"warlord" poems
♦ ♦ ♦
She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
As I lash out like a wave crashing upon the sand,
destroying the castles built by hand,
destroying moral like a warlord on a killing spree,
a nuclear explosion which no one can flee.
For nothing escapes my grasp,
as I am the infection which spreads so far,
choking your voice until it is merely a rasp.
Please remove me from your life,
as I am here only to cause strife,
like a cancer in your heart,
you can't quiet get out,
always wondering "when did it start?",
what caused this drought?
But do not fear,
for it is not your fault,
let me be clear,
I am like this by default.
So love me or leave me,
it is up to you,
but you can not change me,
for I am evil through and through.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
Old scratch walks up and down in this world.
Not some misunderstood romantic tragic figure,
but the father of lies.
Old scratch stands behind the curtain
and raids the caravans loaded down with good intentions
He is the wicked warlord in the horn of Africa.
He is the self serving dictator with ridiculous hair
murdering his family in paranoid fits
while his people eat bark in hungry desperation.
He is dengue ebola, ecoli, the plague..
He is rage and landmines in the soccer fields
He is dysentery and influenza and krokodil.
Old scratch walks to in fro in this land
with infectious breath and violent laughter
He is the womb of grief and lost hope.
twenty thousand crying skeletons
with bloated bellies blinded by thirsty flies
each and every day old scratch ushers them
to the only relief they will ever find.
while another twenty thousand wait in line.
We give it a face, a voice, and a name.
I'm so glad we have old scratch to blame,
otherwise whose fault would all this madness be?
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
He is the lion strength
He is the Pride of Africa
He is the unbending tree along the ocean waves
He is a different being
He is the African warlord
He is the Affican hero
The African knight
He is a leadership model
He is a piller of the African walls
He is a continental delight
He is Our true Legend
He is the African Legend
He is our true hero
Goodnight African papa
Goodnight African Nelson
Goodnight mandela
Sleep well in the bossom of the creator.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
*He lets me get broke...
Just to make me richer
He lets me get weak...
Just to make me stronger
He lets me look foolish...
Just to express His wisdom.
He crushes mighty-warlord Goliaths
With a shepherd boy, a sling and a stone!
He frightens entire Syrian armies
With four lepers, no RPGs, no riffles!
He teaches kings "Humility For Dummies"
By making ***** out of Nebuchadnezzars.
I ponder some of the things He does
Terrible! But I find them amusing
And while I chuckle at His wondrous works
I'm reminded that He loves me dearly
And He added a touch of humor to the bible
To express His lovely smile on my unworthy face!*
© Raphael Uzor
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
It all started at the beginning,
When people thought I was missing,
Because I stopped preaching,
And the broken sword stop singing,
Force myself to stop thinking,
Lost hope to keep wishing,
So the birds stop whistling,
Sitting in the middle of the plain fields,
Use a sword that you can’t wield,
Defending the land with a broken shield,
Controlling power over a dark seal,
Being evil makes you feel sick,
I rather love than to be rich,
Not gonna rush life through a glitch,
Press the start button with one click,
A Broken Sword is one thing,
I always loved it when the world sings,
I can’t stop thinking about you,
How come you are so true?
I’m sorry i ever doubted you,
My broken heart always loved you,
Keeping us together with super glue,
I won’t hurt you I promise you,
Every single day when i go outside,
I meditate,
And I feel like i’m lost in the sky,
I suffered with the mistakes i done in the pass,
Cutting yourself with a broken glass,
Pain hurts but it never last,
Let me look into your bright blue eyes,
The Broken Sword is Elder wise,
Not being manipulated with dumb lies,
Like hell,
My mind is so mixed up confused,
Forget you life, ***** you!
Dreaming with a decent meal on my plate,
Promising myself not to hate,
Show I'm different I'm real not fake,
How am I going to make this world a better place?
Shadow is the same as darkness,
You're a shadow in the night,
I been fighting all day,
I'm tired I see death in sight,
World got me on my knees praying,
Sometimes I feel like I'm begging,
Hoping for no more insanity,
At the end the world just keep rotating.
Life is just how it is,
I can’t make it better,
It’s getting cold I need a sweater,
My eyes are going blind,
After so much that is going on i’m surprise the sun still shines,
I always wanted to fly away with the wind,
That person hates his life and shedding his skin,
The Broken Sword is the legendary sword,
The Broken Sword was used by a WarLord,
Slice from left to right,
Throw one punch get knocked out,
Good night,
Have a lot of times when you just don't feel it,
Have a lot of times when you just can't be it,
Have a lot of times when you just can't see it,
Have a lot of times when you just can't believe it,
The Broken Sword is like a god Sword,
A sword of hatred,
A sword Of Justice,
Of Vengence
Of Life and Death,
The sword has been fighting for thousands of years,
Now it has been destroyed,
Nowhere to be found,
Maybe it's a good thing,
I didn't say it was meant for evil no I didn't.
Finally The Broken Sword is forever hidden.
One day The Broken Sword won't be so broken anymore,
Whenever it gets lifted,
We all get that feeling that “No way, I felt it!”
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
Fierce faced warlord's
frantic antics were mere ploys
to hide from the world
his real face; the most
frightened was he, of the lot.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
Today the world flipped upside down
like a teapot out of balance or
a warlord out of steam
and our structure in all of its dense
crystalline time
s h a t t e r e d
to the music of clouds, gobbled up raw earth
and breath and water and choked
out a little ball of us, perfect and
productive
it had no place here so
today the world flipped upside
down to shake us off like
the ants we are but
forever drifting through
daydreams is
nice because
I enjoy your company
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC
Broken skin and tattered shields;
Frozen souls wander a fiery battlefield.
One with human senses notices the pain,
Stops to the side and pushes off the dust and grain.
A warlord who is hurt himself is doing this!
I reach with my hand only to have it torn off my limb.
You are a necrotic soul:
Blissfully decaying, alone and cold.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
This is the end.
Can you see it?
Count to ten.
12345678910
Did the numbers blur together?
Good; that's good.
They're meant to be like that-
like each number is the same as the last one.
It's the same way that angels look down on the earth
and all us humans look just about as unique, and special, and completely individual
as dust or ants do to us.
We're 7 billion tiny insignificances.
This is the end.
Have I said that before?
Look at me.
Look at me.
You can't, right?
These are just words.
You can't see me through the words,
but it's just the same when you look at your sister
or your best friend from primary school or
the bin man with the funny moustache that reminds you of your grandfather's ashes.
You think you're seeing them, but you're not.
All you do is look.
This is the end.
Is this getting too repetitive?
Take deep breaths.
Inoutinout.
Feel that tickling against the back of your throat?
That's called regret.
You're puffing yours out and huffing everyone else's in-
Like the Big Bad Wolf except this is just the
Big Bad Pain that humanity is nursing
because babies have just been born
and old ladies always wanted to travel to the moon and never did.
Now there's not going to even be a moon to want to go to.
This is the end.
Can you hear me?
It's loud out here,
too many explosions.
Remember when no one on earth worried about explosions?
We'd bomb half the world and that would be that.
War about as commonplace as
milk or bread in supermarkets,
you mourn that you're never going to
get the chance to see world peace or send
that money you were going to give the refugees.
You can't have world peace without a world, after all.
This is the end.
Can you feel how it burns?
It's like you're a Viking warlord or a witch on a pyre.
What's your opinion on Viking warlords?
It's funny because you always used to have something to say about everything that didn't concern you, but you're opening and closing your mouth without a word about Viking warlords popping out.
Close your eyes before you claw them shut.
Take deep breaths.
Inoutinout.
Count to ten.
123456789
Oops. Too late.
This is the end of the end.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 7:02 AM UTC
The oppressive winter, a fierce warlord
revels in his victory over the summer,
forcing all that was once living
to bear the heavy burden
of his frost,
confiscating our colors,
giving us only ice as payment.
However, in some obscure corner of this land,
Mother Nature hides,
waiting to restore our hues, our animation-
cowering, shrouded in secret.
Somewhere, she waits anxiously,
plump with child,
to bring us what we crave so terribly:
Spring.
Somehow, she is certain that
Spring will restore someone’s lost joy.
Now it is just a matter of time.
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 11:55 AM UTC
Is it truly human nature
This fear of the unknown?
We see aliens among us
And we'd rather be alone
Not look inside their homeless void
To seas of stars they drift across
From planets now destroyed
Systems rendered lifeless
By battle droids we have deployed
And Death-star machinations
Despot warlord tractor beams
Cause anti-gravitations
Of resource, culture, sovereignty
Drained into the mothership
Warp-drives of Lady Liberty's
Distortion of democracy
To us their eyes are oil
Their tongues are suicide
Their offspring are jihadists
That we have crucified
The future of their species
Ethnic cleansed and slaughtered
Galactic-level genocide
By humanoid marauders
Reducing sentient creatures
To ion-cannon fodders
Then activate the forcefields
Preventing the invasion
Of refugees we've added
To the anti-life equation
As worm holes of our hatred grow
Infinitely to all we know
Different in appearance
But of the same design
If we'd but open universal
Borders of the mind
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
You
are the living breathing expression of a singular moment in the unyielding march of time
You
are unique as the shape of a newly formed crystal emerging from a storm filled cloud, finding its way to a bed of freshly fallen snow
You
are the flow of a river running through canyons, soothing edges from clashing stones, sparkling now and then in the rays of the sun and the sated beams of a harvest moon
You
are the beat of a drum in a warlord's prance and the breath of a flute in a diva's dance
You
are the present, the instant, the essence of the distilled day
You
are nevermore
You
are forevermore
You
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
You Of Troy Lives Forever
The last tide deep
I came to rescue my queen
for the fever of my king
did bid me as his warlord
Your eyes I could dive into
your voice when you say my name
I know you of beauty and intellect
for you of Troy lives in my heart forever
I am hurting because of circumstance
and my therapists you know my ways
don't judge this broken Greek
for in Sparta he was a solider
and the ***** meowing will do fine
He has no idea that the war is over
and in the distance of soft words
he knows a Helen when he see's one
for he is that star, her one true
he that claims to be a star
Know my name
know you met Gods only
her sword of fury
her poet Mozart, poet to the art
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 5:19 AM UTC
Certainly it's ***** season in Afghanistan,
them folks are smokin' them tar *****
I mean those people are trippin',
shootin' **** up like the Fourth of July,
warlord-style,
just like them drug infested gangs
in Oakland,
Detroit,
South Chicago,
St. Louis.
Even them cops don't go in blind.
IED what?
Bad mammer jammer.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
Like an anthill I was, at birth.
The sprouting of a tree not yet mighty.
The trickle of a river not yet strong,
but within my mind were dreams.
I thought to myself...
When will I flow?
Every touch,
every word,
every color,
every note,
every taste,
was another grain,
another pebble,
another boulder,
another hill,
another expansion to my range of view.
And though I could yet call myself a mountain.
Though streams wove their ways from my eyes,
fresh springs of tender breaths,
trees rooted deep enough to whistle in the wind,
thoughts beginning to form,
I still spoke the words,
“When will I flow?”
I caressed the clouds and their silvery charm,
hugging my neck, like heavenly trinkets,
a beard of trees splayed down my chest and back, like emerald robe
and
ah,
rivers, splashing and bubbling and whooshing and running,
like naked children tumbling down from innocence,
giggling all the way
until they learn that the world hungers for blood.
The clouds at my neck are a vice at my fury.
They blacken like mists of soot
and crackle and moan.
They roar and spit fire upon the earth.
A tree splits and becomes a beacon of wrath, a torch
setting other trees aflame.
Oh, all nature is the same.
There is a time for peace and for war.
But when the flames settle.
When my skin is charred and creviced.
Then sprouts the green fingers of spring.
I am the mountain.
I command the seasons.
The winds are my whip.
The Earth is my chariot.
The clouds are my helm
and lightning my sword.
Guardian or warlord?
Lover or slaver?
Is it an illusion?
Am I at the whim of the seasons?
Does man define my beauty?
Thence comes the answer.
I flow.
I once flowed into me,
Growing strong, I was the mountain,
But the flow is leaving me now.
What leaves me is what I can do without.
The flow becomes my power.
In dying, I gain control.
Strong is my pen,
my word masters the sword
and
for every beginning
there is an end.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
Tarac Ridge Warplane crashes February 8-10 2018 write up by Nick Armbrister
I have had an interest in aeroplanes and history ever since my dad got me into planes back in 1980. He took me up to air crashes on the Pennines/Peak District/Manchester/Yorkshire/Lancashire area of England in the early 80s. There are over fifty crashes alone here ranging from the war years and later. We also went to wrecks in the Lake District and Wales.
In 2014 in the Philippines I went to more wrecks. I Googled Bataan warplane crashes and found out about the LT Stone P-40 Warhawk and Sgt Kurosawa Ki-27 Nate dog fight and subsequent crashes. This read like something from a Battle or Warlord comic.
Over the coming weeks I put together an expedition there. I talked to Kevin Hamdorf who was one of the group who found the P-40 wreck. He gave me much info and introduced me to the guide, Noel. Without his help the trip wouldn’t have been possible.
We went to the crash area at Tarac Ridge on February 8-10 2018. This was the 76th anniversary of it. We went to the P-40 on Feb 9 and the Ki-27 on the 10th.
The crashes are over a kilometer up altitude wise. We had to hike many hours through the forest/jungle and mountain to the area. We camped at the lower campsite. There is an easier site at the top of the mountain near Kurosawa’s Nate which is less than a hundred feet below the area. Because we never camped there we had to ascend the final hour to the summit each day.
The Warhawk site of Stone is hundreds of feet below Kurosawa’s in the forest on the mountain side. Little remains today but bits of alloy, Perspex, glass and other small fragments. We found these. Lt Stone is still listed as MIA Missing In Action. One of our group, Mike, searches for MIAs. We took hundreds of photos of the area and of our search.
I ventured up to the Nate site of Sgt Kurosawa on the last day of our three day stay. It was at the summit. We had to go through thick brush/jungle to the location. Kurosawa hit a rock face and his plane was fragmented. The engine used to be there but has since been removed. There is less at this site than at Stone’s P-40. We found bits of metal, Perspex and bits. Looking at the closeness to the summit, I realized that Kurosawa almost made it.
Nobody but God and the pilots know who shot down whom and who was on the other’s tail that day. The result is the same: two warplanes wrecked and two pilots dead. Maybe more answers will be found on future expeditions. It was a great experience to go there to Tarac Ridge, Mariveles, Bataan. In time I hope to return. This was my first international warplane trip. I want to go to a Grumman F-6F Hellcat at Capas next.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 2:51 AM UTC
The poet warlord
Dwells in the caves of thought
Enter my realm, if you dare
Come see my truth
Unravel my stories,
dissecting each word
Still to never know my secrets
I speak in riddle,
You live in rhyme.
I am always ahead
That one step,
Which you are behind.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC
Warlord, Captain, ruthless man
With a lust for blood and death
Many died as they looked in his eyes
And drew their final breath
The sea was his and his alone
Ferocious as a storm
He sent so many men below
Nowhere was safe from harm
O, the cursed crimson captain
He ruled the mighty seas
The cursed crimson captain
Brought kingdoms to their knees
The cursed crimson captain
He sailed on winds of dread
Many enemies fought, many enemies fled
For the rest would end up dead!
One night, shining swords were drawn
And clashed in the light of the moon
Deadly was the battle fought
T’was there he met his doom
For he fought with The King’s Commander
The battle proved most fierce
And blood spilled over the Pirate’s hand -
The Commander’s breast was pierced
And as the dead man fell to the deck
The Pirate heard a crack
And he himself was forced to his knees
By the musketball in his back
O, the cursed crimson captain
He ruled the mighty seas
The cursed crimson captain
Brought kingdoms to their knees
The cursed crimson captain
Was slain, yet did not know
Which daft and dastardly ******* cast the stone to claim his throne!
Awoke he did to a room of black
A cell of darkness, windows barred
Enraged he became at the craven attack
That nearly pierced his wicked heart
Lust for vengeance filled his soul
As he stared out of the barred window
Only to see, horrified
His ****** violent, crooked life
His ship was stained with the deepest red
As he sailed on through a sea of dead
And he could hear no other sound
Than the weeping wives of husbands drowned
And as he wept he began to bleed
From his back and from his chest
He grew weary, needed sleep
And turned to see a golden bed
O, the cursed crimson captain
Saw clear his legacy
The cursed crimson captain
Collapsed onto his knees
A bed of gold with silken sheets
It beckoned him without a word
The scenes of death began to fade
And the weeping was no longer heard
As he lay upon the bed
It began to change its shape
And grabbed his arms and legs and head
Until there could be no escape
O, the cursed crimson captain
He ruled the mighty seas
The cursed crimson captain
Brought kingdoms to their knees
The cursed crimson captain
Was a fool to sail indeed
For ****** fame in bloodier ways
And leave naught but a life of evil deeds
The room began to flood
Until it was washed away
To reveal a sea of blue
Reflecting golden rays
And his bed was now a casket
A casket made of gold
And was cast into the water
So deep and dark and cold
And as he closed his eyes
Under the crimson waters
All he could do was pray
That he would be Forgotten.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
Noise-synced delirium
Acidic injection
objection! Too loud
impassive perception's
important to render the silk from the fiend
The synths coming at you
with sawing and beams
and there, pristine
the song of the axe
the splitting of atoms
they're tuning the parallax
revving the tendon
the chord they depend on
the pipe of the warlord
and howl of the warhorde, stampeding
pounding the earth it's a drum
and the thrum of the piper
who's flashing his guns
and valkyries, mounted,
join in the rush
and then hush
the clouds seizing
the chance to combust
and to shed a tear
or a thousand drops
of ecstasy
onto the trampled crops.
Mar 17, 2025
Mar 17, 2025 at 7:19 AM UTC
Through the dust storms
they say in hollow voices
will we see sunshine again
and I tell, what do you think
They run up hills backwards
they don't want to see where they are going
just to higher ground
that is all that they are perceiving
I am a child of storms
the closure never mourned
I am pure as dirt, a warlord
of sunshine and dust storms
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
Sometimes a register the damage
my body still strong but parts of me
oh god parts of me
I give to the weak and broken
God I am her sweet warlord
the last of my kind
and I will reign supreme
till the end of time
My angels are always by my side
each with a flaming sword or silver knife
so mighty and strong are my babies
and I love them as their lord should
Darkness and light are my trades
I can outlive you all plus more then a billion days
for I was created before one star was born
and I will see the death of your star system formed
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
Watch as the forgotten fall
liken to pasta off a dish fit for kings
the determination of treason
makes treasure to the true reason
By wit or way I do stay
standing fast and ardent
my pleasure is pure
and warlord my name
I carry no stigma
no need to prove
I am war child
now it's your move
But utter not, for I hear all
her might is within this frail body
and I mean to see the word through
till my mighty armies do fall
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
Hit,hit bang us
We fear no pain,
It's the life we live
We're like the dust of the earth.
From us you're made,like Eve from Adam.
We're blacks,we're strong
You can kiss us,a betrayal kiss,
Yet we're indomitable.
You can inject us with infectious diseases.
Unto death we love not our own lives.
Even in the face of death we mock fear!
Life itself is pain,we care not for pleasure!
We are necessary part of you
Deep inside of you,like blood to veins.
You can nickname us disgustfully,
Yet we rule you,from the dreams of our yesterdays hero,the freedom warlord.
You can take the world,
Take it,design it to your wish and taste!
We'ill build our own.
Anywhere we go we're home!
We're blacks,we're the strength of the world!
The pride of the universe!
The pillers of the earth!.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC