Poetry History Poems

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Details | Lyric |
The words we use become pictures into lives
Pictures from words spread out for all to see
This is what becomes of our poetry
Has the makings of a montage to me
With words we complete many pictures
Pictures then arranged to fit in closeness
And so with our poetry I do believe
We create a montage for all to see

Copyright © Carol Sunshine Brown | Year Posted 2011

Details | Light Poetry |
The Enmity
Seeking justice is the only way you knew how to protect us.
As a juvenile delinquent I was too young to recognize it.
I am always trying to justify it,
 Knowing the whole time you had a hold on me that only I could see.
As you continue to play tricks on me, 
I was a novice but with your help no one ever noticed.
Discourage by the public, I became irrelevant.
You showed me things that were not true,
You told me that everyone was wrong but you.
They were not the enmity the enmity was you, your lies eventually grew.
Conspiracy theories I let you convince me.
I was weak, and you got the best of me.
Making me believe everyone was out to get me, 
And no one could ever love me.
You said he was a cheater, and were cheating on me brought out my insecurities.
Insanity you drove me, anxiety confines me.
Vindictive was all I consisted of.
Taking my past out on everyone that crossed my path.
You controlled my laughter, you told me when I could laugh.
You held my happiness captive in a glass capsule.
Like carbon dioxide you traveled in me throughout my lifetime.
Highly poisonous colorless, and odorless you were my organic carbon.
I am panic stricken and the plot only thickens.
You are my enmity the brain that was giving to me.
My very own paparazzi my mind taking snap shots of me.
I am my worst enemy, the enmity has always been me.
As of right now you control the words that are coming out of me.
You want me to see what you see.
I see the good, the bad, and the ugly that you made me.
My mind has always been in control of me.
Telepathy of my enmity, cofounder of simply me

Copyright © twanna Irisha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
No words

Where there are tears
There are no words

Where there is music
There are no words

Where there is painting
There are no words

Where there is love
There are no words

Where there is passion
Words run and hide

Where there is sadness
There are no words

Where there is poetry
The poet attempts justice to the word

Where there are tears
The poet mystically appears

Where there is death
There are words

Proclaiming dominance to all before
Music art and philosophy

For not all are artists and musicians
All we have left are words and sorrows

How so very sad
And so very absurd

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse |
Man so mighty and wise
still has to define this
that another living being's life
has the same value as his 

Boasted, brazened
written in stone
raised above 
these highest places 
where power reigns
crushing down  
in white 
clenched fists
gripping so tightly
to "history" 
draining the meaning 
out of good intention

Those stones are weeping
as grass grows quietly around the edges
The future

are best listed
to be used like lines in the sand
some seen on the skin
most are though beneath 
a cross marking
the surface
this land of the free
that the privileged paid for
from sea to sea
with the lives of lesser men
and their women 
up for "grabs"

The women
best when big breasted
beautiful and begging
feeding their daughters
dreams of a better tomorrow
when that white clenched fist 
stops squeezing her tits
before slapping 
lips against her 
drooling over her
in her ear
something sweet 
you're mine"

What lines of defense
Those lines lie on paper
written, signed and etched by those
elected and chosen
statesmen stating authority over your body
their dolls
their toys
serving their purpose
the good Word stenciled in stone

carved out in flesh
fresh cadavers 
swept under the rug
serving their purpose

Gravestones weeping
as grass grows quiety around the edges
The memory

Keeping their hands clean
they wipe their mouths red
blood on their stained sleeves
the polish from their shiny shoes sully 
the stars 
and stripes 
stripped of the value they once held 
when they stiched us all together 
and brought so many strangers home

How white clenched fists
hold power and privelege 
held so high in esteem
like our stars 
and stripes
teetering, unraveling 
the threads shaking 
as if stripped naked 
and forced to wave 
above that Capitol Hill
and still

Our Lady
holds a tattered gown

Copyright © Sarah ROSEN | Year Posted 2017

Details | Light Poetry |
Come to my boudoir Cheri
I am here all for thee
In red and lace
I shall entangle you will love
Entice you with lust
Tease you till desires run dry
You shall be the knight who rides my thigh
In the bonny highlands we shall have our romp
Meadows and fields of summer scent and breeze
I shall wrap you in my honey warmth
Mine, all mine you will be
Wrapped, entwined around my wee finger
Enslaved with love
My love
You belong all to me

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
These barren walls
Keep me chaste
Vows of silence
Diminish nothing of wanton passions of the past
Days in silence, looking upwards to God
Thoughts linger, to where true love lies

I toil in Gods works
Knees now as rocks
All of Gods floors, so clean
Daily rituals, in quiet do I share
Our virtues preserved, hidden from worldly sins
But I have loved, yes, and long I still do

Illusions of piety, they scare me not
Love stirs goodness, surely no sin
The days of eternal springs
Gardens so fresh, flowers in bloom
Hand in hand, with his intellect and charm
Beauty within, for we dared the philosophical

Arms and legs entwined, deep in thoughts
My professor of life, and thinker to all
He belonged to France
Nobility, and all
We parted in love, 
Who sees my tears, behind these walls?

Our reasoning lost to passions turn
He admits not, the love he yearns
His Order condemns, his inquisitive thoughts
He burns what he writes
Heretic or not
A leader of philosophy, a greatness in his time

A fate, that brings upon me guilt
His torture of manhood, he suffered much pain
Questioning his intellect, is love, his very brain
Each to our separate, Abbeys’ of god
Vows of silence, yet the ink flowed
Reliving now, what surely, should have been

A love so great, why considered a sin?
Has not this society, any compassion at all?
Learned I was in Latin and Hebrew
And so with the pen, letters did flow
And from afar, in pain, our love re-lived
Passions in ink, became again exposed

Alas he is older by a fortnight or many
He longed for love, yet he fights from within
His values, his passions, his life’s dedications
His soul has been burned, wounded by time
Ending his years, thinking seduction undone
Redemption shall be waiting, from the heavens above

My love Abelard, my tears you never saw
I was strong, as you gave me the strength to be
And I, was happy, knowing our desires shared
The angels will tell you, your fame will endure
For the greatest of all philosophies
Our love will be

Abelard and Heloise are one of the most celebrated couples of all time, known for their love affair... and for the tragedy that separated them.
Abelard (1079-1142)
Heloise (1101-1164)

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
The Twelve Angels of Beirut

They huddle together in the heavens
Muttering amongst themselves
Confused as any human down below

We bestow upon them the ancient teachings
Not once, not twice, variations to please all walks of life
Yes thrice

They may choose the ancient books they follow
They may keep the traditions yet must adapt to modern intellect
Such literate men who seem not to read

Who can cast his eyes at his child?
Feeling nothing but love and endearment?
Who pray tell us is displeased to arrive at his home at dusk?

Angels we twelve have nourished
We have showed you both love, morality and compassion
Yet ye who divides faith, chooses battle

You so easily prefer to drink blood
Rather than bestow a red rose upon breast
Olive trees so ripe have no meaning at all for you

Like a tree that reaches the sky
All things change, as evolution’s duty dictates
Yet you fight to keep perceptions frozen in time

You cover a woman’s face
When its you who should hide in shame
Modesty is how we bestow good deeds to strangers

It is how we look at our hearts in the mirror
A woman’s beauty should shine to the heavens
Competing only with a mans debonair style of chivalry

Honor you mother and father
Honor your tribe
Not with traditions and rented cloth

Honor with your whole heart
Feed the poor and kiss your enemy on both cheeks
The skies will become your friend

We sit here waiting in torment and anguish
Crying to the heavens that surround us
We gave you hearts and minds

You return us blood and bombs
We are ashamed of our duties
For we have obviously failed you

Forgive us, you tribes of the three branches
We are the twelve angels of Beirut
Whose tears give you your sea

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
Ancient tombs, of long ago times
Byblos, the walled city, fortress and shrines
Shrouded in mystery, wisdom's, and thyme
The Phoenicians sailed from this very port
Their ships full of knowledge and the alphabet too

And the peoples from times long forgotten
The ancestors of merchants in the souks of now
The oldest city, charmed by the sea
The churches of St Peter, tell the prophecy

Praise the heavens, the God of your heart
In the language of Jesus, love never parts
Aramaic wisdom's, true to this day
Praise God, his love never swayed

Love of mankind
Love of your soul
Love of the creator

Marhaba is an Arabic  word  used in the Middle East   as “Hello”. 
But most people don’t know its source
Marhaba comes from a Syriac (Aramaic, Assyrian) origin and was used by the first Christians
Mar = Master or God
Haba =Love
Marhaba = God is love

As Catholic churches still give masses in Latin, The Maronite Church still gives sermons in the ancient language of Jesus, Aramaic.

Byblos is an ancient city in Lebanon, Byblos is the Greek name for the Phoenician city called Gebal. Today it is believed by many to be the oldest continuously-inhabited city in the world.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
Venice, the daughter of the sea
Winding paths, waterways or cobblestones roads
Rulers of the renaissance, noblemen would be
Her navy full of conquests, her triumphs all would see

From nobility rose, a woman fair
Her life a whirlwind, with her share of despair
Banished from Venice, for daring to speak
Her desires and wit, did many a man seek

The golden rose the pope did give
As she fled to Florence, so young and deceived
Her strength in spirit and a mind so refined
Her friend Marco, the captain, with whom she dined

He parted his wisdom as best he could
He sailed victorious, for Bianca he should
His secret was safe out on the seas
Which is why he and Bianca, could never be

Her royal blood would keep her in stead
As nobility in Florence would turn their heads
Francesco indeed would commission a palazzo
For Bianca his mistress, in waiting, his queen

The Grand Duchy of Florence, all powers bestowed
A seeker of knowledge, of wisdom composed
His Austrian wife, alone, cold and barren
Could not compete, with his love yet to be

They danced, they confided, in each they held
A love of intellect, beauty and lust to be feld
And sadly, one day, the enemies of Venice
Plotted and schemed to bring about a demise

The poison was swift, and an era did end
In a villa in Florence, Francesco was dead
Bianca his love, her beauty unblemished
Fell by his side, and whispered to thee

My dear, my love, it was meant to be

Bianca Cappello (1548 – 17 October 1587)

Note: OK OK I invented 1 new word, that's what poets do

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
We loved the land
We tilled the earth, under sun we toiled
We pledged our souls, to nature’s whim
The King of France none to pleased

We took the sacraments
We held our faith, mournful to fates embrace
The British demanded a new oath we take
And scalped we were, both sides did partake

Our villages burned, our fields afire
Our woman and children, in hunger perished
We feared Monckton, a hunter of death
And from him, to ships hold, deported at best

We preyed to Canada, to lend us a hand
Evangeline an angel of our land
The darkened forests, to where we fled
Became bloody in battles, and turned to red

For Redcoats wandered in search of scalps
As Father Le Loutre preached unheavenly deeds
He was bloodthirsty and in skirmishes his evil flourished
His Mikmaq warriors helped rivers flow to blood

We lived along the rivers edge
We fought them all, to no one did we pledge
As serfs we served, to whom did rule
In the end, the forest sang our quiet eulogy

The vessels sailed from Halifax
With their human cargo of Partisans
Off to the West Indies, and a new land
Disease triumphed where Lord Laurence failed

And so the voyage, onward went
The traditions of Grand Pre, to Louisiana was lent
And there they settled, peace at last
As angels of their battles, in sacrifice did rest

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


You cried a smile
shadowing anger
beneath a canopy 
of love

Your necks filled nooses
tied with Christian knots
that never failed

Your wombs challenged
the holding holes
of sanctified graveyards

You kneaded gospels
from the dough of pain
and fed starving souls:

You moaned songs
with groans echoing
echoes from the depths
of suffering spirits—

Suffering spirits
whose fortified bent backs
gave rise to a flourishing nation

The fruits of your labors
have now ripened:
dropping pregnant seeds
germinating liberty

upon justice…?

the rain fell
her tears
of waters
drowning justice
to survive
tidal waves
of deception—
seeking to douse
the flame of hope
held high
in hand—
an elusive lady
to stand
her anchored

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
Are you educated?
Have you injured heart?
Have you purified brain?
Do you believe in truth?
Are you alone?
Do you seek problematic truth, solvable truth, real magic?
Are you a secular person?
Do you believe in democracy?

If your answers are YES...

You have poetic mind.
You are the reader of poetry.
You are the real minority in the world. 

Keep patience.
The earth is moving.
It is proved that new history is created by the minorities. 


Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

Details | Crown of Sonnets |
Injustice is just an inconvenience until it is proven...
When the sun hit their helmets it startled the very souls of the natives
a signal upon their eyes that spoke like a siren of ill prophecy to the bone,
the armaments of a hell that hushed any hope of mythical tribal ties,
steel and steeds struck and trampled stone age traditions
and the Cross and Crown crushed the crowds that gathered for the Conquistadors, 
arquebus bursts blew away bodies like brittle straw bundles
crossbows crippling the courage of Indians with crosscut arrows,
Spanish war dogs demonic in pursuit of pagan bowels 
tearing into Incan and Aztec flesh with furious fangs,
Virococha and Quetzalcoatl were not to be found in the battles
but in the temple plazas the hot blood did spill into a new calander of rites,
the mita of a hundred generations meted out for an ecomienda of ceaseless serfdom,
men and women converted, not to a new class of faith, but a new caste of animal kingdom,

Men and women converted, not to a new class of faith, but a new caste of animal kingdom, 
Captain we've lost three more this morning,  the flux fever has finished their fight,
that's thirteen total since we disembarked from the Ivory Coast ladden like a whale with 375 of them...
The Dahomey warlords do not believe in the blood of their captives, nor pity their plight
the Portuguese,  French and English store them like wet wood in the beach barracks
and here on the Sea Lion we lie them down like sweating corpses,
Toby, I've been shipping in this trade triangle for 18 years, pretending that its just business, 
the stink and screams of human cargo are spoiling my soul, forcing slow tears,
the ocean used to look so blue to me, now it's just a rolling swell of suffering, 
ring the bell three times for Neptune, before tossing them into the deep tide at twilight, 
tell Jenson that I value his sea smarts, but that if I see him torment another human being
I will burn a hole through his throat with a fire iron and hang him from the front mast,
my conscience won't allow me to be a courier of insanity anymore,
every voyage begins with innocence, and all must end with admitting who and what you are...

Every voyage begins with innocence,  and all must end with admitting who and what you are...
Today a man was freed who's back has the scars of a thousand cruelties, 
abolition freed his will to the labor of liberty yet his soul cannot escape the field master,
blood stains upon unrefined cotton he has not forgotten in his sleeping cries,
his great grandmother spoke of stars in an African sky
his grandfather revealed traditions told quietly about ancient spirits,
when his Mother died under the sun he didn't ask why
and as his Father fought the overseer he knew what honor is,
by 1810 Denmark, Britain, and the United States of America had banned transatlantic slave trading, 
Sierra Leone had become an industrious colony of former slaves,
by 1865 civil war in the United States dismantled slavery,
the 13th and 14th Amendments became the pillars of a new nation's days,
oh how fast the fields have grown,
so much more for our future to fathom,

I will beat you with it, choke you with it, and love you with it,
your beauty Avia, will survive in the legend of Goshen's price,
brutality is in the very bedrock here, within the law insanity kept,
yet it are the truly noble whom rise to death with confidence, 
slay the symbols of captivity and you'll be set free,
Gentlemen,  behold, the wild yet curious Laurentia, an unexplored beauty,
wonder not what good your purpose is, the soul knows what must be,
we will escape to the frontier where our love and independence have priority, 
We will be the trustees of life's passions...
the world has awoken to our march, to our lightning it will listen,
Captivity can be the catalyst for self empowering revelations...
Injustice is just an inconvenience until it is proven...
men and women converted, not to a new class of faith, but to a new caste of animal kingdom, 
Every voyage begins with innocence,  and all must end by admitting who and what you are...
so much more for our future to fathom,
this whip is a relic of war -

I began composing this epic on July 3rd,
and completed the work on August 7th,
investing approximately 135 hours of intellect. 
Also, I did not compose the 15th sonnet
prior to writing the preceeding 14 sonnets...Justin A. Bordner

Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |

Just a small village girl in such a big world
Feeding the animals in the quite fields
Smiling and singing, laughing too
Joan of Arcadia sang songs for you
A Leader, a Martyr, a Warrior and Saint
No military background a peasant girl quaint
Hearing God’s voice on the call for her life
A teenage girl drew sword by her side

She disguised herself as a man 
Marched for eleven days as fast as she planned
To meet the Dauphine the heir to the thrown
To convince Him that she would fight for his own
This time she was met with great success
And an army was given the military best

The hundred year war between England and France
Would soon be led by the Saviour of France
At the tender young age of only seventeen
Joan would soon fulfil all her dreams
The Maid of Orleans’ by which she was known
Led France to victory and put Charles on the thrown
Now Joan of Arc was very smart
With armour and white horse, she battled till last

She fought the Burgundians and  English at Orleans
And the whole of France stood proud like a team
But conspirators were mounting, her power too great
We will get rid of her and deal her, her faint
And Charles did send her on a bogus mission
Where she was captured and commissioned

The Burgundies keeping her for several months
No word from her King, she had goose bumps
Torturing her and questioning her on many things
They wanted a signed confession of sin
That the voices she heard were that of demons 
When actually they were Saints that were beaming
They became furious when they couldn’t catch her out
Her humility and skill made heaven stand proud

Joan became tired and they got their result
Seventy charges they would invoke
One of those charges not to dress like a man
And Joan would be imprisoned for the rest of her span
The English weren’t happy with the French court
And set up a way so she broke an oath
They left her armour in her cell 
Fore well knowing she would rebel
She broke their rule of wearing her armour
And they handed her over to the Church Fathers
She was tried for witch craft and heresy
At the age of nineteen burnt at the stake

There’s never been such hero of France
Joan was defiant at her last dance
Her spirit remained strong beneath those flames
But the people did cry you fools are insane
What a vicious assault on a beautiful life
Her murderers would soon see her great light

© Copyright KC.Leake
14th September 2015
All Rights Reserved

Copyright © kevin leake | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |
Welcome, Ms. Valmer!!  Glad you are aboard- now you can comment on any 
poem, right after reading it....and try your hand at your own, should you choose.
Lotsa great people here.  PS- could not open greeting sent- comp. needs 
something installed - some file, I'll have to find out how to do it.  So glad you 
joined! Luv, tom

Copyright © johnathon bart | Year Posted 2008

Details | Light Poetry |
A passion of blood swormed all over the phacenity just to let our former humans know a whip can never deliver me rust can be shoved into my skin however ill be back again you can spit in my face and mark the freedom that my father gave us today cowards never believe in faith just what is visable in front of there face you can watch me bleed from a cross but if you tried to help me i know my words have rubbed off no remoise of my soul how can you save your own toes walking in a gardern of quick sand with the devil sins in your left hand sinking to the bottom because the things that make you feel could be the things that make you kill i sprout up with gills staying above the water if i shall sink under my soul will feel  like the men in the thunder who watched our father die now paying for it under the sky

Copyright © Linwood Bovain | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
She out on her own
hates being all alone
today she heard her wedding song
he had done her so wrong

There's no more tears
there are still fears
what happen to tender love and care
now no one is even their

No one to hold her hand
no one to understand
she wishes on stars up above
that soon she 'll find love

Where she won't get hurt
or treated like dirt
where she won 't be blue
found love thats true

Copyright © Karen Marker | Year Posted 2007

Details | Haiku |
For those people too stubborn or too set in their ways to listen to another point of view: HEADNOTES  are NOT titles and they do not add to the syllable count. They are used with haiku or tanka poetry to set the scene  - like a signpost. Without it the reader will be totally lost (unless he/she has a VERY broad base of international knowledge). REAMS have been written about the MEANING of some of Basho's haiku. Why? Because it is ambiguous and, therefore, understanding them and translating them is difficult. Eg "the crow" and "frog pond" are only two of such haiku people are having difficulty with to come to a consensus as to what the poet intended to convey with these haiku.  

Why Say More? The Problem of Titling Tanka
First published in the Tanka Society of America Newsletter 3:1, March 2002, pages 12–15. While focused on tanka, the insights I hope this essay offers, apply equally well to haiku.

Tanka in Japan sometimes have headnotes as opposed to titles, but it is NOT a sixth line to the poem! Headnotes explain the “circumstances of the poem”—the context or setting. Again, though, headnotes are not at all like titles, and one need not be a particularly astute reader of tanka to spot the difference; headnotes are typically factual, locational, or anecdotal, whereas titles are often symbolic or intellectual. The headnotes, if used at all, do not fight with the tanka aesthetic, whereas titles typically do.

From my Blog Posted:11/5/2012 12:01:00 AM: http://www.poetrysoup.com/poetry_blogs/blog_detail.aspx?PoetID=30875&BlogID=13720


Hoeri 'kwaggo
raised from the sea – 
the tablecloth spread

a pallet
on which hope rests – 
cold sand clings


Hoeri 'kwaggo:  Table Mountain, “Mountain of the sea” in Khoi San.
Table Mountain is renowned for its tablecloth when the strong south-easterly wind blows.
Bloubergstand/ Beach: Means "blue mountain" - hence the place name (AND THE ATLANTIC OCEAN IS VERY COLD ALL YEAR ROUND).  It is an iconic image of Table Mountain from Bloubergstrand. 
The motto of Cape Town (which nestles at the foot of Table Mountain, is Spes Bona ( Latin for "Good Hope")
Cape of Good Hope is one of the 7 historical names of Cape Town. 

Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |
They were Meriwether Lewis and William Clark,
Her name was Sacagawea.
On an expedition they did embark
Finding the passage to the sea.

Down the Missouri they traveled, 
Then slithered 'round the Snake River bend.
Rocky Mountain weather and sickness battled;
At the Columbia River they'd end. 

©2013 Honestly JT

Copyright © Honestly J.T. | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
"Oh, hear me chiefs, for I am tired and with a sick and sad heart, and from where the sun now stands I will fight no more forever!" - Chief Joseph of the Nez Pierce

The time in which these words were spoken, surely must've been a mournful day; a day showing to each of these Native Americans as a passing marked of great sadness, a sadness unique to each perspective - an end-view of a Peoples reaching eyes, ...eyes found looking back at their ancestral homeland, each having taken in this sight with great beholding, ... as if the imminent future had left out on an open grassy plain, a thousand souls in wait for final sharing of a night's thoughts under a Northen Lights glow. Sadly, for some, the last capture of a memory, this running beauty to its hold would ever show.

Copyright © dave archuletta | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
Sister Aimee

An angel in white floated down from the heavens
Onto a small farm in the northern land of Salford
Illumination and imagination combined
She was divine and with inspiration, sublime

Inquisitive eyes shone out from this beautiful creature
Her airs and twinkle surely from above were derived
She questioned the existence of the god, her creator
What child would not ponder the universe and nature?

She wanted to save the world
A one angel salvation army with a smile
A romantic with desires of angelic love
She was humble, her knowledge was from above

She knew the tongues of many men
Languages’ known, languages’ today unspoken
Her worldly desires to preach, affection to mankind
She became a Semple lady, united in humanity no matter how blind

Around the world
Singing praises of the lord
Malaria left her alone with child assured
A Star was yet to rise

Head strong and a heart of gold
Her children grew up with god’s undying love
She was not one to take a back seat
Her gift was her message; she delivered from a heavenly stage

In the city of Angels, a miracle born
The temple of Angels
The fiery flaming fascinating preacher of immaculate beauty
Would rise to god’s glory, a message to be celebrated and adored

On the shores of a beach long ago
The white angel of the lord disappeared from the shore
The devils monsters accused of devouring her whole
Her followers waiting patiently for a resurrection to show

The ultimate Kiss was to awake her
From south where the water is brown with evil sin
She wandered back to her own echoes
Now to be spectacular, heavens evangelical angel 

A sensuous sermonizer, a preacher of love
She fed the poor during depressing times
Her hand would cure the sick and wayward
She brought the values of the ancients, to modern times

Angels often do not sleep
So in the year of 1944 she was recalled above
Her work her on earth a splendid score
Now in heavens, she leads the choir of angels

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
There is an orgy of fruit above our heads
Delectable sweetness falls unto our beds
We shall devour the sweetness so ripe and pure
Tantalizing encounters,
Angels so bright with amorous decor
Intercourse woven upon the forest floors,
Lustfully we be bedridden
Satisfying our wanton souls in the village of Sidon

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
Time line

all mine

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2009

Details | Light Poetry |
Mighty oars to take us away from our shores
Our horsemen marshal their men at arms
The trek is long, battles of the blood-soaked 
Our swords we hold high
Above our heads, the cross guides us to righteousness
For King and God
For we are the Franks, the Knights of Christ
Glory be to our Lord, and Urban
The council of Clermont shall decree long before us
That we are the divine soldiers, Templar’s in gold battle dress
The bearers of Christ’s will
The heathen Saracens shall lie in pools of blood
Below our feet

Saladin the Sunni of Tikrit 
In the valley of Balbeek his wisdoms took hold
A warrior of the brave, a man of the peace
Whose compassion was ruled by the quill
His sword was of last resort
A man of traditions and honorable intent

The barbarian Franks made it so
The land of Christ could not fall into Saracen hands
Saladin with his Arabian horses and arrows strong
Would show the Franks, their world was wrong
He offered peace and passage too
The Croisades said Christ or death but never YOU
Never, never the Saracens or their evil ways!!!

Facing the Tower of David and the Damascus Gate
The archers fired every quiver and every bow
For six days and nights the ramparts held strong
The Saracens fell one after the other, an arrows slow death 
The Gates of David once more protecting the onslaught on infidel goliaths
The Seventh day they all rested
Saladin’s messengers demanded surrender as the Franks laughed
He warned, I will offer you the Olive branch once, only once
True to his word The Mount of Olives was to be the Scarceness victory
Bailian surrendered, and the crusades where doomed to the books of history

From his teachings of youths wistful past
Saladin was of compassion and honor
The Christians, the slaves the refugees of war
All given safe passage, A gracious Kings heart would save many a soul
No blood would flow on the narrow alleys of Jerusalem
The Sultan of wisdom allowed all to worship in the kingdom of the Levant
Islam was indeed in the golden age

The Knights of Christ
The Crusaders or Gods will
Would draw on one last gasp
Lionheart would lead the fatal entourage
As each horse was lost in battle
Saladin provided Lionheart yet another
Honor amongst great leaders, above all
Compassion won over battlefield lust
The Crusaders fell into the sea of lost memories

Jerusalem is lost
Lost to the heathens
Who have seized the holy lands
The battles lost
Tears we weep for Jerusalem
Tears fall onto the cross
Roads of history
Paved with pain
Tears of Jerusalem

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Epitaph |
John F. Kennedy 1917-1963 The great 35th president of US It wasn't really a success He tried to stop the missile bases There were lot of angry faces When there was about to be a war Peace was what he asked for Texas was the place he was shot Later, the criminal was caught He didn't survive the pain His people cried like the rain

Copyright © Heeju Kim | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
Its carnival season again in Trinidad
The whole country in a party mood
With steel pan, soca and calypso
Beautiful women and all kind of food

It has a big show in Skinners Park
Tonight in san Fernando
And we boys from 2nd street
We all getting ready to go

When we reach san Fernando
The show was already in progress
I notice this beautiful Dougla girl
Wearing a red and black flowers dress

Roger buys some cask wine
And two bottle of puncheon rum
It have some nice girls in front we
Dancing to the beat of steel drums

Three cases of Carib in a cooler
Riad ask the girls if they want a beer
Then he come back and tells us
He likes the one with the short hair

Tonight is going to be good night
All the best will be up on the stage
Trinidad people like to free up their self 
Like a bird escaping from a cage

The show opens with the mighty duke
Who sing “thunder ‘to start the evening?
Follow by lord Blakie, David rudder, black Stalin
Then lord Shorty, the original soca king

The Merchant, lord melody, crazy and brigo
Lord nelson, explainer, chalk dust and maestro
Blue boy, gypsy, Francine, calypso rose, shadow,
Kitchener and calypso king the mighty sparrow

The Trinidad and Tobago carnival 
Is The greatest show on the earth?
Tourist arriving from around the world
Coming in airplanes’ and in boats

When it comes to writing lyrics
No one does it like a calypsonians
The most brilliant writers in the world
Is from the Caribbean islands

Calypso is a style of Afro Caribbean music
That originated in Trinidad and Tobago
Its highly rhythmic and harmonic vocals,
That Became the voice of the people,

It has lot foreign singers, song writers
Just have a couple of hits and disappear
But in the Trinidad the calypsosion
Have to make a carnival album every year

Soon as the carnival is over 
They start a new album right away
Working hard in the studio
To have it out for next carnival day 

They write about all kind of topic
In a very large variety
Some about government and politics
Some to dance and some very funny

To celebrate the end of slavery 
People went singing out in the streets
With pans, buckets and iron
And any thing they get to make a beat

And the crowd starts growing larger 
As they dancing and singing their song
Celebrating all across the nation
That’s how the carnival was born

Today it’s the greatest celebration
Visit by people all around the world
And for carnival day
They become a trini in their heart and soul

Copyright © kasim ishmael | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
The Beheading of Nînwe

Ninwe is the ancient Syriac name for Mosul
(not to be confused with the ancient Assyrian city of Nineveh)

Burned books
Dead poets
Dark ages of Mosul

Smattered relics
Islamic horrors
Dark ages of Mosul

Education denied
Blind minds cutting out eyes
Dark ages of Mosul

Evil hearts
Dark Souls
Rulers in Mosul

The golden age of Islam long ago
Evil winds have blown
Now they live in darkness

In Burka tears
For years

Crucified Christians
Run run run
The museum is closed in Mosul

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |
When I was young, I would mock the raven,
Never dreaming her harsh call was a cry
Across the water to the castle of her brother
King Bram, the Raven, ruler of the British Isles.
Never did I dream of the destruction 
That would follow this desperate plea
Sent upon the wings of a blackened crow.

When I was young, I thought childhood
Would last forever; secure in my father's care,
Content in the loving arms of my mother,
Never did I dream of the devastating war
That would follow this messenger of our doom
Carried across the seas to inflict upon our land
A war of vengeful purpose and contempt.

When I was young, peace prevailed in our land;
Our King was just and beloved by his people.
Then came a marriage, an alliance between
Ireland and England.  Queen Branwen;
Discontent, lonely, hungry for power,
Hated by her court for the intrigue
And bloody sanctions imposed upon all
Who did not obey her sanctimonious whim;
Queen Branwen, beautiful daughter of England.

When I was young, I stood beneath
The blasted pine, looking up at the black bird
As she screamed out her litany of wrongs,
Watching as she lifted her wings to soar across the water.
My father, general of Ireland, fell upon the shores
Fighting to repel Bran's vengeful warriors;
My mother, condemned by her beauty
Fell among the vanquished women.

When I was young, I did not fear the raven;
Now I live in the court of the Raven King,
He, who conquered my people for naught as his sister
Queen Branwen, the White Raven, took her life
And walks now, shriven and pale, among the graves
Of the fallen warriors; forever singing her lament
Of sorrow and regret; far too late, far too late.

When I was young, I believed in the goodness of men.
Now I am old; my raven hair is streaked with silver.
The voice of Bran echoes through this palace
As he cries out exhortations to his conquering soldiers;
As he cries for peace and fellowship in his land.
When I was young, I would mock the raven;
Now I am old and have harnessed the power
Of the raven's call.  I cry to my people for vengeance;
I wait for their rescue, as I haunt the halls of the Raven King.

[Loosely based on the legend of Bran, the Raven King of England 
and Branwen, his sister, who was married to the king of Ireland.  
It is said that King Bran speaks still in England through the cries of the raven.]

{by Deb Radke -- written for the contest 'Among the Dead'}

Copyright © deb radke | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |
-- Re:  Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Rue de Fleurus #27, Paris --

What would Gertrude.What Gertrude.What, Gertie?Have thought.Have thought what
thought?Thought thought driving,forward,remorselessly.Remorseless Remorse?Forward.Never reverse;no reverse.No.No remorse.Remorseless,spurning reverse,seated.High!Seated high in Auntie.Then in Godiva seated. Looming.Enormous.
Looming enormous.Unsinister presence. Certain presence.Definite.Definitely not sinister.  Positively looming;enormous in brown.Brown,in brown corduroy,driving Paris.
In Paris,through Paris.Looming high in Paris in Godiva.With Alice, quiet beside her.
Quiet; always, Alice.Alice always. And zipping, about -- coming to Rue de Fleurus 27.
Zipping to Rue de Fleurus.To 27. And Alice so able.Able Alice, each a.m. transcribing.Able Alice typing.Automatic Gertrude.Typing Gertrude.Great Gertrude.GeniusGertrude.Talking Gertrude.Genius talking.Great brown Gertrude;Gertie to Alice.
Absorbing, talking, buying art --- buying Matisse.Absorbing Matisse.Showing Matisse.Banishing Matisse.Selling Matisse,collecting Picasso.Great Gertrude -- genius Gertrude at court, holding court at Rue de Fleurus 27.And Leo.Gone Leo.No Leo at Rue de
Fleurus.Not at 27 After Leo, after Mr. Stein, after brother Leo.But there was Alice.Alice
was there Among Braques.And Cezanne.(Not Matisse.)No longer Matisse, but Picasso.And Picassos, Picassos, Picassos!And Alice; alongside, was Alice.Next to, was Alice.Alice
next Gertrude,Gertie, G. --- Gertrude, Miss Stein. Genius Gertrude Stein Quiet Alice
always.And a great Gertrude.A great brown Gertrude.A leviathan. A passing ship; a
great leviathan.Gertie, a genius.A hugeness.A shibboleth.But to Alice, just Gertie.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2012