Best Warmonger Poems
With the humanization,
All of its progression,
A face of a nation,
Heading for destruction,
Power to power,
And land to land,
Bones of our ancestors,
Crumble by an unseen hand,
Life in a chalice filled,
With blood of those killed,
Rejecting all values until,
A new world is instilled,
Survivors watch as the wildlife disappears,
Earthquakes now normal yet remains in fear,
All around the casualties of war can be found,
Thieves pick pockets of those dead on the filthy ground,
Useless beings flood the street,
Many sick or dying with nothing to eat,
No longer a contrast between rich and poor,
When cold black clouds follow death to every shore.
I broke a window in
winter.
The surly warmonger is
released into the wild, and
though it was bred in captivity itself,
Meiosis still appears to be its primary form of
propogation.
See this.
A plume of hatred rising through the ether only to
impact the bright face of the white watcher.
Rays splay every which way
Eclipse!
Eclipse!
Detritus and decay!
Farbeit from us to shed tears when Luna suffocates the day!
A Time To Choose by L.W. Pick.
Watch them go to war today,
They meet their foe on beaches.
See them where they fall and lay,
With pained distorted features.
Crimson red spread o’er the sand,
Lifeless bodies are now resting.
Souls set free to leave the land,
‘Tis now their time for testing.
Have they served their country well,
Or now dead, are left to wonder?
Was their price fair, who can tell,
For their President warmonger?
To leave loved ones at home to grieve
And return in a funeral shroud.
There are few who would believe,
It was a cause for one to be proud.
For, to murder women and children
With bombs from twenty thousand feet.
To see their broken bodies lie
In the rubble in the street.
All their hopes and dreams are shattered,
It matters not the reason why.
Their belongings that you’ve scattered,
Turn to smoke up in the sky.
There are two battles raging forth,
The first we easily recognise.
Destroy anything of worth
It has no value in our eyes.
The second is a worthy war,
Between right and wrong within.
We may forsake Gods own law,
Or we may refuse to sin.
Deep within our hearts we know
If we would care to see.
That it is wrong to strike the blow
You wouldn’t have struck to thee.
When we reach that resting place,
And are judged, or judge ourselves.
Commandments from the Book of Grace
Will not remain upon the shelves.
We will weigh each deed committed,
And examine the reason why.
With only deeds of love permitted,
All else to weakness testify.
The justice of our country’s roots,
We term the law of the land.
Is crushed beneath the marching boots.
In the name of a good war plan.
They can remember him as the warmonger,
the heartless one, instead of the southern gentleman;
and haven't they yet realized that he was a man of God,
with values far greater than most of us?
God hates war Himself, but when evil
men do horrendous deeds, He approves of it!
Was David wicked to take Goliath down?
Was Moses wrong for breaking the Holy Tablets,
when his people turned to idolatry and forsook their God?
Was Jashua thirsty for the enemy's blood,
or he obeyed Him to lead the Israelites out of Egypt?
Bush kept America safe, and I'm thankful for that!
We cannot judge anyone by our human way, which is so futile:
the-so-assumed-perfect-one make mistakes like the imperfect one;
perfection was taken away from us when our ancestors sinned!
Look at yourself and be less judgmental;
we have faults, too and we try to hide them by manifesting denial!
Try some compassion, understanding and sympathy,
and these same virtues will be considered by others:
when you are swerving off your path and you need guidance!
When someone is about to fall, foresee that weakness...
before he plunges into the abyss of nothingness!
But we must show pity to anyone admitting the guilt,
if forgiveness is granted to the unworthy one...why shouldn't he justify
his actions when his Country was attacked cowardly?
Bush kept America safe, and I will testify to that!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
While we are still breathing
and the sun's shining bright,
Give Thou, Lord, to each
What he has not:
To the tyrant give a heart
To the Charlatan a truer task
To the sinner offer penitence
To the priest, salvation ...
and don't forget Yours truly.
While the earth is still turning, Lord,
And the wind sweeps its surface,
Give wisdom to the martyr
To the warmonger, peace
To the oppressed give justice
To the lovelorn, forbearance ...
and don't forget Yours truly.
While there's still time enough, Lord,
And the blazing sun is looming low,
To the wealthiest give happiness
To the wretched, hope
Give to the gigolo a wife
And to the married, respite ...
and don't forget Yours truly.
From neon lights
to hearth-side gleam,
From spotlight to starlight,
From the hustle and bustle of life
to rest and dream,
From the din of the day
to things quiet,
Give Thou, Lord, to each
a little at a time
what he has not ...
and don't forget Yours truly.
~Any Poem contest by Broken Wings.
It could simply be a midnight musing,
where these ears are not!
A life floating in NAY-Nay sound
is also a simpering one, throughout!
I call it: Just a “mood swing”,
and it feels overwhelming, quite often these days!
Everyone is nailing my thinking mind,
hinting I might need a screw to keep myself sane and strong, upright.
And I kept pondering about the London bridge, the glory of being prestigious and proud,
And what a picturesque sunset should be in prevailing route! Farthest need from a crowd,
Nevertheless
It is simply a drilling sound; Not a single stanza more than that to be traced.
Pairing hands, inflicting in moaning, and groaning in continuing hours of extenuation.
The window blinds according to the work-order of today. Replaced and rejuvenated.
And it is all about these sounds. One of a gentle kind but …. Noisy too,
corrupting need of a warmonger. A competitor.
Truthful sounds of functionality of life.
Where disposable are dishes, dancing in hunger.
A handyman deal is just a mere deal. In black and white, one kind of that.
And I knew one sunset sky , after all these days of mending and blushing.
Also unfolding in rueful efforts of expiation, quite a zealous one. Promising.
The Lord knows the laws of land, everywhere. Along every way of possibility.
And the Lord knows the exceptions are also true. For sure. a forbidden tree.
Assuring me about the night. And shoes of a handyman are also an earned chore,
where life still code-switches on a pristine door.
On a night, someone could turn into a sculptor.
In subjugation and humility.
We are nothing more than pleading hands in prayers, whim and much more,
A long, lonely walk along a longer shore of life. A duality residing on a memory lane.
where different dimensions are still there in methods of boiling broth, in Can-opener and can,
On a housewarming eve of some other Santa's. And festive seasons are in, chiming otherwise.
Let me be that rose, that The Lord God, Himself ordained me to be. I must be that rose, that
gives the sweet smelling fragrance of hope to the downtrodden and the forgotten. I need to
be the sweet fragrance of love to the hateful. I shall be that sweet fragrance of peace to the
violent and the warmonger.
I will be the wonderous frangrance of truth to the liar. I must also be the sweet smelling
fragrance of courage to the cowardly. Yes, I will even be the sweet fragrance of
frankincense that was plucked from the resin of The African Trees, of strength to the
weakling. I really really need to be that rose, who's fragrance will cause the dissipation of
doubt and disbelief to overcome the impossible.
I wonna be that rose for all living, that breathes the sweet breath of life that inspires the
belief"I Can!" Can I be that radiant brown sweet smelling fragrant rose, that causes the
blind to behold the life of light as their sight? I must become that precious rose that will
sacrafice his place upon the bush that came from "The Rose Of Sharon" vine, that all may
know the perpetuating purpose of my life.
I hope to become that rose that shall bridge the gap of all our precious children hearts back
to the hearts of the fathers, mothers, grandfathers, grandmothers, uncles, aunts, and God
Almighty. For "I Am That I Am," ordained me to be a brown rose, in the troublesome garden
of life, before I returne to my vine which I was plucked from. So, Please Let Me Be
That "Brown Rose."
I am a warrior and not a warmonger
The weapons of my warfare
Are not of this world
But they are mighty through God
I am a warrior, enlisted in God's army
I don't carry an AK 47 or an SMG
Praise is my weapon through Almighty God
Who fights my battles
I am a warrior clad in spiritual armour
Through the sword of the Spirit I pull down strongholds
By His shed blood, death is swallowed up in victory
I am a warrior of the end time army of God.
Have you enlisted?
(the following extrapolated
thought thread exercised,
NOT utilized to intimate
how Fats Domino belied,
and wowed a crowded house as-sized).
as a former ace procrastinator, i abhor
putting off doing what best ought
to get immediate attention bar
ring some extenuating dire circumstance,
sans mishap with flying car
pet case in point being unexpected a bomb
bin able crisis necessitating
hypothetical individual impossible
to remain calm
while in the process
(assisted with good ole mom)
to hoist self with one's own petard,
which emergency best warrant a re ward,
otherwise if fate doth NOT
require one to break
from ordinary business as usual
to enlist the "FAKE"
help of a grenadier,
who doth make
his/her livelihood
risking their life,
and limb without quake
king (obviously compensating bravery
as he/she doth stake
out mortal danger with adequate adorn
ing mortal kombat
with ample legal tender and/
or promising first born)
for unstinting mettle,
especially tolerating accompanying
martial baritone horn
player screech (like fingernails
scraping blackboard)
in close proximity - eliciting a scorn
ing glare from soldier spy
tinker tailor with a torn
smile while trained
special ops named Bjorn
incurs deadly hazard from one morn
to the next amidst adversity
shouldering care worn
Marine's motto semper fidelis,
which unnecessary loss of young life
predicated on add
age, viz being at the least,
a day late and dollar short egad
inadvertently dooming
princely valiant warmonger,
a mere stripling lad
whose mourning brings
heavy pallor of sad
ness, which imagined situation - aye
tangentially congruently analogous by
and by to the butterfly effect,
or sparrow's swan song i.e. die
destiny wrought, when one dost espy
a single occurrence no lie,
(the flickr ring, instagram
ming, kickstart ting well nigh
linkedin shutterfly of a butterfly)
say twerks catcher in the rye,
hence no matter how small, thee or thy
can change the course
of the universe forever,
no idea how nor why!
Say, say the need of war
To the prey of wars.
The warmonger says,
It's for the coming peace
But it had never bring peace
In the mind of any one.
It had only give the dead bodies
Or the handicapped people
And increased the number
Of widows and orphan
Of the preys of the war
It has only gifted
The worst situation to
The parents, siblings and relatives.
War has never ended in peace.
Then, how the result will be peace?
Or whether the meaning
Of peace has changed?
Inspired by Bruce Dickinson song Darkside of Aquarius
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the wings of the first hellrider rode venom —
so copious it stained sky and moonlight,
making mothers bolt their doors
against the eastern warmonger's hot gust.
From molten rock and flaming seas the second rode,
hawking evil wares; his tongue a forge of lies,
spinning promises, seeding secret agents
to rule and mislead in every land.
The third came as a preacher of war ~
turning brothers on brothers, sisters on sisters,
tilling the soil with blood to make it ready
for the fourth — who carved theology into terror.
I tried to run — my feet sunk in wet clay.
Then a lone silver surfer appeared:
from starlit sky or silver sea I could not tell;
he drew me from the mire, breathed strength into my arms.
I vowed to reinvent the wheel:
let fascists taste their own venom, feed their children poisons they brewed,
slay kin with the swords they bloodied.
Death will kiss them in their sleep.
6/8/21
Blood stained into lands being conquered
Blood on this can of Monster
Blood in the water
Blood pooling and congealing from all the slaughter
Blood hitting close to home, when you got a squatter
Blood whether the weather turned colder or hotter
Sometimes had to be your own blood blotter
Regardless of if you think, why should I bloody bother?
Much more than blood I have to offer
Blood smeared coins in the coffer
Would you spill blood to protect your daughter and father?
Don't bring all this blood around family, especially any toddler
Blood on a ball used for soccer
Blood on a piece of copper
Blood on a bottle of lager
It was a bloody scene after the use of a chopper
The bloody aftermath captured on film by a helicopter
Blood ended up on a bolt and washer
Blood flowing through the body or going out if your a soon to be goner
Blood all over in a world that can be bonkers
Could stay peaceful or soon turn to blood from here to yonder
Familiar with blood as a warmonger
Blood being drawn, from not being able to hold out any longer
Much more than blood sweat and tears can get you stronger
All this blood makes me ponder
Sad that blood makes too many excited enough to holler
Blood among nightcrawlers
And blood always near lifeforms that are larger or smaller
The residue of blood on dollars
As well as blood on the shirt collar
Blood spilled in extravagance or in squalor
It would be a bloody outrage for a prince, but not for a pauper
Blood the one thing too many thirst of
Drawing first blood
The blood becoming of one with mud
Blood covered spuds
An unexpected surge of blood from a flood
Blood underneath the moon and the sun
Blood from the threads of fate already being spun
Blood takes the sides of none
Blood is just never quite done
Siempre el rostro de lo bestial
Always the face of the bestial
a creature in fabric
of no more than instinctual
an instinct driven by predators
Knee-jerk reflexes for survival
and so we are this
the painted animal
All morality by some gangster curse
alpha above each other
educated in the doctrines
of humanities warmonger
to be the worst resort
the scrabbling rats
who chew and gnaw at the meaning of life
Ever depicted in this trait
towards destruction
to destroy ourselves
this self-hate
a brushstroke of our obscurity
to whitewash a desperate search
for loves actuality
But the painted animals do not love
they merely perpetuate the species
obsess themselves with close-knit families
And throughout histories translation
by politics and religion
so degraded the human
this painted animal of violent intention
the pretense of its rebellion
a damp squid
as time would tell
And although we struggle to recognize the lie
the truth of ourselves eludes
lost amidst the rhetoric
and murderous abnegation
deliberate confusion has no conception of what it means to be a human-being
only what it means to be less than human
"We were saying how very important it is to bring about, in the human mind, the radical revolution. The crisis is a crisis in consciousness, the crisis that cannot anymore accept the old norms, the old patterns, the ancient traditions and considering what the world is now, with all the misery, conflict, destructive brutality, aggression and so on. Man is still as he was, is still brutal, violent, aggressive, acquisitive, competitive and... he has built a society along these lines." Jiddu Krishnamurti 1966
The human never exalted
for the miracle it is
within Gods creation
Unloved, unwanted
yet still the tool of obsequious
yet the human demeaned
painted and derided
sinful
bestial
nothing more than just a painted animal
Siempre el rostro de lo bestial
Y con este fin arrasa con su amor
por solo los malos y los amargos
es su sabor a vida
The materialist item creates anger
Is none other than ‘Money’, ogre.
If it is available with us meager
We become a source of hatemonger.
It can make us sit or stand with finger;
It can taste sweeter than sweet sugar;
If in hands, it makes its owner stronger;
So that he can fight with wildest tiger.
You have it, and live even longer;
And will be called even younger.
The materialist item creates anger
Is none other than ‘Money’, ogre.
With it tensions, no doubt, linger
A lot of worry and threats augur,
What use is Salad without vinegar.
More joy of money leads warmonger
Lack of money people did malinger
The mundane things calling it vulgar.
All those who to receive it eager
Know well that demon in it appear.
The materialist item creates anger
Is none other than ‘Money’, ogre.
Dreaming the dream of love in decay,
neurones aflame and raw;
sifting psychic debris as night swallows day,
ragged and broke on the floor.
Splintered chewed nails as they drag down the wall,
clawing through plaster and dust;
crushed diamond skulls like fine crystal balls
in raptures of shame and disgust.
Sleeping the sleep of the damned and dismayed,
rocked in a cradle of hate;
schisms and fractures are stark overlaid
on a cortex inert and innate.
Machinery crackles and spits microwaves,
demonic and set to explode;
sinners and saints spin in uniform graves,
rivers of blood overflowed.
Pacemakers with teeth, veins springing holes,
atriums bursting apart;
keeping the beat of a warmonger soul,
hungered snarls from the carnage heart.
"The horror! The horror!" as Kurtz softly screamed
when death rang the terrible bell;
consequence, motive, one snapshot of truth,
it is realisation that's Hell.