Best Loyalists Poems
The familiar sound of gunshots
rings out in the dead of night,
As a sniper takes position in the
bushes out of sight,
Past my front door I hear the
sound of many marching feet,
As 2 Para make their presence
felt upon a Belfast street,
Gerry Adams does a hard days
graft 'n' then it's homeward
bound,
As a British soldier just
nineteen lays bleeding on the
ground,
Well he fought for queen 'n'
country so it comes as no
surprise,
As he draws his last
breath,says a prayer and there
a hero dies,
So many slain civilians(they're
just casualties of war,
Do the f*ckers even realise
what it is they're fighting for?
Or has the whole point of it got
lost in the mists of time?
The Ira take credit for their
latest deadly crime,
In a safe house miles from
nowhere there's three loyalists
lying dead,
One in a grave (he was buried
alive) and two with one straight
through the head,
But the score it was evened
before the cock crowed,three
catholic civilians were slain,
And there's rumours of
vengeance and fights to the
death and calls to keep calm
from Sinn Fein,
As politicians armed with pens
sit counting up lost lives,
The Ulster Paramilitary sit
sharpening their knives,
And loading slugs into the clip
of someone else's gun,
"Come on now lads there's dirty
deeds awaiting to be done"
In Londonderry,County Down,in
Belfast,Newry too,
The Catholics and the
Protestants keep Ireland torn in
two,
As our children grow in the
shadow of fear,
There's a stench of death and
bloodshed here,
So you with the power please
give us the chance,
To find a solution and finish the
dance,
Give Ireland back to the Irish
pleeaasssse!
Or bring the whole damned
nation crashing down to its
knees.
International relations clerk on duty enters
In her hand is a list of nations from Africa
One by one she shouts out their surnames
The assembly monitors gives her feedback
confirming presence or absence that day
Nations present she gives a golden ribbon
The ones absent she paints with red crayon
Punctuated with cheers by loyalists she shouts;
“Libya”
He is admitted in hospital for intensive care
Last night he drove recklessly and fell into dish
“South Sudan”
Still in salon to shave off the bushy beards
It is not long since she came out of the bush
“Democratic Republic of Congo”
Can’t find his way here due to dangers
Ferocious squirrels litter impenetrable forests
“Uganda”
Look over there; in the bush catching hoppers
He wants to establish private silicon valleys
“Eritrea”
Went to sleep evening but has not woken up
I hear he has had long traumatic dreams
“Somalia”
Last evening he was hijacked by sea-pirates
But little is known about his whereabouts
“Nigeria”
Busy putting out bushfire in north-eastern zones
Lightning started it but none knows how to stop it
“Botswana”
Present. She is there with baskets of apples
The desert nation has plenty of reliable rainfall
“Libya”
Over there running. No one knows where he is going.
Possibly check with the ghosts of the Mediterranean
The familiar sound of gunshots rings out in the dead of night,as a sniper takes position in the bushes out of sight,
Past my front door I hear the sound of many marching feet,as II Para make thier presence felt upon a Belfast street,
Gerry Adams does a hard days graft and then it's homeward bound,as a British soldier just nineteen lays wounded on the ground,
Well he fought for Queen and country so it comes as no surprise,as he drew his last breath,said a prayer and there a hero dies,
So many slain civilians there just casualties of war,do these people even realise what it is they're fighting for?
Or has the whole point of it got lost in the mists of time,the I.R.A take credit for thier latest deadly crime,
In a safe-house miles from nowhere ther's three loyalists lying dead,one in a grave[he was buried alive]and two with one straight through the head,
But the score it was evened before the cock crowed three Catholic civilians were slain,and there's rumours of vengence and fights to the death and calls to keep calm from Sinn Fein,
As politicians armed with pens sit counting up lost lives,the Ulster Paramilitary sit sharpening thier knives,
And loading slugs into the clip of someone elses gun,cpme on now lads there's dirty deeds awaitin to be done,
In Londonderry,County Down,in Belfast,newry too,the catholics and the protestants keep Ireland torn into,
as our children grow up in the shadow of fear,there's a stench of death and bloodshen here,
So you with the power to give us a chance,let's find a solution and finish the dance,
give Ireland back to the Irish....please,or bring the whole damned nation crashing down to its knees.
The
familiar
sound
of
gunshots
rings
out
in
the
dead
of
night,as
a
sniper
takes
position
in
the
bushes
outta
sight,
Past
my
front
door
I
hear
the
sound
of
many
marching
feet,as
II
Para
make
their
presence
felt
upon
a
Belfast
street,
Gerry
Adams
does
a
hard
days
graft
and
then
its
homeward
bound,as
a
British
soldier
just
nineteen
lays
bleeding
on
the
ground,
Well
he
fought
for
Queen
and
country
so
it
comes
as
no
surprise,as
he
draws
his
last
breath,says
a
prayer
and
there
a
hero
dies,
So
many
slain
civilians
they're
just
casualties
of
war,do
the
f*ckers
even
realise
what
it
is
they're
fighting
for?
Or
has
the
whole
point
of
it
got
lost
in
the
mists
of
time,the
I'R'A
take
credit
for
their
latest
deadly
crime,
In
a
safehouse
miles
from
nowhere
there's
three
loyalists
lying
dead,one
in
a
grave
(he
was
buried
alive)and
two
with
one
straight
through
the
head,
But
the
score
it
was
even
before
the
cock
crowed,three
Catholic
civilians
were
slain,
And
there's
rumours
of
vengence
and
fights
to
the
death,and
calls
to
keep
calm
from
Sinn
Fein,
As
politicians
armed
with
pens
sit
counting
up
lost
lives,the
Ulster
Paramilitary
sit
sharpening
their
knives,
And
loading
slugs
into
the
clip
of
some
dead
soldiers
gun,"Come
on
now
lads
there's
dirty
deeds
still
waiting
to
be
done,
In
Londonderry,County
Down,in
Belfast,Newry
too,the
Catholics
and
the
protestants
keep
Ireland
torn
in
two,
As
children
grow
up
in
the
shadow
of
fear,there's
a
stench
of
death
and
bloodshed
here,
So
you
with
the
power
to
give
us
the
chance,lets
find
a
solution
and
finish
the
dance,
Give
Ireland
back
to
the
Irish...please!
or
bring
the
whole
damned
nation
crashing
down
to
its
knees.
In seventeen seventy-seven,
amidst the deep summer’s August heat,
Barry St. Leger, loyalist milita,
and the Iroquois walked on sore feet.
Their mission was clear: move down the Mohawk,
meet Burgoyne and split the rebel states,
except the Americans in Fort Stanwix
were effectively blocking their way.
To advance the fort had to be reduced,
but St. Leger’s force had few big guns,
so he settled into a siege of the fort,
with a mind to hold strong 'til he’d won.
But the patriots knew of the British plans,
and were not content to just sit and wait,
Tyrion County called up its militia
to save Stanwix from a bloody fate.
Eight hundred of them marched for the fort,
under the command of Nick Herkimer,
a palatine German of the Mohawk vale,
an able and determined fighter.
They stopped to camp not far from Stanwix,
and Herkimer counseled that they should hold,
to await a signal from inside the fort
and launch a two-front attack bold.
But the militia saw this as cowardice,
and said,”What else could we expect?
His own brother fights with St. Leger,
we can’t expect him to take the next step.”
Herkimer darkened at his men’s words,
and would not idly receive their scorn,
he ordered the men to be on the ready,
they would advance the following morn.
But the British knew of their approach,
and prepared to put them to the test,
near five hundred set out to intercept,
mostly Iroquois with some Loyalists.
The next day the Americans, on the move,
found themselves passing through a ravine,
unaware that eyes stared upon them
as they drank from a cool, tiny stream.
The British had planned to wait until
the patriots were all stretched out,
but some Indians opened fire too early,
a roar of muskets and loud piercing shouts.
The first volleys hit hard, stunned the militia,
a good many brave soldiers went down,
Herkimer took a ball in the leg,
and from a dying horse pitched to the ground.
So fierce was that first surprise attack,
so many patriotic souls shot dead,
that all sides involved said the tiny stream
was stained by the blood until red.
Some tried to move wounded Herkimer,
but he was still in no mood for retreat,
he took out a pipe, leaned on a tree trunk,
and said,”I will meet the enemy...”
CONCLUDES IN PART II
My Beloved country Pakistan:(Poem)
Pakistan is my beloved homeland country.
And i am too much honest,sincere, Loyalists & trustworthy to my own country pakistan.
I will devote the chain of my limitless love, affection & my all best skills to my beloved country pakistan to give it outstanding progress.
If my beloved country pakistan,if it is possible for me.
I will give you full protection from all kinds of danger and your enemies.
I will keep save you from autumn,
And there will always a happy season of spring through out the pakistan for whole lifetime.inshAllah.
I am too much patriotic so i have shown too much patriotism to my beloved country pakistan.
I will sacrifice my life to protect you,
I donot want to be more than that.
I will not sacrifice only my life to save you.i will sacrifice thousand lives to save my beloved country Pakistan.
Pakistan is my beloved homeland country.
And i am too much honest,sincere, Loyalists & trustworthy to my own country pakistan.
I will devote the chain of my limitless love, affection & my all best skills to my beloved country pakistan to give it outstanding progress.
By Miss Aliza Kashmala Kiran.
Black loyalist
One time slave of George Washington
Fighting with the British against rotten Yankees
3000 blacks went with us and came with us
In the States now
Black folks but seeming there now just left to rot
But cherished now our black loyalists in England
Part of us
Last night I dreamt a dreary dream
Beyond the clashing rocks
I saw a dead man win a fight
And I think that man was I
Blood runs hot in government offices
fueled with the unknown citizen
and the about-to-be.
Stop this day and night with me
and you shall possess the meaning
of freedom.
Follow the fluttering and tattered flag
and you'll find
the emptiness one dreams about.
Friendships made and unmade,
betrayals reveal political lines
on potholed roads.
(you're free?)
(we don't care, we don't care)
You're free, alone amongst
the party loyalists
and the damned.
Follow winding
corridors through closed doors.
Follow patriotic thoughts
and the hungry hyenas will gather.
Follow them on the untrodden land
and contingent lines you make.
Wander the scattered chiefdoms
into the horizons
which still keep the graves
and their remembrance alive.
LEAVES WITH LOVE
Better die with dignity in the fierce battle fighting like brave-heart
Than befriend with foes and back stab to live like machine’s cog or caged parrot
When the fetter is making my torn limbs numb
With wily smile, dragging me
Push they to guillotine
Echoing from lofty mountains my roar reached crescendo silencing the thunder-
You bloody cowards luring few of my own men have captured me by treason
How treacherous and shameful! Deceitful victory is a celebration’s reason?
Bleeding tears fail to douse my fury’s inferno against my betraying men no wonder
When blade ripped my neck
flowed my blood and loyalists' tears
Soul wished this flow cleansed
Double game and breach of trust
Leaves with love, praise and blessings
Date: 08-09-2016
Contest Name: Challenge- write one
IN YOU WE RELY
IN YOU WE APPLY
WHY ARE YOU UNDER DURESS
WHILE YOUR DISTRIBUTION
IN YOU I EARN
IN YOU I LEARN
BUT YOU ARE UNDER DURESS
AND I AM UNDER DURESS
WHY DO YOU HATCH
THE HYPOCRITICAL EGGS UNDER WATCH
THERE, IT IS ONE- MAN OPERA
LOYALISTS ARE THE ZEBRA
STOOGE S ARE THE ALPHA
AS THE DAYS WALK
THEY TALK AND TALK
IN THE LION BUILDING
COUNSELING OFFICE IS METAMORPHOSIS
AS POPULAR DISCIPLINE
EVEN GREEDY HYENA
FORBIDS THE MEAT
OF THE YOUNGER ONES
IN THE LION BUILDING
THE MEATS OF THE YOUNGEST
IS THE DELICIOUS CAKES
IN THE SAID BUILDING
YOU HIRE AND FIRE
THE INNOCENTLY HIRE
IN THE MOST POPULAR DEPARTMENT
IN THE LION BUILDING
THE KEEP TRAFFIC FLOW
Pakistan is my beloved homeland country.
And i am too much honest,sincere, loyalists & trustworthy to my own country Pakistan.
I will devote the chain of my limitless love, affection & my all best skills to my beloved country Pakistan to give it outstanding progress.
If my beloved country Pakistan,if it is possible for me.
I will give you full protection from all kinds of danger and your enemies.
I will keep save you from autumn,
And there will always a happy season of spring through out the Pakistan for whole lifetime.inshAllah.
I am too much patriotic so i have shown too much patriotism to my beloved country Pakistan.
I will sacrifice my life to protect you,
I don't want to be more than that.
I will not sacrifice only my life to save you.I will sacrifice thousand lives to save my beloved country Pakistan.
Pakistan is my beloved homeland country.
And i am too much honest,sincere, loyalists & trustworthy to my own country Pakistan.
I will devote the chain of my limitless love, affection & my all best skills to my beloved country Pakistan to give it outstanding progress.
By Aliza Kashmala Kiran.
https://youtu.be/xZ8tNY607nc
The Hearts burnt out
with dying falls and cold, bone chilling winters.
(Love is gone for the fall and winter)
Just me, I stay alone
who walks the slushed streets and I sleep in the dirt grimmed gutters.
The hearts burnt out, but still a hint of love lingers
in the cold evenings of the winter falls.
The cold December nights are always the loneliest time
for a man to live alone in the dirty gutters of the ghettos.
And as the loyalists come marching down the cobblestone streets,
every heart with turn and fear.
The ones that do not go far, shall parish in eternal hell.
For the hearts are burnt out,
like the lamplights on the night of Kristallnacht.
The Jews of Malta, create fornication
and the hearts of the prostitutes hide with bruses and broken blood vessels,
on their faces and hands,
and they will hurry away to the dark shadows of lone alleyways
with hearts skipping beats, and hearts slowly burning out.
You wear virtue on your sleeve
But you often wear nothing at all
Showing scars of thousands of years
When corrupt leaders beat you
But they could never kill you
So you survived the centuries
You masquerade as a maryr
To the displaced masses
You offer the guise of salvation
But greed feeds your desire
We should be happy
We should be dancing
They say we have it all
While others endure the fall
We feared the loyalists
We feared the little green men
We feared those in the hijab
For as long as we fear
We shall never see the truth
Of our own looming demise
You always sell pretty lies
To disguise an ugly truth
The scales remain imbalanced
And resentment festers
We're gears in the machine
And no matter how many
Throw themselves between the gears
The machine never stops
But now it's so odious
So sick at heart we don't take part
We're the land of opportunity
Unless you're a minority
Unless you're a woman
Unless you're a Muslim
Unless you're poor
Wealth concentration
A planet slowly dying
You survived the centuries
But you do not bring us salvation
You bring us damnation
As an aperitif to understand the essence of thought
Blood of a young tortoise touched my lips
Seldom as it is - pure ichor – I whisper’d in a trot
Let me get drunk on it while deifying the lunar eclipse
That is what I deserve, that is what I ought.
Is loneliness a hook up with the animalistic self?
Wearing an anorak to withstand the wind of banality
In the midst of a blizzard of an entrenched life
Giving the advantage to the senses of vitality,
Not more than Dido ripping her heart with a knife.
Give me the rise of an insurrection I dreamt about as a boy
A rebellion that would let principles be a judge,
This would surely deliver the desire for joy,
Or an uprising of the loyalists that won’t fudge
But will steer clear off temptations or a ploy.
As a grey fakir I paint a picture into a smudge,
Away from an aureate garden of gild
Into a desolate dryness of a scorch’d land
With my sole soul strongly willed
And a single stroke of my angry hand.
I wished to give tonality in sound and in colour
While being smitten by the freshly cut grass
All the riches will never appease the dolour
As I stand next to a window made of the Venetian glass.
Here I am, in justice I fall
Being accused of playing Pygmalion
Exalted to the throne of Gaslight and all
Given the heart on the platter as a medallion
Draining an amassment of turbulence
From the cluster of words that smack the gob
And remain in our ears as stubborn permanence
And I run, and run, and run, non-stop.
It's a grand old boat-still quite reliable.
But from the darkness below.
A crimson breasted leviathan is clawing holes.
Deep into its starry soul.
She's quickly listing.
Vermin gnawing away at the sextant.
Panic is hastily jumping ship.
With the NorthStar stuffed in their bindles...
The loyalists are bailing water.
Hope garnished in salt and blistered.
Predators are slowly circling in.
To the sound of a cracked conche.