Will the president be in truce?
Shahid Qadri
No. Not the chair, table , the sofa set , the shelves, these do not belong to me
The tree, pond, flowing water only these
Hair, chin, curvature, knees, these are not mine
The yarning of the lover duo, sketched through the manifested silhouettes , gradually
Will the president be in truce of my propositions?
With the graceful poem, the subject , with a poetic hue, will this be an influence on its own
To have a motive, toward the end?
Neither the march past, the cannon ball, nor the military intervention
Only the flower beds
The prime minister, cabinet minister, international helping committee
Only the vowels to rhyme - with or without, belong to mine.
Spoke to a cloud today –
the usual conversation
about shape and size,
lows and highs...whether
my need to tote a handy, spring
loaded umbrella...or a better chance
to go without pants, dance
on the beach ~ showing off
thighs, widening sockets
of older generational eyes – he
told me of clouds who gather and
threaten, causing ships to leap into
salty lather, sailors beware!
take battened-down care! – schools
of fishes diving to ocean depths
they share, with ancient vessels (and sewage),
a seafloor covered with sandy
coinage – a diver's delight; when
stormed into sight –
more subjects of our chatter
and debates, were those of tides
and tectonic plates; also of bony-splatter:
living shrapnel, from a well aimed cannon-ball
against a wooden hull, or artillery shell,
man's modern perpetuation, of that never
settling, always heartening seafarer's knell –
I went on to ask, if in all his travels, had
he ever seen anything truly divine?
Like an angel passing...or a saucer
flying...perhaps some mythical dragon
soaring, trying to lasso down a tasty
moon ~ bring him brightly closer,
doing some dragon flips, salivating
for cheesie fondue lips....
The field is given a name.
Battles are about where they disappear,
the ones that walk away
don't know where the hell they are.
There’s a cannon ball under that Yew tree,
there’s a skull under that Ash.
There’s a hank of dried up hair
over there, woven into stone and moss.
After the blood, peace continues destroying barns,
insignia and belt buckles fished out and sold.
Excavated jawbones order and counter-order.
The officers that staggered away
go quietly mad, or marry well.
Surviving hell takes
a lot of stump-footed foraging.
The maimed tell their jerrybuilt tales,
cracked rockers creek along
the slipways of generations.
Hounds bayed at coons.
in the hot afternoons;
that was before the earth gaped open,
before the gore seeped sideways
into the earths wounds.
Good Generals and bad
have had their deadly play,
this scattering and salvage
of the blue and grey that day.
Seven Young Men Jumping into the Ocean Blue- -
Cliff notes seven of us jumping out,
Over the pier cannon ball falls.
4/29/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
SHIVER ME TIMBERS!
Once a cut-throat and cannon ball dodger
Now a one legged salty old codger
But when ship enters docks he
Will look up an old doxy
And hoist up with a good Jolly Roger
The general has ordered us to charge again,
We must take that hill to win.
I ordered the men back on their feet,
Charge that hill, there will be no retreat.
Many soldiers lie dead by our side,
Into Blue Belly fire nowhere to hide.
This is the third charge up this hill,
We must reach the Blues we have to kill.
Cannon ball, grape shot and musket ball,
Caused many a young boy to wither and fall.
Flags fly, horses cry and bugles blow,
As over the wall into the breach we go.
Rifle butts, bayonets and sabers we face,
Gray die with Blue with no disgrace.
Routed those Blue Belly they’ve run away,
Pickett’s 1st. Virginia has taken the day.
Southern mothers and northern wailed and cried,
As their precious sons fell and died.
Because powerful men wish to own a slave,
In this land of the free and the home of the brave.
Young men with bright clear eyes,
Honor bound shout battle cries.
Has their sacrifice made any sense?
Time will tell it made no difference.
2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 20 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
2/21/19
round metal object
placed inside long cylinders
drop shoot cannon ball
3/29/18
written by James Edward Lee Sr.©2018
Many hard battles King Billy fought
ere he fell from his horse at Hampton Court.
No enemy's musket laid him low,
no cannon ball , no swordsman's blow.
A hoof of his horse got caught in a hole,
the work of a lowly burrowing mole.
On the Emerald Isle some raise a toast
to this notable victory of the least o'er the most.
Trepidation explodes into volcanic fear
Takes off like wild fire burnt alive
Rolls molten lava down the mountain
Butters the melted soul to silence
Over run by soldiers out of control
The covered dead fill in the valley
Infantries spread to an infinity of hills
A vacated image of a soldier in a mirror
Once a spy or simply a humble man
An ego reflected in repose in melancholy
The war grows with the dead
Executed by the military code
Antagonisms exaggerated calm
Line up the men one by one
Place a cannon ball square right there ready
Aim steady through the eyes between the ears
Give a cigarette if they desire
Fire!
Where the Bull **** Lies
Slipping through the cracks as every seam starts to unfold,
feel the weight of your hands full of emptiness freezing cold.
As the mind bends then falters starting to spin downward again,
the heart breaks it's reality, escaping to start over begin.
The Classical Irrational, spastical, the emotional wreck cannon ball,
becoming this thing, this ugly Being who rather not rise but fall.
Traumatized and uncivilized, needing to be happily despised,
watered down eyes she cries and cries living all the right lies.
Control the Bull, the uncontrollable, is life really that portable,
mimicking a stall, the full of crap hyperbole, how horrible,
... Just Horrible ...
bmdavey@
02/28/2016
Shot out like a cannon ball
As mother lay there in her bed
Twisted and contorted
Push down hard the nurse had said
Audience at bottom end
Were quick to save the head
What a pair of lungs cried out
Went from purple blue to red
Cleaned up cord cut and swaddled
Poor child's hungry wants be fed
Mum and dad proud as can be
Holding babe that they have bred
6/21/2015
Fireworks!
Lights sparkling
Ruby delight
Fizzing, whizzing
Glistening night
Bright diamonds
Golden rain
Blasting, rasping
Again and again
Rays flashing
Shattered drops
Dashing, splashing
Cannon ball shots
Wild explosions
Busting high
Booming, zooming
Bejewelled sky
Folks laughing
Gusty cheers
Glimmering, shimmering
Chandeliers
I am heavy today
Heavy like feet in hot tarmac
Heavy like dead end job
Like slashed tires in the dark
And I try to keep your pace
Try to match my steps to yours
You do not understand why I am out of breath.
You think that I wear the girls
You have loved
Like feathers in my skin
I have a head start
I am beautiful because they were ugly
I am sane because they were crazy
I am fast because they were slow
I am loved because they were not.
I carry them like cannon balls
Like cannon ball dot dot dots
Did you ever find what was at the end of your ellipsis?
Or am I minimized to another dot?
When you return mirrors and hair brushes I have left
In your home
I know you are moving on
And when I leave you photographs and
Love letters
I know they are slowly filling up the cardboard box
Under your bed
Where you keep the other women
I am heavy today
Because I am ready to stop.
You are not
Because you still have so far to go.
implode
until the shirt pops
evade
until land
chokes
smile
until
face hurts
live
until
you die
as you rise
swim in your sky
cannon ball
through the sea
right me
will you?
or should I
wait and see?
follow not one
but me
tell me why
show me wrong
a jitter
jangle
can be sung
do I
blurt on page?
would I sweat
on stage?
I always
sense rage
behind lids
that shut
pupils that
dilate
skin that's
sick
oh what
a
shame
live in
the jungle
better
shut your curtain
for all neighbors
can see,
oh please hide me
never let them
peak
paint my window
black
Wistles blow
Echoing though the mountain plain
Blood drips with times gone by
Scars covered by a grassy hill
With rails laid that shall not last
Smoke fills the mountain air
Blackens the sky filled with hue
Engines turn with power in stroke
Burning coal filled with dirt
Bang bang the cannon ball fly
Like the engine acting like it wont die
Puffing down the hill and lane
Bought with times now gone by
Scars that are hidden from view
Given way to the smoke, the dirt and no more hue
Cough cough lung of ash
Gone the wistle
That sighed filled with dirt
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