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King May 2018
Would you run?
Or would you fight?
For freedom?
For country?
Or legacy?


Where would you run?
or who would you fight?
When battles are waged,
with a swap from left to right.
Who's going to have,
the privilege to be free?
When civilizations are smashed,
sunk and taken by the sea.
What nation,
can survive?
Would there be victors,
from either side?

Who's going to welcome you home?
And make a movie, about your valor and bravery?
Which books are going to speak of you?
When there's no one left to remember history.

This is the finale.
An ending without screams.
For there shall be no more future,
a ruin to all dreams.
Everything shall perish
in a blink of an eye.
When you see the iron reaper
descending from the sky.

The end of the world.
What a sight to see.
I'm cracking a cold one.
When we dance to world war three.
zebra Mar 2017
split the atom an we get fission
mass becomes energy
but can we split a second
enter the essence of the present
what would it mean to us
to be that mindful

ask your self doesn't your mind
only occupy past future
abjectly incapable of living in the present
in the true present there could not be even a ghost of a thought
theres no time to think

can we enter
an incalculable split second
and totally take in that instant
with a forgotten organic technology

is it the big bang in perpetuity
yet quiet as a mute
a raging ever expanding sea in a connected
but distinct dimension

if you entered it
would it not utterly erases all of history
the thinkers and doers along with it
the step beyond the alpha and omega
the great underlining reality

imagine the penetrated moment
an all consuming unimaginable
trans-mutational merge
yet forever imperceptible
to those among us
time locked
an irreducible limitation
like an ant in a closed paper bag
a fixated reflexive machine
wandering aimlessly
with an unknowable mission
and a relentless survival mechanism
with no chance of survival

time as a cosmic metabolism
its medium space
a vast cauldron
an infinite vessel containing endless points of light

myriad phenomena
its terrain and the temporal creatures that inhabit it
both exquisite and hideous
an incalculable zoo
histories victors and victims
one and all vanquished
by the curse
consciousness of dis-juncture
a merciless countenance of limitation

yet could time be an illusion
rooted in a narrow awareness
bereft of an eternal
inexhaustible self effulgent now
the rapture
an eternal ******

if we could only penetrate into it
would it swallow us
and blot out the drama of creations theater

is the
a perfect meta moment ?

we hear from sacred texts
like the Vedas... Bhagavad Gita.... and Kabbalah
that we may enter beyond the veil
passed time and its ravages
passed mind and its distortions

not to the heaven of religion
in its endless
closed system precepts
anthropomorphic metaphors
theistic gobbledygook
sophomoric social engineering
a kind of cliffs notes
god for dummies

we can enter
the eternal abode of the divine
a point between
the splitting of seconds
revealed through the simple act of mindful breathing
pierced by the effort of a focused mind
we definitely can!
but do we dare?
When things go wrong as they some times will
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And you want to smile but you have to sigh
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must but dont quit

Life is queer with its twists and turns
As everyone of us sometimes learns
And many a fellow turns about
When he might have won had he stuck out
Dont give up though the pace seems slow
You may succeed with another blow

Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victors cup
And he learned to late when the night came down
Oh how close he was to the golden crown

Success is failure turned inside out
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt
And you never can tell how close you are
It may be near when it seems afar
Hence stick to the fight when your hardest hit

For its when things seem worst that you must never
Q U I T.
#Helen Steiner Rice    #A bed of roses     #Hope
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which washes stony structures clean with radiance that laves.

Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with  faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.

Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes...
They frame a frail forgotten tale,  in carved unwritten runes
with symbols hung like halos strung in lifeless, limp festoons.

The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.

A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.

Stilled chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.

Stray footsteps swarm  through church no more (apostates that profane) -
their echoes in the nave ring thin, while chalice cups maintain
a taste of brine in altar wine decaying in the rain.

No face will come with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, or beg lethean balm.

Six steeple towers, steel and stone, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in melting tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across a cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, with no one left to fete.

Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep... a clutch of clammy clouds.

No breath will come  'cross jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.

The castle clock, unwound, defrocks! Those peerless speechless spokes
unfurl the blight of reigning Night by spinning off her cloaks,
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now voiceless things on phantom swings, like statues made of clay,
mark marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.  

The sun-bleached bones of those who've flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).

The terrors wrought by conscience fraught once stalked and lurked nearby
to rip the shrouds from  curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky –
now wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears  in sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
exhale a gust of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.

A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane,
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.

No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.


Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
Terry O'Leary Feb 2014

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.


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


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


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.)


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


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.


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.
Jonathan Moya Jun 2019
Tiananmen Square is a clean place today.
Everything is swept before it can
***** in the history of place.

No sign exists of the tanks that rolled,
the man in front of them,
the blood that flowed
like red sorghum seeds.

The cracked bricks
have been replaced
with new tera cotta tiles.

The first  memorial plaque
is invisible until you are
standing on top of it,
located at the Great Court
at the University of Queensland
4500 miles away.

its three lines read,
using the Aussie spelling.

In San Francisco  a 9.5 foot statue
modeled after the original
Goddess of Democracy
is located at the edges of
Chinatown in a park of
concrete and manicured trees.

On the anniversary Chinese police
put out temporary signs in  
in the center of the Square warning

Banner displayers, victory gesturers,
those doing solitary hunger strikes,
are detained, questioned, disappear.

On the Party web the students are scrubbed.
The only sign of blood that lingered
in the summer air that June morning
is a  photo of the lone soldier who died
in the “counter revolutionary turmoil”.

The plugged in young are unaware.
They only know that the Party
reserves the right of your total erasure.

Just as the memories of Hiroshima/Nagasaki
are vanishing horrors in the Japanese soul,
Tiananmen is not worthy of ghostly echoes,
or even the lies printed in every official history.

Truth is the secret kept dark by the victors,
it’s locked in prisons and dark closets,
it speaks with the voice of exile

In the dark light and smoggy air,
only dogs and the grieving blind
know the true scent of Tiananmen
hidden under the shiny tera cotta.
TMReed Oct 2019
Beware the Gyac’tus!
Oh you monster, oh beast!
Found crawling over mountainsides
on such uneven feet!

Watch the way it’s hobblin’
o’er rocks and hills alike.
**** now, foulest creature! Rid that-
hobblin’ from my sight!

Gone isn’t far enough,
he stoops within my head.
No hamlet could survive like this,
let’s burn him in his bed!

Forks n’ brands, fires too,
pierce heavy evening air.
Storm straight, we do, his wretched mount
to find him sleeping bare.

Be gone, oh Gyac'tus!
I howl atop its shape
A whimper leaks from his lips ‘fore
I carve across its nape.

Fear no more! Fear is dead!
Echoes proudly out the cave,
thus we flounder up the mountain,
thought victors, found us slaves.

But the mount is unkind,
spilling forks in twos, threes,
soon a crowd becomes a party,
a party ‘comes a leash,

‘til the fire burning
on the crest stands alone,
yet the only thought I think,
thunk of wine slugged at home.

Drunken dreams expose me
the vengeful mount beneath,
my careless kneecap crumbling
like cornbread at my feast.

Tumble down the mountain
rolling head, feet n’ all
'til sprawling on the ground beside
the spoils of my war.

Glimpsing 'cross its body
held down by shorter heft
I find myself an iron cast
fast ‘round his shorter left.

Donning the clever craft,
my fate turns a corner!
I crawl, on such uneven feet,
homeward in a fervor.

Triumphant from the hills,
hunger tempting Bacchus,
my hobblin’ culls an awful tune,
Beware the Gyac'tus!
Humanity comes and goes.
The skeins — The Dreams
The ray that Time forgets to see
For In-between
You is me
Lies & the spirit, the suffering
In this space
Every surface of our fate
(Break free)
An Ocean of brilliance
My ethereal plane
In your infinite
Your Skies of Deliverance
This moment I repose
Flesh-heavy Life kept
Recalling the Past
A recluse in a box
With jaundiced Light...

FishSparrow swims in the Now
Deeper Skies
Ephemeral Scion
All worlds One Eye.


Gargantuan champions of yore
Over landscapes crowded
With worshippers

Having Words
A powerful spark
We fireflies
In the veil of wide night’s dark.

My spirit still / expectant
For more than flickering wisps
Willowing Whispers
Of miraculous man kind
Echoes now lifeless shadows before;

Mortal theories’s grandiose
Yet only infants afloat upon
The profound
Go to the river
Oh the wailing for Manna

Oh Mother!
The pain of our own making

The minutes breaking, preying
Predilections swaying
****** in statues

The iron victors
Wield long swords
Riding marble chariots
Colossal fires upon masculine faces
Long gone
The war-cry
Over landscapes
Crowded with
To lay among stone
Hearts with
Shrunken heads

The fade of unremembered
They leave seeds our fearful

Wilderness in this hollow
Of twilight eyes
Also die

We beget hell without
To tell the tale
Without brilliant love
Starlight fails when hells
All hail

Awe and Om!
Oh Mother!
Make way, the few
Futures shalom
(The Neigh will come alone
Someday soon)
John Mendoza Jan 2019
Ring ring...

Ring ring... hey it’s your future calling

Yes, I know that everything ***** and it feels like your falling

But just remember that I’m kinda like a spoken freestyle, I’m not writen in pages

As the spoils always go to the victors, not to those trapped in their own cages
LERocmar Dec 2019
Of all the words a poet can say,
the pages only seem to betray
the thought of the mastermind who did compose
the story unfolded that lost all control.

People do go "Aren't our fates written there?
With the stars in the sky and the sun in the air?"
But the constellations only do suppose
we were only left with our horoscopes.

For the fools who consider life as an open book,
I wish I were Fate to explain the hook;
it's enticing and eye-catching, reeling us in,
but in the end, we're the bait, not the ones to win.

To the victors and sore losers, we can't play the game.
If death is the only doom that is rained,
we can't conquer anything as these mere humans.
We can't even reign over any solutions.

There're so many problems that cannot be fixed!
Were they meant to be and left as it is?
Alas, we always try to bend it to our will;
the world, the earth, and our contentious pill.

This drug we've swallowed to believe we have it all
will only lead us to our demise, our downfall.
If only the globe could stop spinning, we'll see
that we are merely just puppets and actors in a scene.
Sillo Anderson Nov 2018
Umpires wailed at victory
Clothing defeat in exorbitant fame,
Socializing with pain
Only regaining power to fix all that has been shamed.
For only coinage consumed all faith
Of where victors must stay.
How naive of hate
Playing buoyantly for a side in shame.
But pruning an eternity to be of salient visage.
For !
Mankind perceives its flaws as gate ways of life
And innocence retaliates only for its pride.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.aye aye... trí turds... wha'? three turds... huh? tree thirds... oh paddy paddy paddy... τo 'ινκ ιτ θρoυ(γɥ)... you might 'ave even brought ubout a a taught - naught - a thought.

but but... but...
Poland is so unwelcoming?!


   no attachments
of a post-colonial narrative...

oh... and the language
is hard to learn...

    by all means,
  we've had the Nazis,
we've had the three-headed Hydra
of Prussia,
  Russia and Austro-Hungary...

we've had the Communists...
oh i'm pretty sure we
can accommodate Islam...
along with the scuttling
of the gutter...

            we are a people,
and WE, as a people:
owe you nothing!
  take your British empire postscriptum
elsewhere, eat and ****
there, and don't come back...

i'll appropriate this native spreschen,
i'll speak it...
but don't you come around here
supposing i'll "think"
like you do...

      funny... well... not really...
Dublin was never to become the second

        but whenever I hear an Eire man
  there's that diacritical excuse of
    paddy paddy paddy potato
paddy paddy paddy mac (protestant)
mc (catholic) Doug -
      la la paddy paddy woo! wooooooo!

no, thank you...
  we've had the Nazis -
we've had the Communists -
thankfully all the Polish economic migrants
are returning home...
   thanks for being treated like
some sort of, quasi Roma...
   no problem... we can go back
to a homeland, given that we're actually
less victors, and more inheritors -
   the Marshall Plan...
      if only the H'americans reached
Berlin first...
there would be no Warsaw pact...
by the way...
   i thought Sweden and Switzerland
remained neutral?
  so why pay them the Marshall Plan

       oh, but please...
move to Poland...
        see how long you'll survive...
         that feral land of lost
        i don't mind...
   language might be a problem...
English isn't exactly pop
outside the confines of a
Jean Claude van Damme movie...

        but go on... try...
            you'd find more success in
catching a floater's worth of a ****
than exercising any
     chance to subvert the reigning

  bo? (because)?
   i'll integrate -
             (ja wtopie się w tą kulture) -
but - ale -
on one condition -
    w ramach jednej potrzzeby -
i'll retain my birth-tongue -
ja zachowam swój zór!

i'd never trust immigrants,
economic or refugee,
if they do not retain their mother tongue -
if they can't construct
   they're rotten fruit...

   i'm not here to be nice -
zapomnienia mówienia po
   i forgot how to speak Polish...
rotten fruit,
attempting integration too hard...
you can't forget
your native tongue,
just like you can't forget
riding a bicycle or

            the argument stinks of
i hate it...
    i'd expect a jew to make
this sort of argument,
rightfully so...
     i can't imagine the heartache
of having invested so much
Hebrew in German to create
   a Jew i can understand...
       but some ******* Pakistani
suggests he has, on "purpose"
forgotten Urdu,
and speaks only English?

   sum? terrorist...
     no man is born without either
a linguistic, or a cultural integrity -
prior to the cuisine,
the language dies...
but then the cuisine never dies...
neither does the language -
and if the language is "dead":
the mentality remains...

         you smell something?
   hmm... i'll speak English, i'll write
English... but i'll think in my
Western Slavic guise...
ah... sorry i'm not copper-skinned
wishing for an Indian suntan
of the lower-caste...
you're standing ****-naked in terms
of orthography - as a language -
and you're over-laden with metaphysics...
sure as **** a satan will come around
dressed in either paupers' rags
or a gentleman's nightgown;

    as i still begin, persistent -
in telling you...
a man who does not have enough
ethnic pride, in retaining, and keeping,
a language his mother used to
lullaby by him to sleep,
into his later years?
   a person, who cannot accommodate
        trust score? ZEE-RHO.

i much abhor the Scots and the Eire men,
as much as i admire the Welsh
for priding themselves on
retaining Cymru -
                      no Gaelic?
   no pass...
                 English is a mongrel language...
who gives a ****?
  some Shanghai
         half-wit economics student speaks
    lingua franca...
                       thus that i have
to admire... the Welsh...
     and their version of YHWH:
that... takes *****...
         the Welsh could look into
Kashubian and Silesian Polish to boot.
Jayne E Dec 2019
The Hunters Knife.

Let's play a game missy
A game of hide and seek
one where I do the hiding
but also I do seek
I'll give you one chance
to solve the unsolvable
beware if you guess wrong
what I have hidden there
the blade will linger long
my hunters knife
will come to collect
a little blood, just a little
from thee miss,
not enough to be noticed
not enough to be missed
close your eyes
while I bind your wrists
dry your eyes
mute your sighs
or the hunters knife will collect
a little cut a little stab
not too shallow
nor too deep
just enough
to make thee bleed,
make thee bleed missy
bleed for me.
do you like my game,
girl child trapped in time
held here eternal by me

Hush now
don't sob for
your lost innocence
I'm far from finished
with you yet.
I'll sing you a lullaby child
close your eyes
go to sleep
and whilst all soft
in slumber you lie,  
from your heart
the joy I will thieve
Hush now girl and sleep
for while all soft
you lie in slumber asleep,
the joy from your eyes
I will break
when from deepest sleep
you stir and wake
forever mine
is  your soul to keep.
I will take all
you don't have to give
then I will take some more
for by mornings break
sweet child
no longer a sweet miss
broken you'll be my *****

Tell me child
how you love my game
of hunters hide and seek
any answer you can give
will never be right
will never set you free
the only victors of this game,
my hunters knife and me.

© J.C.
This was written quite some time ago, but directly relates to my last poem "silver dollar shimmer"

Torture, abuse, childhood, lost innocence,
johnny solstice Jun 2019
The world's a funny old place
There used to exist wondrous civilisations
in south amerika, north amerika,
afrika, australia and asia

Brown eyes in asia
Brown eyes in afrika
Brown eyes in the amerikas
brown eyes in australia
Brown eyes in asia.......

In europe, old Blue eyes
with holy laws got us tongue-tied
and gave us Blue-eyed apartied
You gnow this lyrik can wright
words come out free-flight
set the "truth" alight
enough of this pirate *****
robbers and looters take fright
I am the holy grail's "white knight"
a rhyming flea-bite
the verbal gun-fight
of a poet's loaded tongue
singing the praises of the unsung
crying the cry of the dumbed-down
dissin' the excommunicated klowns
this is the patriachal showdown
religious apartied must shut down
exorcise these cabbagetowns
time to make the vampires frown

Time to make your blue eyes brown
see through your brothers eyes
read through the lines of lies
recognise the world wide spies

"Apartied is dead?"..."Mandela is free!"
but not for all aboriginees
the nomads of the desert
and the people of the trees
and every kind of refugee
I don't see no Comanche presidency
in the land of the Brave.....
.....or the land of the Free
All I see is economic slavery
and god-fearing hypocricy
a full-on global tragedy
too much HE and not enough SHE
too much US and too much THEM
divide and conquer again and again
Sanity sold by CON-men
Truth dished out by AD-men

"so help me god" AMEN
"with god on our side" AMEN
"in god we trust" AMEN

who burnt the sisters at Salem?
how did it start?...and when...
...........will it end
this truth I defend
I come again and again
check my refrain
feel this and you feel no pain

They've played their game
the more things change
it's always the same
using pens to rob your brain
telling us that we're insane
well here's a lie from the outsane
your system stinks like your house-drains
your blue minds are chemically stained
your self-worth's imprisoned in fear-chains
no kind of killing is humane
all prejudice is ingrained
the vultures are driving the gravy-train
supremacists carry a blood-stain
blue-eyed apartied is soul-shame
the HIStory of victors is all that remains

In the last hour 2,000 people have died of starvation......
2,000 acres of rainforest have been destroyed.....
half a ton of toxic chemicals have been released into the atmosfear
50 plants and animals have become extinct

SO!..what do you think?
does it stink?
are we the weakest link?
are we standing on the brink?
of a precipice, sheer........
......with no bottom
all our gains are ill-gotten
this system is rotten
we've all but forgotten it was before!
the slamming of your doors
can't keep me out
conscious lyrik I'll spout
we must bail out
sort the wheat from the chaffe
sort the good from the bad

let me ask you.......who's SAD?
seasonally  adjusted BAD

must catch a fire
dreaming spires......
.......and vampires
Ride the wire
we got to get higher
higher than high

Try this for size
the slavemaster's disguise
is the mirror in our eyes
and it should come as no surprise
that life's greatest prize
is the life that you've got

yes life's greatest prize
is the life that you've got
ExtinctionRebellion OneLove aparthied
I was once
Like a tadpole
I saw nothing
And heard nothing
I had a sole goal
I needed to reach the ****
Before all of them
Only the first one
Could Become
A Man.
I can tell
This tale today
I am alive!
Once a victor
Always a victor
If you made it
To the ****
Let nothing
Bring you down
That victory
Made you!
Matt Shaw Oct 2019
What talent belies the aging boy?
Fost'ring there an ancient flame
Once was used to get him here
Now he flickers with his shame.

Tearing there upon his skin
Between victors and those whisked away,
He is peeling off the edge--
And can you see it in his eyes?
this is probably the most self-depricating poem i've ever written. i'm not even that young, i'm 25.
Ron Sanders Jan 8

We were victors, we were gods, we were keepers of the crown.
We had plucked the fire’s eye, we had worn the monster down.
We had pierced creation’s heart, we had brought its pulse to heel.
We had cracked the atom’s code, we were masters of the Wheel.
Yet we withered at inflections, we wallowed in our psalms,
We watched our brute reflections as we wiped our sweaty palms.
So stranger prayed for stranger, so father wept for son,
Till came that awful moment when the sirens wailed as one.

And the world went mad.

Whole nations torn, woods and cities burning.
Into the tempest life’s ashes borne;
What keeps the cinder turning?
Came the rains, relentless, deluging all.
Banshees of steam screamed—rising, rising only to fall.
Hurricane winds ever tapered, and then,
Sunshine enlightened the planet again.

And the world was seed.

Now, for every step its evolution takes,
This rock a million revolutions makes.
In seas, in pools, in hollows, in lakes,
Sunlight the author of Certainty wakes.
Eons, ages—incalculable span—
In seas, in pools, in hollows, in lakes…
In time, the journey of life began.

And the world blushed green.

Wherever life ventured, it flourished.
Fin begat foot, the land opened wide.
Through conflict, through want, brute powers were nourished.
Blood screamed its passage, fresh blood replied.
Whole species vanished, new species clashed,
Life savaged life in forests and seas.
In shadows of monsters a warm creature dashed:
Something unique was afoot in the trees.
Then one signal spring, embracing the land,
A wayfarer into the wilderness ran.
He distanced his cousins:  ***** he could stand.
He prowled the wide savanna,
His head held high—the Man.

And the world beckoned.

He ranged in tribes, worked wood and bone,
Built gods of loam, struck fire with stone.
One prize drove this hunter, one prey made him burn—
To break his world, to make it bend…he had to know,
He had to learn.

He wandered the plains of forgotten cities, all long reduced to dust.
He studied the fossils of iron pillars, and pondered on the rust.

Millennia passed, he courted the Wheel. His science grew apace.
Nature’s spires fell to steel, his towers took their place.
Cities blossomed, succumbed to war. Sacred trusts decayed.
Nations clashed like beasts of yore. Men took to arms and prayed.
Then one anxious fall, his slick treaties scrapped,
This warrior turned magician:  the cosmos’ source was tapped.
A hero, a giant, a god would he be!
He held this power captive—this power greater than he.
So we wither at inflections, we wallow in our psalms.
We watch our brute reflections as we wipe our sweaty palms.
So stranger prays for stranger, and father weeps for son,
Till comes that awful moment when the sirens wail as one.

And the world sighs again.

— The End —