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Best Far Cry Poems | Poetry

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Counting Seconds-The Rewrite

i sit lonely. the crowded restaurant is thick with sound i pick away at it moving back into the stagnant silence of my own comfort the air is nasty here it telepathically abuses my thought patterns still a far cry better the loud hum of food marching to the vacant crowd suffocates me a decorated plate joins my table strikes a conversation with the cutlery there is no call from the governor as i attack my food fork knife teeth bites later a paper plane flies in a swipe of my plastic makes quick work of the bill i exit seemingly quicker than human eyes can catch i hate this part i parley my way through too many bodies all the while staring at a concrete maze never making eye contact with a single soul i do that i always do that keep the entrances of my being away from those who would stare me down attempt to engage me in conversation with a desire to lock eyes if they looked in they would burn i’d be held responsible FINALLY home the only environment i feel safe in my therapist will be proud almost an hour today assuming i see her again i am covered in my own dew my breathing sporadic i line up an array of pills like good soldiers as i continue my attempt survive another day it will take hours to regain my sanity all the while questioning the purpose why must i assimilate back into the dungeons they call society it behooves me find one reason join the rank and file plug back into a horrendous grid i had escaped i grow weary of my own thoughts ignore my voice slowly regain my footing plant roots hope they’ll take hold attempt to return into the vacuum of my existence i sit lonely. Armand Hamouth

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2018

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war horse


A strong gale cuts its path across the snow laden mountain tops,
light and tough the timor, thoroughbred mix, leads his mob at a trot.
A day spend grazing the valley below they now ascend the range above,
his brumbys follow out of awe and fear not with any love.
Echoing through the gullies is the thunderous clap of a stock whip,
in pursuit of the mob the mountain horseman cut a mean pace at a clip.
Coming up on the brumbys, surrounded them their lariat ropes are let loose,
the stallion is caught for the first time in his life his neck feels the noose.

In 1897 born to tough stock, I think Steve was his name,
His family raised cattle by Corryong of Snowy River fame.
Riding before he could walk, in the saddle he would ply his trade.
Catching brumbys on Kosciuszko's slopes for a little money to be made.
He made the high plains and steep valleys his primary domain,
believed that this was his home, in the hills he would ever remain.
Word reached his ears of the great war in Europe from a close friend.
with fear of threat to king and country, to enlist his mind would bend.

The noble thoroughbred steed, king of his country was finally tamed.
Saddled and bridled, freedom lost, and now he was named.
Garnished with weapons of war to a new mob he was placed,
rigorously put through his training in readiness for battle to be faced.
Somehow he sensed the young man on his back was of similar ilk,
rode low in the saddle, moved with ease, yes they drank the same milk.
A bond was formed, a friendship even, between man and his stallion,
Although both small they rode tall as though kings of the battalion. 

Unloading in Palestine the hot sandy desert now their new home,
a far cry from the lofty peaks and steep valleys they both would roam.
This tough little man and horse to new environs would quickly aclime,
strutting across the dunes, a fine stance cut and looking sublime.
The bugle calls out a mighty charge on Beersheba they began to lay,
horse flaring his nostrils , galloping wildly, into battle making their way.
Flying over the trenches the young man with his bayonette swinging true,
horse compensating expertly as the enemy lines are burst through.

In the heat of the battle cannon fire starts to rupture the ears,
the young man and his horse are finally realising their fears.
A solitary rifle round pulls young Steve from the saddle of his panting steed,
the horse pulls up fast, spinning around, recognising the riders need.
A mortar fatally reaching its mark, puts the poor brumby to the ground,
man and horse mortally wounded, dying without making much of a sound.
In the hot sandy desert final memories flood through their whole being,
and long lonely valleys with snow covered peaks, the last thing they were seeing.

Copyright © old man emu | Year Posted 2016

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My Dearest Dove

If I could Harken to thee, a sonnet,
of loves most great desires,
the mere utterance, would warm thine ears
as the soft crackles of lusts fires

The ambiance, of shadows dance
across the Scottish tapestry,
Muses, light footed, pirouetting
my symphony, my love for thee

Fairest is thy silken mane
of the finest Irish Auburn,
brilliant as a cool autumn day
as the leaves of the maple turn

The tower bells, they toll for thee
as pale moon, illuminates the night
hark, the far cry, my dearest dove
of the owlet, so yearning flight

The petals of the Royal Rose
silken soft, compared to thy blushing skin,
or the Emerald glow, of thine own eyes
alit, passion, kindled from within

Mine own heart, burns with ever fire
that, which only thee, can conquer,
Conquer thee not, my dearest dove
for our love, forever, must endure

Harken to me my dearest Dove
sweet sonnets, from silken lips,
for I know thou shall be to me
as close as my finger tips.

Copyright © Richard Pickett | Year Posted 2010

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Cold and withered my heart mildly beats,
As my mind plays my past in short repeats.
Withdrawn and rejected, I feel so low,
The world doesn’t stop repeating its blow.

I look out the window and feel the wind brush my cheeks,
Even when I want to let go; my past stalks me through years, months and weeks.
People have a tendency to hurt others bad,
They don’t even care if it makes the recipient sad.

Their hatred for others burns so strong,
They look past everything; the right and the wrong.
They use their slashing tongues and their violent lips,
Yes, their words hit me hard and slash through like treacherous whips.

I fight back with all my might,
My words spewed to kill them on sight.
A verbal war; an ugly battlefield,
Except for hatred nothing else will it ever yield.

My own words shock me out of this miserable trance,
I realize I want to stop this off-beat dance.
But when I turn to let go and run,
Hatred arms hold me close preventing me to stop the “fun”.

And when it stops and everything settles down,
With no one atop a throne, or wearing his royalty in a crown
Why can’t people choose for peace, to find?
A verbal war leaves a putrid atmosphere behind.

I could cry, I could repent,
I could spend a million years and never know what it meant.
Hatred is such a far-cry from peace,
Its toxic fumes can envelope you and you might never know life’s true bliss.

Copyright © anonymous maniac | Year Posted 2016

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Understood like written opinions in the dark.
This fine line of cultural barriers.
Controlled by our mental description of perfect.
Who is perfect?
Who has the right to judge my look, then, assume it goes with my personality.
Basing your opinion of me on my past told to you, but known by me.
You can use faith as the basis for everything.
I'm searching for common ground on sea's,
Hoping god will appear and say" Come to me".
Tattoo's, make me a walking collague of all things I hold dear beyond skin deep.
Piercing, for me, a form of beauty.
Encouraged to be different,
To shake up the norm.
Outcasted when the norm ends up a far cry from it's original form.
Take to negitive's to form a positive.
Confronting those who swear their word is bond, or 
the hetro-sexual closet cases who hide their sins and judge the world.
Truth's hidden inside brains.
Mine hell bound, cause my sins hang from sleeve's, like
gay flags at pride parade.
So quick to judge, failing to see..
It's the soul,
that make's you, you, and me, me..

Copyright © Nyisha Hampton | Year Posted 2009

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Like a tsunami from the ocean
I want to churn everything, inside out
But rue the fact that, 
Like a bubble in the air 
Have to be content with only 
Being fidgety inside myself. 

When the rocks try to stop 
The natural flow of river, downwards
Even the transparent water, gets bloodied, 
Breaking its head on the rocks, 
I can feel its squirming and quibbling
But can remain only a mute spectator.

Whenever I feel oppressed, in any form
My heart seethes and fumes
My blood Inside tends to boil over 
Only to become cold again, why?
Perhaps it is not in my nature to retaliate,
Then, am I condemned remaining wounded, perpetually?

Unable to do much about oppressive relations, 
I pine away with my grief
Only wishing I could also free myself
And others of the oppression and the pain it inflicts
And enjoy the happiness and freedom 
endowed by nature, in relations.

But looking at nature’s infinite vastness, where
Despite tight bonding and discipline in every bit
All relationships out there enjoy
Innate freedom, harmony and fairness 
Then Wounds inflicted by the experience of oppression, 
Fill me with jealousy and pain even harder and deeper.

Hope is life, maybe quite dreamlike
The change, which would destroy 
the current forms of oppressions
and build relationships, free and fair, anew
seems to be a far cry, as of now.

the volcanoes are also destined to remain 
dormant inside, for centuries, before they erupt.

Self Translation of my Hindi poem 'Parivartan'

Copyright © Mohan Chutani | Year Posted 2014

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Into the Light: Safe Haven, 1944

         “And you that shall cross from shore to shore…are more 
          to me and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.”

                                                  Walt Whitman, “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”      
Thank God for you, Henry Gibbins, ship of dreams 
laden with bedraggled brethren 
dark and fair, tall and short, all frail-boned 
and gaunt, each and every one a survivor reborn 
in the wake of conscience. 
Blessed, their leader, Ruth Gruber; praised, her leader, 
Franklin D. Roosevelt; and you, Captain Korn 
— commanding officer extraordinaire —
your kind face and outstretched arms, 
the ship’s crew — their smiling faces, helpful hands; 
the stalwart bulk and hallowed halls, sky-crowned decks 
surrounded by sea-speckled rail — 
far cry from barbed wire.
Joy, the glistening white toilets; 
divine, clean fresh air that fills sunken chests, lungs
ashen from the fires of Auschwitz-Birkenau, Bergen-Belsen, 
Buchenwald, Dachau, Treblinka…
And you, buoyant sea, revered for strong currents and 
changing tides; and you, gulls that glide the breeze, 
assuaging wounded spirit.
“Are you America?”
And you, huge dining hall bejeweled with vegetables, 
cornucopia of meats, kaleidoscope of sweets 
that swell shrunken bellies, smooth withered souls;
the soft pillows and ample blankets nestled in tier after tier 
of bunks, the nightmares you help smother, 
sweet dreams you set in motion; 
talent shows, chess tournaments, movies, musicales.
“Are you America?”
“Yes, you are America — my America!
Land of the free, home of the brave!

Copyright © Ruth Sabath Rosenthal | Year Posted 2014

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William Harrison Hardy 1823 - 1906

William Harrison Hardy

1823 - 1906

I believe a fair introduction is in order here.
Not that a handshake from me could ever take place anytime soon.
I was Captain Bill Hardy:
Proud Indian fighter!
And celebrated toll road builder!
I was the one who built the big road
From San Bernardino to Prescott Arizona!
And it was I, Captain Bill Hardy,
Who founded old Hardyville in Arizona
On the sandy banks of the cool Colorado.
Back when Lincoln was still warm
And the blood of Gettysburg was still not dry.
Back when the old west was coming alive
With wagon wheels and railroad ties.
Growing as a child would
With intrepid enterprise and such derring-do
The likes of which few eyes have seen since!
I came out west from New York
As Captain of a California-bound wagon train
And found a fortune in gold in Placer County.
But it was in the Arizona Territory where I later
Made my mark, and lost my fortune.
Oh my friends. I found out.
Found out what plain hard work can accomplish
And I learned of its resultant riches.
I found out.
Found out what plain greed and dishonesty can accomplish
And I learned of its resultant poverty.
Alas, I was but a survivor in life,
And that was my final legacy.
My friends, have you ever stared death straight in the face?
Have you ever seen the eyes of a wanton murderer
Only an inch away from your own eyes?
Nothing is more frightening and more sobering than that!
But I, Captain Bill Hardy, at your service please,
Experienced it first-hand that day in the scalding desert sand.
That Indian devil was right there!
His nose next to my nose!
But I got away!
Ran away from that place and lived to tell about it!
My friends, next time you come to Clark Cemetery in Whittier,
Go to the eastern fence by Dorland Street,
At the corner there, you will find my little plot of land.
It is a far cry from having an entire city named after you!
But it is a fine and restful spot.
Come closer and lean down to me.
I wish to extend my firm handshake to you all!

Copyright © stark hunter | Year Posted 2015

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A Man Among Men

Well, well, well, looky you here See me smiling from ear to ear What could it be that's making me grin Do you think I might have been into the gin Don't touch the stuff, it makes me silly Already silly, my mind's willy-nilly Sometimes things that come out of my mouth Surprise even me and surely my spouse But as I have reached these golden years At people's opinion of me, I just sneer Everyone should be just who they are No matter how silly, or extreme or bizarre I pride myself being my own kinda man A far cry from where my dear life began Extremely happy with the way things turned out Over the moon, of that there's no doubt Had a complex once way back when But now I'm a real man among men Well, well, well, looky you here See me smiling from ear to ear © Jack Ellison 2015

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2015

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Villanelle: The only game solution to the human condition

Villanelle: The only game solution to the human condition

The only game solution to the human condition
“Don’t nobody move a muscle” and hold your breath
Stop having sex with the opposite sex in motion

In a billion years men will pass babies with their motion
And suffragettes will be the toothless kind with bad breath 
The only game solution to the human condition

Our girls will all live up to receive the Nobel unction
While our boys will all learn to shoot crap in stealth
Stop having sex with the opposite sex in motion

Lao Tse said “Reduce the size of the State and the population”
Border guards made him cough up The Way in lieu of wealth
The only game solution to the human condition

Time somebody put an end to this unfair competition
Girls have only from fourteen to barren fortieth
Stop having sex with the opposite sex in motion

Naked ****-stars roam Holy Woods far cry from titillation
Chain-saw massacres take us beyond deep-freeze death
The only game solution to the human condition
Stop having sex with the opposite sex in motion

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2014

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Opting Out

 So at 47 I have arrived.
A position most disconcerting,
Troubling? Nay,
Downright disturbing!
A blatant assault.!
An ego in default.
Should have steered left, 
Perhaps joined a cult.

Having settled back into the lap,
Of my original birth sack,
I am anything but patient.
I now care for
My matriarch. Ancient!
As she skids down that slippery,
Persnickety, slope,
That slaughterhouse of all hope.
Toward her final expiration.

Once a beauty of
The extraordinary kind
With the quickest of mind,
Don't get it twisted.
Aging is nothing if not unkind,
Names of her clan,
She now labors over, unable to find.

Her once glowing blonde tresses,
Sexy, 50’s signature dresses,
Athletic leaps, impressive,
All night sexual feats,
Replaced now with wrinkles.
A faint frame, once sturdy 
Now wobbles and crinkles.

I shall have her warped feet, it appears,
Twisted, worn down from all the years,
As I step back and upsize,
The navy blue faded from her eyes,
Now light gray, I see my own,
Paired with my offensive demise.

I say “Nay!!!”   
Launching a rather 
Loudly inappropriate protest.
With all of my feisty lather,
I attempt a half-assed jest!
But I'm not joking.
I am not. 
Gravity.  What a horribly shitty guest!

I opt out!!
I simply do. It just not for me.
This aging get-down,
Perhaps it's for you?
But not I.
Protesting with an icy chill,
This is a far cry from a thrill.
(Excuse me for just a moment,
I must go take another pill.)
Sore joints, crows feet, vision going South?
I   have   had   my   fill!

You must understand my decision,
Appreciate my unprecedented position.
I have been paying for the botulism syringe,
Carefully dodging sunbeams that offend,
From beneath my wide brimmed hat.
Ordering fine potions.  
(Please! Ship STAT!)
Getting any older?  
Nope.  Not doing that!
I opt out!

Yes, you heard me, 
I'm simply won’t go.
I've called the 800 number,
About losing my glow.
What about my sexual, slippery slide,
Threatening a possible dry run?
Not happening!

My feisty partner laughs and says,
“Princess Vanity,” you have no choice here!”
I say “Nay!” “I refuse!”
I’ll even give up my,
Lavish festivities,
The entire month I decided to show,
If I can dramatically get this aging thing to slow!

You enjoy getting older, but I’m showing age the door.
I shall remain the way I am at present,
Don’t care what’s inevitable,
It matters not who says it.
This girl is aging no more.

I opt out!!!


Copyright © Elisa Christensen | Year Posted 2016

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Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Storm Part VI

Water licks your feet
Far cry from the beating sun
Desert sand to sea

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

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The thistle and the rose

The gentle petals of a rose, the finest and fairest of all blooms
With no other does it compare, its stems thorns should protect from harm
Its scent lingers on so those that pass blindly cant fail to miss
The princess of English flowers, leaves an imprint on my mind and heart that will 
never fade

In contrast, from colder climes, a thistle stands alone
A symbol of a nation, of home, a far cry from perfection, and apart from reality
It stands in solitude, untouchable by its own protection and provides only a 
glimpse of charm
The pride of Scotland, for in our hearts we fight and in loneliness it grows

So who would think that side by side two blooms could thrive, together but apart
And who would say that the thistle and the rose were matched, to be as one
The spikes and thorns have, and always will, cause pain for those caught within 
their grasp
But always and forever do their souls entwine, the pain endured, worth the 
pleasure given. 

Copyright © charlie milne | Year Posted 2006

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International Women's Day

Debates and discourses galore
Trees and rivers are worried
Cruelty and hounding are torrid
A raped morning in the shore

Kindness smiles in the water
It fondles the skin still tender
Flying sands drop by to kiss it
Restive waves come on hissing

Intellectuals in the seminar
Shopping at fifty percent
Online bonanza for women
Pious hopes in the twitters
Success is celebrated globally
Molested school girls scoff at

Flesh is what the quest goes for
Pearls of friendship is a far cry
Sharks of powers and muscles
Untamed high-rise castles

Can’t we have joint umbrellas?
To share a grief or golf stick
Sublimate our glare of control
And avoid hundreds of shipwreck? 

Discrimination will go away one day 
We will need centuries to that end
Life will be the same celebration
For men and women together

Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2016

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Letter to Mum and Dad

Letter to Mum and Dad

Dear Mum, Dear Dad, you're gone from my life.
I remember you now as a good husband and wife.
Dad, I saw you lay there. Lifeless, quite still.
The shocks that they gave you, zapped at my will.

When I touched you, your body, still warm, lips blue.
A far cry from the father, the man I once knew.
Your cheeks in contrast, stood out, quite bold.
Your hand I touched. That memory I hold.

Mum, I never saw you, when you passed away.
You were alone in your bed, so it's for you that I pray.
I remember you most, for the love that you gave me.
Always caring, never judging, I wished I could save thee.

Now that you're gone, I don't feel alone.
You're the best parents in life, this child could have known.
So it's with you in memory, my life has begun.
I remain as always, your ever loving son.

Copyright © Chris Matthews | Year Posted 2013

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The Pond

The cool breeze sends ripples 
upon water as smooth as glass 
upon skin, cooled, radiant sun
they are all assembled at this pond 
a few humans, mostly birds 
Attar would be pleased to see this 
Delegation of birds 
the ducks sit on the west stone wall
Most grooming, digging, for buried treasure 
others, one foot, balanced, sleep still 
heads safely tucked tight against feather 
many swim and some float 
the Swans dance in the center 
a gang on long-necks, dominate kings 
in this realm 
a far cry from above 
a return from the Pond 
with that come new Swans to join in
the Feast, the Pool Party 
they now stand divided, some on
the North end, some on the South 
they were united at first, but no more 
very much like humanity 
they can still share the Pond

Copyright © Colin Amato | Year Posted 2009

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It was a far cry for us to purchase a house That too in the city like Atlanta But desire prevailed upon limited income The House-warming ceremony was on A few relatives had come from nearby area In response to our invitation. My wife was showing the house To a beautiful woman, one of our relative And I was preoccupied with my work Sitting in our loosely fenced enclosure. “This is our kitchen,” my wife said “Voguish” the woman said “This is our bedroom”, my wife said “Very cute” she said using another adjective “This is our living room,” my wife said “Oh, wonderful” Yet another adjective As they came out where I was sitting. “My husband” my wife said “Very” she said, I came to her help, “ I am cu..cutting this…” The woman knew, I taught English in a University I think she wanted me to overheard The random adjectives, she used in English. Don’t ask me in which humour My wife had been as the lady left. While others going for the dinner “Oh, only three bed-rooms” “Kitchen is too small” “How that rotund lady would manage?” We harbored all the remarks Till they faded away with the dinner.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Date 1-31-14 Form: Free Verse Dr. Ram Mehta First Place Win Contest: Relatives by Judy Konos

Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2014

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The Neighborhood That We Once Knew

Illegal business trafficling
boldly on the streets
in broad daylight
so everyone can see.

The addicts are searching
high,low and even on their elbows
wondering how they're going to get
their next "hit" of crack or blow.

While the hustlers are trying
to get rid of the "hot" merchandise
that they have stolen.

all have l can't help but to see
the "once" beautiful neighborhood
now invested with all types of rodens.

Why did we, the people,
let it get this way?
It's so dangerous that 
it's unsafe even for the
children to play.

It used to be a community
with businesses/flowers in full bloom
but now you look around, you see
homes/buildings in an area invaded by gloom.

To make it better though
there's so much we all have got to do
because we all can agree that it's
a far cry from the neighborhood
that we once knew.

Copyright © Larry Richardson | Year Posted 2006

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Out of my league, that's how you are
Still my foolish heart saw you a par
To your proposed love, I did not refrain
I will be happier, once I fall in love again

Far cry the laws, we tried and go beyond
We're happy and giddy yet all gone wrong
To people around, I've been a mark of Cain
I will be happier, once I fall in love again

I shared my time, my heart and my life..
But you, YOU rife all nothing but strife
No words can explain the pain that reign
I will be happier, once I fall in love again

I am scared, so afraid to show all reasons
Thus, I cling... cling tightly unto my Jesus
With this, I sustained. New strength I gain
I will be happier, once I fall in love again

Olive Eloisa
1:32 am
April 04,2014
________________________Thank You... Jesus.. :)

Sponsor:	        Cyndi MacMillan
7th place.. to God be the greatest glory.. :)

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2014

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The Scent of Water

The scent of water

If summer sun at its vertex will not perspire,
How would I burning in hell will respire ?

If sparrow sits on mango tree with open beak,
I too am surely craving for a water streak,

If in the desert, the rainfall fails to revive,
How can I without your love survive ?

Loneliness has left me parched and dry,
Lover's lanes empty, pleasant meets a far cry,

The long dark night, seems so unending,
To my injured self, Is there any mending ?

If you can, give me a bit of sunshine,
Then why would I need the addicting wine ?

Hope is all that sustains my life,
Might take me out of the current strife,

The Scent of water, as clouds appear in sky,
Oh Rain! come rain, I am about to die,

Give your divine showers so as I may thrive,
Bloom may with tiny drops, even the cacti !

Written on 15/7/14
Contest- the scent of water
Sponsor- Faye Gibson

Entered for the "Rain" contest by Silent one
Awarded 3rd place win

Copyright © Dr. Upma A. Sharma | Year Posted 2014

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ideas will eventually spread out to create some sort of functioning universe

Those who complained about Thor’s left-field watery dip during last year’s Avengers: Age of Ultron will likely roll their eyes at the number of superfluous scenes that flutter around Snyder’s DC Comics Cinematic Universe Scrapbook. Should anyone be surprised? Probably not. The marketing behind this film has forever been transparent about how overloaded this story was always going to be. Unlike Marvel and Disney, DC and Warner Bros. refused to take things slow and opted instead to work off the big bang theory wherein a giant explosion of ideas will eventually spread out to create some sort of functioning universe. Did it work? It’s too early to tell, but things don’t bode too well if Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice is any indication.

The problem isn’t Affleck, Cavill, or any of the actors. In fact, Affleck brilliantly captures the ethos and primal rage of Batman in a way that’s only been exhibited by Kevin Conroy in the Arkham games. This is a big ol’ grump who tortures his body in his own Batgym like a roided out Ryan Steven Lochte. He brands his prey. He stares at his costume like he wants to eat it. He’s visited by Freddy Krueger in his dreams. No, this is the Batman fans deserved. Cavill, on the other hand, continues to embellish the imperfections of the always-perfect Supes. He’s a far cry from the ray of sunshine that Christopher Reeve — or his many imitators, from Tom Welling to Brandon Routh — shed off, but he’s also stuck in a far more cynical world.

Copyright © James Lennim | Year Posted 2016

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A Toast, a Canticle, a Living Requiem

Here's a toast to the ones you leave behind.

To the ones who time carries you past,
spending a while with comrades
until the rivers drag you away.

To the ones who sail their own courses through life,
a far, far cry from your own.
And yet, that cry is always heard,
in the end,
for companionship ever beckons.
The lanterns on their prows
shine a light for you, always;
whenever they're near their fellow in need.

To the ones you never fail
and who never fail you;
to the ones whose separation
marks the end of an era.

a toast to the ones you leave behind.

Copyright © Andy Sprouse | Year Posted 2013

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Beauty in the Towns Cinema

You want us to see the wear with no fence you make us to look in awe and much cold you want us to dry up with no sense as you show your bare of lust in bold when you bath, boys view with a long lens for sex to sell, any rose will be sold an idol in jean, egos condense men in a trap, even the very old to long and to lust for a star tray the town is all way down as all men play a far cry for the men of God to pray the eyes see but the body gets blind guys stay on the road to see a rewind of her next step, flow, grace and behind.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2016

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A Night in the Bush

Out in the bushland, no street lights around
No sheltering tent, we lay on the ground
Close by a green pool and Kurrajong tree
Alone by ourselves, just Willow and me

The bushland at night is dark as black tar
A million bright twinkles, each one a star
The moon, just a sliver, riding up high
No clouds to obscure, and rain a far cry

Way off in the distance low eerie moans
Raised hairs on my neck, a chill in my bones
But Willow just snuffled, curled in a ball
No fright in her hackles, no fear at all

Slow dying embers, a lone dingo’s cry
A night in the bushland under the sky

Copyright © Margaret Foster | Year Posted 2011

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Who Can Complain

A far cry from a woman who has so much
But no one wants to hear from her this season
I have all that I need, at least that's what I am told
I have a home, a job, a love, do I need another reason?

But it's more than these holy, toes poking through socks
I want to start over again and choose a different life
One that doesn't require me paying back student loans
But has to have two jobs, I know of my trife

If I complain out loud then I feel guilt for those who have less
If I don't complain then how will people know that I struggle
This holiday I shop, get tattooed, drink and cry
Hoping to cope with the numbness and pity I juggle

Should I remain silent and be grateful for what I have?
Yet the vodka tastes so well as I sit and reflect on my choices
People have no idea that I have this fit in me and I want to fight
I could never deny that I have something inside of me, voices

Copyright © Lauren Smith | Year Posted 2014