Best Ambushes Poems
Red blood splashes on muddy terrain:
ambushes booby traps fatigue jackets
waiting for the enemy... 98 degrees in the sun,
encountering and returning fire; life barely there
and war’s longest refrain plays on.
There is no jury within hostile grounds,
despite patriotism caught between triggers
as shadows of night weep for freedom’s balm;
no courtroom, unlike before, to defend prisoners
of the Wall, or Mekong… their scraped turmoil
diluted over canned loaf and juice, unheard.
Young knees deep in enemy ‘s clay…
a voice ringing, “ Shoot!”, a motto of allegiance
for homeland, while the instinct to live
kicks, rams into higher gear… young soldiers
too focused to see the eye of fear.
Where is the jury within hostile ground?
Only heaven can discern a topsy-turvy
sense of man's unrighteousness...
As war’s longest refrain plays on, and on.
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John Hamilton's Upside Down World Contest
Re-posted 3/7/2017
Written 3/21/2016
We cringe with the icy cold
Wind blowing away the foggy cloud,
Drifting off into the tearful sleep
At noon and at night illusions keep,
Hearts wrapped with chimeric dreams.
Decisions glow in the warmest flames
Winding through the fading moonlight.
With the strongest part of human act
The heart is beautiful and tragic.
Where most of our emotions are kept
Lock in secure places of fragile concept.
It takes more than actions to beat,
The billions of ambushes we defeat,
No weapons formed can break it down,
Stoney faces or the bewildered frown.
Insults and virtues comes out fighting
Crush it by love and sparks be igniting
Millions of beautiful stars around the globe,
The spoken word, letters in the envelope.
Push it into retreat and it will wait
Patiently encamp, outside the gate,
The heart is trustworthy, but beware
Of the snares, the conditional flare.
It takes only a single moment of betrayal
For the unconquered walls to fall
The kind that stay with the strain,
Live and strive, and self-esteem regain
Lie bruised in the dust, to heal inside
Find hope where the strong hearts hide,
The treasures of comforting bliss
Waiting to be discovered through a kiss.
Silence does a reconnaissance around the room
betraying not my artillery of thoughts
that acknowledge the elephant in the room
so starts the ceremony that seeks to save soldiers
body language begins to breakdown barriers
as actions march in motion anticipating
the ritual of tea that takes centre stage
tactically open to observation and interrogation
all actions organised to be economically efficient
calibrated by the infra red eye of the guest
animosity surrenders respectfully and retreats
a ceasefire that allows peace to deploy and enter
steam captivates a tea cup holding it hostage
watching whilst water wages war on leaves
cajoling caressing domineering them to
release and surrender their secrets and serve
with military precision this tea sets in motion
a tour of duty washing away all detachment
reminding us to deploy civilized actions
that counter attack collateral damage
the tea ceremony symbolically strategises
and ambushes all thoughts of war away
quenching the thirst for covert operations
once again a creating coup d'etat in a cup
Oh! The rivers flow quietly
The wind blown naturedly
Angels toured mvezo Village
Looking for a man
To bring forth, oh! To bring forth
Emancipation to South Africa
Noquphi Nosekeni the privileged woman
Answer to the call of nature July 18, 1918
Baby Nelson Mandela touched the land of apartheid
He grew like an ordinary child
He played with his peers
In him his lion was waiting
He saw the affliction of his people
And refused to dance the music of apartheid
He traded his comfort for freedom
And gave his life as ransom
He saw tears of his people overflow the land
In him his lion prepared to explode
Apartheid prepared a new home for him
The prison door opened in 1963
The chains etched into his flesh
Hunger was his closest companion
Hard labor became his career
In him his lion sought a solution
His speeches blasted apartheid ambushes
He gathers the stones for all Goliaths
Daily prayed for the truth to prevail
Angels sent from above
The prison opened and presidency came forth
And his lion devoured apartheid forever
Le Morne warm wind enfolds me
Voices from the cliffs and the sea.
As it blows the fatal slave stories
Its wavelets bring their real agonies.
Time like the waves come and go
Their ordeals facing the brilliant glow
Are miseries the vegetation covered
With all persecution they suffered.
In rugged slopes and prickly bushes
Their hearts thumping of ambushes
Slaves escaped cruelty and starvation
But perished in all confrontation.
Rainbows and amber gold sun rays
Still shine the same as in old days.
No more pirates lurked in the sand
No more slaves hide on the mountain.
As wave fragments become whole
Their spirits embrace,soul to soul
And they all join to say softly
"We are the symbols of cruelty".
I paid solemn visitation to the site
of The Unknown Girlfriend's Tomb
to give honor and pay respects
to romance slain
on the battlefield of love.
No wreath of tears did I lay there
I wore no black armband of regret
there was no mournful bugle call
silently did I salute
lovers lost,? ?who sacrificed all.
And in memory did I recount vividly
the ambushes,? ?skirmishes and attacks
in the bedrooms and the bars
and looked at my oft wounded heart
no longer bloodied but,? ?bearing scars?
My hand I laid upon the? ?cold hard stone
of memorial,? ?to every anonymous amour,
who by Cupid's lead arrows had been slain
and uttered the survivors thanks
for experience,? ?strength and wisdom gained.
Then walked home alone,? ?in the rain.
stubborn at the most
unfortunate moments
and quick with a
flabbergasted wit
he ambushes me from
the alleys in his mind
from behind
where four strikes
are uncommon
and frequently
commented upon
let's try to ignore the
inane flattery and take
into consideration
three screwdrivers deep
the fantastic premise this
is situated upon
apart-heid
has rendered my fat
and substance unfit
avocados are for brains
still, lavender for calm
we come together
in spite of
differing points of
perspective
expatriated breaths
gasped and sighed at
in the dwelling I somehow fancied
as a home has suddenly become a
jail/reformatory/pilgrimage
a complex and refracted
reflected gallery of smiles
and countenances
not discourteous
simulateously entertained with quips
and the locking of eyes
with the neighborhood bulldog
he arrives again
with breath like linament
stale tobacco and promises
we bicker and yell
no promise as of yet has transpired
above a certain hell
of vacuous emotion
On a clouded moon
The sky painted in dark misty blue
Heavy hearts, echoes in the dark
Chatters and wails embraces the
atmosphere
Now we wait, for questions in regards to
what happened?
What did we do wrong?
What infact did we not do?
A harvest of tears, folded hands
A forced laughter from the back
Head on head, an inevitable collision
It was time, nobody could stop it
A bullet to the heart, a missed call
Its now a clouded moon with little light
shining
We are lost on how the world works
Blurred is our judgement
Is it our time or its His time
We are just mere puppets
We brew in our anger , for we dont know
what happens next
Curiosity is what drives us to travel that sad
road
The knowledge of what happens next kills us
We want to know, but our ignorance
ambushes us.
Forever we will remain in the dark
For the good Lord forgot to share some of
the secrets of life
So its forever a clouded moon hanging on
top of our heads.
Written by Tawona Ranganawa
Motionless the
leopard waits
only an odd flick of
his tail
giving away where he
hides
He is watching the
small dikdik
patiently he waits
as slowly
they come closer as
they graze
Coiled up ready to
spring
with a flurry of
speed
he ambushes his prey
A squeal and the
deed done
he carries off his
dinner
taking it high up
into the tree
Stashing it between
forked branches
safe from hyenas and
lions
he eats at his
leisure
...“For two years we tried, but ambushes came,
they hit and run, would not stand up and fight,
the meadows were deadly, the forests were hell,
wherever we went, we were in their sights.
“Imagine one hundred million peasants
as well armed as a soldier of the line…
add to that an army not defeated,
shelling their own cities, time after time.
“Just so that they could deny them to us,
leave us with no conquests but the rubble,
our losses were heavy, reinforcements far,
even True Man knew we were in trouble.
“Some say that he was planning to retreat,
but his intentions were never realized,
because one day a damn peasant postal clerk
put a fifty cal round right through his eye.
“I was quite young, but I remember well
scrambling back to our remaining ships,
retreating across the cold Atlantic,
most of our own men not believing it.
“They were to try America twice more,
and each time it just became a bloodbath.
Their southern neighbors copied them quickly,
you won’t find a house there where guns are lacked.
“The horror of savage, armed peasantry…
I hope that you never know such despair,
there is a reason we keep ours helpless,
a reason why we don’t go over there.”
Kaahbli stopped there, he could not go one,
since Sabati was not even a teen,
couldn’t tell the boy that without peasants
the Americans relied on machines.
That with those machines, they’d took to the stars,
spread to every planet around the sun,
that they could carpet the Earth in fire,
that it was so much worse than just their guns.
For all his strength, his breeding, his brain,
for everything that he’d been evolved to,
Betters were trapped on just three continents,
and with a flip-switch they all could be nuked.
But those words were for when he was older,
a young Better had to be raised just right,
he’d seen young minds learn too much truth too quick,
anger like that was not a pretty sight.
So he just turned back to his young grandson,
said, “Enough of that boy, come, listen here,
you want them to work, whip them once a month,
and kill at least one peasant every year.
“It helps a lot to make them live in fear…”
Why would a Lord's servant miserably die,
And his wife and children are left embroiled in lack?
Why would a toiler a beautiful mansion buy,
But a gun bearing loafer ambushes his head?
As I continue my gripes with life
Another question comes up:
Why should the industrious laborer seek heaven's favor
But all this he does in vain?
Why and why I ask
Until I discover that life is an empty husk!
The Wind, Its So Alive, by Davieo David Rothchild
The Wind
It shoves
It dives
It screams
It cries
It Lies
It blasts
It laughs
It farts
It spooks
It ambushes
It roars
It fights
It dances
It Prances
It Rides
The Wind
Its so alive!
The Wind, Its So Alive, by Davieo David Rothchild
The smell of death
is and unforgettable smell.
It's acridness permeates
all things and
lingers in one's mind forever.
It is a fetid stink that
brands itself onto your memory.
The bouquet of malodorous aromas
ambushes your brain,
forever leaving a horrific olfactory scar.
The Reaper's perfume travels quickly.
It waits for nothing.
It is only retarded
by the chilly air of the tomb.
Forgive me if I ask how long before we converge again around the bonfire in the wee hours to douse this chilly dust-laden winds of the season.
It was a misery, but it should happen again.
That subtle terror of ancient times has reincarnated somewhere around the arid region, within the Sahara dynasty. His emergence was terrifying through and through.
People hungered and bit their fists. People cried. People cursed. People died.
This was a season alike, and redemption must come. However, we do not know, but certainly, we must hide our faces from rancor in safe bosom.
Our haven bloated and puffed, and people wailed.
There were blockades canyoned into waylaid ambushes.
Where shall we go in the elevens with the pitfalls and the missiles?
We have no place to run, and even if we had, we cannot go.
Fright sapped marrows, and our stance daunted.
We can only fall to the ground and shut our eyes to fate.
So, we scuffled into ourselves, hymned and comfort came from the fluttering in the breeze.
Life pallets and blank pallets strayed all along.
We had carnages, and we fought the hovering vultures.
Eminent miseries overwhelmed our doggedness, so we fled.
Of truth, something happened, and redemption must come.
Our faiths are manned, but untold hysteria looms.
We shall sit our cheeks between our thighs until one good deed happen to our world.
Convulsion must come, but good will prevail.
Until then, I will have one more pint of darkrum to keep alive.
#I_hustle_in_the_dark
I hustle in the dark, with a lead light in my hand, my focus on binoculars, traps and ambushes which I fear not, since I've died trust in the light, with individuals armed with smiles and time ticking bombs, in both their hearts and minds, for everything I lay my hand on or eye to
I'm tired from being fed with lab made laughter and smiles, tired from being sucked and drained, for the name of love and friendship, tired from observing segments of my happiness and possibilities, being cutted inch by inch by this light, tired from distortions and twisting of my sense and intentions
I rather die in this dark, with my prosper on the chase and focus on the run, 'rather trip and fall from what is not visible to my eyes, than to persue and matain a life of gazing constantly to my back and every step I make, right there in the light, that brings no positive effect to my being
#Poetic_Ink