To eye the purple bruise of dawn
That routs the road you travel on
In draughts no man can verbalize,
And yellow forks the bludgeoned sky
In tongues that lap at thunderstorms
Which fuel the rain that hunts you down –
To joust the iris of the sun
That browns the green of hissing lawns
And droughts the earth where buff it lies
In dusts of wind you can’t deny –
To nock the angle of the bow
That knows the way the arrow goes
And draw the cord that hurls it down
The road you ride to the unknown –
So much has been left
in ruins by last night's storm -
shredded leaves,
amputated branches,
proud, ancient trees toppled,
uprooted and ripped
from their height.
The sad remains
of a bird’s nest laying
clumped in broken
egg shells, new life
now no more than strands
of gooey lint.
The mind winces
at the waste,
the loss of order, beauty
bludgeoned to a pulp.
This is the dark side
of creation, the endless
cycle of destruction
and rebirth. Reason stalls
before the fact.
Just think, massive stars
were blown apart
for the stuff to make
you and me - consciousness
was born out of the womb
of a cosmic catastrophe.
Let our clear eyes gaze
at the rising moon on the
shores of the Sahara, let
the evening stars shine,
holding the skies in their
cosmic magnet, let the
tides cease their aggression
within the ocean, like the
brutish pain we feel as
we welcome and embrace
the oases of our longing
faiths, our kisses
flirting on the shores
of the ocean’s lips,
resolute in our struggle.
We are sandwiched between
the blades and mortars of
these plains, bludgeoned on
the banks and rivers of
these burning forests,
our peace stolen by
hate, so we spend
these silver years in
agony, asking the same
questions our ancestors
asked: shall our hopes be
burnished and taken away on
the lost bays of these curving
currents determined to throw
us into the pits of the boiling
gutters, or shall our longing
faiths, like stones, outlast
the flames of the forest fires?
“A fight of voice exceeds one of fists.”
Bludgeoned, broken, cast away,
Time devours, your name decay,
Ascend beyond the gilded throne,
Unsung, unrested, still overthrown.
Happy Women's History Month!
What thou shalt be wasted?
With the ship of sorrow harboured.
Like it gives thee an unexpected explosion,
And the heart of trauma and darkness is implanted.
It clouds into a season of bloodshed and pain,
But all thy life seems to be bludgeoned.
Tumbled into a canvas of time,
As thou shalt find a euphoric heart abused.
No description of fear was given,
With thy face bashed and muddied.
It shalt not be a publicized cry for help,
Nor shalt it be a dark horse murmured.
As a hard and stone-cold sadness torments thee,
And thy emotional feelings go unnoticed.
Memories would put thee in a chokehold,
And thy mutual senses are blurred.
Thou would find that thy pride is thy worst nightmare,
In thy skull is a slug that is slightly planted.
That, my friend, is a trauma that can drown in thy sorrows,
And it can get thee wasted.
Coddle my wounds as you once had done
So unearthly spirit, do your lips quiver the names of all you had pained hither
The wicker of my wallowing moon, do you see, so speak
If one had been held from whence my end had discovered,
From whence none shall recover,
Had you seen, so spoke, every bludgeoned apology struck parched upon your fallaced lips,
Yet none to touch, none to see,
Ever poignant word that had struck e'er so deep within me,
So see my tears, so weep upon these fears,
Had lapped upon the sand, drenched and disfigured with every clear blear of word
Had you seen, so had you spoke
Would you then succumb to every fear
Bleating upon the cognitive recognition of childhood
So hold me now
Here, as you had once done.
(without fear)
*Inspired By Nelson Mandela
Out of the Pitts of Darkness, In the Absence Of Light
where even the faintest smile Glistens, In Spite
there I give thanks to the Higher Power Abode
That I, have Inherited this INVICTUS Soul
Despite the Heavy and Unjust hand that's dealt
I, have not Give In amongst this Fiery Hell
the flesh Bludgeoned far through the Gale
Yet, my Soul Untouched, My Soul Prevails
Undaunted by the Nights, Black as Sackcloth is
I, have Endured and Conquered this ship
even amidst the Horrors and Pains of Day
I Live On, Undaunted, Unafraid
Matters Not how Crooked or Narrow the Gate
I Press forth with Courage, Hope and Faith
For, I AM THE MASTER OF MY FATE
For, I AM THE CAPTAIN OF MY Soul
Dead End Street
He is waiting in the dark
In the smoky dark under the railway sidings.
He is nervous in the black
In the black of the black slag piles.
He lights a cigarette and breathes out
His breathing rapid and expectant.
The victim is on his way
On his way to redemption
Victim of stupidity and slur.
There will be no escape
Once bludgeoned and dragged
There is nowhere to go.
The noise of human life begins
Human life that calls time on the light
And the insolent one
Will die tonight.
Heart's silent scream
lovers torn
from savaged arms
Hunched over
bludgeoned into queue
they disappear from view
Auschwitz
Bergen-Belsen
Buchenwald
Dachau ...
'Arbit Macht Frei' *
___________________
*'Work sets one free.'
Sign posted at the
gates to Auschwitz
~ Hell on Earth.
When people know you lack their ego
They assimilate in dens of evil
Sanctified swine proliferates
Condescending it pontificates
Assuming you're not with a friend
That leads you to what never ends
That's when they know the gig is up
The Jesuits will call your bluff
Was proved upon the shores of yonder
Escaping from the iron fist of plenty
It may seem like I said too much
Though freedoms ring can never be snuffed
You'll see it in the eyes of few
And if you listen you'll gain the truth
Atrocities committed on mankind
Have happened since there has been time
And so you must repent and sing
The song of love God's kingdom brings
*I had to make another account because the email originally used isn't available and I got no response on recovering it so here's my poem about freedom hope you enjoy thank you for reading :) P.S. my grandfather 7 generations ago was the oldest combatant in the revolutionary war he was beaten, bludgeoned and bayoneted several and shot in the face with a musket then left for dead he then at 78 years old killed 3 British soldiers with his bare hands and lived to the ripe age of 96*
*Image of The 27 Club by Wiki.
Enclosed Rhyme Sonnet: The 27 Club
A painted desert from a simple stone,
Act sans, singer storms, own closeted world,
Head o'er heels life strung noose tied to be whirled,
A dispersal sorts of the world well known.
Up versus downscale, winner takes it all,
a marginal few knew, a world of shock,
cycle bludgeoned to a paradox,
'tis headlines for papers always printed small.
Number two is "new," seven "beginnings."
struggles one's outreach midst angels that call,
sorry wrong number as one lost cause fall,
home runs to strikeouts, no extra innings,
Twenty-seven club, dying to get in,
If membership's denied, just keep smilin'.
2022 August 27
*3rd Place*
the 27 club
~~Anthony Biaanco: Judged 2022 September 27
Some kids are dreading going back to school
They fear running into those who bullied them
Anxiety is heightened by puberty’s demands,
The feeling that no adult really understands.
While many are excited getting back to friends
Some kids are dreading going back to school,
Facing pressures from the unfamiliar routines
Such is the lot of today’s technical-savvy teens.
Feeling threatened in once a safe environment
Bludgeoned with peer pressure and new rules,
Some kids are dreading going back to school,
Concerned someone might label them a fool.
Not knowing exactly whom they can trust
Hoping to make a friend, someone to talk to
Who’ll have their back, who is incredibly cool,
Some kids are dreading going back to school.
Written August 1, 2022
somewhere sunflowers catch a Van Gogh glow
nature's fragile stems
that pull us up
that spill their light
like heroism
to break the growling crumbs of earth
somewhere people die, bludgeoned by circumstance
by life altering chaos
from a tyrant's malice
that strays like poison gas
to sever their resolve
somewhere folks rebuke science
to strip a health direction
claims of stifling freedom
flashing banners of entitlement
that risk collective safety
somewhere freedom's script
breaks its rigid capsule
for a people reclaiming dignity
to fight the beastly brute
the truest code of conduct
towering
like sunflower fields in far off places
Poem composed April 15, 2022
In the allure of the pastel times
Posting patterns of medieval times
As sins lacerations cut and divide
My solid spirit my soul bleeds
I am bludgeoned by myself
My body runs and takes heed
I hide and while hitting I hold my breath
I decide not to take this moral test
Instead I am a witness of my mess
I confess my distress now I'm blessed
Amidst the allure of my pastel times
7/31/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
Blind.
Are we now too bludgeoned by life and too blind to see?
Are we scared of what we’ve become, of what is to be?
Blood.
Courses through our veins.
The muscle of the heart keeps pumping strong.
But good hearts of love lose just the same.
Us.
You and me.
Do we care about each other?
Do we open our minds to see?
Would I walk through fire for you, would you walk through fire for me?
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