collectors of nuts
scavengers by nature
endless shell casings......
Some say he's a prophet
others swear he's the son of God
Some say he was just a man on a good mission
still others say he never existed at all.
I think he was the original hippie
a supreme giver -who taught takers
how to give without motive
how to love without condition
to ask for forgiveness after sin.
Jesus would have stowed away on slave ships
salving hope and snapping chains.
He'd have blocked the ovens of Auschwitz
volunteered at no-kill animal shelters
and food pantries.
He would've made manna out of bullet casings...
arrested again, again and again
bashed upside the head and bleeding.
Weaving a giant peace sign and rosary
draping them over the Pentagon, Kremlin
and the Forbidden City-
He may have shared a wineskin, a bowl of Mexican gold
then lie down under tie-dyed sky and dream in colors bold.
Or he would have been the only sober one
getting everyone safely back to home.
Amidst intense bullet rain
A little scavenger came to collect casings
Shot, bleeding—the smell of gunpowder in his pocket.
Tanks arriving from the city,
The heartless brutality of olive-green clad people—
Fire-spitting defiance—the ruler's red eyes.
The wound of losing colleagues
People who easily forget, take action
The olive-green clad trusted ones take action.
Those whom people consider dearest
The last refuge for justice in times of distress.
Against the people of the entire world
Their own declaration of war—
In their consideration, everyone is a fascist, an accomplice.
Actually, everyone is a fascist
Mad for power
The goal of all rulers is one: the throne.
Essentially, the throne is a virus,
Spreading through veins, everywhere
From one body to another, from city to village
Among rich and poor, people of all religions.
Bullets run out, bullets are reloaded
The youth who falls lifeless from a bullet
He never returns.
EMOTIONAL SHRAPNEL
Once that argument fuse has been lit
One waits for that inevitable explosion
The blast summoning the first emotion
But so painful after the shrapnel has hit
One feels as if life has been torn apart
And little comfort that one might find
It’s someone digging deep in the mind
With rubble sent directly to the heart
The shrapnel is all the promises broken
The shattered casings of what was trust
Knowing that being wounded is unjust
It’s the sound of a bomb having spoken
I live for brighter days despite this one's woeful absence of sun
Memories are being shot at me; bullets from a machine gun
Words keep rising out of me; a tidal wave, to swallow tomorrow's dawn
They are the shield protecting me; as if a doe looking after two fawn
I'm just a well mixed blend of fearless passion
Born from the forge that my life did so fashion
If I could build a stairway of infinite steps; to touch just one of the nights stars
Perhaps in the way it could burn; would cauterize gaping wounds forming new scars
I'm just standing in one place, letting myself listen to hear how it all sounds
But what my ears see are brass casings; collecting in mass uncountable pounds
The sun now stalls
halfway up its climb
and skims a course
barely above the trees.
The swallows have gone.
Spaces once filled
with brightly coloured wings
and crawling things
are now empty.
What is missing
has hollowed out
the day and left nothing
but vacated shells
and casings hanging
like trophies
on abandoned webs.
An absence has taken hold.
You move into the gaps
left by others, make trinkets
of ice to hang on branches
that have lost their leaves.
Every winter
is the same, has you
gathering what remains
of yourself, trying to fill
the spaces left
by what is missing,
knowing you can't,
and never will
as each winter passes
you lose a little more
of yourself until, one day,
there will be nothing left
and you will become
the thing that is missing.
The Relevance of Last Winter
David J Walker
The acrid odor of a
Butane fueled
space heater
Seemed better
than freezing
In the sub-frigid air
of a February
prairie
winters
day
We set fire
To dried mesquit limbs
Cleared from
an adjacent pasture
last summer
It seemed better
than freezing
In the March wind
Bending its way
Into a town of little interest
By 4 pm
The light was failing
ice was forming
On the tractors casings
Ours
Were the only lives
Exposed
To the
Mercies of the miseries
Of a winter storm
The small farmhouse
Stood alone
The warm refuge
At the end of a field
Of long fallow rows
Awaiting
The next seasons
Best efforts
Well! sycophantic misanthropist, verbose agitator of spite
Club footed whore master, couldn’t goose step for his life
Malicious propagandist, spreading hatred in every breath
His wife willing disciple, poisoned their 6 children to death
Demanding patriotic nationalism, big speech carcinogenic
Snickers in vehemence, sardonic grin, genocidal eugenics
Never dirtying his hands, an aryan superstar, not by blood
Master race aspirational, looks into the mirror then shrugs
Doctor of nihilistic supremacy, swearing hypocritical oaths
5 ft 4” gigantic paradigm, inferiority complex, slow growth
Promising victory up to the last, faithful to his fuhrers flag
Cowers from nearby artillery, blasting Swastikas into rags
Hiding amongst his sewer rats, goes insane down a bunker
Mixing morphine with champagne, to alleviate going under
Saved the best cocktail for last, cyanide and bullet casings
Fitting end to crawling malaise, and cockroach infestations.
Biting Satire Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
24/02/2021
Spiritual light of the Source
Piercing through casings of form coarse
Shines forth!
The pillar of living white light
Energising energy zones scintillating bright
Requiring no path, self existent, enables highest sight!
There are as many doors
As there are pores
Each lifetron within dancing in ecstasy galore!
As one with Oneness Absolute in co-creation
Of choiceless choice Divine Love our transmission
Limitless, boundless & pathless healing vibration!
Knowing by so becoming Divine Love energy Itself
Knowing that any lesser vibration is lessening ourself
We are as we are outpouring The elixirous effervescence!
05-November-2020
Flashback to 29–May-2019
With bags under his weary hazel eyes,
no rest, no sleep, watching the line.
A mound of dirt cluttered with casings,
machine gun on mount, at the ready.
Smoke overhead the sun barely pokes through,
battlefield stays dark, night and day too.
Vultures circle above, barren death marked earth,
unable to feast, no stomach to girth.
Body caked in dirt, empty belly churns,
tattered battle dress uniform, showing powder burns.
I'm a view, such a poor sight,
thousand yard stare, this is my plight.
Tired, hungry, thirsty, senses, my current enemy,
avoiding passing bullets, falling shrapnel near me.
Maintain my position, duty, honor, sworn oath,
if enemy approaches, kill, maim, or both.
Weapon is loaded, and ready to go,
its kept me safe, this I know.
I'll die before, giving up this ground,
this plot of dirt, it's my mound.
My relief will come, don't know when,
I'll do what it takes, until then.
If I die today defending this spot,
this mound of dirt, this barren plot.
Lord knows I did all i could,
my life sacrificed..as, good warrior would.
Live or die, two actions I see,
already accepted, its Gods choice..not me.
Years on the rack.
Stretched out and winding
Cogs and broken pieces
Shrapnel.
While I
Box upon box.
The unburied dead. The hatchet.
Littering my surroundings
The casings of a former life
The scorched earth. The salt.
The endless devastation.
While you
Small town to small town.
A view of the sea.
Several hundred miles from
The battlefront.
In your armour made of paper
And your cogs
And your litterings
Of endless vast rubbish.
A gust of wind so strong
It could send your flat and weightless
Two dimensional sense of self
Flying. Splintering.
Lost.
I am recovered
Piling away
Myself with the remnants.
Box upon box.
The traitor will bleed.
And Lo! The brothers, Life, be cleft in twain;
One Spirit, Earth the other, paired alive,
Yet sep’rate these eternal orphans reign;
Fraternal cries in blackening darkness dive.
The brother, Spirit, strains his ear to hear,
If only but a whisper brought to him;
Yet falling in despair hears nothing near
to clear from fear his lips of trembling rim.
But then a “human” vision he did think;
Yes, beings bred to bridge the gap we’ll seed.
We’ll talk to them, the Earth and I, like ink,
Upon the parchment of their mind we’ll read.
So Spirit blew two souls down to the land,
His brother made them casings out of sand.
2 pounds of ground beef (cooked)
1 cup of sun dried tomatos
2 cups of chopped onion
4 cups of diced potatoes(cooked)
1 cup of chopped spinach
1/4 cup roasted garlic
4 tablespoons of fresh rosemary leaves
1 cups of paresean cheese
1 feta cheese
1/3 white wine
4 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar
1/2 raspberry puree
3 tablespoons of worshire sauce
1 cup of green peppers
2 cups of minced mushrooms
1 pound of italain sausage (cooked-casings removed
3 cups of beshamel sauce
pie pastry ( enough to line a dutch oven, and have enough left for a pie topping) mix it all up and put crust in the pot, fill it with the meats, and make a pretty topping for the pie, bake until crust is done.
serve with a creamy, butter and truffle sauce!
One-Two-Three-Thud-Boom!
Ding-Dong-Ding-Dong-Ding…
Mourn oh bells the tender life of children
Gushing from a hole of hatred
Materialized thru metal casings
In a land where we’ve made staking
To keep our way still in the making
With children dying and leaders faking
There are a lot of awful things in this world.
Life is generously given, then brutally taken from us without warning.
All that's left is an empty shell of grief and pain.
Some of our most beautiful moments are far outweighed by the grotesque memories of our fears.
Do we really forgive and forget?
How can we forget those things that left us crying so hard in our beds at night that there weren't any tears left to be shed?
Forgiveness can be a treacherous word.
Sometimes the people we trust, break us completely.
But we still see past this and forgive them, even when it severs the tiny thread of hope that we have left.
Our own anguish can betray us.
We live in our own misery, trying deleteriously to mend our hearts, yet we're too blind to see that we are only putting salt in the wound.
Until it's too late.
Until we are beyond fixing.
Until we are,
Hollow casings of what used to be.
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