"wielders" poems
Cutting through devils flesh, bones and marrows,
Healing sorrow, it's wielders never cold or shallow,
All Divinity or Nature destroyed is healed and harrowed,
Behold, the gift of the Goddess: The Sword of Shadows.
Despite cold hearts making our world a burning hell,
Despite many angels, light bearing souls, who somehow fell,
Despite those taking pleasure from greed, envy and sin,
Warm Hearts realize The Goddess is indeed our kin,
Despite endless waves of lives and death,
Despite moments when even good has lost life and breath,
Despite the sinuous evil and creeping dark,
One receives his Sword when Healthy with Halo and Heart.
For a Sword Bold of times Old, your heart must stay warm,
Even when anger for a purge starts and your mind 's a storm,
May every plot against Humanity forever fold or foil,
A Sword waiting for you, end all turmoil.
With Knowledge gained either thought the art or craft,
Sword of Shadows, Avenging all pains, even future and past...
Only tears shed are that of Love and Joy, no remorse,
To allow our dear Goddess in our world, All rejoice.
A Sword of Shadows for Hearts Brave and True,
Our Goddess Loves all, and has Sword for you.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
Men of Reason: bold, progressive
hammer wielders, depth resounders –
shout from the helm your Godless missive
as our Bible-lifeboat flounders.
Send that Flying Spaghetti Monster,
our imaginary friend,
to the myth-conception dumpster:
let the Bronze Age folktales end.
Make the idols bow to Science.
Your progressive task: to mock –
seek that end in brave defiance.
Down with the shepherd’s useless flock !
Laser-focused human reason
serves to clarify the matter,
strips the symbols from the season,
superstitious tales to shatter.
We, mere rubes in need of crutches,
simple children, willing tools –
must be rescued from the clutches
of the fables preached to fools.
Seamless garments, bushes burning:
are but schemes for fleecing sheep…
We are plebes devoid of learning;
rouse our silly souls from sleep!
Flood us with your noontide wisdom
decimate the weaker link.
Blow away our card-house kingdom
show us Christards how to think.
Then, like you, we shall no longer
cling to ignorance and lies.
Missing links make chains yet stronger,
dragging fairies from the skies.
We shall join you in assurance
that there is no great beyond
thus no need for fire insurance
clergy, staff or magic wand.
We shall celebrate together
joyful, freed from superstition
endless, godless sunny weather:
non-existent non-perdition.
Having thus improved the light
and magnified Man’s modern day,
God’s angels will expire in fright;
the Lord shall meekly fade away.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
Once I bore unkempt hair,
a crown over a wondering visage.
Twas a time of smaller age,
when a had nary a care.
I was staff-bearing and sword-wielding,
princess from times of yore
and keeper of lost lore.
But my spirit could go only so long unyielding.
For there was a mask-wearing weaver
of a garish smile
who in his guile,
had made others a believer--
Of his wicked web of rampant lies.
This wretched thief of naivete
Left not a shade of perspective grey--
but black, without reprise.
What cruel beast of human shape
was cast down upon me?
And why could others not see
but merely question with mouths agape--
At the sins of which he reveled
merely for his stature?
Yet if done after
surely they would have been compelled--
To hear my pleas
and punish his evil hand!
And then at last I might command
my woe from drowning me like all the seas.
Alas, twas not
as I would hope, you see
for fate was most unkind to me
though of wrong-doing I had naught.
"But why?" I asked
"Princesses of yore, and wielders of old lore
they know happiness for ever more."
To that end I had been masked--
From the truth before my weeping eyes
that evil always has its say
even on the brightest day,
for peace is the keenest of lies.
Like he, the villains tall and small,
from fiercest orc to goblin whelp,
will always find fate's loyal help
while heroes are left to fall.
That is how it plays on the world's stage
I have learned and learned it well
that where white snow falls, somewhere else burns a hell.
And yet, perhaps this way is not a cage--
To conquer all of worldly ways,
For in my time--made wise--
I have come to see with my heart's eyes
one for whom this pattern sways.
He is a hero brave and strong
no prince and no knight
no dragon does he fight,
yet for him could be written king-worthy song.
So perhaps, the wicked do not always prevail,
not every time at least--but most--
and get their bitter dose
of a taste of what it is to fail.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
L'heure verte
The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine ******* Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.
At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.
Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
Aspirations
April 22, 2011
The heart and the soul are indeed tender matters.
If I were to say that I put forth all of my spirit into that which I do,
it would differ greatly from pouring monstrous strength, practice, effort, or skill into a task.
It will not suffice to simply write off emotions as such.
They carry such a weight as well as a healing hand which can either break or mend someone.
Those who claim to have experienced the extent of an exercised heart or soul are wrong.
The yearning that is required, the distant outcry for something unobtainable,
the starving blood thirst for internal satisfaction,
that which I, myself do not yet know, and am merely able to speak of due to my unusual reflection.
I should say for us all to stick to mere movements for now.
Build steps here and there, crumble foundations occasionally,
this is how one should practice in order to one day know of the heart and soul,
and should that day arrive all too soon,
one will not feel complete, but a stinging emptiness,
the resounding echo of being bare handed.
For I truly believe that the heart and the soul are the wielders who hold us tools in their hands.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
Our future was built on revolution.
A mythos of courageously vanquishing the empire.
Such is the birthright of our citizens.
Our history created us in its image.
Villains seeking conciliation
must bear the title and charge
of treason.
Wielders of swords and rifles
stand immortalized in every town square.
Liberty or Death proclaims the stone and bronze
in which they are cast.
What will be the names of these great black men,
who crush the oppression of the old revolution?
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
BOYCOTT MONSANTO
BRING BACK THE MONARCHS …
by Alice Connally Fisk
Majestic Monarch butterflies
spectacular in flight.
Vast population plunging.
Endangered now their plight
Monsanto’s toxic glyphosate
drives down the Monarchs number.
Giant wielders of clout driven by greed
count on the public to slumber.
Toxic **** killers **** butterfly beauties
as they drop from the blue one-by-one.
Roundup Ready concoctions of cold profiteers
cause our Monarch’s extinction be done…
So rally to end sweet butterfly’s fate
and bring back our Monarchs before it’s too late!
© 2015 Alice Connally Fisk
BOYCOTT MONSANTO
BRING BACK THE MONARCHS
"To make a wish come true, whisper it to a Butterfly. Upon these wings it will be taken to heaven and granted, for they are the messengers of the Great Spirit." ~ Native American Legend
Alice Connally Fisk, 11 Pineview Place, Melrose, NY 12121
77-year-old great-grandmother, lifelong poet
Kindred spirits will be given permission to add music to my lyrics and sing the song - [email protected]
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
What better place
To keep a
Secret
from
Those
Within
The Light?
I've been through
the shadows
in the
Valley of Darkness
So
I know,
You've been there also.
We live in a world
Wherein
Several of which
Reside,
-this realm
to shelter
the Treasures of
Those
Still,
Hoping,
in their
Transition.
And
While I was there
To uproot the
Despair
I'd stored,
For my
Too stern
Pride's
Veil in Recovery,
I saw yours there
Also,
Your Mane,
-shaved,
Leo,
Attached
to a
Sliver-cracked
Ego,
Hidden
Amongst both
The
Gems of a gypsy
Glowing
in the dark,
Winking
Smiles
At my
Treks,
In
&
Out,
The
Crumbling treasures
Of
the tragic,
Troubled
Someones,
Nearly
Forgotten
in their
Trying Tribulations.
Shadows
a desperate
Shelter
from
the
Thoughtless
Impunities
Sometimes
Rampant
In
The Light.
The Darkness is
Dark
In that,
It enabled,
Evades
what
Light does
Simply
by
Nature.
And
I saw,
You saw this
Too.
--
Once upon a time,
Without the
Spots of
Darkness,
That we
All
Have
Stolen away
To,
To let out
Free
Your soul,
To just
Be,
On our way
To seeing
What's
Needed.
Without the
Soft Cloak
of the
Shadows,
My blood,
We,
The Imperfect
Become
We,
The Vulnerable.
--
I saw a soldier's
Heart's longing,
Becoming
Worn
by a
Chafing
Of a
Strong, strong
Courage
A young girl's
Freedom
Too tightly
Gripping
Like thorns
Sweet Yearnings
for
A Love,
Truly
Everlasting.
--
Not all wielders
Of Light
Are servants of Light.
Some use Light
For
Their own
Devices.
So
by Cause,
Weak or strong,
Pain fresh
Or long,
We all
Have been acquainted
With
The Darkness.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
BOYCOTT MONSANTO
BRING BACK THE MONARCHS …
by Alice Connally Fisk
Majestic Monarch butterflies
spectacular in flight.
Vast population plunging.
Endangered now their plight
Monsanto’s toxic glyphosate
drives down the Monarchs number.
Giant wielders of clout driven by greed
count on the public to slumber.
Toxic **** killers **** butterfly beauties
as they drop from the blue one-by-one.
Roundup Ready concoctions of cold profiteers
cause our Monarch’s extinction be done…
So rally to end sweet butterfly’s fate
and bring back our Monarchs before it’s too late!
© 2015 Alice Connally Fisk
BOYCOTT MONSANTO
BRING BACK THE MONARCHS
"To make a wish come true, whisper it to a Butterfly. Upon these wings it will be taken to heaven and granted, for they are the messengers of the Great Spirit." ~ Native American Legend
Alice Connally Fisk, 11 Pineview Place, Melrose, NY 12121
77-year-old great-grandmother, lifelong poet
Kindred spirits will be given permission to add music to my lyrics and sing the song - [email protected]
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
Perhaps, once, across vast and prosperous lands of abundance, inhabitants of many great civilizations thrived and cared for the earth they called their own. This was the way. Then, though, cloaked in black and filth, the slim faced invaders emerged from their firm ships, this shifted. The new status quo was to comply with theirs. How dare they punish progress? This would have been preferable had the inhabitants of the land had a choice, at least, but they did not. The foreigners knew this, and strategically sickened their people with disease—how could it have been an accident?—raped them and their land, and plunged their prosperity into the dark. As the years passed, only tales of the past, the former nature of this land, were what remained. Forests fell. The ways and the winds changed. Forts flourished. The foreigners’ descendants believed they needed to form a more perfect union on their land, yet one only they could enjoy. Just like those before, these people reshaped the land they claimed was for community and fueled an empire of capital accumulation and individuality. How could we not? As the centuries counted away from that fateful fall, the agenda of ****** the land and its people and reaping the benefits remained, overtaking that of old. The natives made attempts to stop it, and lessons they were taught. How dare they punish progress? Some listened, realizing the natives deserved rights, so the new status quo was to comply and grant them compensation and rights. Molded by its newest wielders as the seats of the world, it was a model to aspire to. This was the way. Now, across vast and prosperous lands, great civilizations live in abundance with all the things they own. Perhaps.
Jan 31, 2025
Jan 31, 2025 at 8:49 PM UTC
They call you the girl made out of glass
A princess, so fragile and naive
Who cannot hold an ounce of darkness
Always the one who is deceived
You are breakable, but not weak
You are stronger than they believe
Shards of glass cut through so easily
Piercing each of their misdeeds
Every part of you is just as deadly
With every shard, you are complete
How do you hold such an honest heart
No need for illusions to achieve
Your rise to a better reign
You will become a fiercer queen
To start a revolution
In ways the world needs
A girl born from the embers
And raised within hell's heat
Derived from the ashes
Of every ancestor deceased
As you are made of glass
When you break, you do not bleed
Shaped by mental wielders
One, who was forged to lead
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 8:41 PM UTC
A dark line snakes along the shoreline
Vanishing into a towering temple
Home to the finest Michelin cuisine
The ravenous crowd awaits, raven-clad, fangs out.
Chef Yukinosuke’s obnoxiously fragranced guests
Survived his expertly orchestrated dinner with death
They devoured his fugu main course, without remorse
******* with a familiar demon, gatekeeper to hell
Muffled screams can be heard behind the rice paper curtain
A clamor of voices arises, one can hardly maintain
The merciless knives wielders, red lips kissing bone
Eternally insatiable of sins they can’t atone
For. Yukinosuke adjusts the nori bond
Of this new victim, his room will be fond
One poised drop of noir caviar in her navel
Her scaled-tail undulates, tale-tell
Signs of her struggles before slaughter.
Queen of the seven oceans served with a side
Of whipped up seaweed cream from the tide
Her breast perspiring under a life-like lotus flower.
Before her, watering mouths stare in disbelief
***** men eye her perfectly tamed skin
A woman sadistically touches her finger to her shin
Yukinosuke’s knife glistens, still free from grief.
Marred mermaid munched at midnight
Lusterless tuffs of salt-streaked hair
Vanished into thin air.
A trampled on silky red ribbon in lieu of a gag
Remains. Her turquoise scales to be made into a bag.
April 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 6:13 AM UTC
.
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?
Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?
On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.
Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but wielders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
.
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 5:00 PM UTC
.
He loved to **** of in front of the girls in the lunch room
When told to stop he sued the school
Claiming this was just his ****** preference
And orientation
//
And he won in court
••
Now
Some girls really got hot watching him
And started knocking his hands away
And ******* him off !!
And then some boys
And then some trans gendered catagories
To difficult to describe
)(
Some ****** devianted whip wielders entered the scene
///
They finally had to close the school down
They finally had to close the country down
But don't worry
DONALD TRUMP will **** on us all
With his holy water
And we will be saved
X
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC