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!”
:) my own personal favorite poem
battle of the sexes
~~MONA LISA SMILE
Picture Oil painting worthwhile
Leonardo DA Vinci, look out!
What is she really smiling about?
(((The popularity of the Mona Lisa increased in the mid 19th century
because of the Symbolist movement. The painting was thought to
encompass a sort of feminine mystique.)))
~~JAMES EARL JONES
His award winning voice, rough like stones
Darth Vader, Mufasa, stuttering jubilee
When I die can he be the one narrating my eulogy?
(((I love James, I'm a star wars freak... <--- yup that's me)))
~~SADDAM AND BIN LADEN
Were very bad, bad men
Causing chaos throughout America & Afghanistan,
HATERS OF THE USA: they should be called the Arab ku klux klan
(((Occupation: Terrorist~ makes me wonder if they went to the same school.)))
The world worse killer
Commander of the oxymoron Nazi
Losing at his own game of Yahtzee
(((The Most Hated Murderer of all time)))
~~YOUNG ANNE FRANK
Her diary worth more than any bank
Famous Jewish victims of the Holocaust
Her legacy teaches that hate is an exhaust
(((Anne Frank's diary remains one of the most moving and widely read
accounts of the Jewish experience during the Holocaust.)))
~~JOAN OF ARC
Angel in an era so dark
an epic hundred year war
her visions is what she payed for.
(((Joan of Arc, also called the Maid of Orleans, a patron saint of France
and a national heroine, led the resistance to the English invasion.)))
Can really sing
Stand by me...
But, can he sting like a bee
(((BB KING~ could not help but wonder if he was a lover and a fighter.)))
Is no piano sonata,
Madonna wannabe, is she.
Watching her videos make me laugh till I pee.
(((Lady Gaga is Unique as can be!)))
for battle of the clerihew
Somewhere in midnight’s nocturnal hallways
As the chill settles down with starlight
While the world stands silent in waiting
There abiding with his flock walks the shepherd
Hopeful in thought and yet weary of foot
He moves his charges through the bite of night
His hope in the coming dawn lifts his burdens
Filling his minds eye with warm musings of tomorrow
In tones they beseech the day and challenge darkness
But through this constant cycle of shine and shadow
The guardian of the flock stands steadfast and waits
The promise begins as His voice appears cherubically
Falling in fear and praying for strength of faith
The radiance in the sky softens ever slightly
Speaking of the vow and announcing the messiah
Who brings the world a love and a hope yet tasted
Tremulous breath’s as the promise is spoken
Awing the greatness with a loving and respectful fear
Silent in belief beholding the coming miracle
He stirs the somnolent flock down the slopes
To bestow upon all the gift of this divine hour
His breath brittle’s the final icy moments of dusk
He labors the trail with renewed strength of heart
Proclaiming hushed gratitude within every step
A beacon of brilliance converges in the heavens
Beckoning his faithful west toward little Bethlehem
Dropping to his knees his face wetted in thanks
Finally understanding what is gripping his soul
He sees the precarious pathway laid before him
Though he has journeyed into the unknown before
None had brought with it a promise so precious
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.
Written: June 18, 2010
Note: To late for the contest,
but I thought I would post it anyway.
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
Heros 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!"
The purple Royal banners wave above his armor's steel;
the chieftain carries his Mongolian, relentless wit,
young Genghis Khan, the Temujin, applies his sovereign zeal,
to merge the lands beneath his will, the warlords to befit.
Consorted by young Börte of the Onggirat kin tribe,
the martial Temujin receives high honors by the clans;
a skillful warrior invades the lands while his young bride,
awaits; for no one else predestined is to be her man.
The chieftain slaughters hence his passage through the western soils
invincible his tactics are, and triumphs ascertain,
advance his rule, expand his territorial rights and spoils,
while Börte, granting loyalty, in virtue she ordains.
How valued is the flight of eagles that conduct above,
depict trajectories, and soar to vanish where the Gods
embrace the sadness of unanswered prayers and bridal love,
the Royal maid in loneliness, defends against all odds?
So priceless have become their plumes upon the Mongol plains,
where the persistent Northern steppe cold winds enfold the ghosts
and Princess Börte counts her solitude, stands tall and reigns,
believing that her Temujin bestows his kind riposte!
" Support him Goddess of the moon when grooming Charon thuds
and sends the clanging of the steel, commanding thus, the souls,
to travel the descending route of coursing loveless blood,
and through the gusting of the winds, transports their saddened calls. "
© 01-20-2014, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Quatorzain, Epic, Romantic)
Subsequent the fog walls act
(dance solitaire of its white sway)
the sovereign of woods display
- adaxial his life protract.
Amidst the woods and in the haze
(diffused in air's the deep green light)
advertent nymph in veiling white
- and ancient Thracian spirits' phase.
An aisling she appeared and ere
her solitude his stare absorbed
she spelled his name - a song birds curbed
- betrothal mountains' claim of e'er.
A melody of singing aves
upon the slopes where lantern-moons
interconnected with the tunes,
- aloneness of her festal Eves.
Belike beams floated on air streams
the Gods invited while fog's soars
agremones clothe ancient wars
entwined with Strymon's seaward themes.
Aberdevines on Thracian wold
and nightingales' expanded song
the mountain mists embrace erelong
- abthane the temples eyes behold.
Her flight has reached the ether's heights
steep slopes that mortals followed thence,
amid the thymes their lives commence,
when nightingales invite the nights.
© 05-24-2013, G. Venetopoulos
I do not know?
Pride uttered its voice, afore an empty shore....
Waters embracing this moments arising
Darkened clouds within their gathering; these stirrings
Shadows of the once foretold; long ago, such reflective times!?
Glancing toward the south within this sound of stillness
Abandoned silhouettes, revisiting a ghost towns rides
As one whom awakens within a dream; a vision there to find
Deja vu perhaps; these images before my sight; beyond....
Joyful reverie, enveloping this night; thinking
An infinity left to behold; what was?!
White garments, shifting in the wind
Approaching amid such silence, those from a yesteryears
Tears, falling from their eyes....
Memories like grains of sand that, never were
Washed away; ten thousand years as a day
Swept into the sea a tomorrows horizon; this, forlorn storm!?
Peering into the forebodings thunderous lightning
Voices calling now from the north....
A cold winters chill to greet the dawning
These, tides of nevermore?!
As one whom awakens within a dream; visions there to find
Silent silhouettes; abandoned amusement rides
White garments; tears falling; yesteryears, standing upon....
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?
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He is called Red Leaf…. birth child of autumn, and son of the trees
His euphonious legend is heard in the breeze
He is young, he is strong, he has proven his courage
Standing proud against the darkness, and the sins of the reaper
His spirit was not broken, by the weight of the storm
His steadfastness will not melt like the springtime snow
He has honor, respect, and a gallantry within
His songs are his journey, he plays to soothe the wind
There is prowess, and valor in each haunting lullaby
He was taught by his elders, sad songs that touch the sky
His flute holds the stories, like the sound of lonely larks
Of loss, and death, of drifting smoke, and silent ashes
Of when the mountains cried in anguish, and the sky looked on in pain
But yesterday creates today, and holds a promise for tomorrow
New songs are played, today telling of laughter of the birds
And whispers of a bluer sky, how gentle rain will cleanse the smoke
How buffalo will graze again, where the tall grasses will wave again
Red Leaf warms the tender embers, his memories linger on
He plays the songs that drift away,
Trees above where branches sway
The rock, the leaf, the ruddy dust that coats the valley floor
Someday must return, and be restored, just as it was before
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