I can show you where the brimstone sun has no remorse,
and where devils on horseback, have burned our homes, have pillaged our farms.
A killing spree, the drum of guns, some tried to flee, but died,... each one.
The screams, I dream! Oh, the cries........the cries.......
I try to mute the sound of them
For..., I was there, I hid in fear, was somehow spared, but now I look for
something, ...something, ...something, here, ...someone to care.
A bit of food, a bit of shade, such bitter taste is in my mouth
A world of hate. To have no shoes,...a walking ghost.....
a blistered soul, I have no hope.... but nothing, nothing left.
My eyes are blurred, and fires burn, a heavy world, shouts out despair.
Where are the flowers that used to bloom, where are voices, that once I knew?
There are no flowers here...just flies, in waist-deep dust, and a hot orange sun,
that coughs up sounds of fear and guns, and swords and words against my ears, I
live in fear with no one here.
I'm just a girl, or at least I was.... for just a while.
I was defiled, when found by one
He spared my life, but did not see, I'd rather die than be this girl, who feels the
shame in being free.
I once had a mother, I once had a father, I once had a brother who made me smile
Where did spirits, lift and go, when the devils on horseback came to kill? Spilling
blood as if for fun? For thrill? For what?
Where were the Gods? Where are the ones who turn their heads?
In desert's dust with blood red crust. They poisoned our wells, burned out our land,
ravished and raped, and relished their brand......,
nomads came, leaving shame, evil and horror came like rain.
Janjaweed, the name, I cannot say... I live with shame, a world, insane
I try to sleep, but I cannot........I can't forget and I am lost, the cost too much,
a swollen tongue and calloused feet, across a land of bleached white bones
Alone, alone,....lost and done...a vanished heart......no one sees me
There are no flowers, there are no trees,
Famine as my lone companion, a pool of mud a home to stay,
Life drains out more every day, my belly swells....my eyes are parched,
and I can't tell
if I'm alive, or if I'm dead, dried up tears are what I shed....
Where are the flowers for my head? I've been scorned,
all I have, and all I see is wind and rain, sorrow and pain
thorns, and dust, and a grave, that waits for me
Devils on Horseback – The Darfur genocide (ongoing) The Janjaweed (translated,
devils on horseback) slaughter and rape the women, men and children of Darfur. As
of today, 480,000 people have been “exterminated” and 2.8 million displaced.
Let's not turn our heads away from this, or from other atrocities being committed
throughout the world.
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
People make me smile the way
their eyes shine when they talk
about something they love
when they feed me food. Or tell
me how much they love me
when I look into someone's
eyes and see it I see that look
in their eyes I see love in them
When I see someone laugh and
have fun in what they do
The way they cry for there lost
When they give me a smile and
tell me how beautiful I am
People are beautiful well some
are and I wish someday I can
find someone who will look at
me and say "you have that look
in your eye" what look?
I want to find someone so
beautiful in the inside I can't
stay away they amaze me with
what they say an do how they
will dance in the rain and know
every detail about me
Will bring me Starbucks on a
rainy day and just talk about
I want someone beautiful
Copyright © brittney lopez | Year Posted 2013
My name is Devi, a foolish name really for it means Angel, and I certainly am not. The city of Phnom Penh had been our home, father was a professor at The Royal University. I was their only child. I was just getting ready for school, Tuol Sleng High, when the Khmer’s came. They drummed on the door of our house and said “Get out, get out.” They had bomb guns pointed at us. One of the soldiers, not much older than I, a very dark skinned girl screamed at Father. “You have American friends? You speak English?” He nodded and said of course he did; he was a professor at the University. “You New People, you think you are so smart— She shot him in the head. He tumbled like a string-less puppet onto the step. Mother screamed and cried. “You are not to cry,” they ordered, “get out.”
the open door
let in only the light rain:
They grabbed mother and I, and tossed us into the band of milling people in the street. They pushed us; prodding with rifle butts along the street lined with palm trees. I was glad it was warm. My black skirt and white blouse were dirty from the fall. All I could about was my feet. I had been barefoot when they came. What a foolish thing to think. Father was dead. Thinking of my feet. I wish I could go back and get my new shoes. I felt undressed. Mother staggered behind me. I told her, “keep up Mae or they will kill you.” Mother bumped into the Grandmother in front of her. Yiey spit at the guard. He jammed the rifle butt into her face. She fell into the gutter. The line walked around her. The guard spit on her body. “Why waste a bullet?” He and the other half dozen guerrilla’s laughed. The girl guard ripped Yiey’s gold chain and amulet from her neck. She wiped the blood off the gold on Grandmother's dress. “Be of use or die New Ones,” the male guard bellowed.
To my surprise, the guard took us to the High School. Mother was ripped away from me. All the women were taken outside. I could hear much laughter. There was screaming and cries to God. The dark skinned female guard smiled. “They are being of use,” she said. She sucked on her index finger and the male guard next to her howled. I never saw mother again.
So many, many: young children, young mothers, young boys, all marched days with little food or water. The temperature climbed over 100 degrees. Babies were torn from shawl slings and tossed away like garbage as they died. There were no more tears. We were to be ‘purified’ in a commune in the village of Prek Sbauv. I struggled to live. I bent my back in the fields of the Old People.
What was life? I asked myself, so many times, but, to say no was to die. I did not want to rot in a rice paddy, not be reborn. Had no one burnt father’s corpse? Had no one placed the white crocodile flag in front of our home? I must live to see father and mothers’ bodies were burned. I must place their ashes in the stupa.
The Killing Fields – the Cambodian genocide.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014
Think of me and smile
Our time was shortly spent
Think for just a while
Of all the things we meant………
To each other we were Love,
Laughter, Smiles and Joy
Think of all those things
Then think of us once more
Remember our first kiss
Remember our first time
Remember I was yours,
Remember you were mine
The things that we would say
The things we use to do
I heard you sing a song
I wrote a poem for you
Didn’t think we’d be together
Didn’t seek, but we did find
A precious hidden treasure
A love so true and kind
Now when the Angels come for me
My home now in the sky
Don’t hang your head in sorrow
For me don’t even cry
I will send a signal
And you will know the sign
The Sun will shine its brightest
The humming birds will sing
Midnight will be the darkest
Think of all those things
The wind will blow so gently
I’ll Whisper in your ear
You will smell the roses
And feel my presence near
For you have known my spirit
For you have only seen
The beam of light now shinning
A dream that came to be
So just in case you’re wondering
It’s not because I’m free
But that I caught you smiling
And I knew, you had thought of me.
Copyright © Patricia Mitchell | Year Posted 2014
Life is like a coloring book
with few or many pages
filled with complex
We are given a box of crayons
and are asked to color in the
background and spaces of the images
Sub-titles are allowed.
When the coloring book is finished
we are given a new one to complete.
REINCARNATION THINKING 2 -SOUL SEARCHING
Was I once before or never
Don’t know how or even whether
I was a firefly, a bird of prey
a centipede, a fish fillet?
A baseball fan to keep the score
a mockingbird, a carnivore?
A blossom in the midst of spring
a sign of what the day might bring.
A germ grown in a Petri dish
a chicken bone an unmade wish
All things and species could I be,
even remnants of a tree.
Of all of these, I leave this post,
I am for now what I am most.
MORE QUESTIONS ON RE-INCARNATION
As 'core' beliefs thicken so,
does it leave us room to grow?
As aging souls say we must,
complete the cycle which was thrust
upon our bucolic living place
turned upside down in whorling space
searching for a redemptive life.
But for you, dearest one, do you not remember
before you arrived, you took this bucking horse of soul,
tamed it, labeled it and proclaimed it.
To become what you needed in order
that your ride be contained and controlled.
It's name is 'balance' and it keeps you level in the saddle
so you don't fall off.
REINCARNATION THINKING 3 -
If, we are on a soul journey,
then what must that soul become?
A better soul? A wiser soul?
A sad soul? A learned soul?
Until one reaches the end of time,
There are so many lives to live out
to fully experience all aspects of this world.
Animals, plants - more souls searching?
One can speculate, but from my perspective
none of it makes sense.
Was the Phoenix reincarnated?
Or was its embers reignited?
Perhaps before a lowly worm or soldier bee
or brown turned leaf upon a tree?
A seahorse, a shark, which fish shall I be?
In fisherman's net to be eaten by me?
And when the cycle is complete
and x equals x on our balance sheet.
Can we then rest in a celestial lair
with memories gone and unaware
of trials by all things forgotten?
If choose I must or chosen by me,
I'll remain in the stars and just wait to see.
Copyright © Allan Koven | Year Posted 2013
Daggled and bloodied, the young man lay upon the ground where he’d been
left.. .left by vile men who, spurred by senseless hate and ravenous for a taste of
violence, had lured him with false fellowship and brought him to this secluded spot
by veil of darkened day. At first, they bound his arms, rendering him defenseless to
what was to ensue. After dragging him a small way from the back seat of their van,
they proceeded to pummel his stomach and his face, breaking his nose almost
instantly. When he stumbled to the ground, he received the heels of their boots as
they kicked at his extremities and then again, he received their cruel blows to his
stomach and face. When certain they had done enough damage so he would not
last a night in the cold, they spat on him and drove away.
As his attackers sat far away in a bar, drunk and boasting how they’d “done the
world a favor,” he’d already passed the stage of vomiting and gasping for his
breath. And though his brain was writhing with awful pain, with knowledge of his
sure obliteration, his chilled and broken body stayed inert. Reposed as if inside the
womb, he felt the ache receding, and before night’s shadows passed into the dawn,
his blood had stanched.
Now as flesh turns into carrion lying undiscovered in the dust, his spirit… never
quashed. . .cries out for justice.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011
He stands proud and strong, this kilted warrior
head held high against the unending pain
of a heart born out of sadness
for the loss of those who came before him
and thoughts of those who would
continue on when he himself was no more.
Proud men one and all
vows made, till surrendered in death
to defend that which
was their birthright, the very land
upon which he now stood.
The call to battle though long since silenced
came from within his very heart and soul
blood of the ancient ones raged in his veins
his sword by his side...shield upon his back
he stood ready to charge into battle
to do what was expected of him since birth
to fight as those before him fought
without fear, but with a strength
only a battle hardened warrior
knew and understood.
Copyright © Melody Coster | Year Posted 2007
Amidst the binge of the champagne, and the glitter on the faces, she heard the
distant lullaby. Glistening repertoire of appreciation elated her, but her soul had been
far forlorn. She smiled her way through the ballroom, shaking hands, wishing
prosperity and hugging the nonchalant children, who didn't even remember her...
their innocent, curious eyes, complacent enough to defy contact.. but still she bore
them momentary warmth.. and quietly soon enough, they gleamed with fondness
towards her. That made her happy. She danced through her guests graciously,
illuminating even the minuscle flicker of the dynamism that inflamed her celebration of
triumph. It was her day of glory, but somewhere, the gaping hole within her had
She couldn't bear the tinge of strangers crawling beneath her destiny.Like cobwebs
spun all around her, she gasped for someone to call her own. The outlanders raided
her memories in the making. Her soul became an illicit labyrinth that had been
expanding like a monster. She couldn't find her people! Her People. Everywhere she
looked, her vision proliferated from Void. How could she hide from darkness itself?
She cried, but...
A sudden loud burst of laughter from a nearing clan hurled her back to reality. The
strange realization that she had been ruminating through her desires, made her
smile naively. She knew she couldn't be happy. The lust for satisfaction glided life into
her. She resumed her counterfeited solace. To tunes so subtly high and alone, she
began dancing again.
Only till the guests had left, she looked at the empty glasses and collected her tears.
She saw her reflection...The splendour of the ballroom in the background, the beige
on her body and the silence....she felt alive, only, to die again.
~~Won 2nd prize for the Dark Prose Poetry Contest~~
~~~~Thank You all, so very much ~~~~
Copyright © Iman Roy | Year Posted 2011
I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your limp laughter and scared stares.
I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.
I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined
by my appalling appearance.
"How dare you be here! What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie, you slob, just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."
The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously from the bows of bastard
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground.
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run
I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more.
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.
Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2010
Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my
kitchen. Surely a symbol of my madness. I can't help, but think, if the keys were
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there
enough black keys?? Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
Wondering if I can stand another minute alone. Atop my organ, music books,
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish
and distress. Even to worrying of misspelling a word again. Pure lunacy.
Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation. Or just an early
sign of the madness to come??
I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair. My life's hopes down to 2
desires; one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld. Money is
meaningless to me.
I am well aware that death is as natural as life. And I would venture to guess
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe. But not for me.
Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.
And what a reunion it will be!! But I must continue to go on surviving as though I
cherish this long and barren life.
My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday. So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the
story one finds in a false tale. He never faltered, he never failed.
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007
Upon a beach I came to stand
And watched a child at play.
He did while playing in the sand
A point of life convey.
With scoops and buckets he did build
A structure tall and grand.
And to the child the beach did yield
A castle made of sand.
But as he left, I do recall,
Away I did not turn.
And with the coming night would fall
A lesson to be learned.
The tide came in, with force did strike,
The castle could not stand.
And I was shown how life is like
A castle made of sand.
And man is but a child at play,
His works they will not last.
For all he builds within days
Shall be by time surpassed.
Each thing we do, Each thing we say,
Each notion we conceive,
They all to soon shall pass away,
Yes, this I do believe.
We leave no mark, we leave no trace
That shall forever stand
Be sure my friend time will erase
Our days however grand.
Copyright © Stan Bradford | Year Posted 2007
I stood by your graveside this cold winters day.
A heart broken with sorrow that won’t go away.
I called out your name and shed many a tear.
And hoped in my heart that you would appear.
God took you from us that fine sunny morning.
Our lives now shattered without any warning.
Your work here on earth has finished this year.
Your books and teachings you spread far and near.
It was a pleasure to know you for sixty odd years.
And when my time comes I will have no fears.
You will be waiting to greet me as oft times before.
When I call to your house and knock on the door.
Each night when I lay my head down to sleep.
I will ask the lord your soul to keep.
And if you find any time away from your books.
Look kindly on me as I walk in those woods.
Copyright © Patrick Ronan | Year Posted 2007
The question so easy
So difficult to answer
I know why
It leaves me broken all over again
I know the answer, I know, no, no, no . . .
I don’t want this
This pain that’s not all mine . . . hardly mine
It rips and tears and cuts
My heart to pieces
It bleeds and drains my soul away
I wish I never had one
I know why
Why did I have to teach myself the answer?
I know why
I wish I was blind, deaf, numb and uncaring
I wish you never made me
Why did you put me here?!
What did we do to you?
I wish I knew what to say!
Every time life turns good and gets better
You smash it all to bits and pieces
You rip and tear and shred me apart
Again and again and again!!
I know why
God help me I know why
It leaves me beaten, battered, discarded and defeated
Alone . . .
Always alone in the end
I don’t want to know why anymore
Take it away
You can do it if you try
I cannot stop myself from know why
And these words sound hollow empty like me
Why not me and not other
It was I who stole and ripped asunder
A world, a life, ahhhhh I curse you!!!!!
Not them, not him, not her . .
Can’t you . . .
Just go away and leave us be
Why can’t I cry for anyone or anything
Would someone please tell me
What good is a heart and soul anyway?
You break and take them both away all the time
Ask me why I don’t believe in you!
Ask me again why I believe I live in hell!
Why . . ?
Just tell me why . . .
Copyright © Neal Freeland | Year Posted 2008
(In a churchyard in Northern Ireland)
Through the broken and barren trees
Winter exhales its coldest breeze
From the wintry breath of northern seas
That can chill the warmest soul.
Thus in the churchyard by the sea
Nigh one broken and barren tree
Lies cold a soul once warm to me
Beneath the winter’s rime.
As the heart of winter doth unfold
I feel its touch, so dark and cold,
For I yearn at night to yet behold
That soul once warm to me.
But in earthen depths doth she lie
E’er below the moon and starlit sky
As yet unto her grave I wander by
And despair the winter’s rime.
O’ the winter wails upon the still
With its bleak and bitter chill
That conjures from the nightly nil
A soul once warm to me!
Copyright © Robert Liam McCallum | Year Posted 2015
Really, only five years have past
Since your son’s abandoned car was found,
Along side sea cliffs
North of Santa Cruz,
After failing with pills,
Too many times.
No body either,
Though at times I prayed for that.
Wincing now myself at your pain
As you hand beggars at streetlights
A few dollars, as you pray, heart broken,
Some empathetic soul is doing the same
For your son, should he still be alive,
Watching your head turn wistfully to search the face
Of distant beggars on the wrong side of the street,
Both of us feeling in our hearts that he is gone.
Rested, before dawn breaks,
I close the distance night has sanctioned,
Take you in my arms
Feel tension release
As sleep finds its meter,
Breath its rhyme.
The body’s warmth
Giving dreams new assurance.
The sweet sound of your sleeping
Now informs my answered prayer
Deft moves that fluff me into compliance
Help me to trust some needs at least are met,
My own sleep, pulls on my sleeve like a child,
As watchful still, I succumb to warmth of your heart,
That even in its half-full, depleted state,
Still has the power to make my sun rise.
December 5, 2015
Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2015
Today, I had a chance to ask his widow, Laurie, about this story. She
confirmed that it did happen, and he came home from work that day excited, and
told her and their 3 daughters about the event.
And sure enough, shortly thereafter, the song became a hit on the radio, and
M.T.V., in those ancient days when they actually played music.
This news brightened my day considerably, and I'm happy to share it with you;
so when you next hear that song, remember my good buddy, Mark Trotiner, the
uncredited genius behind it.
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007
As the sands slip through the hour glass of time
harsh realization dawns,
such as the late summer rose ceased to flourish and bloom,
while the season grows short,
dead petals scattered by cold winter winds.
Yet unlike the rose, graciously accepting it's place in the grand scheme,
man's self awareness becomes a curse upon his consciousness,
to possess the knowledge of his ever nearing mortality.
Life's unfinished dreams chased away by the bitter rising sun.
Copyright © JD Caperton | Year Posted 2015
The castle stood with majesty.
The child stood justly proud.
Both night and sea stood patiently,
In hand the castle's shroud.
My thinking now became serene,
Of things small and sublime.
How I saw all played in that scene
Of man, his deeds and time.
But here I raise a quandary.
I question thee a tad.
Are we the castle stately?
Or, are we the lad?
Are we the child? Are we the sand?
We're either, can't you see?
Both built and build to pass away
With time our ebbing sea.
The tide we face is Father Time.
Aren't we but molded clay?
Just like that castle so sublime
We are not here to stay.
Yet like that child in spring of life,
His days are numbered still.
Just like the grains of sand it took
To stir this old man's quill.
Copyright © Stan Bradford | Year Posted 2007
Day by day my body decays
And my soul waits
For the warmth of your embrace
The meaning I cannot trace
The time is now to receive your grace
I remember much
Yet memories past have no bearing
I can see much
The meaning almost clear
The dust settles and chaos vanquished
Peace and love echoed again and again through the halls of time
Bear no weight until the final moments
A single frame as I lay
Time will no longer wait and I can no longer stay
Harmony engulfs me
Symphonies escort me
And angels guide me
My loving Father waits for me
I can almost see Him
I certainly feel Him
The old world fades to grey
A brilliant glow not of this world fills me
A love not felt by mortals
It is the beginning of the end
My breath shallow
My thoughts clear
My soul readies
Do not weep
He is waiting for me
This is exactly where I am supposed to be
Copyright © Sean Taylor | Year Posted 2012
Each field is barren white with snow,
around me blind, they know.
Darkness brings the haze of dawn,
how many must it show.
While many miles of web it's barb,
it tastes and grows.
Bringing home the wheat,
and powdered souls,
spread open far and wide.
Touching only youth,
Each gem from stone,
pours out and lost our seed it keeps.
Is It Poetry
Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2009
~Death Of Love~ Part 1
The death of adoration is the moment of truth
abundance of caution is needed
when love has no tomorrow
it changes to pain.
In the name of suffering
weight your capacity to hold tight
by not giving up the fight.
Contest for Russel Divey 5 minute
WIN. NO.( 1)
Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013
To the forgotten soul that have ever lived
For their families they have lost, a new nation conceived
For their ashes scattered, one blood they bleed
Blessed by their stories told and memories grieved
Loved for their battles lost and wars achieved
Their cowardess disregarded but courage believed
Their fears covered by their bravery revealed
Their sorrow wept, their lives appealed
Whit their bodies torn, one nation they weaved
One anthem they sing for lives they screamed
In the doom of battles darkness a ray of hope they beamed
As our last line of defense this is how they lead
Now count the numerous grains of shapeless sand
In the war torn widow’s hand, understand her internal misery
As every mournful tear they wept is not a locked mystery
‘Cause every jagged grain is a lost memory
This simple gesture is a constant ministry
That the young blood perishes but the old bones live to tell the tale
The more they ask why, the harder the grave fail
To cover the brave
As they salute, march and wave
Not knowing so sorrow they will cave
With their blood they will pave
And our salvation they'll save
Now on our hearts they'll engrave
“WITH OUR LIVES WE GAVE”
Now we say:
“LOVING LIVE THE BRAVE!”
Copyright © siza sibiya | Year Posted 2013
Deep in the dungeon in the back left corner
Was a mere shell of what was once a man.
He was shackled to the wall of his own design
By the love of his lady so fair, and divine
The queen of a land so far away in time
With a king who held her ever so dear
Locking them away alone from peasant's view
None of his subjects gazed upon this mentally ill king
He had a smothering love for his queen,
Abusing her in every way
Never there for love, but only in his mind
She hadn't felt his touch in years, other than abuse
Then one day her knight came in on his white steed
They loved under moonlight each night in secrecy
Hiding their treasonous affair from the evil king
Until one night he caught them
The knight dueled injuring the king's ability to speak
The queen fearing their treasonous death
Plotted and schemed as not to be beheaded
To the knight's chamber they carried him
Dousing the room in oil laying him on the floor
Dropping the lantern the knight held
Flames rose in the chamber, consuming him
The queen screamed to the subjects for help
All the court came running to douse the fire out
The knight and queen really started
The true king was unrecognizable and couldn't even whisper
The knight came forward as her husband the king
The queen burst into tears,
Explaining how the knight attacked her,
Setting the room ablaze
All his subjects bowed before the knight, the changeling
I am sorry dear king, the subjects said
As the knight pulled the queen to him,
Ushering them to take him away, to the dungeon below,
Shackled, and chained, in his own kingdom
In the dungeon the king waited, to be beheaded
The knight secretly became the king instantly
Taking his spot next to the love of his life, the queen
No one suspected a single thing
She visited the king one last time before he died
Telling him how she loved him, stroking his cheek
Watching the next day as they beheaded him,
Hiding her head in her knight unknown
Her dark side she displayed
The day her knight became her king
And her king became some subhuman thing
He had truly always been
The knight now the king with his lovely queen
Ruled for many years, having ten children
Of tainted royal blood, but no one ever knew
Their secret love and darkest treason ever committed.
Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012
laid me down
within cold tomb
light capture me
neath baying tree
feel thy warmth once more
white spirit of feathered down
lay upon my soul
pray set me to rest
Written to accompany one of my photographs.
This is the link to the image...
Copyright © Peter Churchley | Year Posted 2012
A noble story one that ought to be our good host laughed and swore the games begun. Come match the knights tale if you can sir monk. To bellow arms and blood and bones he swore. A noble one I'll pay off the knights tale lets do this right. You tell yours by and by either I'll speak or go on my own way. Everyone listen but first i will propound that i am drunk i know it by my sound. For I'll tell a golden legend and a lie. Forget your ignorant drunken bawdiness it is a sin and great foolishness. Tell us of other things you'll find to lack i see you are angry with my tale but why. cuz you are a fool your head is overpowered by the wine. If you are not enjoying yourselves then cut off my head but as i drink my wine and ale. Whoever won't accept what i decide will pay for everything we spend along the ride. So hold up your hand if you accept my speech reflect a little and don't hold me to blame if you choose wrong don't lay it on my head. And both of them had bawdy tales to tell theirs no sense making earnest out of game.
Copyright © craig schaber | Year Posted 2011
I had heard this song by an obscure artist, with a twist as it played verses
of 'Somewhere over the rainbow, with 'What a wonderful' world entwined.
It's simply melody strummed on a ukalele mesmerized me as I listened on the radio
in the car.
I remember saying to my wife, "I want this at my funeral." I was morbidly honest
Several years later, I was watching an episode of E.R. in which our favorite
character, Dr. Green discovers he has brain cancer, and a short time to live. He's
basically given the advice we all wish to avoid. "You don't have long, retire, enjoy
the time you have left."
Dr Green, plans a vacation with his daughter, who's relationship has been strained
since his divorce. For the next three or four episodes Dr. Green and his daughter
spend his last days surfing in Hawaii. Mending the relationship slowly, to a degree
of understanding only a father and daughter could know. He's still Dad, and she's a
teen working on letting go of her resentments.
In the last episode of the story, he's not doing well. He keeps passing out and his
strength is waning. He knows it's only a matter of days, possibly hours; but doesn't
share this with his daughter, the scenary is of a bungalo on the beach, white sands
surround the openness of the primitive bungalo, palm trees speckle the beach, and
in the distance lies the royal blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.
A day of surfing is suddenly changed as he suggests that his daughter go ahead of
him, he'll stay back and watch until his strength returns. So he sits in a hammock,
and watches out in the water as she strolls off to surf, Background music grows to
this song I'd so loved, by and artist named Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo?ole and as the
music is playing softly, the camera pans in on the face of Dr. Green for his death
scene, and his last breath. The camera pulls back, from the back of his head, above
the bungalo, above the beach as if we are Dr Green's soul departing this earth.
Yes, I cried like a little school girl as realized that my favorite character had just
been erased from our show, with no chance to come back for a Cameo... What!? of
course that's why I cried! OKAY! it was a tear jerker! and the saddest part, was the
relationship with his daughter was still in repair . Moral of the story i guess-- You
never know when its your time, so don't hold on to petty resentments, and love
every minute of life.
I later learned, Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo?ole; had also died
Copyright © michael hornschuch | Year Posted 2011
I'm driving through such beauty, this lush rural countryside. I find it hard to believe that my
career has taken me to here. Being where I am is so much different to the Highlands from where I reside from.
Thankfully my 4 x 4 takes the endless rutting roads with aplomb. Mind you, sometimes they remind me of back home, councils never repairing.
As I drive, visually I see scattered belongings. Has the wind carried them to there, as I stare, whilst driving, mm!
The long and winding road takes me to where I've come from. The Coffee Plantation that allured me here initially, empowers me to think back to it's early days. The wanting of the locals, hungered for work, steady monies, quaint prosperity from their already empty existence.
The next day, I hear on the news, that Habyarimana and the Burundian President, Cyprien Ntaryamira were on a plane, shot down, all were lost.
Having met Juvénal Habyarimana before, it saddened me totally.
The next day on the local radio, I hear there's been disturbances. Like many places in Africa, it was the norm. Onward I went about readying for work. Off I go, before I reach the entrance, a crowd rushes towards me. Angry to say is an understatement, vociferous they, wielding anything they can lay their hands on. Branches, planks, irons, machete’s to name. I'm now needing to veer, to not hit workers that I recognise.
I stop a few miles from home, sweated, shaking, as to why?
To get to my Coffee Plantation, I have to travel through the local village, town, call it what you may. As I near, like yesterday, strayed clothes abound, but different, and so much more. This time they're reddened, stained, adorning ripped bodies.
Now frightened, I travel on foot, walking through blooded carnage, my stomach churning.
Children clutching their mothers, fathers and sons I assume holding hands. Young girls taken, forsaken, their life seeping into their lands from where they lived.
As I near the village, town, there's shouting, chanting, the stench of burning flesh. Upon view, machetes wield down on many, amidst cries I've unheard of. Limbs now release, torso's tired, fired, my eyes streaming tears for fears.
In frightened stare, I'm spotted, sadly by my neighbour. He points at me, my heart surges, scared, disturbed by what I've seen. Instinct tells me, run, and I run, Lord do I run.
Upon reaching, fumbling I am for the keys, this image I'd only thought was in the movies. Now where I ask, knowing where I am. For once amidst this, I think, border, which border, as I decide to head East to Tanzania, knowing we have a sister company there.
It's later that day, my eyes now in tears.
On the news, knowing people I see. Their hacking children, pregnant mothers, fathers and sons.
What's taken this for the Tribes to have undone. I worked with both sides, for many a year.
I now look back as I'm summoned, to give evidence at the '100 Days of Slaughter'
Caught up I am, to declaring Rwanda's loss, of my Tutsi wife, and our daughters
. 11th Oct 2014.
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2014
As I stand here in front of my closet , starring in to the space...
I wonder which black dress to choose, and how I am going to face..
All the guests that will be there , at your final resting place...
I look in the mirror and what do I see ?
But cuts and scratches all over me...
Although I don’t feel any physical pain...
Oh, what’s that I hear ?..could it be rain ?
I miss you already...what went wrong ?..
We were driving along just listening to our favorite song...
I remember the curve on that old mountain road...
And then heard the train crash... and then explode...
Time to go called out my Mother...
It was a cold November morning, and very heavy rain...
And I swear I heard the whistle of a train...
As I looked around I could see...
So many friends and family...
Standing in the crowd was Aunt Sarah and Uncle Fred...
OMG ! I thought they were dead...
And there’s dear old Michael...
I had heard he crashed his motorcycle...
All of a sudden I saw YOU stand...
With a bright red rose, you held in your hand...
What are you doing I wanted to shout...
But then I realized what you were about...
You dropped the rose upon MY grave...
It was then I realized You were the one that was saved...
Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013
i am sick of love
such words and such nonsense
when love does not envy
yet its hard to live and not be green,
(for love is hard to do
and i am sick of losing such hard-time battles
that i can surely lose my mind before my next birthday
those young lovers(that young girl and foolish boy with his side-chick
that is not love, that is nonsense)
oh, i have seen nonsense come and go,
and i have cried my grief and laughed my jealousy
all those girls with broken hearts, i give them a standing ovation
for they are all fools, and i don't give a fly's bum for them.
(my thoughts have jumped,
up and down and up and down
summer autumn winter spring,
-love is destroying and i am not living a happy life
yet i sat there and took the blows and cigarette burns on flesh
and i smile, yet i sit and smile the nights and days away
and so-called friends say "why that way"
and I say "U and Me aren't friends... I have no friends-"
long haired beauties come and go,
chicks and babes and boys with egos bigger than their hot-air heads are floating away,
and back and forth and back and forth
party after party after party,
kiss after kiss after kiss,
and chests being groped after chests being groped
legs in nylon and high heels all around-
are all gone, cause they don't care anymore themselves
look now the negro and the white girl
walk the night train together
waiting for the first rail car to take them away from all things and all ways that kill them
and do not let them live
and i sit smoking a cigarette with no one and its quiet and i hope that tonight is the last night,
because i am sick of love already,
i am just sick of love already,
i am just sick of the damn games
of broken hearts and broken promises,
blue-eyed death come and take me away
(but first lets have a drink- a pink of whiskey or two or three or four
and one last cigarette before the night is through,
and i shall tell you before the clock sticks noon
how i am just sick of love
for i am a man out of luck-
kiss me blue-eyed death
(take me to your dark angel girls- and tell them to kiss me goodnight,
love me tonight,
as mortality has run its last grain of sand out on me-
and take me and take me and take me
too a place where love is just a figment of an imagination
-only a nightmare, a bad dream (too sleep the night away,
too wake another day, and be in a different place then this
and to know love is gone from me
for i am sick of love already... I'm through-)
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
CRY THE BELOVED CONTINENT…
(Apropos The Ripping Veil of Pan-Africanism)
In all her blackness
her soils run red
with the blood of her children
Whose bloated bellies
mock the pregnancy
And her breasts
sag in union
of hopeless hopefulness;
While hollowed eyes
gaze into the wholeness
Smiling death stalks
the narrowing corridors of
life---echoing souring laughs
to virgin wombs
screaming from the shadows
of the valley of death:
But believe brethren---
mock not the gods---
for in the theism
of this imposed dystopia,
a wretched mother
tenaciously clings to time
Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015