Long poem by
Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Details |
Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.
Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.
With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.
Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.
With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.
The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.
Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.
In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.
So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.
Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................
We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.
She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.
Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.
Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.
The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.
How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.
Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.
Long poem by
Demetrios Trifiatis | Details |
(one of the two Delphic commands of Apollo)
For years before the narrow windows of my senses
Trying to pierce the nebulous world of outer reality,
Hoping to find GOD,
One year was following the other but I was:
I was lost in the tenebrous world of materiality’s
While the true essence of things, evasive
Persistently escaped the grasp of my confused
Unable to see behind the impenetrable veil
And disappointed with reason’s constant
My impatient voice towards the starry heavens I lifted,
Where are Thee, oh LORD?
For I have been seeking for Thee so many years now,
But I have found Thee not!
I have kept my eyes wide-open in order to see,
As many colors of Thy creation as possible,
And not even for a moment have I shut them,
For fear I missed Thy resplendent light,
But I saw Thee not!
I have kept my ears wide-open in order to hear
As many sounds of Thy creation as possible,
And not even for a second have I covered them up
For fear I missed Thy sacred voice,
But I heard Thee not!
I have kept my hands extended in order to touch
As many things of Thy creation as possible
And not even for a minute have I held them back,
For fear I missed Thy spiritual touch
But I touched Thee not!
I have kept my nostrils wide-open in order to scent
As many perfumes of Thy creation as possible
And not even for an instant have I held my breath
For fear I missed Thy holy aroma
But I scent Thee not!
I have become a famed gourmet in order to taste
As many delicacies of Thy creation as possible
And not even for an hour have I withheld my appetite
For fear I missed Thy heavenly feast
But I tasted Thee not!
Then, the thunderous voice of the Lord,
Coming deep down from the twilight of time,
Tearing the eternal heavens apart
Answered me and said:
Dear innocent child of Mine; hasn’t time taught you,
That I am neither to be seen by eyes
Nor to be heard by ears?
That I am not to be touched by hands
Nor to be scent by nostrils?
That I am not to be tasted by palates
But I am only to be felt by enraptured hearts?
Trembling and puzzled, in a shaky timid voice,
I dared ask:
How could this be done, oh Lord?
For I am so weak and ignorant, I do not know
And the compassionate voice of the Lord answered me
Don’t call yourself weak and ignorant for
I have endowed you with power and knowledge
You have only to unearth this incalculable treasure
Hidden deep down in your soul and you will be
In touch with Me, with eternity, with the universal law,
With the light, with the truth and every single existence,
But first you have to listen carefully to what I command:
Close your eyes for they cannot see Me
And cover your ears for they cannot hear Me
Pull back your hands for they cannot touch Me
And hold your breath for it cannot scent Me
Shut your mouth for it cannot taste me
And stand completely still in order for you
To sense Me
At once I rushed to Obey His divine command, so:
I closed my eyes and saw no more
And covered my ears and heard no more
I pull back my hands and touched no more
And held my breath and scent no more
I shut my mouth and tasted no more
And stood dead still for a moment,
Just for a moment alone!
I felt His ethereal presence enveloping my heart
And I saw His celestial light caressing my mind
And I heard His heavenly voice calling to my spirit
And I touched His angelic essence with my elated thought
And I scent His seraphic aroma with my sacred, now, breath
And I tasted His rapturous divinity with my blissful soul.
Then, immendiatly, the gates of revelation opened their
And in a magnificent lofty parade, in front of my soul’s
The mysteries of life, one by one, were unveiled to the last
Thus making everything known.
And now my enraptured self, jubilant before the eternal truth,
In ecstasy exclaims:
Thank you, oh Lord for showing me Thy blessed Essence,
Thank Thee, for I know Thee now!
And the Lord enigmatically smiled at me and with His
Divine thought tenderly declared:
No my loving child, you only know YOURSELF!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
Long poem by
Terry Trainor | Details |
Sometimes I have the courage to think of the things that made me what I am today,
My memory takes me back to terrible things far away far off into my bitter past,
My mind like a maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste, loss and disgust,
The losses, the drink ripped away, not happy until it was all gone respect as well.
Invisible thinks of a garden where roses clustered with lilies scent on the breeze,
Bees found stores of honey in the petals of a thousand and one different flowers,
Lovers walked hand in hand along its winding path a beautiful dream of the man,
Bright with the embroidery of nature where children played in new myrtle flowers,
As Invisible thinks of this garden it is neglected but flowers can grow with weeds,
It could put a smile upon his face, a face that had never known any joy recently,
He hopes a gardener can covert this garden get rid of ruined waste, back into Eden,
Tending all the beautiful flowers that spring up with the weeds and smell gladness.
If he helped the gardener in his quest a hand might hold his and guide him through,
Maybe a hand would go around his waist to support him as well as guide his hand,
Dare he wish that the guiding hand and the support would be his angel from heaven,
A dear person to help him clear his garden and walk down the winding path as lovers.
An angel that would smile at him maybe hold his hand and squeeze it so very gently,
Would the angel talk to him and tell him that one day they would be together again,
Her beautiful grace shining warmly as she looks up to him, to her he is her hero,
Not a drunken mess that cannot cope, not a dirty vagrant, but her knight her love.
The tenderness of this beautiful scene in his poisoned mind became real he smiled,
He grinned as she sat down next to him as close a she could get then wriggled closer,
Warmth from her body not only warmed him but gave hope this what he has waited for,
She whispered sweetly she loved him and would be waiting for him and they kissed.
Invisible woke with a start and was she not by his side, was she ever with him,
A dream another heart wrenching let down and how could he have dreamed the dream,
It was so real he still felt the warmth, the impression of her hand holding his,
But it must have been a dream his own mind conspired to deliver the hardest blow.
Lost in a grief so deep, his loneliness complete he talks to Sam his imaginary friend.
These days get worse Sam they really do please help me,
I need to change but I need my drink more what can I do,
But I need to change so desperately Sam can you help?
My world has cracked and I've fallen into the crack,
But what I don't understand Sam that I was once good,
If I had any courage Sam I would be laying in my coffin,
Why does life drag you along with it I don't want to go,
Just a bit of icing on my cake Sam it is freezing cold,
Did you know this is where I was brought up my friend,
Did you know that most of the people that walk past I knew,
Sam! I know many of there people but they don't know me,
Why do they all walk past I wish somebody would help,
Maybe when I have drunk more cider I might feel better Sam,
I can remember being happy but not what being happy is like,
As Invisible sits drinking shoppers give him a wide berth and they look at him with hate.
These people Sam they look at me as if I have hurt them,
The people they are not our sort of people they hate me,
Has the world changed like I have but in opposite ways,
My life is full of sorrow drunkenness and dreams Sam,
Old sorrows wont go away new sorrows should take over,
So we have to face both the old and the new that's bad,
At night I try to close my drunken eyes it all returns,
Sam is that the same as you can you close your eyes,
Can you remember the valleys Sam the ones we used to play,
When we ran about all day Sam in the sun rolling in grass,
The old stream that twisted and turned, it had lost its way,
Floating lolly sticks watching them bounce away on ripples,
Buying bangers in November and throwing them into the water,
What I wouldn't do to go back for just a couple of hours Sam,
Just to feel the innocence and try to bring it back to now,
To enjoy what there is to enjoy and maybe get better Sam,
But that will never happen Sam we are lost on an island,
A well populated island but an island all the same Sam,
People are not like ships they don't bother to rescue people,
They just walk around or just walk away all the nice ones gone,
I remember my school Sam it's now been knocked down and left,
It has all gone, all gone no primroses in spring or bluebells,
Do you remember Sam the bluebells used to nod in the wind,
But they have all been built on, whats the use in talking,
Nothing changes from bad to good Sam remember that, eh Sam,
Still drinking his cider tears well into his eyes his nose runs and begins to quietly
to sob. He sits on the shopping parade seat, shaking as he sobs. His throat has a lump
in it so he stops talking to Sam. Invisible sinks his wet face into his overcoat
hides his misery from the people that walk past he just sat there lost and confused. His
greatest sadness an angel paid a visit to the maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste,
loss and disgust,
Long poem by
Joel Lee | Details |
A Dark Identity
Days into nights... time without time
Normalities of everyday life beckons to remain
Shadows with lights.... to find to define
I am he who goes by without a name
The world is only up to date
And I’ve decided no more to follow
Bearing time to finally relate
Yet a self I’m to find to wallow
He who walks without an identity... walks alone
And he who walks alone needs be proud
Yet walking forever without finding a home
Have I that heaven beyond the clouds?
I cannot see either far or near
I cannot be to be neither nor
I’m listening... I cannot hear
I’m at peace... I’m at war
I did not know... am I suppose to?
I know I’m alive... is that enough?
Yet, rather not to know than knew
For knowledge shall never last
A mystery if not yet to be
That one mysterious hope to be searching for
I have dreams but what did I see?
I have no one... not one I can call
A darken need shall heed not words
For the dark shall rise as light
The fade will be a promise to be heard
For shadows are without night
And I started to listen distractedly
Hearing for what my eyes cannot see
A hallucinatory moment ever constantly
As I began to believe that of what cannot be
The instant my eyes close
My mind drew as suppose
Sketching a stand alone amid a world once seen
Of ranging fires to have had believed as a dream
And there I was... a lone figure enveloped in darkness
With crossing flames alight yet from a distance as useless
Left as I was before... I am to return as I am
Reliving once more this beginning with never the end
Thus did I continue my path away from the bloodshed
Carefully as one had hoped where a darker darkness be led
No more do I wonder what transported me here
To only know for certain I am riddled of constant fear
“Fear is a fire
To temper courage and resolve
Be it desire
To quench the thirst for one’s unfounded lost”
And there it was... words barely a whisper
Where it came from... no longer matters
For the intended vigor were already cast upon
Serving me with renewed purpose for a sense to belong
Before long, beyond doubts... my callings were clear
The source from where it first began was indeed here
Almost startled, I looked around knowing I’m blinded to see
Too dark as it was, had it not been a lighted green to be
And there it was... a single light beyond the almighty dark
That one greenish light to aid one’s lonesome heart
Rather peculiar for I haven’t notice it before
And naturally I am to walk towards the green grandeur
Flickering and wavy as I drew closer to my destination
Seeing finally for what appears to be the least of expectations
Astonishingly, it was a lantern where within was the sighted fire
And simply the fiery green alone ignites ever on in dire
Levitated in midair, it stands rigid with its haunting presence
With an aura more deserving then welcoming of essence
So mesmerized I was... I wanted to behold
That of warmth for perhaps deliverance from cold
A dare if not, if only, if I must
A flame to embrace, a curiosity to engulf
And surely... I lifted my hand with only a wanting touch
Surely but unknowingly... the flame itself is to parch
Sparkles of green eludes and transcends about
As well an aria, an ancient tune goes aloud
To only see to believe, perhaps my life to perceive
Yet the question being... what did I achieve?
Smoke arises... wavering, quivering, settling...
My time... misgiving, misguiding and misleading
And there he was... rather it be
A human?... isn’t to be I see
“A dark wanderer, perhaps a lone wanderer alone
Regardless... a stranger afar returning home
Have you the teachings bequeath upon you?
From a once being of a knight who knew
For he alone stands unnerve by another
Serving a purpose to hold true forever
The resemblance I see forth leaves me incertitude
Both as mortals... though only he remains in servitude
Yet... my appointment upon you is clear
I am to you drawn as you to me when you hear
Nevertheless, far too long were you of absence
And once more I am in honor to be in your presence
It never is clear what the heavens contrive
For this unsung war... humanities were birth to strive
Every one mortal given birth were forged for war
To ensure the survival of humanities and of peace to befall
For many years this bloodshed wages in dire
Almost as certainly, the spirits of men responsively tire
No more are there ideas nor hopes they are to see
Battling on for pure survival remains what leads them be
Your return however, will perhaps set the tides in our favor
Though I know not the intention, I do not disregard altogether
Do not let the reasons why you have returned cloud your mind
I ask of you rather to remember who you once were to define
The land of The Ancients is never a quest for truth to seek
Purely for good to triumph over evil is the only idea you will need
Prepare yourself well stranger, for good will always be in disguise
Treachery and deception as often will never in itself be a lie
The unforgiving way is still a long one I’m afraid
However well is Heaven to plan... evil as always will await
And until out time will once more cross between us
I assure you... your time in this world will outlast”
Long poem by
Les Pruitt | Details |
Copyright © 2008 #03
4/12/2008 // (Edited: 1/22/2013/lp
(a historical glimpse of humanity's rise)
*This poetic epic begins with the
greatest sin against humanity
*This poem is dedicated to all
serving and protecting the
¨Basic Rights of Mankind¨
Once, mankind was forgiven from sin
but continue to embrace it like a trend
After the Flood many nations strolled
some didn´t want true history told
All mankind has got to realize
humanity had been vandalized
A few condemmed HIM to a Cross
and mankind became a hope lost
His testimony was like no other
a promise bonding men as brothers
So, was it hate, shame or pride?
The Shroud of Turin now abide
Something embedded itself into minds
their egos separated mankind thru time
From images of Christ to the Sphinx
mankind altered their faces with ink
Societies increased across the land
but some became marauding bands
Enslaved many to learn their ways
called indentured servants nowadays
Learning finally opened many minds
forbidden to most throughout time
Conquering became a lust
many thought they must
Barbarians embraced warfare
believing in war over prayer
Some journeyed to build
but most decided to steal
Robbing nations precious gold
slaughtering the young, and old
another story that was not told
Saw oppressing others was nice
ensnared some as their sacrifice
Oppression increased in the land
because of the barbarian's plan
Their business began to boom
and corruption shot to the moon
America, land of morality and hope
still someone was signing for dope
Capital´ism made a few very rich
sin and immorality, Islam tried to fix
paganism and Communism a glitch
a conflict to shove Christianity in a ditch
Old governments embraced the Klan
still got history's blood on their hand.
Kept society busy with Santa Claus
knowing its origin is spiritually false
They knew global warming was real
maybe too late, this just sent a chill
Interested learning secrets of the brain
Drug gangs driving societies insane
Kids with little future left in sight
hopes dwindled like the Knight
Then, later came Robin Hood
with good news from the wood
Someone revived human rights
still, some decided not to fight
No need for humantarian crises
diabolical plans rolling the dices
These sinful plans between hands
slaughtering the lambs of the land
We need to fix this mess
before we come to rest
Most of world history twisted
some are now rying to fix it
For some Nations, it was too late
capital'ism quickly sealed their fate
Africa was a continent very rich
...now realizing it is in a ditch
never should´ve trusted Mitch
I even heard the Rossette Stone
was hidden in someone´s home
The secrets of Giza
painted in Mona Liza
Even the Eyptian Sphinx
tried to give mankind a wink
now hides her missing links
And, the pyramids contained a sacred Key
stolen by those not wanting us to be free
Someone hide Pandora´s Box
with final desination Fort Knox
Even, saw the Bible's Holy Grail
shipped by Fed-Ex Express Mall
Most gold, and precious artifacts
was found stolen, and hijacked
It´s hard for most to understand
they kept us busy with their plan
So, in this life we must cast our vote
moving forward with faith and hope
Those affected have become a scorn
got them hungry from dusk to dawn
World economies causing a recess
ego and pride got us in a big mess
The Middle East became a feast.
I wonder who planned that piece?
They say Mohammed started this fuss.
through history who dare finger Guss?
These differences in world religions
still affecting mankind's decisions
Humanity began in Africa and Irak
but millions destituted in a shack
The Americas to China has similiar pain
but yrants' view them as a social stain
And, there was oil for food
but someone became rude
So, once again East meets West
fighting over another treasure chest
Expenses reaching trillions
recovery costing billions
death in the millions
The greatest gift is charity
why concentrate on disparity?
We need to fix this mess
or earth soon to rest
Mismanagement of world funds
resources available by the tons
The poor and depair need more
still someone's locking the door
Feeling no guilt with pride
and the fortunes they hide
Corruption and terrorism sown
by a few of government´s own
Someone´s selfish plans ahead
have now made us very afraid...
maybe baked or nuked instead
Distitute's nourishment is baked dirt
nothing else or their stomachs hurt
Most of the time with nothing to eat
weeping for a peaceful night sleep
The 3 pathways to Heaven are narrow
selfish can learn from the sparrow.
When the next ATOM splits and divide
some gonna try to run and hide
knowing they deceived many and lied
So, don´t worry about a thing tonight
soon GOD will make things alright
Then, all children will be able to play
The Prince of Peace will come to stay
So, remember before it´s over
they too needed a shoulder
Long poem by
matthew harris | Details |
Pardon any absent adulation, bequeathed capitulation, devoted dedication, indiscretion, blabbering peroration, improper salutation or any unintended vexation if this unknown earthling sent a nearly identical message. He over-looked a small number of errors and hoped that this version accepted as the most satisfactory to me.
Oh please for the sake (and sock e) of brethren deemed friendly, i beseech ye with genuine humility to desist launching nuclear missiles!
This American bloke put his lock, stock and barrel of gunmetal faith in mister Dennis Rodman to serve as a figurative lightning rod against any aggressive actions that would set in motion the end of civilization.
Not only would the majority of homo sapiens (yes, some clusters of earth-linked yahoos might still remain a live) suffer a nasty, short and brutish death, but also other flora and fauna could be equally annihilated!
Understandable, those grievances against sanctions against the populace of north Koreans (who most likely experience unfair hardship) fuels resentment against the hegemony of western powers. Many of these societies authoritatively brandish their devout pledge for concurrence with democratic principles.
Any endemic protestations declaiming objection to the American way affect an immediate alarm. Imposition of so called "puppet" regimes get forcibly installed sans those countries leaders who run counter to capitalistic productivity.
This one anonymous citizen of those fifty states also takes umbrage how the might of american to predominate and demand that other nations follow suit solely based on what agrees with those like minded in power sans the brotherhood/sisterhood of vast swaths of the global population.
No great expectations (by dickens) to affect passionate sentiments per those peoples somewhat hermetically sealed off and separated (viz - by the demilitarized zone) from the billions of other human beings.
Thy sole missive from one older mwm dreads the catastrophic chain reaction of events once atomic warfare triggered by the disgruntlement over some differences in outlook could possibly resolved via "active listening" and access to exchange a word of reconciliation.
As one flawed chap prone to his own bouts of anger, he attests that more positive pleasing results can prevails with the treat of world war three diffused in a manner that plays less havoc once unleashing of weapons of mass destruction occurs!
This notion came to me while tending to a basic bodily urge, thus intent to share my poem whence sitting
Upon the porcelain goddess,
A most brilliant idea in me mind did lit
This sole seasoned bugs bunny car tune character son of kit
Soon after on the road his imagination
Fired up with gaseous fleeting thought that softly hit
Attempting with futility to net ideas in me mind that flit
I yam a poet favoring words that rhyme a bit!
Iambic pentameter strands crochet themselves
Magically into verse
Interleaving like boughs of an arbor
Shielding this solitary soul
From shafts of sunlight that doth dapple
The canopy affecting shadows to disperse
Ebbing and flowing in tandem & sync
With circadian metronome this troll
Transformed by serenade from Mother Nature
With hand doth scythe lent curse
Congregating amongst a distinguished flora and faun
The latter sending tendrils
Poised on the brink of some philosophical revelation
Delicate as hocked china
Which capricious metaphorical musings
Resurrected from propriety
Devoid of any vicious evocations nor premonitions
While ensconced in eyesight of my adobe
Dwelling away from mass of society
Return of this native son harbors thoughts
Against madding crowd that cease to dwindle
To less than the effect of a mosquito needling proboscis
In the nape o me neck
As this contemplative human being feels
Leaves of grass each like a spindle
Completing a colorful pastoral palette
Of utmost verdant splendor upon flotsam speck
Allowing wisps of euphoria
To warm thine psyche easing books set afire to kindle
Under the azure vault
The entire warp and woof of one mortal male as he does lie
Where arises finding incriminating fault
Beneath the celestial sphere transfixed where mysteries catapult
As those simians who preceded him
Millenniums before similarly inebriated
From wondrous panoply of one star
That comprises a near infinite candelabra
Guiding the mind to posit the universe
This mission must come to a HALT!
From - one whom u kin newt re:fuse
No claim to be Walt Whitman only venturing forth
That all of mankind we lose
In the event of such apocalyptic once the fuse
Lit to launch missiles meant to zero in and cruise
Upon the masses a severe planet earth detonations
Inflicting concussions more fatal
Than the most lethal booze.
Long poem by
frank halliwell | Details |
Just grab a seat on that stump lad, and I'll take centre stage,
With a yarn about a small brown donk, and a lad about your age.
And thanks much for the offer, but I'll give the beer a miss,
I've got half a cup of coffee here, and I'll be drinking this.
One afternoon, just as the sun was starting to go down,
Dad chased him on an errand, to the little shop in town.
Now this young fella blazed along, the old ute fairly flew,
About as close to the speed o' light as the four wheel drive would do.
And as he roared up a small hill, just standing past the top,
Was a jenny donk with a half grown foal, and the young lad couldn't stop.
The jenny was the closest and she took the deadly blow,
But her body saved her little one, although she'd never know.
The young lad checked the jenny out, but she'd begun the flow,
To that great green meadow in the sky, where all the donkeys go.
The foal was badly bashed up, with her hide all torn and slashed,
But her eyes were bright and she might be right...stitched up where she was gashed.
So he huffed and puffed and heaved and swore, and he got her in the back,
And he set out for the vet that lived a bit further down the track.
And the vet, he laboured mightily to save that battered foal,
And by dawn's first light after that long night, he finally reached his goal.
So young lad took the small donk home, and in the course of time,
They left the territory, for Queensland's sunny clime.
He finished up in barracks, for the company took him in,
And gave him work, down in the mine, scratchin' round for tin.
He'd seen the poincianas bloom, their crimson flowers aflame,
And so he called her 'Blossom', and that became her name.
Now the Isa's not the most thrilling place there is along the track,
So he taught young Blossom a trick or two, to help take up the slack.
To stand with forelegs on his shoulders, (gawd, that lad was game!)
And to stretch out on an empty bunk, a trick that brought her fame.
For the common ass is pretty smart, her funny looks aside,
And she soon preferred the soft-sprung bed to the cold hard dirt outside.
And though the blokes would chase her out when time had come for rest.
She'd soon sneak back through the open door to the bed she liked the best
And most of the guys didn't really mind, and felt a little quiet pride,
In this funny donk who made them laugh, but left her souvenirs outside.
Ah yes, and she had one more quirk, that I'll add to this log,
On a hot day, she'd walk up to you, and lick you, like a dog.
I guess it was a need for salt, that's found in many forms
To fill her need she found a source on miners sweaty arms.
Now the office took a new man on, and assigned him to his shift,
To start on monday morning, at the number seven lift.
And this was friday, fairly late, so with the weekend free,
He took his wad and went to town, to celebrate, you see.
So several hours later, and much the worse for wear.
This fella staggered back again, without a single care.
He managed to remove his clothes, with a lot of crashing sound,
Then held on tight with knuckles white, as the room went round and round
Eventually he fell asleep as the booze turned out his light,
And Blossom, at the same time, gave up grazing for the night.
She came on tiptoe down the room, as only donkeys can.
And gazed in silent disbelief at this new, intruding man.
Who'd taken without sanction, her comfy little bed.
And left our donk with no good place to rest her weary head.
She put her head down close to his and snuffled in his ear
Well then, perhaps a slurp or two, might bring him past the beer.
At last in desperation, she put her lips up to his ear
And loosed a mighty donkey's bray, that those in town could hear,
And followed with a lot of slurps to help her win the toss,
And ensure that he would stay alert 'till she got her point across.
Yes lad, I woke in terror, and much dismay at those
Two big brown eyes like dinner plates, and enormous roman nose.
And ears like radar dishes and a voice like a cannon's roar.
So I up, and out, and down the road, and I run for a mile or more.
So that was when I took the pledge and swore right off the grog.
And vowed that I'd spend no more nights in alcoholic fog.
And when I feel that stirring urge, I'll go out and get some grub,
And never, never, ever, chat up sheilas in a pub.
I've spent lots of nights, out on the grog, when we had got our pay,
And woke beside some dreadful dogs, come the cold gray light of day.
But let me tell you matey, no one's ever seen a sight,
Like her that woke me with a kiss, that awful friday night.
Long poem by
David Moule | Details |
World Bleeders (#777 words)
If you claim to be sane
in this crazy whirled we live
I pity the world in your domain
in that you forget to forgive
I think your normal is abnormal
You must be one of the takers
not the One's that give
Maybe you're one of the fakers
that live comfortably in a lie
Maybe you're one of the shakers
not afraid to roll another die
Maybe you think you're one of the makers
without having to try
You have others do as you will
You love to make them cry
You've assigned yourself to the breakers
the bankers and self-appointed high
for annihilation in the illuminated fire
Resurrected in a body for hire
A true holocaust
The Soul is outsourced
to the Archontic principal
and the psychopathic Bull
Mad as a hatter
Too much Mercury in your brain
has broken through the membrane
You burnt the messenger
that had a swift cure for your pain
You're historically insane
You designed your new casket
to survive after the pyre
It fits your godlike desire
to outlive the last creator
of heaven and hell
The Great dictator
behind the face you dwell
It's all in your head
that's lost in space
You're the naked king not the ruler
of the awakened human race
Your master is weakening
Your plans are known
Your days are numbered
on this Earthly throne
Your wars will not win
Your battles will be lost
Humanity has suffered too long
along the lines that you have crossed
You fail to wholly understand
Your left brain receives
and makes the demands
to Be-keeper of the Rite
that assumes command
Darkness over light
You want the hive in your hand
to extract all the honey
Only you can transfer
the raw gold into money
and set a price beyond the reach
of the deepest wells
You seal your darkened spells
in sacrificial red blood and wax
From the micro to the macro
you set the rate of in-come tax
upon every single unit of measure
You claim each traded name
as your personal treasure
to buy or sell as you proclaim
and shifting shame
to fool and blame
the one that's lost in time
Forever leaning back and fore
Not balanced along the wavy line
alike spiral chakras resonating a sine
from root to tip along the spine
but not connected to Earth or skies
Beyond worship of the witness Moon
Saturn plays your tune
The old man of time
will come for you soon
just as You have willed
Fashioned from the blood you spilled
on sacred ground
The buried bodies will be found
You will get what you deserve
in the final round
Beyond the courts of Law
are accountants keeping score
You could have been part of the whole
You chose to be the whore
You could have given back what you stole
but wanted to prophet from the score
Painted a Red Star above your door
Each choice that you make
or exaggerates the mistake
Turning water into ice
for you to rule a frozen paradise
and rape the feminized Son
through the Djinn in your genes
You host the obscene
Still burning your skin in the Light
You hide behind sun screens
The most affected are the unclean
primitive reptilian-brained Being
Hidden at the top of the unseen
Much more has been hidden
than declared or found
Buried so deep underground
it traps the sight and sound
The rumors fly around
like sprayed-on mud
across the whole scene
They say the copper in their blood
makes it blue/green
Part psychic machine
Someone's terror nightmare
is someone else's dream
intensify the silent scream
that so few people hear
Is someone other than Me
reside unseen in here
Is there anybody out there
Slip and slide induced fear
Manufactured and produced
to make the precious juice
that powers the parasitic rider
Who takes the spark from him and her
through unguarded portals
the siphon is Set
The Python of Horus
when the Hawk's eyes meet
and amplify the chorus
with an electro-magnetic reaction
that powers the craft
created from forced intention
beyond your mind
through an angled shaft
Home of the Dog-gods
and the worshipped Cat
before the destruction of Tiamat
engendered the demise
from flaming objects
in blood red skies
All innocence dies
Only the Soulless vampire survives
on the victims last breath
Only the anti-creator thrives
on imaginations final death.
Long poem by
frank halliwell | Details |
by Frank Halliwell..
The sun hangs like a furnace in the brassy sky at noon,
All living things are hiding from it's blaze.
The sultry air surrounds us like a smothering cocoon,
The distance is a dusty, shimmering haze.
The old, dead gum stands gauntly on the highest point of ground.
Two almost fledged young hawks prepare to fly,
While mother hawk sits watching with the game that she has found,
Until her newly fledged have had their try.
The ever shifting puffs of wind become a steady breeze
And swing around into the north northwest.
It strips the last of moisture from the grasses and the trees
And gently rocks the fledglings in their nest.
The months of drought have turned once verdant land a lifeless brown,
The earth is parched and cracking from the heat.
The trees are dry as bulldust from the roots up to the crown.
A week of steady rain would be a treat.
But down along the river to the west, below the ridge,
It seems that fate has formed a different plan,
For a curl of smoke is rising from the grass beside the bridge.
For whatever reason, here the fire began.
Timid at first, the flames advance across the earth's dry face
Toward the litter lying thick beneath the trees.
And a bone dry bush says 'welcome', to the flames' torrid embrace
And the sparks go swirling downwind on the breeze.
And where they touch the flames spring up to spread the fire wide
And the insects die in millions in the grass..
As the questing flames seek out the spots where they have run to hide
And the searing heat leaves nothing room to pass.
Emboldened now, it crackles on along the river bank
As the choking smoke goes streaming towards the trees.
And up the slope beside the track through herbage dry and rank
And it vaults across the narrow road with ease.
Both predators and hunted watch it come in great dismay,
Their enmity forgotten in the quest
To find a sanctuary: somewhere safe to get away
From the monster that's approaching from the west.
But the beast pursues them upward through the thickets and the glades
And hastens flying feet with searing breath.
'Til a rocky wall confronts them, and all hope of refuge fades,
As capricious fate metes out a fiery death.
And the fire spares no pity as it rages up the slope
With it's smoke and heat and flame that act as goads
To the mass that flee before it, with evaporating hope
As the superheated canopy explodes.
It cascades burning embers as it leaps from tree to tree
And spawns the fires' offspring far and wide.
Two scared young hawks await their fate in their remote eyrie
As the fire charges up the mountainside.
The hot wind is a living thing, a servant to the beast:
To this ever changing monster without form,
And the oxygen it carries garnishes it's master's feast..
As it feeds the all-consuming firestorm.
The eyes recoil from blinding smoke, the skin, from scorching heat
And the flying sparks attack like angry bees.
Each breath's a painful, gasping chore, the lungs are near defeat,
And the fearsome roar is echoed from the trees.
At the plateau's edge it falters, here the boulders thickly lie,
And the grass and scrub grow sparsely here and there,
And without the fuel to feed it, it must very quickly die,
And the hot wind wails a note of pure despair.
The blood-red sun descends to earth beyond the ravaged plains
To be swallowed up beneath the distant seas,
And through the night the hungry flames consume what fuel remains,
Punctuated by the crash of falling trees.
The new day arrives in glory, with a sunrise to amaze
The like of which is seen by very few,
But it lights a scene of stygian murk and drifting smoky haze,
With blackened ruin the only thing in view.
The old dead tree is burnt out and lies shattered on the ground.
No sign of life near what was once a nest.
But the morning holds a promise, as a distant rumbling sound
Comes from thunderheads that rise out to the west.
Yesterday was full of losers but it's often something wins.
Now the sound of thunder echoes on the breeze,
And in the sky above the ridge as this new day begins,
Three hawks soar high above the blackened trees.
Long poem by
Chris D. Aechtner | Details |
A Cardinal darts past, and I cannot quite discern if it chirps out of nervousness
towards the impending storm.
If so, the twittering of cell phones sound far more nerve-wracking --
portable typewriters encased in the soul-less facade of laissez faire;
of keeping track, of minding the flocks.
Yes, everyone is a poet these days, tapping away on miniature, plastic typewriters,
typing away the next narrative filled with prose pretending to be free verse.
Whether the majority is truly poetic or not, Frankenstorm surely is poetic;
named after Mary Shelley's, Frankenstein.
The poetic justice of it all amongst a tragedy of broken necks and drownings,
for the Shelleys were the epitome of Romanticism --
not of ritualistic bouquets bought from the florist who sells porn on the sly,
or of waxy chocolate made by children in clandestine factories built from the bricks
of Mao's dreams of anthills and selling short the power stemming from another poet
turned arms dealer.
No, the romance for life itself; to become poetry as poetry turns into us.
To find mystery in everyday moments; to distil this mystery, offer it to the reader,
so that the reader becomes drunken, swooning in a stupor towards worlds
that are 1,000,000 light years away.
Frankenstorm, the Haunting of Shelleys, lashes out at the dead poetry of today;
at the empty, listlessly inane, lazy poetry of today.
The brightest stars are falling into a void, turning away from the very essence
they so wish to express....only because they want to be unique, to be original,
to carve their own niche into the Jack O' Lanterns of a Hallowe'en quickly turning into cheap, dollar store decorations.
They still have hope. They still have hope, even if many further detach themselves
from their emotions with another dose of prescription pills meant to pacify;
meant to reign in the emotional beasts of imagination, until only zombies preserved in formaldehyde, remain.
I can literally feel the Haunting of Shelleys ask wot has become of us.
It used to be about work ethic and soul - one had to kick, tear, bite, simply to publish
a pamphlet that might be read by 10 people.
Nowadays, everyone is a supposed poet. A few clicks, 'submit', and people from all
over the world can read cotton-candy couplets, or a free verse rendition of another grocery list.
But we must embolster this with:
"They are only beginning; they need to express themselves;
they just don't care."
I don't want to be told about the pain, the tragedy, the beauty, the love.
I want to be shown.
I want to feel it.
I want to feel it squeeze my gray matter into a bitter-sweet drink;
I want to feel it go down.
I want to feel it warm up my heart, grip my stomach until the bottom falls out
and I am left careening down a shaft in an elevator with a broken pulley and rusted-through brakes, and just when I think the end has come, the elevator bursts through
a bottom which is actually the ceiling of a world now turned upside-down --
and by the time I right myself, have read the last line, there is still a remaining mysterious periphery of the cats that reside in the corner of my eyes;
purring, waiting until I come back to re-read that particular poem,
for it is so tantalizing, I want to come back to it over and over again
for the remainder of my years.
Storms will always come and go,
but I sensed the metaphorical message of the Frankenstorm very strongly.
Yet this doesn't mean that I will turn the message into fruition.
But I will certainly attempt to do so.
Within my delirium, I will continue to try distilling the intangible
into a drunken tangibility; even for the sake of simply trying.
And as I ponder, as I witness the present decay of humanity,
witness the state of today's poetry, I can only wonder how many more
Hauntings of Shelleys are possibly already brewing.
October 31st, 2012
My thoughts go out to those caught in the path of Frankenstorm 2012.
Such events move me very deeply.
*I have already posted this prose in a blog, because at the time,
the character-count exceeded the limit of poem posts.