Black Diamond Night (a coal miner’s cemetery)
Where the ebony, we call “NIGHT”,
Old black rocks sit under the twilight
Diamond shape eyes unclear and lonely,
Sinister through hostile spirits only,
I stumble across these stones without a bone
A solitary confinement alone,
From a barren zone the light transcend
Only in time, our minds will mend
Endless valleys and limitless stones
These bones- these bones they sit alone
The abyss, of rotten cavities with no fill,
A system no power can unwell the drill
The blood that passed over without a spill
Peaks collapse into a spellbinding chill
They are trapped! They are trapped!
Another diamond in the rough
Is what they left
Obsessed with the dead without a death
A death that impatiently awaited their last breath
Gushing, into the gems of dead chemistry,
Diamonds holding its own intensity,
These lonely graves, on top of sycamore hill
Coal mining hearts that will never heal
If only shiny eyes could see?
These lonely bones inside of me!
Moving in every direction possible
Flowing in every direction noticeable
Sockets without eyes.
Stones hiding under the cobalt skies.
The mad sparkles, the madness dies.
Throughout this mess, we held in the blasphemous
Intervening lots of gems so miraculous
Into a stone of self-religion,
A black night filled of legions
Acknowledging the soul's capacity of free
Near the frail bones that sit alone,
Alone they sit in a morbid home.
Through a path unclear and all alone,
Troubled by the visions of my own stone
Where the night takes place in the dark
The ebony rides under the diamond bark
Along with the coal miners who never got to see the;
“Diamonds of another day!”
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012
Over the top lads, for old Blighty! Hold the colours high!
Say a little prayer for me, for this summer day we die.
My brothers from the ripened field and blackened mill, shop floor,
Your brother in a killing field to fight a rich man’s war.
In bloodied mud and shattered wood, fight legions of the brave,
Unwitting youth, you’ll do your duty until you’re in the grave.
A sergeant greets a fresh-faced boy, “welcome to the slaughter!”
Here you die from three diseases, bullet, gas or mortar.
In arms we fight together and in leaden hails we pass,
We die amongst the filth and stench that once was verdant grass.
“In the morning we will remember them” we hear the leaders call,
Those fickle words of history, will not remember us all.
Copyright © Howard Bull | Year Posted 2009
Once upon a time, many years ago,
There was a sweet and lovely - red, red Irish rose,
That was plucked prematurely, from the garden vine;
A budding beauty, taken in her prime.
She was laid to rest, upon the death, of a lovers dream;
Upon a chest of ebony, where lie, his would-be Queen;
Lowered deep into the depths, of the church yard cemetery;
Her scarlet petals, wilting in the summer breeze.
Then the earth begin to fall, like autumn leaves;
Upon her petals, and the chest of ebony,
From above her tomb, where stood the grieving groom
Weeping , weeping, like a willow tree.
Then the sky begin to disappear, amid that mournful cry,
As tears - from above, fell from that lovers eyes,
And came to rest, like dew drops on that Irish rose,
As she disappeared beneath the earth, there in his grief below
In time, he laid a stone of ivory - upon her grave;
Etched deeply - with the promise he had made:
To love his Irish Rose - forever and a day.
The years and all their seasons came and went
And a million lonely tears were cried and spent
Upon her grave where everyday he kneeled and prayed
And dreamed of her until his dying day.
The epigram has long since faded on the ivory stone
That still stands alone upon her grave
Where from the million tears of love he gave
A seemingly impossible - blue, blue rose has grown.
Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2010
ECHOES IN THE STONE
No one can turn back the hands of time
Reliving the war, TEXAS her independence
The tombs so deep, where real hero's fought and fell
A place so precious, sacred in every hold
A timeless journey, with no stop to heal
To find your eyes upon this treasure's glaze
Hearing stories not found in fairy-tale books
Finding GRACE in this AMAZING place
The legendary ALAMO, over freedom, a ghost town
Walking by the thousands, beyond this land
Echoes in the stones
A painful event, UN erased
Defenders of the ALAMO gathered to unite
With their life's they put up an honorable fight
Heroes who embraced a defeat in March 1836
A battle deeply wounded overnight
Bravery in their hearts
No time to be scared.
Where the wind now blows,
Echoes in our souls.
With one touch, embrace the south wall
Hearing whispers, sad echoes-I call
Chills traveled down my spine
Standing among all heroes who are still buried,
In their home at the ALAMO
Echo's in the stone
Proud of the ALAMO.
Echoes in the stone
Where a hero still stands tall
Heroes even beyond their last breath,
Death being their only bail
Heroically fighting with their own will and liberty
In hopes, that justice would prevail
The ALAMO rebuilt, standing strong
Full of life, in the center of San Antone'
The voices, the scream,
Piercing the stone
Fighting till their death
"Remember the Alamo!"
The echoes in the stone, a hero's home
Locked inside each stone of eyes
Heroes who died,
Cried their last words
"VIVA THE ALAMO!"
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2010
In churned up soil the poppy rose
On top of death, still steadily grows
And in our minds we see the crosses
That lie in rows and count our losses
Blood that drips from tiniest bloom
Beloved children, lost from the womb
Their essence blown upon the earth
For infinity, will show their worth
And so they marched by decree
A war they fought, so we could be free
The poppy, how we remember them now
So in silence we do reverently bow
One single day, just once every year
To remember all the horror and fear
To give thanks and praise, to those in need
Who saved us through unselfish deed
For so young when they said goodbye
With no idea that so many would die
In Flanders Fields where poppies grow
Innocence, now lays buried in each row
For those that did return safely home
Their spirit lost and so had flown
To fly away among the peaceful skies
With friends and larks with carefree eyes
In the thunder hear the roar of guns
Calling to all our native sons
Arise, arise, from sleep once more
For once again, there will be war
In Flanders Fields, the poppies grow
They cover our loved ones, buried below
Like a blanket, they protect all within
From a world that is ravished by sin
More souls will join them as the years go by
More wars will be fought, as the lark does cry
More fields will be filled, with our dead
And poppies will mark their graves in red
"Lest we forget and more shall die"
"In Flanders Fields our loved ones lie"
Copyright © Bernadette Langer | Year Posted 2006
There are times we are left to cope
With situations that drain our hope
Leaving us full of despair
At how some people just don't care
About the evil that they do
To good people like all of you
We are left to somehow face
That in mankind there is disgrace
And those of us left alive
Must find away to survive
As you pick up the pieces of your life
Without your mother, father, husband or wife
And some of you God forbid
Without the love of your kids
We must band together with a brotherhood
Show that in this world there is some good
Because we are together in this deal
We try to help each other heal
We seek in each other good advice
And offer each other sacrifice
We hold each other in prayer and song
As we continue to re-build the wrong
Because what else in the world can we do
Except let the light of good shine through
The evil darkness and despair
Of a catastrophic lack of care
We want you to know you are not alone
Think of America as a giant cone
And all of us are funneling through
Our prayers and hopes to all of you
Posted for Nathan's 9-11 contest
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2009
Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainess risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good!"
I thought I would work with the devices starting with A.
whether I place or not, I would appreciate your feedback. I am not an educated poet, so when it comes to poetic devices I am like a teen groping in the dark.
Written December 29th, 2015
Original word pairing
For me Poetry is food for the mind, sometimes it is an appetizer to whet the appetite, or it can be full course meal that takes a while to digest. Other times it can be a sweet desert that tantalizes the senses. I hope this piece offers some mental engagement and nourishment.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015
The Twelve Angels of Beirut
They huddle together in the heavens
Muttering amongst themselves
Confused as any human down below
We bestow upon them the ancient teachings
Not once, not twice, variations to please all walks of life
They may choose the ancient books they follow
They may keep the traditions yet must adapt to modern intellect
Such literate men who seem not to read
Who can cast his eyes at his child?
Feeling nothing but love and endearment?
Who pray tell us is displeased to arrive at his home at dusk?
Angels we twelve have nourished
We have showed you both love, morality and compassion
Yet ye who divides faith, chooses battle
You so easily prefer to drink blood
Rather than bestow a red rose upon breast
Olive trees so ripe have no meaning at all for you
Like a tree that reaches the sky
All things change, as evolution’s duty dictates
Yet you fight to keep perceptions frozen in time
You cover a woman’s face
When its you who should hide in shame
Modesty is how we bestow good deeds to strangers
It is how we look at our hearts in the mirror
A woman’s beauty should shine to the heavens
Competing only with a mans debonair style of chivalry
Honor you mother and father
Honor your tribe
Not with traditions and rented cloth
Honor with your whole heart
Feed the poor and kiss your enemy on both cheeks
The skies will become your friend
We sit here waiting in torment and anguish
Crying to the heavens that surround us
We gave you hearts and minds
You return us blood and bombs
We are ashamed of our duties
For we have obviously failed you
Forgive us, you tribes of the three branches
We are the twelve angels of Beirut
Whose tears give you your sea
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
In great respect of the band I grew up listening to
as sure as Mom passed down Saturday Chores
for I had been chosen to scrub bathroom floors `
Yet a familiar sound would bring me to keep scrubbing
The red album, The blue album , The White album
Then .. Abbey Road , always remembering the sad look on
Ringo's face , something hard to understand underneath~
I get it now, what you were saying all those years ago ,
the many sad lonely tears , secret tears , secret fears
For Maxwell's Hammer was a real one . It wanted silence
Going back ..remembering when John Lennon died
I was in Arkansas saddened with the world .
Then seeing his face saying " Drag isn't it "
No .. this was not my hero in music and song .
he was a stand in hired William , he filled his shoes
bringing diversity to create so much beautiful music from loss
One left standing , alone;; grief struck on back cover ~
The other identity hidden, tried to be part of ..coming together
his world of secrets
He to suffers today , in fear , Faul~
Too many years gone by .let us tell the Truth. Let us be free
The very sad long and winding Road ~
Let us Bury our real Paul.
No more " Mystery tour "
No more fear
Let him be in peace ~
Inspired by " The Last Testament of George Harrison , Is Paul Dead ? "
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013
Copyright © Vincent Rossi | Year Posted 2012
We knew , it was if a moment stopped in time
hearing the news before most of the World did
He loved to fly his plane from Colorado to Monterey Bay
He was a avid golfer at Pebble Beach respected
He had loves and passions from many places
deciding to fly low through the overcast red sunset
Not only did he love music and inspire all
He loved his Plane , he will always remain a beautiful Soul
The next day it was confirmed ..all saddened
It was John Denver's plane that went down
Today in Pacific Grove stands the Memorial
So Kiss me and smile for me we will ~
always in loving memory
OH babe , do we hate you go ~
Inspired by ; contest in Music and Loss of an Artist
"Leaving on a Jet Plane "
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013
Words would fail me if I might assay
To articulate the courage of this man.
The numerous facets of his dossier
Are subject for song in a distant land.
Awakened in youth from serene dreams
By the melodious blast of Israel’s horn.
Tall standing received earth’s esteems,
Accepting God’s charge wherefore he was born.
His marble image cleaves the bluest sky,
And his halo is now a crown about his brow.
His peace of mind earth can no longer deny,
For he has now fulfilled his earthly vow.
It can only suppose with the midnight of the mind,
What may be reason’s welcome morning star.
One day he may return even more divine,
With a holier task from God who reigns from afar.
There’s no thunder heard from Sinai’s height,
And we see no parting waves at Jordan’s bank.
We have followed no truer soldier in our darkest night,
And now are marching on bravely in file and rank.
Rolling on in faith toward the welcome dawn,
The good fight won he’s earned the honor of Moses.
Now trekking the soul’s desert to the divine throne,
He follows God’s light up the street of yellow roses.
Copyright © Albert Price | Year Posted 2011
I was as high as the eyes could see
A giant dark cloud of pure misery
I seemed to roll as one with the wind
A giant black wall that had no end
I stripped the land and left it bare
Of the lives I destroyed, I didn’t care
Those who stayed I covered in dust
As their children died I broke their trust
From my hell many families did flee
Left to wander homeless in misery
I changed the word these words are true
Black Sunday brought darkness on you
I didn't see any direct link but just goggle
pictures of the dust bowl and you will see
what i have written for Brian's Contest.
The Dust Bowl - Alexandre Hogue - 1937
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2009
A shaman prays, the Spirit hears
While a Seventh Calvary regiment waits
Unarmed, a tribe endures a Union's hate
Their animosities, and their fears
As the blue coats begin to circle...
Their wrath begins to circle.
That shaman saw but a single Spirit
That was split between different beliefs
He could accept the white Spirit Chief
But the white men would not hear it
They would not blend their God
With the red heathen God.
Anger explodes behind powdered shot
Spraying death from muzzled shame
Cruelly winning their ill gotten fame
Painted heroes claim a tainted spot
History claims the Ghost Dance...
As death claims the last dance.
A Dakota creek runs darkly red
Forever silencing the Ghost Dance
A chanting shaman dies in his trance
One hundred fifty Sioux lay dead
Now, only blue coats remain...
Only the blue remain.
A creek ran red with Union shame
When a shaman called the Spirit Great
And that Spirit did not hesitate
He fell on Wounded Knee and came
To take His people home...
His people swiftly home.
Timothy I. Brumley
Copyright © Timothy Brumley | Year Posted 2011
“Once very near the end I said, 'If you can -- if it is allowed –
come to me when I too am on my death bed.”
“Allowed!' she said. “Heaven would have a job to hold me;
and as for Hell, I'd break it into bits.”
Oh God, God, why did you take such trouble to force
this creature out of its shell if it is now doomed to crawl back
-- to be sucked back -- into it?
~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
The division should be acute,
the before her, the with her,
the after her.
There is this constant
rattling of doors, though they remain
locked, in theory. I think of her
as gone until I turn a page,
read a passage of pompous
dialogue and she returns,
My Joie de Vivre,
entertaining me with that puckish
She smiles in the dusk with crusading
colours that bend dark horizons,
changing clouds, unexpectedly.
What was I before Joy?
Content, pleasant, productive.
But was I alive, aware of life,
its blissful rhythms?
the heart which awakened stone
no longer beats.
Finally, I understand.
Lessons are sharp things
which infect both fresh
and aging amputations.
What do I do with this knowledge?
It is like learning a language
that is no longer spoken,
a long monologue
unbearably forlorn, painful.
Faith dismisses hauntings,
yet she does so in daily degrees.
O, the sweet ghosts that peer
from those notes,
my name underscored in margins.
Why is there only one glove
in the sewing box?
Agony hunts me
in the garden. Perfume almost,
but not quite a match.
Some rooms have snares.
I dare not open a kitchen drawer.
Pain waits there.
The specter of my former self,
a staunch gent, so sure
of Heaven's role,
that cold bloke follows me
into the shadows,
land of man’s rage
and despair. There is no pretty
death, no words can comfort
the ravaged left behind,
There is no poetry
in our departing.
I only pray
there is Godspeed in mine.
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2012
The pro-Hanoi Vietcong many years ago
In the 1950's Diem's government they'd overthrow
All opposition was crushed killed or jailed
These elected ones to their people they failed
This Buddhist country so religious in belief
Now politically torn apart, impending future grief
In the early 1960's with the CIA in place
Discussing with Vietnam's generals, Diem, assassinated in disgrace
With the Vietcong army, growing from strength to strength
Another communist foothold, going to any lengths
In 1965, with 3500 U.S. Marines in place
By December of that year, 200,000 in many a base
These U.S. Marines, in their defensive mode
Over the coming months, peace would soon erode
With the Tet Offensive upon us, and the "Battle of Hue"
The Americans were now involved, this bloody war now brews
One decision to end this conflict, came in 1969
Nixon sent 18 B-52s, bordering Soviet airspace line
He wanted to show he was capable, to end this bloody war
But as the months and years progressed, the body count would soar
The anti-war movement was gathering strength, also in 1969
But the "Green Beret Affair" started to undermine
A U.S. Army platoon raped and pillaged, the village of My Lai
Where civilians were massacred, and many left to die
In 1970-71, Cambodia incurred wars wrath
Where they and the country Laos, were in the U.S. bombing path
Also in 71, there was the cutting of the Ho Chi Minh trail
But arms and supplies got through, this mission to no avail
Later in the same year, the Anzac's withdrew their soldiers
The U.S. also reduced, many of theirs from Vietnam's borders
In 1973, Nixon declared the suspension of offensive action
The Paris Peace Accords took place, peace with this warring faction
Between the years 73 - 74 under Trà, the Vietcong grew in strength
There was no mass offensive, to lure the Americans to their trench
Gradually they marched to their target, to see their enemies eyes
To their city of Saigon, now over a million humans have died
The average age of the American to die in this bloody war
Was just nineteen years old, never knowing what they were fighting for
So many came home from this horror, leaving themselves behind
Because so many came home different, home with a different mind
Even to this day, many Americans look back and ask
Why their elected Congress, feed them to these tasks
The sad thing about Vietnam, it continues to this present day
Where governments make decisions, asking guns to hear their say
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2010
Of dust, of dirt;
suspended, lost, remarkable.
Of no merit;
forgotten, under the tall trees.
And bury him;
No accurate history serves.
buried in sand,
buried in dirt.
His face will carry forth,
past this miserable state.
Of dust, of dirt;
frozen in time.
Copyright © Adam Lefaivre | Year Posted 2013
How to stop swift and stealthy time that brings death?
Must we think only of victories, not defeats
and deny that all we posses will be lost as wealth?
Disease and age are our enemies...doesn't health control heartbeats?
Spread those tables and enjoy your food and wine,
dance and sing when sadness knocks, indulge in a life simply divine!
Should we live in the moment as the ancient Romans did indeed:
constantly thinking of invincibility and immortality...
shrugging off days and years of dire uncertainty;
wouldn't it be absurd to embody the essence of their creed?
In South Africa Lekker is a portent of good as the word, " Omens " is;
try to include it in your daily speech and write yourself a funny phrase!
Some may say, " It's madness! " and laugh as a delirious Macbeth;
others will accept it and suddenly forget that they are going to die
by contemplating this motto," How to stop swift and stealthy time that brings death? "
God's curse on the human race can be undone, if we don't believe Satan's lie!
How to stop swift and stealthy time that brings death?
Isn't it an impossible wish for all the living who can't escape reality?
Although science offers much hope with their findings on longevity...
we are bound for our graves without a single breath!
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2013
You do not love me
Love is more than just a word
Thorns have reached their depth
Copyright © Celene Crescent | Year Posted 2010
The greatest holiday gift I ever received
Goes back so many, many years
Before my life became turmoiled
And before my tears for fears
I was a child like many out there
Torn, strewn and split of kin
Mother and father in differences
Confused at seven, wearing their same skin
For I was one of the lucky ones
To a Highland Estate I would go
It's on the west coast of Scotland
Where my holidays desired me so
Secretly I internally smiled
For a whisper of where I was heading
To live with a movie star hero
No longer my life was in dreading
We were picked up by a man so fine
His manners were an absolute joy
Regimental he was in his approach
To me, just a seven year old boy
We travelled through the village of Plockton
Crystal clear waters edged to it's shore
I knew from this very moment
Being here ebbed previous family sores
On entering his house I was in awe
Movie pictures came to my view
They were images of James Bond
At seven I was totally through
A voice called to me
Hey James! sit down and I'll tell you me
Still in circles in walking awe
This is what he told thee
My name is Patrick Dalzel Job
In the Second World War I served
But this recognition I bestow
Humbles me to it's deserve
This honour that's been given
Was blessed by a colleague in war
What desired Ian Fleming to be so striven
Possibly, what we were fighting for
We served on the same destroyer
Fighting to make the future free
His tribute, in his novels I became
James Bond, it's incredibly me
Not many seven year olds have stayed with James Bond.
This seven year old Scot's boy has, maybe I learnt?
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2012
Once again, the powers that must
In rise again in what we trust
An overseas conflict, another war
Just what in the hell are we fighting for
Families are asking, Korea has just passed
Generations again reft, how long will it last
A country in need, to rebuild again
Flags at half mast, in wind and rain strain
Once again into war, sent by the Washington Post
To send back reports to hit home the most
Military observers were the first to be sent in
Another chapter of man entering existing sin
I'm witnessing our ariel power, Lam Son 719
US planners determine their incursion, saying all will be fine
Along the Mekong River, we'll carpet bomb their supply trail
Tons of munitions and napalm, this spread surely cannot fail
Many sorties are being flown, for the wounded and the dead
Whilst Nixon and his cronies, aren't thinking with their heads
The news of losses has reached me, nineteen have been killed
Eleven missing, fifty nine wounded, more American blood spilled
Seven fixed wing aircraft, more sons in action loss
Whilst back at home more protests, fading the dyeing's gloss
To to this job that I do, I was never prepared for this
To witness such bloody scenes, and ignore that life is bliss
How can I write about a soldier, whose name I'll never know
Killed at nineteen years old, his family he'll never see grow
Or even explain to his parents, when carried from the AH-1
His body bullet riddled and limp, when lifted it bloodily run
I never went back to the theatre, called the Vietnam War
Having witnessed the wanton killing, what were we fighting for
This colonial conflict that started, us on the side of France
So many came back as strangers, many to live in trance
James Fraser's entry into the contest " WORLD OF WAR: VIETNAM "
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2011
High on the Normandy cliffs
Looking out over Pointe du Hoc
As cold Atlantic winds whisper out
The names of the brothers I left behind
Now only fine marble monument shadows
Dot the trenches and empty emplacements
As the final testimony of the fallen
Still ringing frightened with those desperate voices
Proclaiming both their lives and death
That they were ever here…
In the emerald hills of Collville Sur Mur
I can still hear the phantom naval shells screaming
Underneath the crying of men
Pulverized and dying in their comrades arms
All for the belief of the land from which they hail
While the roaring waves wash the still bloody sands
In and endless and rending cycle
That silent cacophony of brother and foe
Call out to me still for comfort and aid
Asking only to be remembered…
Copyright © Charles Fuller | Year Posted 2008
What golden fevers disease drives the madman’s insanity,
A toxic yellow shines metal, that glitter beneath the polar Aurora,
Of greed’s horded treasure of the Klondike’s curse!
By sheer brawn's heaving and hoe, did these fortune hunters so come,
Blinded fools of riches promised folly, nay to earn a king’s ransom by the
Silver pan, but instead gaining nothing except a dead man’s empty hand!
In a freezing bay of burgs of hard ice, did over loaded wooden vessels deliver
Men and machines, ready to concur this barren frozen wasteland!
Crushing waves and blizzard hurricanes, thrust against these broken hauls
Of endurance's challenged, hopes evoked unto shattered lives, leaving nothing
Behind except floating pieces of debris, and the bodies of the dead!
In safety’s sheltering harbor, the mourning mariners toss tokens of memory,
Unto their fallen comrades, as they remove their hats in respective prays honor!
Let still the vessels kept on coming, filled to the very brim with its cargo of
Humanity, those whom sought for easy riches, drove them into this Godless
Country of ice and snow!
But looking upwards unto hell's keep, these city green horns knew that the
Devil would take most of them, by the rising of the next morning’s dawning light,
On the twisted grids of freezing icy steps!
Up the steep slopes of futility’s mountains, did the desperate and downtrodden
Climb, bitten and gnarled by the frost demons of this untamed land of the forbidden,
Clinging to the dream of the yellow shine beyond!
Shovels to the grave, wooden crosses without names, all for a nuggets finite stone,
Off set by the unbalanced weight scale of life vs death struggle, on this sliding ice curve
Cutting ice pikes, and long ropes of life lines, heave at the heavy sleds of provisions,
As these sufferage's want a bees, drag their empty pockets of dreams illusions along,
These trails of schemes delusions, in this blizzard storm of mirages!
Bold is the hearts of the young and restless sprites of youth,
But in this frozen tundra of death, it is the roughed, tough individual
Whom will strike it rich with endurance's pioneering soul, to over
Come these challenges of nature’s raw awesome force of
In the future nature shall bare the scares of this gold rush fever,
The land will rise dragging the bodies of ships alpine high,
Air bounding them within the trees tops, and the graves of the fallen
Will be swallowed whole by the mighty Ocean itself,
But legends never die, yet their stories are retold amongst the fires
What golden fevers disease drives the madman’s insanity,
A toxic yellow shines metal, that glitter beneath the polar Aurora,
Of greed’s horded treasure of the Klondike’s curse!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Dedicated to my Poet Destroyer
Just for the challenage!
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015
They Call It Wounded Knee
I came, I saw, I cried;
To the field where they died.
They call it Wounded Knee;
My peoples' history.
Bodies lying, frozen to the ground;
No mourners to be found.
Children still clinging to their mothers;
Laying dead beside their brothers.
The smell of death in the air;
Pools of blood everywhere.
Babies with their heads bashed in;
To waste an army bullet on them would be a sin.
Soldiers surveying their wicked deeds;
Mugging for pictures with the "savage" breed.
Celebrating the slaughter of the Sioux;
Burial is for Christians, but for Indians a mass grave would do.
Sporting medals upon their chest;
Saying that they conquered the west.
Taking the lives of an entire race;
Feeling no remorse or disgrace.
I came, I saw , I cried;
I asked questions of why.
The people of Wounded Knee;
Could not have life and liberty.
The answer was simply said;
"Kill the animals until they're all dead".
"Let my God sort them out";
Land is what it's all about.
The place where the mighty Sioux fell;
Is a white man's hell.
Once was a place of pride;
The field where they died.
Darlene Doll Smith
Copyright © Darlene Smith | Year Posted 2015
a life He knew,
buds of His olive tree-
next time perhaps,it could be you..
or me !
Inspired by Abe's photos
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2010
It was the first day of the new school year
The children of Beslan had no need to fear
In anticipation they eagerly left home for school
Some walked hand in hand with Mom and Dad
Others skipped along the well known path
Excitement filled the sidewalks and the streets
As fleeting thoughts collided in mid air
Some thought of new friends to be made
Others of old friends with whom to play
A little sister left at home
Of baby brother asleep in his crib
Much too young to run and play
Some favorite lullabies which Grandmama sang
As Grandpapa played his violin
The first day of the new school year
Mothers beamed with such pride
How their little ones had grown
Never would they ever want to let go
Others gave in to their children’s cries
‘Mamma, I do not want to go to school.
May I stay with you today?’
On wings of hate evil had already arrived
With diabolical plans and bombs in hand
To maim and murder the children of Beslan
Who became captives in their little school house
After the dastardly deed was done
Dreams and aspirations lay splattered 'cross the floor
Childhood innocence forever vanished!
On the day of internment the sun in his temple hid
Earth wept pouring rain, her bitter tears
As Mothers’ voices cracked and strained
Cried out loud, their children’s names
While others pleaded in vain for death
Fathers in a state of shock stood stoically in the cold autumn rain
Wearing faces carved in stone
The blood of children cried out to Heaven
Where at the throne of mercy
Sits a God who is just
Though their bodies lay broken in tiny white coffins
On angels' wings their souls did ascend
He will judge all men and their deeds
All, on one appointed day
A tribute to the children of Beslan, No. Ostetia, Russia 9/1-3/ 2004
Copyright © Annalise a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2009
"Sing to me, Muse, of the wrath of Achilles." - Iliad, Line 1
Western dreams were born in wrath,
Overmastering all the noble aims of reason.
The bloom of youth, cut from its proper path,
Fallen wasted in full season
Torn and silent upon fields of fire,
Betrayed by elder men's desire
To force their goals on one another,
Stolen from each grieving Mother
Against the tides of pain each strives
His misery to quench, his hate to smother
As they pay for lies with lives.
Home and hearth abandoned for ambition,
The promise of tomorrow dies on foreign shores
For shadows' sake they are cast to perdition,
To drown in the shifting seas of wars.
The Enemy as confused as they,
Affrighted and divided by the fray,
Consumed by fear in the battle's heat
The dead lie dead, come victory or defeat.
The living, stung by memories' knives,
Against which they in vain entreat,
Go on to pay for lies with lives.
The world turns on as the game is played,
Each dawn finds men so much the same.
The debts accrue, are bourne and paid
Each seeking honor for his name,
And a home secure in peace.
Yet men move other men, and will not cease
To bind them to some formless claim or cause,
To bid them die to right the flaws
Perceived in others of like kind; their wives
Bide in fear and live by tyrants' laws
As they pay for lies with lives.
Noctambulate, the pawns of powers fight,
For cause of country weakly understood;
They move from day to death's eternal night
Directed by the wills of men of wood.
When all has ended, what has been acheived?
What meaning comforts myriads bereived?
The world will turn, and others rise
To fill the void, the numb surprise
Of lives unlived, of weeping eyes,
Of silence heavy with unanswered sighs
For those who paid for lies with lives.
Must so many lines of history
Be so far writ in blood,
So tainted with tragic mystery
Trammeled by iron stained with mud,
Its pages overrun with acts untamed,
Acts of slaughter by the vast unnamed?
So many deeds set down in red
Give cause to rest uneasy in our beds.
Though the past recedes, the present shall reprise
The accusatory march of the silent dead,
Parading those who paid for lies with lives.
Who dares leave our collective guilt unclaimed?
Were not our many wars for subtle reasons framed
By minds fit for much finer uses,
By hearts that might have scorned such abuses
Leading to this madness - who denies
Those self-delusions that should leave us shamed,
That make us pay for lies with lives?
Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2007
Imagine lakes of dreams
Blood contained streams
Imagine oceans that behold undiscovered beings
Imagine human life depended off of cheers and games
Man design’s umbrellas
And eventually would play a part in acid rain
Imagine not wanting to smell another rose
Or touch another soul
Because of despair and shame
Imagine in the mist of your demise
You have the passion to rejoice and sing
Imagine driving pass shattered glass
The interior is soaked with blood stains
Your mind can't comprehend the fact
that it's a dead family in the next lane
Imagine dreaming for freedom
As a result by your neck you hang
Imagine for the sake of progress
You whip a man on his back and call him a slave.
Rage, Pain, Fortune, and fame
You don't have to imagine this
Because that's what life brings.
Copyright © Andre Sanders | Year Posted 2012
Until His Red-Heart Weeps
In his forest, the Indian avoided the trappings of the white men;
There his footfalls upon soft and clean, untouched virgin ground;
A place where his tired soul can finally reach ever deeper within;
Nature then generously gifts him its wonderful, wilded sound!
Each morn, Big Turtle rears its big, bright and shining head,
Casting light for his keen eyes to find game to provide his needs;
That hidden meal on hooves resting in its distant undercover bed,
In the thick of it, far out in the heavy brush and tall weeds.
As he travels down the long and winding fast river courses;
He scours the terrain for sites to set his Native water traps,
Day is hot and he races on without benefit of white man's horses,
Through and over tough obstacles never seen on white man's maps!
O' how his big heart so fervently loves this huge wilded place,
Where his freedoms are only limited by gathering his family's food;
He roams in Nature with no scary war paint upon his dark red face,
And now, his Native spirit and heart are in a calm and serene mood!
Unaware of the sad fate future holds for his family and his tribe;
This warrior wrestles only with meeting survival's high cost,
Soon evil white men will arrive to steal, lie, cheat and bribe,
Until his red-heart weeps, family dies and all is tragically lost!
June 15th , 1989
Turtles play positive roles in the folklore of many Native American tribes. In the creation myths of some East Coast tribes (such as the Iroquois and Lenape), the Great Spirit created their homeland by placing earth on the back of a giant turtle. This is why some contemporary Native Americans refer to North America by the name "Turtle Island." Turtles are a symbol of the earth in many different Native cultures. To Plains Indians, turtles are associated with long life, protection, and fertility. In some Plains tribes, a newborn girl's umbilical cord was sewn into a figure in the shape of a turtle to ensure her health and safety. In other tribes, turtles are often associated with healing, wisdom, and spirituality.
Big Turtle, A Wyandot (Huron) Legend
3. Scour | Definition of Scour by Merriam-Webster
transitive verb. 1a : to rub hard especially with a rough material for cleansingb : to remove by rubbing hard and washing. 2 archaic : to clear (a region) of enemies .
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016
They come from a different era
where patriotism is a just cause
they would fight for the true blue
never mind who was right or wrong
they stood staunch and egos proud
their chest out, backs straight and chins up
they come from an old style of thinking
I fight today as my father and grandfather did too.
fighting for an eye for an eye tooth for a tooth
I will die to serve my country even if its a lie
if you try to invade our land
we will come and conquer you
we are defenders of the truth
but the old timers forget
and the young ones have a narrow point of view
there was a time when the immigrants were Irish, Italians and jews
racism was rampant and that hasn't changed
Christians today still preach
'Jesus is savior they say repent your evil ways
pushing their rhetoric just like the roman empire did
amazingly America seems to be doing the same
history seems to repeat itself time and time again
war, religion, oil and what we perceive as freedom
we invade again and again and call it defending democracy
yet the intelligence comes from spies and other governments
because they have shared interests in different types of policy
they all carefully choose their words
because one slip of the lip could trigger war as it has happened before
todays war on terrorism is a campaign designed to instill pain
and un-trust to drain our resources from us
And our leader claimed up front this is not a religious war
yet he paraphrases from the bible we'll get those evil doers
you see bush fooled our religious leaders too.
he used their belief in Jesus he tricked 'em all just to get their vote
he claims he's a born again Christian and this Christians embraced him holly
but then one day bush spoke to Jesus and asked what to do with Iraq
Jesus responded Invade that country
Now dont get me wrong Jesus was not about war
he taught of peace, love and compassion
however his message has been twisted and turned over time
and history shows the hands of Christian religious leaders are always bloody
because they twist the truth to control dictatorship is always the goal
Bush had been plaining war before a judge handed him the seat
on his first day he signed a bill into law prevent any criminal charges against him
Copyright © Ron Flatow | Year Posted 2007