Best Massacred Poems
'I want you to use all your powers and your skills
I don’t want his mother to see him like this
Look, look how they massacred my boy'...
Don Corleone (Marlon Brando) in “The Godfather”
-------------------------------------------------------
Playing the game. It's a game isn't it?
Life is but a game, but a dream isn't it?
I drove home by that road many, many times,
that very same short-cut country road that you took
that road where our lives crashed, exploded and shattered
shattered in jagged shards of Silver-Saturn pieces
(This is where you must have seen the swerving headlights
What were your thoughts? Were you worried? Were you alarmed?
This is the spot, oh God this is where, where it all hap...
What were your LAST thoughts? What were your last words
when that pick-up jumped, jumped and flew out of that ditch?
You always said "WHAT THE"...Yeah, you must have said that)
Driving myself to madness playing the 'what if' game
What if you had driven just a little faster?
A little slower? Stopped to pick up something?
DIDN'T stop to pick up something? (Did-didn't-did...)
Stayed at work a minute longer, or left a minute early?
(What-if-what-if what-if-why-where-what-how)
Just what are the odds? Just what are the chances?
2:AM? Maybe one car, one car every 2 hours or so?
If it were a head-on collision, you may have survived
If on the rear side, perhaps only a violent spin
But no, no it had to be on the driver’s side door
It was 'perfect timing, a 'perfect' flash in time
(Perfect-imperfect-perfect-why-where-what-when)
I drove home by that same road many, many times,
that very same short-cut country road that you took
that country road you were driving; innocently driving
just trying to get back home...
Yes, playing the game. It's a game isn't it?
Life is but a game, but a dream isn't it?
ISN'T it.
My distant spirit is dying,
disheartened, disintegrating and self deprecating.
Defenceless, as hope disappears,
emotionally shipwrecked in deep waters,
yet to be discovered.
In the sadness of sentimental sighs,
silence is the sinister sister of separation.
Abandoned in an abode of unfairness,
my heart shimmers creating a crepuscular crescent,
emanating into an emotional eclipse -
in splitting darkness I've become invisible.
I've lost hope in being found
among faded stars and moonless nights.
I'm as transparent as an icicle,
melting in frozen fields of forgotten forever's.
In the deception of dreams,
gradually, the roots of grass begin to decay.
In misty meadows of manifestation,
sanctuary of my subdued supernova soul,
slumbers among rotting massacred moths,
motionless in a crumbling charcoal cocoon.
A slaughtered spirit spawns a suicide of sunshine,
as ebony eyes create Cimmerian shadows of smoke.
I've been taken hostage in a vault of torment,
hoping celestial spheres return soon -
but all I can hear is angels screaming.
I search for those susurration sounds
of homecoming birds of spring,
bringing the clarity of velvet sheen skies,
floating free like dandelions blowing in the wind,
unlocking shackles of sorrow,
easing stubborn tones of reasoning -
but no serenades can be heard.
The season of death is upon us,
so I remain disjointed in discomfort,
displaying dismay at being disowned -
leaving me feeling dizzy in dismal disorientation.
16th April 1746
The day a country ceased to exist
British Army, Hanoverian scum
Defeated our Jacobite's
Scotland is on the run
Our Tartans banished, bagpipes no more
To lead our troops, to frighten the foe
Cumberland's men hunt us down
In every village and every town
Massacred, slaughtered
Wiped from our earth
Erased from the country of our birth
2000 men died to fight for their right
Against the British Armies might
Cameron's MacDonald's and Fraser's slain
Many other Clans, population drained
The survivors facing Hanoverian bans
Led to
The Scattering of the Clans
The Clan Chiefs lands, vast and many
Asset stripped, taken by the enemy
Alleged traitors tried, treason their crime
As Hanoverian Scum, on our riches dine
In the aftermath, many Scots left their shores
To distant lands to open new doors
Many writers on here
On their Ancestors scan
You may be here, because of
The Scattering Of The Clans
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland.php
The year 1890
December 29th
Wounded Knee, South Dakota
My tribe lost their lives
The USS 7th
On their orders so
To round up the Sioux
Railroad herd them and go
Us Lakota were next
To disarm their request
But my cousin Black Coyote
At best he was deaf
Not hearing the orders
To lay down our guns
A chain reaction
Ensued on my tribal ones
Chaos and mayhem
Distressed our grounds
This proud nation
Beaten down
Men, women and children
300 slain
Another reminder
For the white mans gain
To disrespect the fallen
Slows our souls to our gods
We were left in a blizzard
Hardened like logs
In three days we rose
Civilians did lift
And dumped us unceremoniously
In a hole in the drift
My corpse and my peoples
Stripped and robbed
As flakes of snow
Confirm our spirits have sobbed
As i am reborn again
In another country
It gives me the freedom
To look back and see
That December day in 1890
Gunning down innocent ones
Not so mighty
The Medal of Honor
In their distinguished past
The record still stands
On their chests they flash
But attitudes change
As two centuries pass
The Medal Of Honor
Has won back its class
No longer the weak
Gunned down by the strong
Its man against man
Sometimes they do wrong
So as i sit back in my adopted nation
Will i live again past this lives station
Writing the wrongs of modern man
This Lakota warrior who never ran
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/native-americans.php
For This Is The Story, An Old Poet Sought Not To Miss
(Part One)
I've ate Eden's last apple, coveted Jason's* golden fleece
chained myself in caverns of darkness, begging no release
refused mighty crowns of power, fed myself painful feasts
crushed my beating heart, as if it were a ravenous beast.
I've tamed the lions of Serengeti, sailed around the Horn*
trekked unarmed, darkest jungles, where fiercest beasts are born
slain dragons with Sequoias, tossed Rock of Gibraltar*
walked in realms of Hades, spat upon its first altar.
I've outran Hermes*, sank my teeth deep into granite walls
sat beside Odin*, gave Thor's* first crown in Valhalla's* halls
wrestled mighty Minotaur*, its armored hide I ripped
stole the Nectar of the Gods*, laughed at them as I sipped.
I've shot Eurytus' bow*, killed Titans* with Heracles sword*
defeated dark Elf* armies, massacred Atilla's* first horde
swung Hammer of Hephaestus*, slept in Forest of Burzee*
trained Arminius army, taught them to show no mercy.
I've quenched Vesuvius fires, held lightning in my hand
flew bright skies over Asgard*, defended its precious homelands
swam with Undines*, feasted with beautiful Amphitrites*
fished with friend Ao Qin*, dragon king of the Southern Sea nights.
I've seen this world of fantasy, inked its splendor in words
sailed in its oceans of love and flown with magical birds
dreamed in its word-paradise and found true love's deepest kiss
for this is the story, an old poet sought not to miss.
Robert J. Lindley
Rhyme
original version written , March 9th, 1977
edited/updated today- August 9th , forty-one years later
I walk the city streets with heavy feet,
drawn in grave thoughts of all I dare not ask
of kings watching on high with hearts concrete,
and sons who taunt from eyes through steely masks.
Their laws are not the laws of decent men.
These tyrants rule steadfast with ill-intent.
Like Herod’s bloody rule in Bethlehem,
the massacred are fallen innocent.
And when shall I awaken with my voice,
to speak for those who have no voice to tell
of brutal acts and minds without the choice,
to think of life above the depths of hell?
Still, heavy are my feet with soul and heart
as lips in protest slowly start to part.
(An invented ghost tale)
A tale was told how centuries ago
at one old wooden bridge, there had occurred
a tragedy, for led there by some foe,
three children, by his scythe, were massacred.
It plagued my mind what drove him to this act;
how evil could prevail and not atone!
So one dank night the path to death I tracked,
and on the bridge I found myself alone.
Then suddenly I shrank. There loomed ahead
a disembodied soul with horror’s face.
Then circling endlessly the bridge, he fled,
as smaller ghosts with bandied blades gave chase.
Three gravestones lie nearby - no less. . . no more.
And yet the spirits I had seen were four!
An oldie for Carolyn Devonshire's Halloween Fright Poetry Contest
no end to this neverending sentence...just a sour note and a few mad quotes from the afterlife
afterlife? more like ants in the afterbirth...once a mighty warrior now a worm...i slither and i squirm...
no fire and no heat just chained to this seat...forced to view the victims of violence from this man of misery
with eyes and ears open...not even a blink...with every scarred soul the lower i sink
the movie begins and the theater is dark...and i'm not alone...i can hear other dead dogs bark
these innocent faces turn insane just in seconds...i can feel their disease...turning blessings to curses
a sad symphony and a choir of chaos keep spewing their venomous verses
i once was the greatest but now i'm the worst
i just can't breaK FREE from these shackles and chains...i hear the word NEVER into eternity
the echoes of screams they just come back from the screen
now the skeletal masses are laughing at me
i ask for forgiveness 1000 times a day but my tormentors just laugh..."NOT A CHANCE"
graves of ghosts empty and they all come to me to thank me in person for just being me
no uniformed ugliness just brutality beasts...they all take their turn from the
a to the z
i cry out to God and he says, "IT'S TOO LATE"
i talk to the devil and he says, "you'll be free any day"
vengeance was mine now i'm getting slain...for all of my sins and my murderous ways
for attrocities all...from the small to the large...i turned good men to monsters and massacred love
i turned peaceful neighborhoods into ghetto battlefields
i broke apart happy families as they cried,moaned,and squealed
more than six million got sent to their makers with lead sleeping pills
i lived the devils deal...now repaid with revenge...i'm sad,seedy and sour...still no suicide syringe
like blasphemy on a binge i tore hideous holes in the fabric of time
yes to my children of darkness i made the demonic seem divine...i even claimed to turn water into wine
now truth and terror has me thirsty for some kind of a release
from this concentration camp i NEVER can leave
please just one tear from heaven can put me at ease
Once our land stretched from coast to coast
and the drums of the people beat proud
we were mighty and we were strong
we were happy . . .
then the white came to our shores
they thought our land was theirs to take
they called it Canada
they brought disease unknown to us
when we fought for what was ours they killed us
and we killed to . . .
we were a savage people true and skilled at death
many of our chiefs were tricked to come in peace
many of our chiefs were hung . . .
they called this justice
the whites stole our land and our way of life
they massacred the buffalo and bear only for their fur
and left their rotting bodies and we wept for them
the ancestors of our people fly with the eagles
drifting and falling on the wind
their cry is our cry . . .
we were herded into reservations like cattle
starved into submission and left a broken people
and they called this justice
but in each of us burns a fire bright that can never die
in each of us is a strength and courage
a tranquility and serenity
we accept the past as the white acknowledge the wrongs
and the Prime Minister of Canada
is trying to say sorry
with tears he apologizes to the people for
the hangings
the killing of our people
the stealing of our land
the 1960 scoop of our children
the residential schools of abuse
the highway of tears that goes on and on
yet, the social injustice to the people is still present today
when they steal the land we have left
for pipelines, and other projects without our agreement
we want to keep our lands pristine for wildlife
we do not want polluted water where the fish die
some of us are living in third world conditions still
with no water, electricity, heat . . . still on reservations
so you tell me where the justice is . . .
I am just a girl of the here and now but
but I hear the drums of my ancestors beating
in my heart . . .
_____________________
April 1, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/They Call This Social Justice
Copyright Protected, ID 18- 1009-383-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Social Justice
sponsor, John Hamilton
First Place
Chipped the factor of maybe days,
Wondering sweet tooth cracked in the night
And the cap spilled parallel, baring the nerves,
Electrical jolts from a tin foil bite.
She hurled back her head and laughed aloud,
So her neck made a finger snap sound,
In massacred leaves and juniper groves
Arched her longbow spine on the cold winter ground.
Strobing snowflakes abandoned in her hair,
Glitter bugs gleamed by a vampire moon,
Hewn blue-rose thighs buried life alive,
In a freezing of flesh, it was over so soon.
A harbour relented, cheaply complacent,
Moonstruck asylum, the member shrank small,
And tucking her womanhood moistly home,
I died for to her it meant nothing at all.
The world is bleeding
We stand at the edge of a precipice,
Looking in fear on our Earth,
Boiling, bubbling, and steaming,
With pools of blood flowing.
Warplanes blanket the sky.
Volcanic sounds pierce the ear.
Booms of gun shots rent the air
Lightning passes blinding the eye
The skies let down a deluge of tears
The old world is strangled to death
Toxic waste muddles up every head
The world once dressed in green
Now wears a mantle of pollution
Green- not a colour any more.
The earth wriggles in pain,
But its silent whimper
Falls in deaf unheeding ears!
A sword dangles on a thread
Ready to fall anytime over our heads.
Might dissipates men’s eye sight
From everywhere rises the bleak cry for help
Pale faced grimaces of death as bombs explode
Groans of pain as bullets whizz past
Once warm blood spilled over the streets of Paris
Twin towers were raced down in the U.S
School children massacred in many parts of the world
Now the animosity between Russia and Ukraine,
Iran and Israel keep the world on tenterhooks.
All through the globe, seismic waves of terror
Sweep across… effacing life, love and dreams.
With modest tools, if the Neanderthal men fought,
Modern men are powered with lethal weapons
Any of which can annihilate the whole world in seconds
Men themselves turn as weapons,
And explode like bombs killing thousands.
Where shall we find a bastion
From this rabid pack of wolves?
From the quagmire of terror, we need an escape
Let it be writ on every wall and billboard
‘Down with War, Down with Terrorism’
O Lord! Thou art my Coach
I shall never be defeated
Strengthen me for this game
As I humble call on your name
Invigorate my heart, mind and body
When I fall, pick me up and energize me
Grant me the tenacity to win every ball
And courage to stand whatever befall
Yea, though my opponents frighten me
Like roaring Lions out of their den
My great Coach always inspires me
Your pep talk! Your word! Uplifts me
Though fear and despair bites me
Like venomous snakes out of the shadow
My Lord is with me everywhere I go
You prepare a strategy to defeat my foe
When the final whistle is blown
And the team heads to the dressing room
May my Lord, the great Coach when He calls my name
Say “Gideon! You played like a Lion, you played the game”
And surely victory, glory and goodness
Will hunt me all the days of my life
And I shall look up to my Coach forever
Walking with me now and ever!
The Poet Preacher © 2014
Ps 18:39 My Coach has fortified me with strength [energy, power, strategy, capability] for the battle [big game, contest, combat]: He has subdued [vanquished, beaten, massacred, overpowered] my opponents.
UNDER THE FATHER LAND
We serve under the father land
In huminity we render
Selfless services in cosmopolitanism
In peace-less and troubless downtown
We inhabit as national stuccoers
With the aids of the bourgeoisies
Starvation, annihiliationists and insurrectionists
Famish the proletariats
We serve under the father land
Where the national integration is but tribal
Our forerunners neither retire nor die
As their successors grow older
Anti crime commits crime in crimeless communities
Where we smell not the throne
Yet, we're the leaders of tomorrow
When our tomorrow is afflicted with sorrow
We serve under the father land
When we die in bloody combat
In pursuit of national unity
We receive superfluous medication after death
When the copy of a copy is off the tracks
Lingering to the land of no mean city
Oh! the Cross is too heavy
But we're the leaders of tomorrow
We serve under the farther land
When we're dichotomized, massacred
With our immaculate neoclassical ideologies
In racial milieu
We hike sheepishly in an unknown land
With vigorous expectations in future
But the future features fruitless flowers
Yet, we're still the leaders of tomorrow
We serve under the father land
When we diminish our trivial capital
In selfless services
To the in impoverishers
But the father denies the children's welfare
Shall we perpetuate these?
If right we must be
Then fatherless we must be
The cross will be the crown'd
Blind eyes shall see
The pyramid
Our tomorrow is but yesterday
When the skeletonic promises will be fulfill'd
then shall the leaders the youths be
Our precious blood shall be sav'd
The national combat must be dignified
(Opurum Precious: Nigeria)
Copyright © odiboyp 2016
Native Speaks Truths
She's not your princess or your squaw;
She is respected clan mother of the Chippewa.
He's not your chief, buck, or redskin:
He is a proud warrior of the Algonquin.
We're not your fashion trend or mascot;
We are the original peoples, have you forgot?
Racism comes to us in many ways;
Often disguised with passive aggressive praise.
You demand that we forgive and forget;
And with your good book you preach and beset.
You say to stop living in the past;
But continue to treat us as social outcasts.
You claim that you've learned from what your ancestors did;
Yet you repeat it world wide and the truths forbid.
You judge my frustration and anger with ease;
But continue selfish ways and to do as you please.
You celebrate men who massacred my tribe;
Your holidays confirm your need to inscribe.
You cry that you are the current day victim;
That reversed racism is your affliction.
You moan that we don't understand what it's like;
But your greed has caused the mistrust and dislike.
All the while you refuse to admit;
That what you ignore is what you permit.
Are you so different than those that turned away;
While my people were the cavalry's prey?
How much have you really changed;
When history repeats and so much is still the same?
Perhaps you only wish to silence my voice;
Because guilt today can be a weapon of choice.
Does white privilege still exist today;
Do you still want us to assimilate and obey?
If I am bitter it is with good cause;
It is because you continue with hypocrisy and faux pas.
Should one day you learn that all lives truly matter;
I will consider forgiving the lives you have shattered.
When you can learn to love the brown, black, yellow, and red;
I will then forget the broken promises and the massacres you've led.
Until that day do not patronize me with lies;
I will only believe what I see with my own eyes.
When colonization is no longer forced upon;
We can then let bygones be bygones.
By: Darlene Doll Smith
16th April 1746
The day a country ceased to exist
British Army, Hanoverian scum
Defeated our Jacobite's
Scotland's is on the run
Our Tartans banished, bagpipes no more
To lead our troops, to frighten the foe
Cumberland's men hunt us down
In every village and every town
Massacred, slaughtered
Wiped from our earth
Erased from the country of our birth
2000 men died to fight for their right
Against the British Armies might
Cameron's, MacDonald's and Fraser's slain
Many other Clans, population drained
The survivors facing Hanoverian bans
Led to
The Scattering of the Clans
The Clan Chiefs lands, vast and many
Asset stripped, taken by the enemy
Alleged traitors tried, treason their crime
As Hanoverian Scum, on our riches dine
In the aftermath, many Scots left their shores
To distant lands to open new doors
Many writers on here
On their Ancestors scan
You may be here, because of
The Scattering Of The Clans