"warlords" poems
//// • ||
<>
\\
/ \
###
I
I done seen everyone
///
Too little food
Over population
----
What do you think is gonna come ?
//////
We walkin in a daze
We tryin to be free
The WARLORDS
and BANDITS
Runnin the whole place
////
The fear of dyin
The lose of dignity
The child of compassion
Is cryin
///
We keep talkin as if somethin might be done
///
I done seen you hidin
( I done seen everyone )
••••
Too little food
Over population
Fukushima death honeymoon
///
Gather up the remnants and stand and be
A lover of life till the end
---
In full sanctity
A world of pure wonder
•
A world
Of purest possibility
Becoming Love
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
I
Tomorrow waits in the dried plant bones
splintering balcony karma
next to the ****** galatic twilight.
Moon poems paralyzing yonder
one color chess matches on transcended leather
--thigh laughter buried alive in rubble
under fifteen cushions of red flesh.
Let's go wave our bottom banners undying
in the realm of lifetimes and its spontaneous chases.
Plethora inhales
from one-legged warlords under fragrant wash pillars
obstructing the pilgrimage
of wrapping my stranger
around a blade. The second blameless pantheon
of Christianity.
II
put down the flowers,
thought scars
from a thirsty delusion
that taste the industry instruction
deep in meditation spoons
that pierce the sides of students. Heaven rains/*angelic ************
on the obscure sail drifting towards the horizon
--a mad-religious shape
from the bottom banners undying
III
there isn't even the smallest incense
that the earth's door shortens,
an attempt in debt
to defame the impregnable summer
with washroom axes
on the grape's night before you and I snap.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
Wizards, witches, and warlocks
Charge nurses really,
Isn't that ionic
And yes I really do think
Much more intelligentsia than wet nurses
But everything has a time and place
Expressionless Gene
Wilder
And warlords destroy beauty and intelligentsia chasing a lost or stolen dream
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
Sitting in traditional wooden pews
back in the mid-2000s,
a guest priest from the heart of the Congo
delivered a homily in broken English
about how his country had been torn to shreds
by warlords who control that region's
vast and valuable mineral deposits.
As the priest spoke in gentle passion,
a sea of sympathetic white faces listened
to him describe the rapes and murders,
the poverty and oppression.
One middle-aged woman in a yellow dress near the front
quietly sobbed at the reminder of true suffering,
a torture greater than mere death.
Out of a sense of courtesy
or possible humble generosity,
the priest did not disclose the minerals
that had brought on such gluttonous violence
were the very elements that make our electronics
flash and glow as perpetual escapes.
Instead, the priest requested
we pray with him
for future mystical solutions
to immediate physical problems.
As we filed out of the church
the older woman who'd wept
discussed driving to the local mall.
Apparently, there'd been a sale on mobile phones.
The crisp spring breeze had dried our tears,
and the power of the almighty dollar
wiped away our curiosity
and our short-term memories.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC
When the heroes die-
And good men go to war;
Who will swat the flies?
And who will clean their sores?
In the dawn of destruction,
We seek peace in death machines.
In the wake of extinction,
We seek peace in annihilation.
I fear for my children,
And their children as well-
For this generation of men,
It's safe to say they failed.
When the heroes die-
And good men go to war;
Who will swat the flies?
And who will clean their sores?
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
I am victim only to constant distractions,
restrictions, prescriptions, vicarious factors,
as various factions of elitism prescribe defeat
to the common man; the hard working talented
beaten upon by the self driven commerce land.
Businessmen, crooks, warlords and bankers;
victory purports itself the higher moral ground.
******* the world, lie on the crimson sand.
The brevity of riches in led laden ditches,
trenches v armistice; one man’s control over
cadets and lieutenants. Equality it seems
is general ignorance, propose roll reversal
and receive corporal punishment. Capital
interests will be met with bursaries, bail
out the banks and return to your knees,
put out your hands and beg for your feed.
If the top three percent own more wealth
than the lower half put together while
politicians claim to be fair-weather,
conclude that sincerities amiss, that
your representatives are on the pay roll
of profit driven lobbyists. Career crazed fat-cats
couldn’t care less if you're in tattered garments
or there’s a hole in your dress, their polished
boots carry them from vault to vault
while we fill another with oil-baron asphalt.
As social repression pushes populations
science progresses, enabling armed forces
to kettle us, cut us off and circle on horses.
Power-shifts across the globe become jaded
by investment with private militias and fascist
supremacists seizing resources from war
torn villages to fund their crude sourced
morality, migrants and refugee families
are vilified by ignorance forged in cynicism
caused by the inequality of education.
Here lie the symptoms of infinite regression,
hold mirror to gene-pool as it replicates
the same flawed equation, as populations
expire and conspire so does the problem.
Bombing a country without repercussions,
is as likely as a breaking the waters surface
without sending ripples to the adjacent atoms.
These are the dark ages of social stagnation.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
_Munching, crunching on a bone,
The trolls of Langwood growl and moan.
Through feral mutterings and drivel,
They gulp and choke down last night's grizzle.
In their cave on rocky mountains high,
Their scaly skin cracks from air so dry.
Once human men poisoned by greed,
Transformed into ogres for their misdeeds.
They prayed on people of modest means,
Until our good sorceress intervened.
She protects our land and keeps us safe,
From warlords and bankers filled with hate.
Condemned to live long foul lives,
The trolls of Langwood miss their wives.
For they now resemble their truer selves,
Forever denied the beauty of men and elves._
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
The Afghan army insisted things
Were more secure in 2013
But they had to close down the schools
One man said the Taliban threatened to attack the schools
Now the men fight with Soviet era weapons
The American troop levels reduced
In one village
The people can farm and work freely
Because of patrols by the Afghan police and
The police took over the patrols after the Americans left
The police report what is going on to the military
The people want clinics and schools
To be built
The army leaves day to day security
In the hands of the National Police
The Police Chief says
They have gained the trust of the local people
And they discuss how to punish the warlords
May God be with the national army and police force
May they protect the people and keep them safe
Some Afghans
Living in Pakistan
Were forced to return to Afghanistan
After a school was attacked in Peshwar, Pakistan
The Afghans suspect
That local officials are taking advantage
Of the situation
To expel unwanted refugees
More than 33,000 undocumented Afghans returned from Afghanistan
In the first six weeks of 2015
Even some registered refugees
Have been driven out of Pakistan
Many returning Afghan families have nowhere to go
In Jalalabad, the closest big city
On the Afghan side of Torkham
Families pitched tents along a canal
Lacking any other resource
Their children pulled turnips from a nearby field
The most reliable source of food
One woman is worried
How her children will fare
They no nothing of the country
And what it is like
Their is great mineral wealth in that country
Perhaps that is the main reason why
The U.S. has plans to stay there
For an extended period
I doubt life for the Afghan will ever get better
Or be more secure
The Taliban are there to stay
33% of people live below the poverty line
I doubt that figure will ever improve either
Even if the country prospers from their mineral deposits
The common man won't benefit
Well, that's just how the cookie crumbles
In Afghanistan
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
Offence has no real validity,
Yet it is used to justify the taking of lives
Is there one, that the world does not offend
If so that person has not lived or felt,
Warlords, rapists, racists, murderers and those who are cancers on society walk among us daily
Those who profess to know the will of god and act on his behalf,
Perceiving and executing unhelpful dogma that infects our reality
The words respect and correctness have become harbingers for cowards,
As our muteness silently strips us of our freedom,
Apologies are offered gift wrapped in fear
Sticks and stones still break our bones but pictures and words now **** us**
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
With eyes of black obsidian
And eagle's beak of nose
Black turban of the Taliban
Worn everywhere he goes,
Warrior of God's mountainside
Mujaheddin, known by name,
Pashto is his verbal tongue
And Allah's quest, his fame.
Razored knife in braided belt
Long"Jezail"musket points to sky,
A gimlet glint to garnet gaze
One thoughtless move , you die.
Gliding fast from rock to rock
Gazelle like in his easy grace,
Silent as an adder's strike
Assassin black with turbaned face.
For centuries invaders came
To vanquish this stark land,
Persians,Romans, Russians
And British redcoats tried their hand.
And recently the Yankees
Came with automated war,
To find themselves engulfed
And fleeing for the exit door.
Inexorable Afghanistan
Has bleached their bones as one
Vendetta for the insult
While there's air to breath and gun.
Like Shah Massoud, the warlords
Descend from mountain cave
To slaughter all who venture
Be they terrified or brave.
Tribally disconnected
From Islamabad to Kabul,
Tajik versus Pashtun
Versus Koranic Islam's rule.
No prisoners are taken,
The women always use their knives
And ravines echo shockingly
As tortured slowly lose their lives.
But the sunsets are glorious
Valley mists by morning rise
And row by row of fractured peaks
Rise in grandeur to blue skies.
And the children croon to goat herds
As they graze high meadow's green
And above the taloned goshawk glides
Ever watchful and unseen.
Hulks of Russian gun ships
Litter valleys and the plain
And the ghosts of many nations
Walk these dusty roads of shame.
For the legacy of the Afghans
Is a ****** litany of war
And the road to their tomorrow
Is paved with promises of more.
Marshalg
Wanganui
30 December 2009.
www.worthyofpublishing.com
www.hellopoetry.com
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
Will my heart ever know contentment?
Will my soul ever really be still?
Will my desire ever really be completely and fully to love as my God loves?
Will I ever know more than the constant struggle against evil?
Will I ever meet those who truly desire the truth?
Will I wallow in self-pity, resentment, and an obnoxious desire to gain knowledge?
Will I desire love, gentleness, kindness, self-control?
Will I live in the moment, and not be lost in hopeful dreams of tomorrow?
Will I commit to what has been put before me, or will I selfishly wish for a situation which I deem better?
Will I follow the steps of the one I call Lord, or will I simply make Him a feel-good-friend?
Will I live by faith, or live by security?
Will I seek out equality as opposed to prosperity?
Will I look for those who are lost, and offer them a way to be found?
Will I live a quiet life, without ever making a sound?
Will I treat my God with reverence, or have I already lost respect?
Will I listen to the cries of the broken?
Will I answer their desperate call?
Will I give up my life to live for others?
Will my desires matter to me at all?
Will I make the sacrifices a disciple must make, or will I allow myself to fall?
Will I live my life the way I hope to live it?
Will I live by God's commands?
Will I seek to blot out injustice, and offer deliverance to all?
Will my cry be to destroy the wicked, or to save the broken?
Will I reach out my arms to the hurting?
Will I embrace the crack addicts, prostitutes, pimps, drug dealers, and warlords, as though they mattered to me most of all?
Will they matter to me at all?
Will my heart break for the millions trapped in slavery?
Will I answer their desperate call?
Will tears fall when I hear of death, pain, and destruction?
Will I react at all?
Will my heart move when I hear that faint call?
If not, I would rather not live at all.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 12:54 PM UTC
"Don't tell me the poets ... "
I write poetry that is both incorporated
And incorporeal ... and un and un and un
It is done
On the pad : and off
Hop - Lily
On the tailgate
In the truck
Boots on the ground
In the muck
Put on your Carhartt's
It's time to get *****
Even better
Grab your Old Man's work clothes
Finish the job
That He didn't want to start
Don't tell me the poets are ******* crying
We're living
And we're dying
Careful though
The warlords have come into the jungle and slaughtered before
But we live again
A little more angry
A little less wise
--> **** **** up, juveniles
Shoplifters of the world ...
untie
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
Benedictine Warlords
Hold ceremonies in ballrooms
Tie knots in dying children’s hair
Demarking havoc to succumb
Red X-es on trees
Placating these
Monsters
These scumbags
These treasons
Against a muck they scoured
A much maligned superfluity
Of words, of thoughts
Of feelings
Of devotion
Sympathy
What of it?
You’ve heard my ideas on living
You’ve killed my attempts
Superavero
Veni
Superavero
Now go, before you learn what life is
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 7:12 PM UTC
Ship is sinking but no one wants to know Love is thinking, but it’s scared of the glow Submarines where warlords and tech gods go… Ship is sinking but no one wants to know
Babies blinking before their whole lives blow…
Elders warning, but no one wants to know
Death is forming a strange prison of gloat…
Ship is sinking but no one wants to know
Time is ticking, but we’ve put that on hold
Weather’s wilding - some relief from the groans
Photos fading, the ocean bottom’s *****
Ship is sinking but no one wants to know
Sun is calling but no one wants to hope
Rainbows form differently, still no one takes note…
Sun is calling but no one wants to hope
We’ve bought the idea that humans are a slope…
Somebody finally feels good in the smoke;
Hand turns the dial higher, but dreams they’ll never know…
A whole world that’s sick and tired and inspired -
A picture of sad old pirates shrunk in their attire…
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 11:48 AM UTC
Red dirt footprints tell this story,
follow them in to battle.
Follow them to their graves
for being brave little soldiers.
It's hard to hear these silent knights cry.
Invisible pawns,
serving a king in a game they are too young to understand.
The only shooting stars they wish upon
are warlords, whose bullets light up the night sky.
How are these boys supposed to become men?
All snakes, no ladders.
Thrown in at the deep end with lions and wolves,
these cubs don't stand a chance.
This is a whole new jungle book,
one with so many birds with clipped wings,
too many saplings cut down before their time,
an army of children letting clips ring.
Deprived of the bare necessities.
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 4:56 AM UTC
Philadelphia warlords slip sideways in a cantankerous bed of grout.
The mind denies what the body acknowledges
in its treacherous games of hope and wait.
Quickened footsteps beat mercilessly on the pavement in a forward-backward pattern
that helps no one and speaks to shadows,
yet sacred bloodlust and cramping desire
provide an outlet for the city lying at his feet.
Only a fool speaks softly in a time of war.
Rebellious minds harbor fugitives in the explosive hour of the darkening sun
Allowing wandering eyes and covered whispers
towards holy crosses, ***** on a distant lawn.
Dark faces and shortened noses appear at twilight to provide refuge
from the "war goin' on outside"
taking our own
and beating them senseless with shoe-polished silverware
and books on secret societies.
Yet aside from the divine and acknowledged kinship between us
lie two drunken, disorderly dreamers
with false hope of vows and six-digit salaries
buried beneath violent shouting over fragile egos.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
You are excess of my goodness when am done with my badness
I love you Africa in excess for your excess of problems;
Poverty, wars, warlords, diseases, hunger, famine
And cataclysms evilest eating away your terra firma
Like a desperate Tiger on a capsized boat,
Your riches in history of slavery and heritage of colonialism,
In the excess of your global bleeding that makes me love you more,
Your excessive black ugly humanity in the explosive population
of useless human beings; barely illiterate and blunt in knowledge
Buried deeply in the starkness of crude and vulpine culture,
These bestow to me the synergy to love you O! My dear tarzanic Africa,
Your excessive cult of dictatorships that glitter in aura of democracy,
Sending your sons and daughters to miserable powerlessness,
Devoid of governance in abundance of power and money corruption,
Financing and cementing torture chambers for the voices of reason,
Building my pedestal on which I stand to execute
My cornucopia of love for you dear Africa, an avatar of Satan,
As you are prone and spread eagled in a defenseless stretch
Against all the ****** condemning your self to ideological turmoil,
I still do love you in supercilious superfluity my dear Africa.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
I think I left a domesday device
in big yellow storage-
no the grimoire, Doktor Dee
had that, think he lost it while absolutely ******
on K cider. Losing all his teeth.
The pages are scrunched up, trodden, sodden
on some minor wasteland path, probably in Coldean.
You know, those treacherous corners of *******
resolutely and hopelessly parked upon by a dog ****
Papa Lebron's been making it rain down
most of Lewes Road,
but it never floods.
Leads to the sea, you see.
Old warlords sit on monobloc chairs
outside the garages they rent out
with their war chests & loans,
gesturing slowly across the way to each other.
My shoes, my jeans, my jacket,
all falling apart.
What I need is to raise a
good old army o' the dead
and take those rusty garagesm
store them for ransom in Big yellow Storage and
wait-wait-wait
for the bounty to roll right in.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 6:24 AM UTC
I am exhausted by the endless pontification from
Professional apologists for every form of
Bad behavior from the protected class of the day.
I am tired of hearing from people for whom
Race / *** / color / creed / disability / ****** orientation
Is a hammer and the whole world is a nail.
I am weary of politicians passing laws
They neither read nor understand
And of the media that gives them cover.
I am fatigued by the endless lecturing from talking heads
About the need to strictly adhere to political correctness
And their attempts to quash speech and rewrite history.
I am haggard from having to deflect the constant, blatant,
Insidious efforts at indoctrination from the self-appointed
Thought police peddling propaganda masquerading as news.
I am burned out from the galloping gall,
Of apologists portraying criminals as victims,
While ignoring the harm done to their actual victims.
I am tuckered out by the double standard,
Of some racists who hide behind a perpetual cry of racism,
As the only acceptable answer to every difficult question.
I am petered out by having to listen,
To the mad ravings of newly arrived Representatives,
Barely out of diapers proposing ideas from The Twilight Zone.
I am drained by the injustice of heroes attacked as monsters,
Monsters treated as heroes and proudly worn on T-shirts,
And those who stand for nothing but take a knee for the National Anthem.
I am sapped by traitors who marry terrorists,
Name their children after other terrorist warlords,
Then demand the right to to come home to the country they betrayed.
I am worn out by life in a world ruled by madness that expects me to
Nod, pump my fist in the air and march in lockstep to an imposed
Drumbeat while ignoring the man behind the curtain orchestrating the show.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC
The American dream
Is a Bentley
With some shiny thing
Selfish arrogant human beings
Wanting more and more
While some places could use a doctor
Plumbing of any kind
Would be mighty fine
And something to eat
Well that’s like a treat
The American style
Has us throwing good clothes away
No need to save
Or share
No need to care
For someone else
Only numero uno matters
In other places races just wish
That the police would cut their ****
Stop pointing guns at them
And shooting their children
Or that local warlords
Would leave their children be
Democracy is just a pipe dream
The American way
Strives to separate us
In competitive groups
Desensitize us
And dehumanize the other
In other places people share
Out of love
What little they have
They are glad
To give to another
So who is civilized?
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 8:20 AM UTC
Listening to
A Youtube series
On the history of China
Starts in Imperial China
During the days of the warlords
China looked to Russia
To help them drive out
The warlords
And in exchange
Chinese communists would
Be accepted
The nationalists
And Communists
Worked together
To overthrow the warlords
I had a bowl of oatmeal
Small oranges
And Trader Joes
Honey Nut O's
I don't work that much
I'm poor
And happy to be that way
No plans to
Move out
Or to pay rent
I'm going to do
Exactly as I please
If they try to kick me out
I will stay at the park
I have a house key
But they would never
Do that
Because I help out
Too much here
Besides these people
Will need my help
In their old age
I like to study China
And Russia
I figure one
Or both of these countries
Will attack America
One day
Fun to learn about them
I live near the mountains
I like the mountains
A day with my friends
I had recently
It reminded me how much
I miss them
And how much time
I spend alone
I enjoy podcasts
And documentaries
I've never had ***
I dream about
Beautiful caring women
Their hair adorned
With Lilacs
And daffodils
Their sweet scented
Honeysuckle
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 11:34 AM 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
Ladies and gentlemen,
Boys and girls.
The story I bring is one to tell,
With Dragons and beast from far away lands,
Witches and wombats and beast from the sands.
Golums and ghost, great goblins gone gruesome!
Mighty warlords that would survive if you nuked em!
Werewolves so powerful that they consume the night!
Don't worry, no vampires to ruin the plight!
Bombardments of beast, broken skulls, bad burdens.
A tantalizing tail if ever you've heard one!
Zombies so evil, your skin crawls with every word.
I'm not lying when I say that the fear is obsurd!
But before I give you this recital,
I ask and I beg, I need a **** title!!
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
Everywhere we went,
we rode shotgun,
carried one too.
We were home wreckers,
housebreakers,
misfits riding on the edge.
We came with sledgehammers,
battering rams, metal-knuckles,
some disappeared for interrogation.
You should have seen the head splitter,
he went back to the world,
they turned him loose again
into the general population.
Bright-eyed bushy-tailed bucks,
we forged into no man's land,
miles & miles of golden desert sand
was the mainstay of that virtual wasteland.
A traditional-home of the kingdoms,
warlords counting their money,
that **** wasn't funny.
I never laugh at horror stories
or disbelieve fairy tales,
they might be real.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
and the warlords!
we walk here we walk there
we do this and do that
we sleep we fornicate
it doesn't feel like it means a thing
----
we meet we touch we
pretend to care
we part we cry and
it doesn't mean a thing
------
the warlords!
we
the slaves
-------
it doesn't feel like it means a thing
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 11:36 AM UTC