrier)

Well, Jack was charged with laws enlarged in secret dossiers
within the guise of spreading lies and leading thoughts astray -
The Jury's out... the rabble shout “well someone's gotta pay”

The Judge (who fears the mind’s frontiers) inclined his head to yawn
while making haste through courtroom waste, though slightly pale and wan.
(A voodoo Loon withdraws as soon as Night condemns the Dawn.)


                           ETERNITY

While in his cell, the verdict fell - the sighs of Silence, rife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the Reaper played a fife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the price was Jackie's life


                           EPILOGUE

Well Jackie's ghost, unlike the most, still mused upon the praise
for misdeeds done in victories won when cruising in a craze,
and once again upon the sin of thinking, nowadays
where, cunningly, humanity’s served lies, and trust betrays.
Then, reconciled, it simply smiled at fortune's wanton ways.


                           EPITAPH

A mind was caught while thinking thoughts neath Sammy’s prying gaze
and forced to stop by concept cops, else join the castaways.
For now it's law to hold in awe the brave new world's malaise
and cerebrate with programmed pate, adorned with thorned bouquets,
then mimic mimes in troubled times - and no one disobeys.
With freedom’s death, truth holds its breath awaiting better days.
Terry O'Leary Feb 2015
The Rulers wield their silver shields,
             wear golden coronets
while warders guard the prison yard,
             boast brazen bayonets
and unicorns flaunt ivory horns
             defending martinets.

While Bankers beam Their self-esteem
             (bailed out of broker's debts),
and Bureaucrats grow rich and fat
             in six-star luncheonettes,
the deep, devout and down and out
             survive as silhouettes.

The Press take pains to wash our brains,
             Their words have mesmerized.
So, mild and meek, we fear to speak
             in worlds They’ve polarized,
and rush to war, through Satan's door,
             watch cities vaporized.

The Lord of Lore tells tales of war,
             of victories far away,
where eyes stare stark within the dark
             and death is painted gray
on faces cold, some young, some old,
             in spectral disarray.

We're taught at school the Golden Rule
             for all to live in bliss,
but in the wars on foreign shores
             the only rule is this:
“Yo! You and I must fight and die
             inside the black abyss!”

But well alive, the Merchants thrive
            on sales of armaments
that Barons built (with pride, not guilt)
            to quell the dissidents,
while Partisans are posing plans
             to conquer continents.

And back at home, the rumors roam
             “Good times are soon to come,
despite the breeze on frozen seas
             in weathers wet and numb.”
When we’re in need, They’ll intercede
             with prayers if we succumb.

A Tabloid screams of phantom dreams
             to keep our minds at sea
and TV skews the evening news,
             ensures we all agree:
“With dynamite we fight for right
             and not for tyranny.”

The brain aborts when drugged with sports
               and fashions of the day,
and sevenfold, men think as told
              and so are led astray;
and like some sheep (unless asleep)
             they baa when they obey.  

In search of sense in sounds intense
             of droning drum tattoos
(the beat sustains the endless reigns
             which swamp the avenues)
souls, thin and worn, traipse by, forlorn,
             delayed by shackled shoes.

Ten thousand eyes belong to Spies
            who watch us day and night
to track our trails and read our mails
             and say They have the right
to know our thoughts and thwart our plots
             to cease Their oversight.

Behind the scenes, behind the screens,
             the rules are fixed, arranged
(contorted smiles conceal Their wiles -
             Their goals have never changed).
When upside-down, a grin is frown
             and common sense deranged.

Along the roads, the future bodes
             in legends made of dust,
and ashes gray the alleyway
             'neath lampposts scaled with rust.
While Divas dine with cakes and wine
             pale orphans share a crust.

Dead colonies of humble bees,
             a ravaged hornets' hive,
rain forests, dales and minke whales
             soon nothing left alive…        
a world laid waste is to Their taste,
             as long as They survive.

As sunlight wanes in winter rains
             and sullen shadows crawl,
the evening ebbs, and spider's webs
             seem tattooed on the wall.
Upon the night the Masters write
             The Final Protocol.
ALC Apr 5
We are two wolves
Tearing at each other’s flesh
Biting in with savage need
Pushing and pulling for dominance.

We are two wolves
Working off of undiluted instincts
Of euphoric animalism.

We rip away our human pelts
And reveal our battle worn skins
Blemished with past wars and historic victories.

We are two wolves
Growling with pleasure and an insatiable appetite.
Digging our incisors into each other’s flesh
And grazing our claws down one another’s backs.

We score each other’s bodies
With nips, kisses, and tongue
Demanding one to admit the others rule.
To surrender and go docile.

But we are two wolves
Fighting each other
Each step of the way
With unadulterated ravishment.
-ALC April 4, 2019
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