Listen to poem:
Like A Girl
I play like a girl, I hit like a girl
You say I throw like a girl,
And, when I run -- I run like a girl!
All that plus more, enjoy this one size fits all
Who and what I want comes from being strong
Classy and fabulous,
THIS is my song!
I've been told, cut to size
The world dark and gray, when life becomes an insult
Take heed when I speak my mind,
I am tough, outstanding and beautiful!
Move ahead --- say it twice, I smell nice
A taste of Cool Water and Justice Perfume
I have a non-stop multitask fixation
Like a woman, everything about me is hidden
Magic and alluring the only joy in sexuality you'll need
I'm empowering this moment!
Endorsing Myself, with a certain sorta mystique
I deliver an independent will,
don't ever underestimate my physique
I am a caregiver, a female who won't give up the fight
I remain firm and believe all women have equal rights
I walk and talk Like A girl
wearing heels Breaking the sound of Annabel
Like, Mona's unforgettable smile,
I stand tall Like Miss Liberty
I am, Betsy Ross, America's #1 designer
Harriet, who escaped slaver-y
Like Theresa and Mary, I'm here to give change
I am, Hilary overwhelmed with determination
A leader -- A Goddess, I burn like Joan
---Cleopatra in the room
---Calamity Jane's wild side
Emelia's, won't give up heart
I am Anne, with a secret hidden spot
Susan B, with the right to vote
Emily who writes deep and pretty
The sound In your eyes aren't listening!
You imagine I am weak -- not strong enough -- brave enough,
You call me different and difficult!
Still, you want my warmth -- my love -- my attention
I am not less, I am more
I am a woman -- I frown -- I cry -- I hurt and yell at the universe
Nevertheless, I make a difference
Like a girl, I smile
A smile never seen or felt before, both defined and undefined
Your heart will ask and implore for more
Like a girl, I'll drive you wild, looking pretty "You're In Love!"
My Self confidence comes from who I am deep inside
Everything I've become follows the makeup on my face
Bare and nude, I am the Madonna flowering the mood
At the end of every day, I have one other thing to say
The Next Time You ask me to cook and clean
Because you think, I belong in the kitchen
You better believe I'm doing it my way
LIKE A GIRL
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2015
You asked me the other day, my friend, who
I am you in another body!
Yes, it is true,
Look how much the same we are,
No matter what,
I am born and die
Suffer and enjoy
Love and hate, just
I am a father, a brother, a son,
A mother, a sister, a daughter, just
Happiness I seek, family to raise I wish,
Peace to find I look for, just
I heal, just
I cry, just
We are alike
We are the same
We are brothers, children of
A unique father
My brother, my friend, my ally,
Why have we:
To destroy and
Our seas that narrow?
Our oceans that small ?
Our lands so limited to
Contain all of us?
Is it the case that
Our hearts are not big enough
Our minds not so wide-open to
Enfold all mankind?
Listen to me, my other self,
It is up to us to change this world, we
Have inherited, with its:
Virtues and vices
History and culture
Flaws and merits
Try to make it
Kinder and a more
Obliterating harmful beliefs
Demolishing injurious divisions
Destroying detrimental distrust
Annihilating racism and
Eradicating the erroneous feeling of
Bring the dawn of a new loving world,
Of universal brotherhood
With peace in our hearts, liberated we
Would be from
Past’s deleterious tribulations
For myriads of years, have kept us, fighting
© Demetrios Trifiatis
21 MARCH 2015
NOTE! Today because of the “ World Day Against Racism” my moral duty, couldn’t
let me stay away!
This poem of mine is an old poem of 2013 that has been edited and improved today thus it is posted now as a new poem!
* I did this for all my friends who wish me to come back. I will come back when I am ready! Thank you for your love!
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2015
I called to the winds of autumn
As they wrapped up the dying year;
"Oh stay for a moment and tell me
Of answers I need to hear".
Who is the rival of prudence
Who is the merchant of crime
Who closes the eyes of beauty
And steals the hours of time?
Who brings the winter to age
From the springs of the fountain of youth
Who is the companion of sorrow
And destroys the justice of truth?
Who's the apprentice of Satan
The Prince of the Power of Air
Whose appetite is transgression
With more than enough to share?
Who weakens the power of the great
Who slaughters the wisdom of wise
Who brings the honest and gracious
To depths that others despise?
The winds of autumn now answered
With a voice like a phantom call
"It's an evil afflicting so many
Who drown in the drink alcohol."
This is the spell of the devil
Who casts his net from hell
An addiction with power to destroy
Gathering all who are caught in its spell
For his net will gather the unwary
To beguile lost souls with his breath;
This is the destruction of lost dreams
That perish in the arms of death
Copyright © elizabeth wesley | Year Posted 2012
As I sit watching fusions of saffron and scarlet hues
elegantly charm the horizons.
Silently, fluffy lush clouds float by
like a magnetic field drawing me closer,
in hope they may lead me to you.
So I ponder
maybe love is like the sunrise
so many see it - yet so few feel it.
Just the thought of my beloved,
leads to these poetic fingers bleeding.
As they drown in an abundance of words,
that can only be soothed by her luscious lips.
For these sentimental eyes yearn
to caress her tender skin.
So, I set upon the path to discover,
if it shall lead to the realms of my lover.
A path that I have once trodden upon before,
but the soul demands to travel upon it once more.
After all I'm only human,
the love she planted in my heart still remains
and how can I love another,
when the heart refuses to give permission.
Time has kept us apart.
I float to her like a butterfly,
and shall float until I reach her province.
For this not just an infatuated sensation,
you may hear in a fairy tale or sung in a lullaby.
Her love is the only sensation of infatuation,
as she holds the formula to my alchemist heart.
I know I can't simply take her heart,
it can only be given to one.
But without her the world is cold,
and I live for the day she will wrap me up
inside her heart and never let me leave.
For the love she gave, is still the only one I crave.
I long to walk together amongst bluebells and ambrosial roses,
roaming through an oasis of enchanted blossoms.
Her arms will become my sanctuary.
To create a masterpiece of serenity,
to achieve an eternal state of tranquillity.
I hope before first site of twilight,
her perfect vision brings justice to this write.
In a world full of expectations,
I may lose the passion to exist.
Just one beautiful gesture,
will help me to remember how to smile.
For, I know her radiant eyes will provide clarity,
the warmth of her kiss will be my remedy.
The Silent One
8 November 2017
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017
When Light needed a body to behold, and color to kiss,
as Darkness dreamnt to die in the dawn of depth,
when Soul lustered to lust for learning, and being learned,
as blood bespoke to bones for building a star of flesh,
when Time needed the umbrage of it's ubiquity to be understood,
the moment texture tempted touch to tease with a thousand sensations,
when laws of love sought a language to express the extremes of it's lips,
as romance rampaged through the ravishings of famished hearts,
when the seduction of sorrow made heros of loving men and women,
When Justice appealed to the instincts of intent for inscriptions of innocence,
as bravery found battle in basic questions of survival and conquest,
when war demanded a metaphor in the terror of it's diligent destruction,
as Faith found resolve in seconds small along with giant gestures,
Death singing melancholoy for sympathy and Life haughty upon it's horizon,
when Angels chose to wear albatross of gold to feel the rue of rogues,
as the most perfect woman ambushed the ideals of rumored beauty,
when God wanted imagination to create immaculate reality
Poetry began, born in the instant of forever Art,
because, the only promise of a Poet, is Passion -
Dedicated to Poetry...J.A.B.
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014
In the courts of sport and entertainment
They have forgotten the scales of justice
Lacking honor for those who gave life and limb
Sacrificing blood, and buried with god giving grace
The anthem is our history
of all triumphs, good, and even flaws
Look into the eyes of a veteran
to see inside a suffering vault
They, who fought, so that you may play
They who died, so that the rich live this day
Even the poor still have their freedoms
For veterans themselves, knew their reasons
No man, no nation can stand up to perfection
Its about respect of those, who gave...
Despite all imperfections
Without, history repeats, sending more to the cross and knave
When you hear "God Bless America"
Think of those flag covered graves
Think of the children
No fathers, because it is you they saved
Our nation is human
Filled with imperfections
Protest for change, for better days
While holding respect for those, who before you
With their blood, led the way
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
Well, GI Jack is welcome back, he left his legs in 'Nam.
He wakes at night in sweat and fright, then drinks another dram.
He doesn't know quite where to go, so seeks his uncle, Sam.
One can't ignore - his ma was poor, and life was sometimes cruel,
yet Jack was brave and well behaved and surely no one's fool
so joined the ranks that man the tanks, as soon as he left school
He learned to kill our foes at will (ordained a sacred rite),
and packed his bag and wrapped his flag and went away to fight.
And yes, the tide was on our side (for, clearly, might makes right)
Through tangled days in jungles' maze, he sought the enemy
behind the trees where, ill at ease, he fought the Yellow sea -
upon the waves of sunken graves he sailed a killing Spree
The napalm dropped and cooked the crops, burnt huts along the way
and tanks, with ease, mowed down the trees and villages of clay.
Yes, turret guns were loads of fun with roaring roundelays
While on the hunt with other grunts, he burned some babes alive
and wondered why frail things must die, while evil's phantoms thrive -
When folly ends, he'll make amends if only he'll survive
With booby traps (sticks dipped in crap)... yes, Charlie fought unfair.
He hid in holes like snakes and voles and snuck up everywhere
and like a mite beneath the night, caught Jackie unaware
At battle's end, Jack sought his friends - their souls were washed away
and only he and destiny were left in disarray -
with bed and pan, just half a man, the man of yesterday
When Jackie woke, beyond the smoke, his frame no longer whole,
he found instead a medalled thread, some wraps to hide the hole,
and realized another prize: a chair on wheels to roll
Across his chest (you've surely guessed) his medals shone, arrayed.
His head felt light, as well it might, at Victory Day Parade
for when he rolled, while others strolled, his boots no longer weighed
Well, Jack stayed home (no roads to Rome) to start his life anew
receiving dole (that took its toll) which fell in Sam's purview,
but soon enough, when times got tough, his uncle, Sam, withdrew
To walk the streets with fine elites (or someone else who begs)
or find a job (or even rob) requires both your legs,
and those that don't and those that won't are those we call the dregs
For getting by he tried to ply and mine his medals' worth -
a tinny cup, a hungry pup near loamy pits of earth,
and best of all, per protocol, beneath a bridge, a berth
He clutched a sign 'A dime to dine?', if anybody cared,
but soon he found, as time unwound, that victors seldom shared.
And Jackie's pride was slowly fried by vacant eyes that stared
He took to drink to break the link with thoughts of what he'd done,
though threads of doubt began to flout the yarns Big Brother spun
of freedom's ring and other things like what it was we'd won
He told the breeze his vague unease; his words infused the air
and like the fogs above the bogs, soon floated through the square
where people sat at tea to chat, and thought 'How could he dare?'
But freedom's price is never nice: like storms before the flood
the Daily Rag was on a jag, was looking out for blood,
deemed Jackie's thoughts untamed and fraught, then dragged him through the mud
By snooping clues, they plucked his views like grapes upon the vine.
Big Brother came, blamed Jackie's name for thinking out of line,
shut Jack away from light of day while letting freedom shine
The Junto Brass, with eyes of glass, were robed in fine array
to hear the words (though slightly slurred) the witness gasped to say,
while Justice snored (the water board awash with Perrier)
Well, Jack was charged with laws enlarged in secret dossiers
within the guise of spreading lies and leading thoughts astray -
The Jury's out... the rabble shout 'well someone's gotta pay'
The Judge (who fears the mind’s frontiers), he turned his head to yawn
while making haste through courtroom waste, though slightly pale and wan -
The voodoo Lune withdrew as soon as Night condemned the Dawn
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the sighs of Silence, rife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the Reaper played a fife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the price was Jackie's life
While censor’s cooks are roasting books (and truth) on stakes ablaze,
well, Jackie's head (though chopped and shed) still thinks about the praise
for deeds once done in victories won when cruising in a craze,
and then again about the sin of thinking, nowadays,
where, absently, humanity is served in urns on trays -
and, reconciled, it simply smiles at fortune's funny ways
A mind was caught while thinking thoughts neath Sammy’s prying gaze
and forced to stop by concept cops, else join the castaways.
For now it's law to hold in awe the brave new world's malaise
and dance like mimes to rigid rhymes (which no one disobeys)
and celebrate with white-washed pate, adorned with dead bouquets -
with freedom’s death, time holds its breath, and waits for better days...
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013
upon it, care for
our lives and all that
will occur if we cannot
consider beyond ourselves,
if we are guided by uncertainty,
when we fear the unknown, when we
shun those who differ from us in skin color,
in sex, in persuasion, if we turn our eyes away,
when we dance upon the hidden strings of politicians
or cunning puppetmasters, when we swallow the lust of war,
when poets languish in isolation, without ear or encouragement,
when we torture, when prejudice blinds us to the humanity of another,
when our deluded misconceptions will go public with ready trigger finger,
when we mistake violence for the solution, when we fail the worthy person,
when we won't bother to look past the wheelchair and to whom he really is,
to say his real name, when the most expected thing we will share with him
is discrimination, when we forget that here in space we are in this together,
when tomorrow is the day that old and young will die in roaring explosions,
in quiet corners without notice, when people are driven from their homes,
when women must live in fear, when we steal identities, when evil hides
in anonymity, when we rest in apathy, indifferent to the pain of others,
when our fellow creatures are in chains for our profit and amusement,
when hunger and hatred are accepted, when malice shrieks loud,
when we cut baby girls due to generational gender inequality,
from psychosexual ignorance and hard superstition;
when we deny justice to one lonely voice,
our world falls, stretching itself
into a teardrop.
December 26, 2016
For FJ Thomas's contest - 'Concrete Crush'
Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016
You are a human being they told me, something you should treasure
But isn't a human being the only animal who kills for pleasure?
Man's inhumanity to man, a crime like no other
The first family on earth had brother killing brother
We are power hungry bastards from the cradle to the grave
We pillage other countries and the survivors we enslave
Politicians lie to their people saying only what they want to hear
Stripping their own of a sense of pride and instilling a state of fear
They speak of human rights and how our country has been torn
Then turn around and murder a child before he's even born
For killers and rapists and dealers the ACLU has led many fights
Then tell a six year old rape victim that she really has no civil rights
We can't teach about Jesus, our school teachers must be mum
We can teach about Hitler, Stalin and other human scum
People kill each other for no reason every day
Then a lower form of life, a lawyer saves his day
Where is justice? Nowhere in sight.
Anything is legal if the price is right
You are a human being. This is what they proudly proclaim
If I am a human being, then I should hang my head in shame.
Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2006
I left her behind
I left her
I left her
I left her
I wanted to die there with her
there in the desert
where I left my mother
there where the stench of the dead and the dying
filled the air
I left her
my other children dragging me on
the solders shouting
I had to go on...for the others
I left her
my little girl
who was too weak to speak
too weak to cry
my little girl
whom I smothered
knowing it would be quick
not wanting night to call
the animals to crawl
over her still living body
not wanting her to hear
the death wail of the old and frail
I smothered her
and kept on walking
I left her
I left my heart
I left my dreams
I left my tomorrow
and every yesterday
of a better day
I left her
and in that starless night
there in the desert
naked and bleeding
"the rest is silence."
"The Rest is Only Silence" is from Shakespeare's Play...Hamlet. I, however, will not be silent about the Armenian Genocide. This is in memory of the 1.5 million Armenians who lost their lives in the Genocide of 1915.Though this is a fictitious write, the events depicted did happen during the Armenian Genocide in 1915 by the Ottoman Turks. One million and a half Armenians were marched into the desert in what has come to be known as the Death March. My mother's family were fortunate. They were able to run away in time. They relocated to Lebanon. My mother was a refugee at 14 years of age. She and her two sisters suffered poverty and had to work hard to make a living for the family. Their fate could have been worse. April 24 marks 101 years since that event. Not all countries have recognized the genocide. Unfortunately, America is one of them.
If you want to read an account of those days, read The Sandcastle Girls. Read of how woman were tied to stakes as the soldiers rode past on their horses and decapitated them. Read of how the orphaned children were gathered at night and put in caves and burned alive. Read of how the woman marched naked...their wounds festering, their hair matted...almost inhuman. Read of how women committed suicide rather suffer rape while others disfigured themselves to go unnoticed. History cannot deny the genocide. If justice is not served here...it will be....one day. God told Cain..."the blood of your brother Abel is crying out to me." The blood of these martyrs cries out today for recognition.
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2016
I often sit for long periods of time
hoping the perfect beginning will come to me.
To write a poem that starts with a pristine Capital
leaving readers with great expectations.
But after much torment, with not a fleck of gold in sight,
it's comes to my attention
that much like life, How it Began
isn't half as important as How it Finishes,
(And neither as important
as How it Is in the Present)
That's how it was, in any case,
when the landlord dropped the news
that sunny Idahoan morn;
It was a time for a change, they all said in unison:
my sister, my brother, my mother ---
And like the sweetest melancholy, I couldn't help but agree,
For I knew no matter where I went
I'd always have poetry ...
(but now it seems she has alluded me)
Through 2,500 miles and 9 states;
through a million and a half brand new things
... and yet
Inspiration refuses to sing.
As I sit here in suspense
for that metaphorical gravy train,
wondering when the words
will start flowing again.
Will it be like it was before,
when it comes to me?
Ears perked to the extreme
with expectations of a symphony?
When it comes to me ...
Will they laugh? Will they cry?
Will my words come across
like softest lullaby?
Because sometimes our muse just up and leaves,
we wonder why.
But no my most cherished friends,
we mustn't cry,
for it's been a great adventure,
has it not?
Remember the words of Dr. Seuss:
Don't be sad that it's over,
Smile that it happened.
Though words were once putty in my hands
I now take in the beauty that encompasses me,
content to just let it sit,
without the need to express it ...
But don't be fooled, Dearest Reader,
for I have the highest hope
that stars will dance,
leaves will fly,
birds will sing,
WHEN it comes to me.
But will you believe me when I say
I've watched the stars fall and flicker
between the leaves
a hand's breadth from my fingertips?
(go on and take a sip
the magic's free)
That I've breathed in the air,
as if it were honeysuckle blooming in the sky
just for me.
Oh and how I wish you could see
beyond the words of this page,
for it's beyond a tragedy
that all I have to give is this poem.
You know I'd offer you my eyes
for you to see the things I'm seeing.
(put your hand on my chest,
can you feel it beating?)
Like the petals of a rose
she holds me close:
the place where the bright rubicund clay
makes way for my Armstrongian footprints
---just one small step
then comes the leap---
My arms spread wide
hoping for discovery,
but preparing for catastrophe ...
And believe me when I say
I couldn't dream of sleep,
for when it comes to me
the minstrels will weep,
the prisoners'll be set free ...
as emotions become ablaze
in new and surprising ways.
For there's a lily pad pond,
just outside my backdoor ....
that's begging for a tale to be penned.
There's a place called Mount Alto
sitting just like a storybook
outside the backdoor, my friends,
whilst I sit here
listening to the cicadas sing
in Valley Soprano,
reminding me that everything
is but a poem-in-waiting:
The rolling green hills
bearing witness of mountain familiarity;
the black butterflies
the berry blossoms of May.
Everything is so new here ...
far beyond anything I could ever say.
And I hope I can do it justice,
to paint a picture in your head,
with every ounce of the things I've said ...
you won't be able to tell the difference
when it comes to me)
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
Lost in a poets convention,
I can't recall every poem, I've read through the years
50518, unique comments I 'validate'---
Thank You For Sharing Your Happy and Sad tears
Since March 24, 2010 In the mist of every line,
I'm sending special hugs, for he/she that favorite me through the years
A praise to all poets mentioned and not mentioned
I will miss, the sweetest girl on this block LEONORA G.,
She treats me with love, adores my words and twisted poetry.
I will start with the soups famous October, 7th babies,
Frank and Kash, Debbie D, and myself, these lines belong to us,
Our best characteristic has everything to do with the mind
In our poetic hearts you'll find the symbol of justice and balance
This is not a song, it is not a poem, it's a free falling memo written with style
Back in March 2013, I said it then, I'll say it again
Andrea, you and only you are the Poet Queen
By the Queen, sits the Poet King of rhymes, Robert L. Hinshaw
Thank you both for never stepping on your loyal subjects
Carol B., & Linda Marie, no one can replace the hole you left inside
I will miss all the little poetry pups, who came and sat by my side
MAHIMA and Saanvi, and Sabrina, thank you for the encouragement
Phyllis, Joyce, Francine, Rhonda, Betty, sweet Karen A., and Catie,
Clap your hands for the lovely quiet soup ladies.
Okay, maybe not Karen A., and Catie, these ladies love speaking their minds:)
SARA K., a mentor to some, a Fairy Godmother in my book
I will miss her "Magic Pen like Wand" dearly.
Gail, thank you for spreading your wings, and teaching us how to fly.
Hopefully --wings are a nice gesture, --waving--
"One day I'll see you again, my friend."
Daver Austin, "Go ahead, make my day" thank you for the show
Now, you know why I referred to you as, "The Clint Eastwood of Poetry."
Russell Survey, encouraged my days and moods with his kind words
Scribe ML., where are you my friend?
Don't you know your BIGGEST FAN misses you!!!
Dr Ram, Bindu V, Litan D., Donna J, Shadow, Sandra A., Peter Durgan,
Giorgio V., Mystic Rose, BL Devnath and of course our Nette.
Thank you for being kind and rewinding and replying to every note.
Joseph M., Caleb S., Vincent F., Juliet L., Lucy Carrillo, Scott 37, Johnny R.,
Kelly D., thank you for the honor in always honoring my words
Roger Horsch meets Eileen Ghali, your smile, her smile always made me smile,
No matter how many miles apart, our smiles always met on the same page.
Jenish, Don J., S.Z. Kamoonpuri, Gideon, Gary, Austin E., and Jody M.,
Fatima N., Mark N., Aiyah B., Ralph F., Kathryn C., Elly, Ayesha A.,
Clay W., Erich, Syam, MIKKI, John B., Olusegun, *Sukmawati* Gwen,
Delysia H., Frederic P., Richard L., Brenda L., Keith, Debbie G.,
Thank you for painting the best IMAGERY
Michale Clarke, Charma C., Wayland B., Jancarl C., Carrie, and Harry,
M&M, Abdulhafeez, Michael B., Maria P. S., CHAN and Mandy T.
You are only the beginning of what makes this a good community
Arlid A., Dinda M., Silly Billy, Tim Ryerson, we go way back.
Ravindra, Kim M., Richard S., Honestly JT., Wade A., Dom-X.
The ingredients in your poems, makes the best soup remix
Joe M., Jack H., James H., James P., Tim B., Jon A. C., Allan K., Matthew A.
Deb Wilson, David S., David William, Thomas S., Cecilia M.
Keep that pen flowing for tomorrow needs poets like you.
Justin B., Laura B., your words will continue to be a part of me.
Owen Y., and John L., your visits, your friendship I will never forget
Yasmin and Carl F., hanging out with you on the soup was the best.
Cherl Dunn, and Colleen Bono, SandyIvy, I will miss everything about you,
Mostly I will miss your friendship and the way you took care of me.
Poet and sister Skat, keep rocking what I can't....
Copy paste your love, welcome in the new.
Show Edwina, Robin, Sam B., and all the NEW POETS they belong
Last but not least-- Behind every mess, they are the best
--Craig Cornish and Cyndi McMillan
What have you done, I admit without you this place would have been no fun.
Thank you for the spin, making every penny worth our paid premium memberships
Before I forget,
I want to take this time to reminisce and add two old friends to my hot list.
Nikko and Chris A..... My first POETRY SOUP FRIENDS.
I will never forget you, and all the fun moments we had,
Back when the soup was not like this:)
Chris, can you ever forgive me, I never stepped up to say "I was Sorry!"
As you know my kindness is my weakness
Now it's time to be strong and move on
If one day I return, then you know, I fell off the wagon
And, into arms and luring fingers of Team Poetry Soup
The Poet Destroyer
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014
Authored by Chuck Keys
It had no color,
Lacking shape, size and dimension.
It wasn't moving or breathing.
There was neither aroma nor taste, not here or there.
Touching was useless because it wasn't physical.
It was indistinct and limitless.
Multi-sensually and multi-psychologically
It wasn't here or there and it was.
With no distinction,
It looked like everything else,
Or it could not have looked like everything else.
It never made me feel good nor bad,
Nor happy nor sad
Nor quite nor trite.
In our world of joy and destroy, we sort and distort,
Looking more on the surface and less on the inside,
Ready to judge and be judged from outside in.
The "oneness" of mankind stretches beyond definitions and limits,
From outside to inside and from inside to outside.
We are one distinct and alike world of "oneness."
Differences exist for differences,
Therefore, differences don't exist.
Only "oneness" exists.
This poem is dedicated to Dr. Clayborne Carson and The Gandhi-King Community,
For Global Peace with Social Justice in a Sustainable Environment.
Copyright © Chuck Keys | Year Posted 2010
You, most desirable bride among
Your suitors many have been throughout
In every part of the world, you were the one
They were after
You declined their proposals, despite the fact
All suitors, to charm you they have tried,
With great honors and by putting your name
Next to theirs, to allure you to sanctify their
The totalitarians and
Have declared themselves your fervent
Admirers, your ardent devotees to you and to
Your eternal principles
By wrapping themselves in your
Heavenly gown and calling themselves your
But you unyielding remained
You knew that no one has succeeded to measure up
To the ideals your wise father, SOLON,** has set
And to the glorious values with which he
Nurtured you, those superb principles:
Of lack of self interest
Of the paramount devotion to
The common good and the happiness
Of the people you serve!
It is for that reason, you, oh Democracy,
Seldom have shown any favoritism to any of
Your suitors, for all fell short of
Your lofty aspirations
You were, unfortunately, for very
Lengthy periods of time mistreated, neglected, subjugated and
Exploited by your pretenders:
The power thirsty
The war mongers
The money seekers,
Chose to ignore all that you stood for and
Disregarded the common good and the
Happiness of the people they supposed to serve
For to promote their own interest and those of
Ruining the chances of any true democratic
Society to be established
For that reason, oh Democracy, I understand you now
Why a spinster, you, have chosen to
© Demetrios Trifiatis
16 OCTOBER 2014
* Democracy is the combination of two words: Demos and Cratos . Demos means the People and Cratos means Power so Democracy means “ Power to the People.” It will be helpful to read my poem “ THE BIRTH OF DEMOCRACY” for a better understanding.
**The concept of Democracy is deeply rooted in the Greek Psyche! We see it in the Mythology where Zeus, the supreme God, is just “first among equals” Then appears in Homer’s poems but the father of Democracy is asserted to be Solon, the Athenian who was one of the seven wise men of old. Solon, 7th –6th centuries B.C. was the theoretician that established Democracy. Solon considered the pillars of Democracy to be Justice and Virtue. So every politician should be Just and virtuous and his main objective would be to safeguard the wellbeing and happiness of the people and that of the state's plus the wealth to be distributed justly among the citizens. Knowledge, responsibility, self-control, self knowledge, sacrifice, equality, had do be characteristics of every citizen. Plato said that “Virtue worth as much as all gold that is possessed by all people put together and all gold that is still in the ground.” To that Aristotle added that “ every politician has to be forged on the anvil of virtue.”
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2014
THE POET’S PANEGYRIC
“There’s someone I knew with talent unleashed
and a heart that had for so many relentlessly reached
This poet sought inspiration from the living and the dead
But I can tell you this about the poet who has moved me by what this poet had ever said
I read the words from a comfort zone
which this poet created, surrounded by friends or by foes or simply alone”
His essence of soul sweeps down deserted dead streets
where the thunder still crackles, the burial bell bleats
He laughed at himself as a Royal Rhymester Clown
but bore the black pains of those all aroun’,
He echoed regrets but never a grudge
... of this I’ll say little... let his lines be the judge
THE POET’S PEN
Blind shots cry out beneath the night,
a car is cruising by.
A stripling’s blood streams words to write
... Wry rhymes to ask us why
A silly girl with child, unwed...
to many, but a slut.
The baby at her breast is dead
... Cruel couplets meant to cut
A drifter, broken, cast aside,
lies lifeless in the cold.
Tap tattoos on a tattered hide
... Some scarlet stanzas scold
Two lovers clutch a turtledove,
enraptured by her coo,
impaled on pangs of Ladylove
... A sultry song for two
A drone of drums in distant wars
beguiling bold dragoons
who sell their souls like wanton whores
... Raw rhythms writ in runes
The stars ablaze, like tiger-eyes
’lume angels singing Lullabies
... A sonnet stuns the night
The soulless eyes of shackled slaves
bleed tears that burn and blur.
Their ash, like dust, set free in graves
... Emblazing ballads stir
A hurricane, foretold, unfurled,
unravels mystic signs
as Demons dance, destroy the World
... Limned lurid lyric lines
Some die a death neath hangmen’s hands
where tainted justice reigns
for ‘thou shalt kill’, Revenge commands
... A quiet quatrain pains
While well-to-dos amass and flaunt
And follow fashion’s trends,
pale children starve and die of want
... And so an epic ends
THE POET’S EPITAPH
His words lie strewn along the sand
While breakers wash ashore
The ripples weave designs unplanned
... a verse forevermore
His tales, entwined in cryptic airs
where freedom seeds are blown,
warn Guarders of the Realm ‘beware’
... his heresy is sown
His life outlined a chronicle
along a lonesome road
It started out as doggerel
... and ended as an ode
With a little help from my extremely talented, but somewhat modest, friend “ANON” AKA JC...
Thanks JC, for the depth of your support and your breath of inspiration...
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013
I flew to Olympus, to find its heart,
armour intact against Hades’ dark wrath.
At birth the power of light made its start
as Homer's ghost sent me upon my path!
Yet there I found only an empty throne
where once Zeus in glory firmly reigned.
So sad! For no lighted wisdom was shown,
such that grievous and blue, my heart was pained!
Thunder and lightning I didn’t yearn to find,
nor divine favours for eternal youth.
I wanted reassurance, peace of mind,
justice for all and no distorted truth.
At the foot of Olympus I sought love
but no compassion came down from above.
Robert Lindley & Paul Callus ~ 21st November 2015
Chosen Poem Of The Day, 3rd December, 2015
Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2015
Poem 1: A Boy And His Painted Piano
he used lively greens
touches of plain mauve
and rainbow trout splatters
to paint music
on the gas fumes
that inhabited the clean air
that once use to live there.
he made the ugly decaying
neighborhood i lived in
bearable on even the worse of days.
he was the soft harmless rays of a comforting sun
and responsible for the smiles that broke through
the usual dismay on the faces of seven to ten year olds
already sold on the idea their life expectancies were
somewhere in the low twenties.
life isn't always about the new iPhone being released
he represented hope.
hope that someone could make it out of the sewers and return
to free the whole chain gang presently locked firmly to a large solid steel post.
even in the dingiest basements of the worst streets
somehow, a whiff of hope threads through the tar laden atmosphere
and children rise above the manhole covers
that would otherwise maim their existence and keep them
buried below the impossible dream.
luckily there is always a don quixote who sees beyond
the all too real windmill set to blow others away?
Poem 2: A Street Puddle
what story hides
in this street puddle
what do the reflections want to recite.
one broken flower lies on the wet tar.
the wall cracks from the very bottom to the top
sitting there are black boots quivering
stalked by white boots with their bully badges yelling "comply"
blind to the co-operation to their commands. deaf to pleas of mercy
as black rubbers fall
as the wall echoes their cries
three boots stand and you wonder where lies that fourth boot.
do the mass boots of all kind even care
black feet walk as their words float
to fill the air drawing on the sky "no justice no peace"!
time passes, deceptive winds clear the atmosphere and...
weeds grow through the concrete to climb the walls
you can see the shadows large against this impromptu screen
and nothing changes. white boots rule.
Poem 3: In The Beginning
I have always been here.
I was here when you turned the Earth's Stomach.
When it regurgitated your acid tongue
stripped the land of its roots and nothing grew.
When you thought you could just skate through
but instead fell through the lake and froze the Planet
from one pole to the next.
When you cheated the Sun of its permanent spot.
Had it not been for romance who placed
an infinite sparkler in the night sky
who orbited earth barely clad in her white night silk dress
you might of owned time.
I was here
when you flooded the land
but you hadn't counted on
everything changed and you retreated
to your original pit of fire.
maybe you could deal in souls
you knew what was coming
when the heavens opened
and released the winged guardians
so here we sit
the best i can hope for is
good and evil
I'll take my chances with those odds.
Poem 4: A Boy And His Wooden Dragon
a detailed wood carving of a dragons bust leads an ancient
ship through an unforgiving storm.
if this replica could only breathe fire like the ones in children's tales
his face is lifelike, ferocious!
one could swear trails of smoke escape from his nostrils,
i am convinced his eyes are real emeralds.
the waves against the metal ship,
the salt that dissolves the rust,
flows over the dragons neck,
giving one the impression the creature is bleeding.
old wood has no life flow...
no pump to circulate sap
...i'm convinced this inanimate portrayal is leaking vital fluid.
the craftsman's hand has...,
a long shot to say the least...,
given his formation...
can the craftsman's artistic soul be so intense as to breathe
a half life into his meticulously chiseled creation?
how much power does the real artist?...
on a more practical line of thought,
will we survive?
"who cares" i think "that decision rests not in my hands."
i foolishly climb the dragons neck.
i remove my shirt to use as a tourniquet.
i apply it to his gushing neck in an attempt to heal him.
the whole time stroking him in a calming manner
suddenly he releases a breath
he opens his jaw wide
and exhales fire equal to that of a volcanic eruption.
and just like that
the storm stops.
the sky flashes his baby blues.
would we make it back to land?
is this just an ironic pause in the inevitable egregious battle yet to come?
time would tell.
time always tells.
never trust time with a secret.
time would tell
that is all we have
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015
Love Justice made me wrest you from her bed
It’s right for you to lie with me instead
For you were mine before she came to be
A prowling threat to our felicity
My broken heart cries…JUSTICE!
It’s meant for me to ravish you tonight
To give you pain as well as sheer delight
I love you still and yet your heart must pay
For shameless way you gave my love away
My wounded pride cries...JUSTICE
And here you are inside my bed of love
I’ve bound you up, no more a gentle dove
I take revenge on body and your soul
Enslaved, you yield to dominatrix role
My passion mad cries…JUSTICE
I take from you: I take, I take, I take
Each pleasure filled, I writhe and make you quake
I kiss, caress, and taste in wanton might
Your eyes ablaze, your fervor I ignite
My vengeful soul cries…JUSTICE
And all the while I hear you gasp MY name
In ecstasy my spoils of war I claim
You beg forgiveness as you helpless lie
I satiate my needs; fulfilled I sigh
My hungry need cries…JUSTICE
This tryst was meant to teach you lover's pain
You bear the marks of love that is insane
I slash your bonds and fall in your embrace
For I have seen the wonder in your face
Relieved am I, for I have tasted JUSTICE!
For Justin Bordner’s Love Justice Contest
January 18, 2015
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015
as the PROPHETS of profits, WE lead and WE’re fair
while WE’re living the life of the poor BILLIONAIRE
– silver yachts, pearly castles, cash (plenty to spare) –
with the world on OUR backs... ah! the burdens WE bear!
being HAVES (not the have-nots) as nature decrees
means WE’re certainly the better (they’re vermin on sleaze).
if they pray for a lift in their dark fantasies,
WE just kick ’em downstairs, get ’em off of their knees.
yes, WE offer great jobs (much too busy OURSELVES!)
for maintaining the toilets, restacking the shelves,
and WE teach ’em to fear god and play with the elves,
thus dispelling ideas where the dark demon delves.
though they build mighty bridges, twin towers and more,
peddle pizzas and popcorn, sell guns door-to-door,
still they gotta have BOSSES to tell ’em the score
else WE’d never be needed, WE’d thrive nevermore.
when OUR profits are plunging, they do their part too
for they dine on the dole! yes, no hullabaloo!
soon OUR fortunes redouble, rebound and accrue –
since WE fare well without ’em, WE bid ’em adieu.
’stead of wishing for welfare and standing in queues
or parading with pickets (look! holes in their shoes!),
they’d be better off scabbing to save union dues
... while WE whistle and warble, they’re singing the blues.
whether heros or hoboes, like spiders and lice
they just crawl all around us in life’s paradise,
but WE’re patient, big hearted and oft sacrifice,
spewing charity, kindness (though each has its price).
if they’re beaten or punctured or suffer assault,
are unhealthy or crippled or walk with a halt,
or retarded or helpless, it’s all their own fault –
just like US they should worship the DOLLAR exalt!
protesters and loud mouths, you’ll find ’em aplenty
some older, some younger, the worst not yet twenty.
they’re shameless and brazen (unwashed, soiled and scenty)
impugning the prestige of brave COGNOSCENTI.
if they’ve got clashing colors (or shades in between)
or opposing beliefs in the hidden unseen,
well, WE’ll always exploit it, deflecting their spleen,
for with god on each side, would WE dare intervene?
WE promote many methods to keep ’em in chains –
daily rags and the tube spin OUR circus campaigns
“to pretend you’ve a voice”, an announcement explains,
“you can vote and decide on which ONE of US reigns”.
OUR policemen protect US, they stay on the ball
(they arrest ’em, no questions per law’s protocol,
and then jam ’em in jail with their backs to the wall) –
if you’ve lucre for lawyers there’s justice for all.
down the ROYAL road of justice WE march all alone
– WE condemn their defiance, set ways to atone –
since WE’re sinless, unsullied, WE cast the first stone
(while WE cloak REGAL fetor with eau de cologne).
politicians, bald bankers, grand idols galore,
attend meetings, fete banquets in which they explore
how to rid US of rodents (the weak and the poor) –
well, just round up the riff-raff, dispatch ’em to war!
ah! OUR wars are.... well, just...... just a thing of the past
........... and the present............... and future... WE sure make them last!
if they frown as they gaze (armageddon!) aghast,
then WE smile back with pleasure, OUR treasures amassed.
useless ranting and raving (in rags, when they’re clad),
leads to losing their teeth (my! their gums are... egad!).
WE’re unselfish, indulgent, WE’d never be mad
if they drowned in the sounds of themselves feeling sad.
as the paupers are princes in midnight’s domain,
they have pipe dreams to lose, certainly nothing to gain
if they’re hoping OUR fortunes will wither and wane –
for “WE’re here by god’s will” as WE often explain.
yes, they wish to be US, with OUR wisdom and grace,
keeping up with ol’ CROESUS, maintaining the pace.
but perverseness or rancor? they’ll see not a trace –
for WE hold ’em at bay with a fist in the face.
WE’re la CRÈME de la CRÈME, yes! the proud UPPER CRUST,
and OUR clothes are the finest, OUR hair never mussed –
WE imbue ’em with piety, duty and trust
and they’re fed bread and water (if feed ’em WE must).
but they’re thieving, aggrieved, want a piece of OUR PIE
and request WE endure ’em, see EYE to black eye.
since they live in OUR land where OUR strict rules apply,
they must feast on the crumbs that may fall from the sky.
though OUR largesse and bounty WE don’t mean to flaunt,
yet the pittance WE pay ’em they surely can vaunt –
salty peanuts and pretzels (what more could they want?)
thereby keeping their kiddies so healthily gaunt.
yes, there’s room for the rabble (the back of the bus)
’cause WE treat ’em like equals, so what’s all the fuss?
all can rise to the top (yes! it’s always been thus),
to the suites in OUR penthouse (to sweep up and dust).
while OUR CHILDREN have tutors, the finest of schools
(being bred for the forefront, THEY’re nobody’s fools),
the ol’ school of hard knocks teaches: “follow the rules”,
building brawn ’stead of brains and broad backs strong as mules’.
and to keep ’em in line (to ensure WE prevail)
WE now monitor phone calls and read all their mail
(civil rights? what a notion! at best a detail!)
and if worse comes to worst...... well...... guantanamo jail!
WE’ve OUR quandaries and questions and headaches full blown
(like deciding design and decor of OUR thrones...
whether diamonds or rubies... to ivory WE’re prone) –
when WE deign to appease ’em, WE chuck ’em some bones.
now you know all OUR problems, OUR pains and travails,
– like preparing foreclosures, evictions and sales –
but WE’ve no need for worries or gnawed fingernails,
’cause WE’re sailing OUR yachts through tempestuous gales
(with them bailing OUR banks when OUR stock market fails)
sipping daiquiri sours, champagne, ginger ales...
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013
The give and take in love should reach a mean
whereby the two be equally disbursed,
so givers' hearts would never suffer lean,
cold hungry hours without love reimbursed.
And those who take would never reach the stage
of ravenous and selfish, one-way traits.
Such balance would create a better age,
if give and take maintained their equal weights.
But somehow this could never balance out,
for givers give beyond the gifts they bear;
in turn, must feed on crumbs, for without doubt;
the hungry takers take beyond their share.
While takers tip the scale with all they gain,
the givers, weak and thin, smile through their pain.
Sandra M. Haight
Premiere Contest: Any HM Ever
Sponsor: Laura Loo
~ Honorable Mention~
Contest: Love Justice
Sponsor: Justin Bordner
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015
A woman gave birth to a son
named Justice; he had little fun.
If he wanted to play,
his mama would say,
“But only when Justice is done!”
Poor Justice, from morning till night,
tried hard to do everything right.
By the end of the day,
he still could not play,
for his time to do chores was so tight!
His life was a crime with no play!
We all know that crime doesn’t pay.
But were I in his shoes,
having paid all my dues,
I think I might just run away.
Well, sure enough, Justice did flee
and ended up in Tennessee.
With no place to belong,
he felt sad till along
came a girl who smiled tenderly.
Looking ragged, he asked (with some shame)
if the young girl would tell him her name.
“Can you guess?” said the Miss.
“Here’s a clue. It is this. . .
Those who have me don’t take all the blame.”
The young man did not have a clue
what her name was; it was all new.
He’d never hear of
- yet soon grew to love -
this girl and her charming name too.
Today Justice likes more his life
because this girl lessens his strife.
He learned her name well
when in love he fell
and Mercy he took for a wife!
For the Story Poem Contest Poetry Contest of Carol Eastman
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
Masters of my destiny
Lords of my life
Strength of my dreams
Instigators of my actions
Burning fire you are
Consuming my whole
As you relentlessly
To be conceived
To be formulated
To be understood
To be expressed!
A Herculean task it is,
Such an enterprise,
For how one could ever
Constrain, you, the unconstrained
And mold you into:
And still retain
No language exists,
As to pay justice,
To your intensity
To your desire
To your beauty
To your love!
Thus, having no
I turn to the only language
The one that the
The universe alone
The language of
That we humans
To describe you
I AM UNABLE!
28 January 2013
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2013
The burial ground, groomed to greet
the gatherers of their love apocalypse
with garlands grown and sown
from the rose fire of Athena's throne,
on this day they come to mourn
the Poet who perished for the passion of his Beloved Poetess,
the battlefields knew well the iron of their blood,
the salt of their sweat, and the pounce of their love,
raised in the tradition of trauma
trained by the tempest of temptation
disciplined in the competition of desires
refined in the violent rituals of victory
they rose in love
with everything their hearts could sing, with all that war would bring,
and in the epicenter of erotic chaos
he slashed himself with the alter sword
so that she may be free to rule this realm,
Valkyries stand vigil with primroses on speartips
gaurding him, a purple glow in their vigilant eyes,
softly humming for the lightning of his soul
as those in attendance find their solemn places,
many are present,
Death is in the northeast corner cloaked in smooth black patience
knowing in sad satisfaction that every heart, beats to bleed no more,
Devotion, dressed in a mood of disbelief
with elbows out and fists on his hips
just stares sternly at everyone, one, by one,
Poetry and Love are wearing the reds of romance and sacrifice
while whispering living tears to eachother,
Humble remains seated, meek and agape
clasping Humility's dull hand
commiserating about too much and not enough as Pride stands near,
leaning coolly against a battered pillar of Roman endurance
looking at them as if to say, hey dumb dumbs,
don't disgrace their glory with your glum and glib sully,
Envy, in burnoose sackcloth wasted not the somber moment
to decry the Poet's purpose with claptrap commotion and no compassion,
in unison, all hush his pusillanimous pout with a scalding Ssshhhhhh!!!!!!!!!
Poetry, asking the Beloved Widow if she may speak
is granted permission after a breathless pause of heart heated exhaustion,
producing a daggar made from the breastbone of Eve
unflinchingly Poetry cuts both cheeks below her eyes
and the blood promenades to her ancient lips
where the warm pages of a white rose receive the ruby smear of this tragedy,
bringing the pleading flower to her own mouth
she releases a verse upon the universe...
When the nights knew no love
and her heart had only the shadow of warmth
he became the hero's breath upon her breast
the weapon she could trust
and the victor of her kiss,
when his strength served only survival
and desolation weighed the wings of his heart low
she gave his soul the sweet heat of a woman's touch,
teaching him that justice is alive in their love...
In the unbearable anguish of existing without him
she stomps to the blue marble casket,
tearing it open with love rage,
to slap and kiss her Beloved Poet once more,
suddenly, heart imploding panic bristles silently,
the air thins dangerously,
Pride plows through the throng to the side of she,
astonished, shock joy shaping his face,
the Poet's body be not there,
only the symbol of their love resides therein,
a golden pair of quills connecting in the center of a heart
their sign, their promise to eachother,
she turns to Love imploringly, for the truth,
and he removes the jewel from the coffin
returning it to it's rightful place
the safety of her bossom, telling her tenderly,
he yet lives for you, his love for you dies not -
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015
**Dedicated to those who preceded us and gave their blood, sweat and tears, so we can have the luxuries they could not**
The wind whispers, the wind whispers ----
the wind spreads her wings,
so all can sing her lonesome tune;
An old wind blows, older names gust
and whirl and chime,
remind those unfinished pacts of days gone by,
plea they deep in the night
when the arbor grates the house...
The withered barn is grey to dark
and the yard chasing with ghosts;
whisper in wind of forgotten oaths,
to freedom in day when sun is high,
justice takes pleasure even in shadowed realms,
even the gales cease their roar and great wars die
and the end shall end anew;
What in the wind, with tethered and sleepy heads,
do they ask, do they plead
and have us do?
Copyright © Keith O.J. Hunt | Year Posted 2017
Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.
Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.
With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.
Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.
With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.
The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.
Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.
In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.
So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.
Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................
We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.
She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.
Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.
Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.
The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.
How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.
Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.
Copyright © Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Year Posted 2013