Best Armoury Poems
Hall of Silent Women
in valhala
in a far corner
of this martial paradise
is one small unobtrusive hall
above the heavy iron door
these words are faintly inscribed
“ the war department
regrets to inform you
that your son……
has been killed
in action, in defence of……”
women
silent
row upon row
straight backed, tight lipped, blank eyed
their amputated anger melting hearts
while words swift shot pierces soul
women
from life first stirrings
through vaulted cave to clapboard ranch
crouched sweating over birthing pit
to numbed white linen labour
in their pain and joy shudders steel shod feet
march through the womb.
women
ancient cauldrons
endless source of armoury
kept tongueless
then given tongue to teach
man made words
toy soldiers bleed rust.
in valhala
indeed in every martial paradise
there is one small unobtrusive hall
above the heavy door
words are faintly inscribed…
Glass, a lid
Slipping, a curtain of purest water
Drop
Now fainting, waking and beating
Closer growing, armoury for an apparition
Dreaming of wings, but oh,
But oh
Trail, paper
Walls are covered and so I cover
Following observant
Back in archives of interwar
My sister stood, my shadow
Overbearing and eating me
Beating with a pulse
The cave is a womb
Rounded as a core
Living reaching further back
Eat
The mud and Eden
Slowly ice white
Breathing, you can see
The clingfilm
Growing like a bulb
A world of atoms
Crushed
Oh Daffodil,
The sun is shining under smog light
And over the echo we...
Interwar
How I have my reservations
That we are ever even out
And face to face
A solid
Cold
Brick wall
And I call you
Bonn and you call me
Dead Berlin
A gathering of
Correspondence
A scattering of
Dirty nothings.
On an afternoon, rather dull and dreary
When things seemed quite tryingly weary
All of a sudden erupted a flurry
(Possibly the result of a flavoured curry?)
As a rather pungent aroma did diffuse
Speedily into the air, that it did abuse
With a violence so strong, so full of punch
That I pondered on the after-effects of lunch
From this terrible fury, did people take cover
That their lungs did slowly recover
From a biological weapon’s gaseous assault
That I wondered who could have been at fault
For this sudden burst of chemical warfare
That only the most brave could stoically bear
A weapon made of such volatile matter
That it could, such hardened forces, scatter.
The culprit, as yet, has not been found
Moving with stealth, making no sound
Still, on the ready, to simply explode
With the most pungent weapon its armoury can hold.
Every time and anytime,
i mistakenly delete or loss a poem
that i have sweated so hard to compose
i feel like,
i have lost a golden child,
but after couples of struggling to retrieve back the poem,
from the land of lost poets,
I normally eventually get it back,
this always happens formally abnormally,
that it keeps me wondering,
Why and how come?
And i notice that,
God always purposely makes me to loss or unintentionally delete my poem,
so that I could write it much better,
and it always gets way better.
But the first informal vanishing feelings,
is always so bashing and banishing,
that if one is not wise, pushing and strong,
that would led to the dearth of a new born poem.
Overtime,
I try to quench,
but I can't bench,
for the toughness of my poem,
never let me remain in softness
because it only deletes from the laptop, paper and surface,
But it never deduct nor abort from my brain
It dances continuously,
like rainstorm in my brain,
non-stop, till it is conceived again,
through ink, then it winks happily at me
This makes me feel like a poetic Hero,
who goes to battle with no sharp armoury,
but with a pen, paper and sharp memory,
and still wins the vigorous war,
which blocks the resurrection of his poem and the success of his sharp vision.
The Lay of Sir Donald
(Or: Le Chanson de Donald)
An orange man – of red and trailing tie,
Small hands, and copious twitter-feed – sing I!
Most staunch ’gainst Saracen and Mede is he,
Bare-armed and ruddy-necked his followers be.
Brightly he barteth, and knows how, full well,
In sev’n-score characters his truth to tell.
Courtly he is to nymphs – yea, most correct –
And any contradictions he’ll reject:
Talk of “ailuric rapture”, he maintains,
Was nothing more than banter between swains.
And though, by direst foe as “dotard” shamed –
By REGAL liege-man “moron”, too, proclaimed –
He’s shunned by ANGELA, the Teuton queen
For policies much nearer black than green,
He’s loved by VIKTOR, chief of Magyar horde,
And (still?) VLADIMIR, Muscovy’s dark lord.
But all now tremble at his reckoning,
In Orient far, with JONG the Hermit King.
Tis hard to know whose head is the more beefy
Or whose hair more eccentric’ly coiffefe.
“Since in ballistics you indulge, and fission,”
Quoth he, “Let us contend in micturition.
My country’s armoury is locked and loaded
To make yours but a wilderness,” he goaded.
You doubt he sets his cap at Tyranny?
That risk of Bloody Warre augmented be?
As well to doubt the POPE’S denomination,
Or Silvan Sites of Ursine Defecation!
A TEACHER'S APOLOGY
I know we can talk,
That despite all you'll rise; walk!
This betrayal your eyes display will not shake you
Nor the pain you think I caused break you
I know not why you bore the scourge
Why you lost your courage
Once you had faith
You could move mountains and swerve waters
Once you believed
And you stood tall refusing to waiver or despair
But now you seek solace from the earth
You give the moon and sun your back
How I have wronged you I don't know
I could apologise but no
I will not say a word you won't hear
I will not utter any until you are here
Close to me, facing me
So you can listen, so you can hear me
I have begged, I have asked
Still you deny me your face
You sing in somber tones
Your pitiful lament, this war song
It paints for me your grey hues
Your tormented and bleeding heart
I could give you this chiffon
White like mountain lilies
Soft like a caress...a memory
I could let you cry it all out
And maybe wipe it off with this
And store your pain in my armoury
I want to...
I want to cradle you
I need to hold you tight
Yet like the Egyptian Nile
And the Orange River are we apart
Let this be therefore my demise
That I cannot heal your pain
That I cannot mend your heart
Or wipe your tears
Because as yours weeps
Mine tears apart with every drop
You will shed.
20.03.17
A valiant soldier stands before me
Eyes flooding with tears.
In one mere teardrop
I see significance, joy and fears.
I see experience and courage
And wisdom beyond years.
Battles fought. Some won. Some lost.
A hope that's grown, then disappeared.
A valiant soldier pure and true
Whose armoury is LOVE.
No need for weapons of destruction.
Someone to be proud of.
A soldier worthy of imitation.
An individual of fascination.
A person of inspiration.
A heart fighting to be free.
In one teardrop of a valiant soldier
I see a reflection of what could be.
I see the qualities that amount to
The kind of person one aspires to be.
Written 2nd July 2022
For the "Tears Of A Valiant Soldier" contest.
Sponsor: Faraz Ajmal
A LEGEND BETTER THAN HAKIMI
Back in '94 partying, Gabriel met Christina,
frolicking and they really got personal.
They married though she's 30 years younger
and were happily married for 20 years
despite the fact they weren't peers.
However, Christina eventually decided
that she wanted them divided.
But when she went to her lawyer,
she was shell-shocked at what he told her.
He told her she was already divorced
twenty years ago, the idea was enforced.
And this is because 4 months after their union,
they went to Dominican Republic for a vacation,
Gabriel divorced her there as that's the only country
where one party can file for a divorce in a hurry
with the other party oblivious despite the dowry.
Gab said he did this because he knew one day
she would divorce him without him having a say
and she will try to possess all his money,
hence he came prepared donning his wise armoury.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Narrative/Rhyme/Realism
Copyright ©? April 2023.
INSPIRED BY THE PROPHETIC DECLARATION BY TB JOSHUA..".2014 has been declared as a year of crossing the bridge to Destiny"
Prevailed in the year past we have...by the reason of faith in Calvary's Cross,
To a year anew, we have crossed
Fiery fights were fought some we lost some we won...but no loss
Enemies in pajamas of friends undressed..disgraced...
Our pain again now is gain
Wounds healed, the scars marks of valour and favour
Lessons profound we found, amidst tyranny
These to us are new battle armoury
For savoring sweet victories in this new year
Of it has been said by a mighty Seer sent from above
It is a year of crossing the bridge towards destiny
For us to cross, lets walk in the way of Calvary's Cross
Those that abandon the way it will be to their peril and loss
For me l pray, trust and obey the Seer's call for it is a heavenly echo
Spurring us to tread with care, on the bridge ferrying us to our destiny
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
There's no way to go back, sometimes I wish there was,
we'd pluck out the highlights, just simply because;
I'm not going to give a catalogue, a long moan,
rather some reflections, when being home-alone.
It makes you chuckle, give a 'whew,' a smile too,
extract what you can, keep some gems in your armoury;
there will be other times to lighten up your day,
when you may remember what some others had to say.
They congratulated you, so good looking, so cool,
got away with eveything, you were never anyone's fool;
although, you were smart, intuitive, you didn't hold 'court,'
rather, listened, used all the things that you were taught.
Maybe that's it - learned so much along the way,
you were the star, the main character in the play.
Though fear is an instinctive characteristic
It is implanted by some suckers, on the society
Giving birth to an intimidating practice; hoary
That has gripped the humanity since genesis.
Exploitation is the dearest offspring of fear
That has enslaved humankind down the ages
Unleashing a reign of trepidation repeatedly
Has no parallel in the record of civilization.
Fear has equipped its armoury with progeny
In the form of weapons; perilous and chilling
Foremost among them being the fear of god
With heaven, hell and Satan who join the list.
It has ever hushed the voice of the miserable
Subjugating them to harrowing sufferings
Meting out treatment inhuman nonchalantly
With no trace of remorse, even, occasionally.
Religion and its bye-product; superstition
Have ruled the roost since time prehistoric
With ignorance of masses to their support
Steal from mankind peace and progression.
WAR
In peace you
frown
Tussle is your
work tool
pain,turbulence
and anger are
in thy armoury
T'reat holds an
upper hand in
thy army
Thy assign
force as an
army staff
War you paste
armistice in the
heart of men
clearing their
wages with
blood;
and editing
fear from the
recruit
arming the
with
sophisticated
weapons.
The Invader
August night, air condition off no electricity, dying in my
own “sweat,” a word I wasn’t going to use again. A sudden
gush of hot air makes the curtain move, in a surprised way
like an English castle ghost caught unaware in the armoury.
The gush is full of crematorium ashes, cling to my face
won’t come off; I’m tired have no strength, when I finally
get to the bathroom, my face is clean, ash has gone through
my skin followed the blood stream to my heart and brain.
I know share my body with someone else; a soul that didn’t
want to leave, but demanded more time. There have been
subtle changes I have a hankering for tea, no milk and two
lumps of sugar, I leave the loo lid down and keep bathroom
clean. The feminine side of me keeps my coarse ego at bay;
I do not sweat anymore but transpire.
Jerusalem, where Jesus went.
Was ruled by heathen hell bent.
Outraged. All England in discontent.
An Army will be sent.
In Jerusalem. The Holy land.
We will stand.
Sons and cash, give your all.
For this project answer the call.
Ships made ready, without stint.
Knights sharpening their swords.
With a glint.
Heavy armoury, shields and lance.
Horses and servants, they advance.
The horses first to die,
The others by and by.
Across the seas to a land of heat.
And desert sand.
Water not to hand.
We went to war. The world saw.
The Lords "WILL" to do.
We are the Knights.
Of the round table.
Fight for God we are able.
Sons of Dukes and Nobles.
The cream of the land.
Defeated, not able to stand.
Many a pampered youth was there.
Never hardship had to bear.
Little did they know, it was a shame.
Fluffed out like a candle flame.
Many a Knight cried.
For his mother as he died.
Armor and shields thrown away.
Too heavy to carry on such a day.
Our Knights fair game.
Helpless and exhausted.
Where they lain.
The Egyptian soldiers slaughtered.
Killing them all in Jerusalem.
.....................................................
Comments...
Every year, Britons sing about this Holy War.
Bring ne my shield of burnished gold.
Bring me my arrows of desire.
And chariot of fire,
I shall not sleep from restless strife.
Nor shall my sword sleep in my arms.
Till we have built Jerusalem.
In Englands green and pleasant land.
.................................................
Before the butchery -
Beasts from hell came with vulgar armoury.
We heard the perverts marching on mud of breasts,
Trampling tender veins, and
Sprouts of milk ceased to shoot.
In the Armageddon -
Seedy worms munched the wombs, and
Putrid sperms spewed on bloody soil.
Babies were born without history,
Disfigured and different, and
Our homes mothered aliens!
But they were children of our daughters,
and we gave them our names.
After the adulteration -
Beasts from hell will come back, in hoods,
Weilding axes with glaring edges
On which sun's glint will yell.
They will dance like their gods
And shed blood again,
But of their own, the aliens!
Who will bleed in the hands of their own.
And we will see blood flowing in our rivers,
With colour of orange.
When it happens -
It will be a vengeance,
But for the hurt in our hearts.