Best Confederates Poems
I walked into Dad's study and looked around
A wooden bull with ivory tusks stood its ground
a German Bayonet lay before lines of books, and
On the wall was an olde map of the holy land
Behind a schooner with three proud masts,
Lay volumes of worlds, of futures and pasts—
Palestine before the Hebrews, a Rhodesia Guide
Three Deserts, by Jarvis, hard to lift, I tried.
The Golden Bough and The Struggle for Greece
The Revolt of the Masses, The Golden Fleece
The Lost Possessions of England, Leviathan
The Firmament of Time, and Darwin's Descent of Man
Stonehenge, The Heathens, The 30 years war
Each topic a window, each book a door
An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, then On Tyranny
The Wealth of Nations, Jewish Confederates, A Goodly Tree,
The Medieval Village, Capitalism and the Jews
Fred Bastiat, Thomas Sowell, Dad had free market views
Texts of Geography, that was his trade
Shelf by shelf, in a proud parade.
I can't put my finger on why, I feel a sad chord
For knowledge should be its own reward
On much of this knowledge the world turned the page—
His room remains—his shrine, his stage.
Coercive Persuasion, On Aggression — much more to the list,
And framed on the wall, the lives that persist:
There's how Mom used to be, full of interests, just like him
I step into those hard streets; the world starts to spin.
...inspired by 'Portrait of a Lady' by T.S. Eliot
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally in your heart,
you cannot break the bond, the sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings pure to art.
Your friends are true disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the screeching of the violins,
the humming of the basses and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the bass drum then begins
to pound a loud crescendo of its own.
I listen, is there something out of tone?
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our differences didn't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and follow its eternal yearning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay forever in the cold.
“I remember...” an old man said,
“When the first shot rang out,
When the rebels held their stead,
The British bullets flew about,
And through our ranks they sped.”
Though soldiers fall and cannons shout,
The Flag flies proud and strong, no doubt.
“I remember…” a drummer boy said,
“When the blood of our country ran free,
When the Confederates called for forced labor's spread,
The Union fought to stem the river of slavery.”
The feud caused brothers to fight 'til one was dead,
And still at the end not many could agree,
But the Flag still stood as a symbol of liberty.
“I remember...” a young nurse said,
“When wounded and bleeding they came,
When, though to revive I tried, they died instead.”
Axis and Allies caught up in a brutal game,
Destruction, death, and ruin wide spread.
Tales of battles, wars won and lost proclaim,
The strength and power of the Flag to claim.
“I remember…” an old woman said,
“When Europe was torn in two,
Rather than peace, an Iron Curtain hung instead.”
Democracy’s goal was to subdue,
The communist leader's lofty stead.
After waiting for the verdict long overdue,
The Flag rose triumphant, great, and true.
“I remember…” an aging soldier said,
“The soon forgotten war,
When our army and the south into the north sped.
To take out our enemy we had foreswore,
But our foes were not the only ones who fled.
Though they attacked us with none to warn,
The Flag still stood, tattered and worn.”
“I remember...” a young man said,
“When they attacked us in Vietnam.
Pinned by fire, they meant to shred,
The hope of seeing home again.
Through jungle and brush we fled,
Our lives nearly lost by trap and bomb,
The Flag held its ground and force, even in 'Nam.”
“I remember…” a young, strong soldier said,
“When in the deserts of Iraq,
Upon the hornet's nest we did tread.
They swarmed on us with a counterattack,
But we stood our ground until they fled.
Though many may try to push us back,
The strength of the Flag is what our enemies lack.”
“I am witnessing...” a weary general said,
“An enemy that hides behind a mask,
One that will brutally behead,
And kill as if it is a mandatory task.
The safety of the world hangs by a thread,
And it seems the die have been cast,
But the Flag still stands strong, like it always has in the past!”
Split-rail fences, stark and grey
Rim the Bull Run battlefield
Where Confederates that day
Forced the Union line to yield.
Cannon still command the hill
By the chiseled monument
Where some of those who came to kill
Sleep…dank earth their tent.
Dirty Black Love
Written By: D. Collins 2/19/15
Dirty black love is all that Obama gets.
A regression to oppression from all his hypocrites.
Just know dirty black love will never get to me.
Because, I'm a child of God, no matter what they may see.
I am the man my God intended me to be.
Showing love to those who have hate for me.
What we do in return cannot be discussed.
Just know that dirty black love really bothers us.
What I see on Fox 5, makes me take a second breath.
Knowing how many show signs of being Confederates.
Dirty black love is how it has always been.
But, that doesn't mean we have to bow down to them.
Third Reign:
Her feeding heart and cold command
Enough to make you quit your band
Well, there’s only so much frostbite one can take
You’ve heard her bitter orders before
To leave your sandals outside her door
And go skating on the Ice Queen’s lonely lake
I’d save all my lovin’ for you
If only I knew what you would do:
Let me loose or condemn me at your frozen stake
I’d be a martyr if I could
And stand where the burning saints have stood
On the altar of wood by the Ice Queen’s lonely lake
It’s like a prison in this room
With the cigarettes and hot perfume
Something’s got to thaw out our mistakes
But I feel like a fish in a waterfall
One of these days, I’ll sprout legs and crawl
Away from the banks of the Ice Queen’s lonely lake
We’ve been up all night on this powdery binge
I can still smell the lust that the wind drags in
It’s the only habit I’ve got that’s worthy to break
We could check into rehab and seal the deal
And feel what the super-celebrities feel
Or turn the wheel straight into the Ice Queen’s lonely lake
Her reindeer are bridled; her peasants are gauche
They are starving in line: she offers brioche
But winning their naïve trust is a piece of cake
They’d float to Alaska to polish her nails
Come back bloodied and tied to her sails
Back from a crusade on the Ice Queen’s lonely lake
The bar of demarcation is set
Once etched in the earth, it’s hard to forget
So stand where the poor young Confederates once did shake
When our scorched-earth policies have failed
And your Mason-Dixon address gets no mail,
Just surrender yourself to the Ice Queen’s lonely lake
From Sierra Madre to Branson, Missouri
A blizzard is coming, she’s showing her fury
to you – this is no false alarm, no fake;
Like the perfect conquest of the abortion pill,
like the simple saga of Jack and J---,
It’s a cold moment till the Ice Queen’s lonely lake.
...inspired by 'Portrait Of A Lady' by T.S. Eliot
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it always was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and fathom its eternal meaning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay for now, trapped in the cold.
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Charley
In Carolina a young man’s journey began.
Today in Mississippi was it’s end.
Dressed in the best he had,
they returned an old man to the ground;
in the shade of a white oak,
Ginseng berries all around.
His was a tale of pain and woe.
His brother lost at Perryville, the greatest blow.
In ’65 alone forty miles to LaGrange,
his loyalty to the Union to arrange.
Years rolled on, wives to wed,
wives to die ,
Seventeen children came and went.
The last, my grandpa, an unexpected event.
At the end, his mind gone, to the woods he would take,
Seeking confederates long dead.
While his withering body gives way to the deepest ache.
His wish for the sweet rest that lay ahead.
His lonely trek soon to be over,
His mind, his soul, seeking closure.
Now generations have heard the story
Of a long dead wight, who still in the
darkness of the night,
calls out brother, my brother,
to see you again gladly I cross over.
I am a drummer boy for the Union Army.
I am only 12 years old and I have left my home far away.
Feelings rushing through me: scared of dying, afraid of what will come at morning's light.
Nevertheless, my job is keeping the roll going.
I have to make them Confederates feel the fear.
My hands are always going.
Rat-a-tat, Rat-a-tat-tat
Over and over again.
Seven months have gone by since I last saw my Mother's worried face about her youngest son off to war.
I have not seen my Father's face, which was once so proud and strong, since I was 5 years old.
My Father died then.
I became a man then and now I am ever so much more a man then I was back when.
Today, I am stronger, bigger and smarter.
I have learned how to cook my own meals, to mend my own clothes, to tend too my own needs.
I know that any day I could die.
Just from one single bullet from a Confederates gun.
A person who is just trying to do what is right and lawful.
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
The hood is foregone.
Into the past, of fired crucifixes upon front lawns.
The day has begun, a new dawn.
Bare faced, in the sun's illumination.
Guised within the roles that make a nation.
Spread throughout vital occupations.
Where darkened communities suffer from the
bleached cohorts occupation.
From tainted patrols roaming free on the range
with no scrutiny.
To deliver captives to like minded counselors
and judiciary.
As aesculapian institutions dispense succor to
the most monetary.
In conjunction with polity, where signed documentation
continues urban poverty.
Strengthened by miseducation from chameleon educators,
educated with an educational degree.
Conjoined in unity of conspiracy, waltzing through the
capital of democracy.
The confederates state their supremacy optically.
It is time for the rolling back of sleeves, to fight
the good fight with bravery.
Steadfast, and observe closely.
For the greatest trick the devil ever pulled, as evil stands
before you and me.
C A U S A T I O N vs. D E T E R M I N I S M
Choices form towards our preordained trajectory
Decision built bricks stack factors progressively
Circumstancial pegs compile in accord to faculty
Dogmas of downtrodden clogged with profanity
Circles run rings around predictions, an equator
Divides same from same in symmetrical centre
Cogs who push their neighbours never blame us
Duration in environ expidited by wheel's impetus
Certainty occurs, journey obscured from turning
Decorum's shield prohibits peripheral discerning
Contingent coddles confederates, cave sedation
Dictated picture is droll pattern of premeditation
Character patter converses with class conducive
Dialogue delays, latitudinal liberal splay spruking
Concious diverges in a dual carriageway purview
Deliberation channels hairpin 's curve impromptu
14th February
Fortitude Breaks
Causation Chains
As white as the driven snow.
Coming back from a lot.
Chosen to be around.
Bubbly baking soda, region of snow.
Playgirl bunny, lil playboy star.
Than again too much confetti.
Black lives matter to the confederates.
Bedazzled diamond cut.
Coma snow white and the lover in you.
Gangsta's paradise Chicago Chicago.
Eat your wheaties.
Good and plenty with rice cakes.
Sparked them didn't you?
Full of wisdom and enigma.
Checkerboard chess pieces.
Quick, quick, quickly switch up chuck.
In a strategic state of mind.
Split-rail fences, stark and grey
Rim the Bull Run battlefield
Where Confederates that day
Forced the Union line to yield.
Cannon still command the hill
By the chiseled monument
Where some of those who came to kill
Sleep…dank earth their tent.
(alternate last line:
Stayed…while others went.)