"warlike" poems
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
Nobody marching toward us
Their guns making us die.
No tanks are come clanking
No bombers in the sky.
But our Congress and generals
When oil or bases seem needed;
We appear armed and threatening
Peace and love talk not heeded.
No country has attacked us
With troops and lethal artillery.
But our leaders expect us to
Go open up their arteries
And **** their women and children
And laugh while they all die
And we are expected to do this
And never think to ask why.
It’s almost like big companies
Were sad when WW2 ended
So they started attacking countries
We really should have befriended.
We let Russia have free reign
To **** and ****** and steal
Almost as if their aggression
Wasn’t really true or even real.
We looked around and made them,
Those evil old warlike excuses,
That some country threatened freedom
And we pretended they weren’t ruses.
We attacked Korea and Vietnam
We were just supposed to observe
That they were yellow people there
And think they got what they deserved.
We didn’t stop there, as Reagan took
A duly elected leader and put him in jail.
If any country did that to our country
The conservatives would howl and rail.
Then the Bushes tried their best to take
Iraq to steal their oil and punish them
And created an era of stronger hatred
And anti-American outrage and mayhem.
No foreign country has attacked America;
So, the point bears repeating once again.
We need to stop acting like bullies here
And start acting like decent statesmen
And women who have the bigger picture;
The growth of peace in our battered world
So, other countries will not take their guns
And shoot our flag when it’s unfurled.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 4:56 PM UTC
XXVIII. TO ATHENA (18 lines)
(ll. 1-16) I begin to sing of Pallas Athene, the glorious
goddess, bright-eyed, inventive, unbending of heart, pure ******
saviour of cities, courageous, Tritogeneia. From his awful head
wise Zeus himself bare her arrayed in warlike arms of flashing
gold, and awe seized all the gods as they gazed. But Athena
sprang quickly from the immortal head and stood before Zeus who
holds the aegis, shaking a sharp spear: great Olympus began to
reel horribly at the might of the bright-eyed goddess, and earth
round about cried fearfully, and the sea was moved and tossed
with dark waves, while foam burst forth suddenly: the bright Son
of Hyperion stopped his swift-footed horses a long while, until
the maiden Pallas Athene had stripped the heavenly armour from
her immortal shoulders. And wise Zeus was glad.
(ll. 17-18) And so hail to you, daughter of Zeus who holds the
aegis! Now I will remember you and another song as well.
7.6k
VIII. TO ARES (17 lines)
(ll. 1-17) Ares, exceeding in strength, chariot-rider, golden-
helmed, doughty in heart, shield-bearer, Saviour of cities,
harnessed in bronze, strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the
spear, O defence of Olympus, father of warlike Victory, ally of
Themis, stern governor of the rebellious, leader of righteous
men, sceptred King of manliness, who whirl your fiery sphere
among the planets in their sevenfold courses through the aether
wherein your blazing steeds ever bear you above the third
firmament of heaven; hear me, helper of men, giver of dauntless
youth! Shed down a kindly ray from above upon my life, and
strength of war, that I may be able to drive away bitter
cowardice from my head and crush down the deceitful impulses of
my soul. Restrain also the keen fury of my heart which provokes
me to tread the ways of blood-curdling strife. Rather, O blessed
one, give you me boldness to abide within the harmless laws of
peace, avoiding strife and hatred and the violent fiends of
death.
5.6k
Sweet was the ancient tale once told,
Of star-born realms and skies above,
When primal hearts, though proud and bold,
Still held the thread of love.
From rose-hued lands where dreamers grew,
No scorn arose, nor warlike word.
‘Twixt cultures old, the wise and true
A gentle peace was heard.
The sea lay calm, the waves moved slow,
While birds sang high on salted air.
The stars, the moon, and myths below
Drew hearts with gentle care.
When Orpheus, with lyre in hand,
Could charm the trees and still the shore,
He sang not just of death’s dim land,
But love that dared for more.
And songs poured out, both wide and bright,
Unbound by ticking clocks or schemes.
A joy unspoiled by neon light
Still stirs in silent dreams.
No noise, no screen, no hollow glow,
Just fireside tales and open skies
A world less fast, yet rich to know,
Where wonder met the eyes.
But now, a broken engine hums,
Where whispers clash and meanings blur.
Though minds are fed, the heart succumbs
In dreamy shadows stir.
This modern sprawl, in steel-clad guise,
Sees freedom drown and ruins swell.
While gilded dame with cunning eyes,
Buys silence, sells the shell.
Sweet childhood homes that most recall,
Still mourn the loss of treasured views.
While elders chase the siren’s call,
The Futures drown in hues.
O bitter jest, this march of mind,
That trades the soul for hastened days.
Where hearts and minds are redesigned
By profit’s clever maze.
Progress cloaked where truths are wrung
May blind the heart and charm the tongue;
But in the hush, old songs are sung
Still bold, still clear, still young.
Naturae consors esto
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 10:02 PM UTC
Heatwave.
Dust whirling,
after mobile departures,
in the decadence
of our innumerous crows'-feet.
The sweat of humidity
dropping on neutrally carpeted floors.
Beer lubricating
many a rusty throat
as human optimism
and pessimism
make friends with each other
in a warlike fashion.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 7:20 AM UTC
Anger
Fury
Rage
Like three tigers in a cage
Fierce like fire
Having a desire
for revenge
Not making amends
Temper
Wrath
Hateful disgrace
The world's often a hostile place
Anger out of control, corrupting the peace,
Becoming a riot, calling for the police
Anger is combative to a truce
When raw emotions are on the loose
Anger comes in many colors:
Tumultuous reds
boiling in your head
Purple passions
in warlike fashion
Seething greens,
for envy is a fiend
Anger that is a shocking yellow
is anything but mellow
They blend together in a melting ***
A big, boiling cauldron, scaulding hot
In its feverish calamity, anger reeks
Of dead men's bones, you shall see
Like tasting gasoline, it is a toxic tonic
You don't want to be anywhere around it!
Its angry concoction you partake in to sip
Though it's like deadly poison on your lips!
In your body, it courses through
Before it makes a fool out of you!
Like two lighted matches on your tongue
Anger does the tango just for fun!
This mouthful of hot pins and needles stings!
You swallow it down, the whole **** thing!
You wash it all down with wine as it smolders
Down your throat anger goes, like jagged boulders!
Through your esophagus, resisting a slippery slide
Anger within you does not want to hide!
Into your gut, like a rugged coastline of pain
You now see the world with great disdain!
Your stomach evolves into a volcanic hole
Hot as a furnace with blazing coals!
Anger soon rises from the volcanic mountain
Lava bursting forth like a fiery fountain!
That is anger's transition that I see
My vision portrayed in this poetic story
Anger does have a rightful place
But out of control, it turns into hate
On one hand, it can help us fight evil
On the other, it can hurt other people
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 2:49 PM UTC
Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel ev’n to the Scottish name,
Sae famed in martial story!
Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark where England’s province stands—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What force or guile could not subdue
Thro’ many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitor’s wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour’s station;
But English gold has been our bane—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
O, would or I had seen the day
That treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay
Wi’ Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But pith and power, till my last hour,
I’ll mak this declaration:
We’re bought and sold for English gold—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
2.4k
evolution
is a souls solution
to grow and nurture
a positive future
revolution
is egos solution
filled with stubborness
pushing forward with blindness
evolution
has an ebb and flow
revolution
has a catapultic show
evolution has a harmony
a flexibility with fluidity
revolution has a warlike stance
with no rhythm in its dance
evolution
is a resolution
for our spiritual growth
with our souls oath
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 6:05 AM UTC
Dark polished stones line the divine walk of power
Demanding fresh blood from diplomatic feet
Where haughty arrogance meets unpretentious humility
Introduced by an arbitrating street
The loftiest of fences steadily lines the walk of power
Dishonorably straddled by a shameful few
Who never make any honest attempt to choose a side
Or contemplate existing truths
Comfort reigns securely in their warlike peace
Balancing upon those fences
Until humility overpowers and demands a stand
Leaving arrogance with no defenses
Balance fails eventually atop the fences of the walk
A diplomat’s feet must make a stand
Straddling the fence will never polish power’s stones
Come down and walk and take command
Aug 26, 2010
Aug 26, 2010 at 7:35 PM UTC
Och! Airn an' Thwndir!
An' Urquhart's Wae Verra Hel!
Great Warlike Glamis' Firey,
An' Hwmyd Loch Doon's Orrah!
Downe! Downe! tae thad howch owre miserable!
Ye a' swithe hame, hame! wae ma Airn ***
An' weile 'yont yondir Suthron!
Waefu', waefu' heyre Ah! War-Ironclad heyne Ȝell,
Wae burr-thistle’s Gowlin’ Storne Micht!
Frae ma verra, verra! Ah ageyne!
Tae the Cauld Enraged Wynde
Unco! intae Æternall Battle Scorchin'
Towardis Moorlan Chain Mail-Bosom o' mine!
O'er an' o'er IT! increasingly thro' Force returnin',
Wae ma verra Blacklyn Tartan o' War heyne,
An' Silvery Brooch, wi'in yondir Lone Sceadewe!
Unco! wae the Rubye Stane deep-shimmerin'
Naixt tae Carham's Gory Landis, an' the Targe-Hell,
Thro’ nowe Tune Martial, stick-an-stowe Ȝell!
Airn-Curse Core-Firey, Hye-Flamin' IT!
Heyne unco rychte Airn-Moorlan o'er ye a'!
Ah, bye nowe the FEUDAL OWAR-MANN!
'Yont thad Auld Whunstane Tower-Shrine
Togider wae Lang Titanium-Claymore, Airn-Dazzlin'
An' ne'er, ne'er, IT! stick-an-stowe tae wane!
Wi'in theis Bluish Fyre syne! Verra War-Swaird Rairan IT,
Intae Thae Hringiren Æternall, Thwndir-Devastatin' o' mine!
QVOAD FEODALE MEA CVM RVBRA SPATHA
ET RELVCENTE HOC SCVTO AC FVLMINE NIVEO
SCOTORVM INTRA HANC TEMPESTATEM MAGNAM
QVÆ FLOS IGNEVS EST TONITRVO NOMINE ALTO
NEMO GELIDO HOC LOCO IMPVNE ME LACESSIT.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 4:42 AM UTC
The only thing that ties me to this quilt-patched land, is memories of a flag: red, white, yellow, and blue.
Red is the blood used to paint our doorways—protection from ghostly wolves that sought our firstfruits. It is fight, even if our weapons are terribly flimsy. Bamboo tinted spears, mashed with berry paint and maskara on our brows is our arsenal. We fight in, and with the shadows. Light chases them down. Memories of GomBurZa, Noli Me, Balintawak, Tirad Pass and even EDSA remind me of how the wounds are slowly closing. Red is the color of our scars.
White is the gifts we received from our conquerors. The plow and the print: an awakening of consciousness new. White is the color of skin that polished us. White is also the gift of void, bleakness and forgetfulness. In exchange for the new, we shafted the old: our language, our anitos. A gift of disconnect: resolute Babel collapsing, burying us in tongues filled with sorcerous lisps. We curl in vain our own lips to fit their shapes. We speak gibberish now. The ghosts scoff at us in an even newer language of their own invention.
Yellow is the sweet sun which kissed us tenderly—even as we were surrounded by bolo, spear, sword. The sweet sun fights to give us light, and reaches out to us misunderstood. It shaped our land—softened our soils and gave it fruit. It is mangos, and papaya skins, and ripe bananas. It gives us joy and sweetens our sweat.
Blue are the lakes beneath which linger our roots. With the water is our identity: our hearts, our gait, our dance: the light shuffling of feet, the sway of brown hands, the wind waving at the rice buckets bobbing on our heads. We were never a warlike people. When we are wounded, we seek refuge in our seas, in the saltwater wounds that so painfully clean us of dastard memories. They sting like a freshwater song. Like the harsh howling of the monsoon rains, and the tides rising and falling with our chests. Humming.
We forget and we remember, like the ebbs and flows of the shore, the coastal highways that we leave in peace, like a languid dance. They float in and out of history—as one hops in and out of bamboo rods as they dance the Tinikling. The songs, they string us well. String names like humble Rizal, larger than life, and manic Bonifacio, who looked us straight in the eye. Names that sing of the prairie wind—softly massaging the hard grains that we till quietly in the fertile soil.
Soil—what ties us together is our history.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
after he shrugged, he felt defeated
troubled, like a ***** in heat, he felt
rare dewdrops all but disappeared
yes, the demented ways of nature triumphed
one shrug revealed the secret
--haphazard news indeed--
the natural man smiled in shame
young and vicious, he slapped himself warlike
~~
..(C)1987/2012 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Ram
~~
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
When Michael Collins came, first from the courts of England,
which in low and lofty Londoun lately were helde,
while Thames there with treachery and treasoun did truly ring,
was Ireland ill split and beset with ignoble stryfe.
Yet there a land lately formed was, where still folk lyve on mydllerde.
Though it is not in this warlike time of Dev that we our tale do set,
after these tymes of troubling stryfe, contentioun salted still the land.
Fine Fail and Fine Gael, then foes many yeres remained
till noblest amongst them, in qualities none lacking,
did do battle in old Dublin and vanquish the dred enemy.
That mon who dreded nought, nightly then held his court in fair Dail Eirinn.
Enda was called that man, and everysince has his noble courte endured.
There, as Chrystmasse came, was assembled his cabinet fayre:
there Sir Wilmore the red, who waited on the grete lorde in readiness.
There with grete courtesey, the kings coins to keep, sat Sir Noonan the balde.
There Sir Reilly, learned in lore of leach and herb, who on erde had little left to lerne.
Eek Sir Varadkar the gaye who granted was, the grete kinges horses to groome.
Laste, the lovely layde Burton, who, the rede rose of Wilmore would long after carry.
Other knyghtes numerous were there, but of these now, nought will I
tell,
for fallen to feasting were this fayre companye al and fayne would I not,
in tedious trials of descriptioun, your patience for to trye.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
Once across a Caledonia dreary, whose Echo,
Amid the Jötnar, was MAN, I wandered hurt and weary,
Until yon Glare, with deadly Rage flaming,
Lo! I beheld, next to the Iron Gates
Of a long-forgotten Ruin named still
After incorruptible Titanium.
A noble, finely engraved feudal Vest,
Under a Luminary invisible, implacable,
Shone thither with a Glare fiercer, methought,
Than that of the rubies at warlike Valhalla,
Amid Walls time-eaten, kingly Banners, and proud Towers,
And dwelt there in melting Titanium.
Deep memories of martial Woe
Like an arrow piercing my ***** and aimed
Thro' the Night with lethal Glare,
No barrier was there to be found
Between my Past yielding and this conquering Robe
With Runes marked deep in Titanium.
Thus I remembered having once graved,
In revered silence and solitary anger,
Into the Glare, within the Hills, upon the Dust,
The Emblem of the OVERMAN,
Which thou may again now see gleaming,
With pride Superhuman, o'er this garb of Titanium.
My Enemy Wraith haunting me no more,
Into a most profane dying hour,
I walked forth, to wear of the Armour of the Glare the worth,
And felt, intensely, from the Zenith of a most fiery Heaven,
The Rays from the Stars imbuing my Very Gore
With blinding, rageful Titanium.
Hereupon, with Cuirass thus worn, I bethought me of boldly ascending,
With heavy Claymore drawn, in a Guard of the Hawk,
At Ultima Thule, of the Bluish Glare, the Hidden Rock,
And at its scorching Crest, with Blade o'er me flashing, widened my gathering Breast,
The Largest Mirror, the Highest Beacon, aye,
Before the wild Blaze molten down in Titanium.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 3:12 AM UTC
Crash! Boom! Stomp!
Warlike scream bellows
Fierce knees and elbows
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
Would that Man
were like the sky
Which doesn't fuss
when clouds roll by.
Would that he
were like the wind
In patience blowing
rock to sand
Would that he
were like a bee
The common good
is all he sees!
Would that Man
were like the rain
Which mourns when
someone is in pain.
Would that he
was like the ant
Who is wise
won't say "I can't..."
Would that he
be like a tree
Safe heaven's
in its canopy.
Would that man
were like the bird
Grumbling
is never heard.
Would that Man
were like a cloud
But he's like thunder.
Warlike. Loud.
Could he be
more like a flower?
It knows that it
will last but hours.
Would that Man
were like the seas
Which only dances
in a storm's breeze!
Would that he
be like hard ground
Trodden...
... but a sprout is found!
Would that he
be like a fire
Warmth and sparks...
... his heart inspires!
He could be a
mountain range
Solid and in peace arranged.
Would that Man be like the sun
Shining down on everyone!
But Man is not like nature's best
As this world will attest.
If he'd look at her
then he would see
Then, finally,
he would be FREE
(C) The Raven
(C) SoulSurvivor
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
Sara L. Russell, 30th November 2015, 17:00pm
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Let the man and the woman be free to choose one another in marriage;
For therein lieth domestic accord.
Let the woman be free to obey the man solely out of love,
only because he deserveth her love through his loving kindness,
therefore she loveth him above all others (with the exception of God).
The man must, in turn, deserve her love; and if he does not, by reason of cruetly,
the woman may flee, with God's blessing, never to return.
✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿
Let the man and the woman live and work together in equality;
For woman is the greatest ally of man.
Let them pray together at the holy temples of the Lord our God,
kneeling side by side in devotional acts of love and worship.
There is no room for oppression in the House of the Lord;
no flowers can bloom in a garden of burning thorns.
Be gentle with one another; or else incur the maelstrom of God's holy wrath.
✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿
Mark this well, brethren; cut not the fragile Flower of Life.
A woman's body is sacrosanct unto herself and unto God;
therefore mutilate her at your peril, for the Flower of Life
is also the Flower of Love. Herein is a font of ultimate power and purity.
No man can exist without the prior existence of woman,
for out of the body of woman cometh the infancy of man.
Whosoever causeth harm to this bloom shall be punished by God.
✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿
Let the men and women of the world be free to express true love and desire,
For out of desire cometh the sweetest songs and most joyous of dreams.
Bring forth thy children in the blessed spirit of love and gentleness.
Be not warlike in your dealings with outsiders; negotiate the ways of
free trading through cooperation and sharing.
There is enough land, grain and livestock for everyone.
Be tolerant and fair; let tolerance guide the destiny of mankind.
✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
where did my clouds go?
the sheep-like
the candy-floss-shaped
the cotton-made
the sugar-tasting
the light-footed-type
the cauliflower-silhouette
the joker-carved
the clouds you extra designed for me
a little before
the astronomic warlike mushrooms
erupted?
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Every month
I am reminded of my fertility.
And while I feel physical pain,
I realize that of my emotions is
In the same vicinity.
I want my unborn child to know
That this life... Is like a funny show.
That while I'm unsure of what
She'll look like or he'll look like,
They come automatically into
A world that beyond their control
Will feel warlike.
That their future friends who bear
A darker skin complexion
Unfairly face the utmost rejection.
That their future friends
Who love the same gender
Get judged on their decisions
On who they love and if they happen
To be transgender.
But I want my child to know,
That this judgement and hate
Will always be up for debate
That when she finds her voice
Or when he finds her voice
It's to be shared with those
Without one because of personal choice.
I want my child to know that their pride
Is to be extended, wide, and
As far is it can go.
That when they witness injustice
They'll be expected to instinctually say no.
That these differences America
Still can't accept
Are the differences that
Bring beauty in every corner
And every aspect.
My children will know of the people
Who have bloomed in the midst
Of hatred and doom,
That the grass is not always greener
And that just when they thought they've Seen it all,
There will always be people who are meaner.
But I want my children to know of love,
Unconditional love,
Of acceptance,
Of hope,
Of being anti-weapon.
I want my children to bloom,
Because as their mother was expected to,
She faced the challenge of doing so,
In a world that depicted doom.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
Afore agone times,
avaunt from material
Civilization's, was a place;
Of unbiased race. We were
unadulterated, ere the statues
Of bronze, and kaolin faces.
The heaven's were ourn graces.
Though we got separated; at the fall
Of man, we bacameth as flesh, ourn
Finger's unlocked, we took the form
Of shoes and sock's, wearing human
Skin. Though ourn soul's of old knewest
None end. We cameth together once again-
As ourn light's blended highly, we blocked
Out the dark-cut the dim. As through this
New-age technological era-we foundeth one
Another. Ourn kind hadst been separated through
The warlike times, though queen O' mine queen.
Again, O' tis again; we foundeth each-other.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose)
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
The chimp and the monkey
Were fighting rather funky
About who was the greater ape.
Along came a killer
A monstrous gorilla
And left both their mouths agape.
Then a talented gibbon
Wearing a blue ribbon
Played a fine hurdy-gurdy.
A local photographer
Insisted he recorded her
When he said “Watch the birdie!”
Monkey see, monkey do
Is a childish kind of game;
Like one-upsmanship and chicken
And going to prison,
It often turns out the same.
Hello, wake up and smell the smoke
You’re burning down your future.
Your school-ground behavior
Has gone rancid in flavor;
You boys need to pull yourselves together.
In their pugilistic oblivion
The warring simians
Might have fought until perdition.
Had not their mates protested
Their battle got arrested
Due to their marital conditions.
You see, even dumb creatures
Understand the features
And benefits of a nice residence.
What a sad kind of animal
Makes his home life pitiful
By setting a warlike precedence?
Monkey see, monkey do
Is a childish kind of game;
Like one-upsmanship and chicken
And going to prison,
It often turns out the same.
Hello, wake up and smell the smoke
You’re burning down your future.
Your school-ground behavior
Has gone rancid in flavor;
You boys need to pull yourselves together.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
We must march, my darling
over there beyond the seas
up the mountains steep,
the world we seize.
So impatient, so young
fresh and strong,
full of pride.
We take up the task eternal,
All the past we leave behind;
not for us the tame enjoyment,
piercing deep primal need.
Till the sound of
far, far off
the day-break call.
Yet a passing hour I yield to you, as we go
Oh resistless, restless
Oh beloved
Oh my breast aches with tender love
I am rapt! with love
Delicate mistress,
starry mistress,
fanged and warlike mistress,
we must never yield or falter,
on and on,
moving yet and never stopping
All the pulses of the world
Falling in, they beat for us,
steady moving
Never must you be divided
Holding together, move united
Sweet silent lovers, you may sleep.
My soul and body,
curious with dreams,
wandering amid the shadows with the apparitions
All the dazzling days
all the mystic nights
Has the night descended? Do the sleepers sleep, the blanket on the ground?
have they locked and bolted the doors?
Was the road of late so toilsome?
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 5:59 PM UTC
Undulating by the beckoning of the wind,
Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins
Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets
Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak
Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms
Visceral is the movement of the procession,
Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill
Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is
Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero.
Warlike, the battle up the slope claims the lives of those already claimed
Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict,
Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
A little child on father's knee
Looked up at him with hope
She really wanted for to see
Through his telescope
He bent the lens down toward her
So she could place her eye
Then directed the tube upward
So she could see the sky
She saw a sphere with mighty rings
Another with a spot
But a strange and awful planet
Gave her pause and thought
For it was black and yellow
A putrid sort of green
She'd seen dwarf stars
But this, by far,
Was the ugliest she'd seen!
"What is this one, daddy?"
The girl asked, quite perplexed
He put his eye upon the lens
And saw why she was vexed.
"Well, my little daughter
There lived a warlike race
They were mean, and didn't seem
To see their world's grace
So they just destroyed it
Now it has no worth
We call it Garbage Planet
Once it was called Earth"
So from her single eye
She shed a single tear
And shook her oval head
Her father drew her near
"Don't worry my darling
Don't worry in the least
That warish race is gone now
and now we are at PEACE."
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/28/2016
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC