Long Bombing Poems
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Dream on man
War is constant
It has gone beyond
Catholic or Protestant
Religious wars
From our short lived past
Will never dilute
As long as we last
In this modern world
We fight for different reasons
What ever the excuse
And in any season
We fight over land
Imaginary WMD
Even over soccer
How the hell can that be
We now fight over oil
In a camouflaged war
Taking innocents with us
In public deplore
Guerrilla, assault
Bombing with precision
We vote them in
As they twist their decisions
Dream on man
War has changed
Greed has taken over
From the pasts deranged
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-3.php
Snapping and cracking and whipping we sail.
Sneaking and creaking and sinking t' hell.
Black flies our banner, black as our souls,
Black as a storm dashing ships on the shoals!
Fear us and flee us, yea, run if ye can.
Or face us and fight us down t' the last man.
Black flies our banner, blacker than coal,
Black as death's cowl, we'll swallow ye whole!
Blasting and bursting and bombing we fire.
Bleeding and weeping and wailing yer dire.
Black flies our banner, and Roger so jolly
Shall be fer yer tombstone, a mark o' yer folly!
Yea, we own the water, the wind and the waves.
These oceans t' ye shall be watery graves.
Black flies our banner, black as our souls,
We are the storm dashing ships on the shoals!
(This is a poem i wrote in 2012 for the U.S school shooting, which i have now modified to include the Iranian school childern bombing by foreign dìctators,
that killed over a 112 girl students)
( news report: On December 14, 2012, a mass shooting occurred at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, United States. The perpetrator, 20-year-old Adam Lanza, shot and killed 26 people. The victims were 20 children between six and seven years old, and six adult staff members. Earlier that day, before driving to the school, Lanza fatally shot his mother at their Newtown home. As first responders arrived at the school, Lanza killed himself with a gunshot to the head. )
My heart bleeds
for the misdeeds
of man killing man,
But a waterfall of tears
shed from pupils of the eyes
when and whenever
it's school pupils murdered,
The parents apple of their eyes
Lives and schools too sacred
to be massacred therein..!!
I recall of U.S
that one man shootout
Thoughts raced my mind for answers
I think, was it a madman lagerlout?
Indeed drugs, drinking and lack of parental supervision
could together form a lethal combination
Such fatal carelessness and recklessness
must be caused as well by godlessness
so atheism kinda completes self-destruction's equation...
To be able to commit senseless matricide, homicide then suicide
surely requires ample frustration!
As poet Blackpool Jimmy put it,
'lil ones who hardly said hello
are made to bid adieu'
I add, 'investigation into societal causes
is ever highly long due.
For this terrible atrocity
my heartfelt condolence
for loss of innocence
whether the kids are Muslim,
Christian or Jew
I despise all killer instinct ferocity
Innocent angel kids now in heaven
like doves do coo.:'(.
Woe to him, tis for certain for sure
twas a horrendous way
to settle with life the score!
for killers, we believers know,
never rest in peace
whether they kill a stranger, brother,
mother or niece!
And now this latest,
This time a school bombing air strike,
innocent Iranian school students
razed down and erased from earth,
Blood of innocence spilled
and little hearts killed
by heinous evil...
Alas ,shame woe be
on those who maim children
for mercenary claim...
He stands alone, gun in hand
Amongst his comrades in a God forsaken land
Bullets fly like pouring rain
As in the distance the bombing starts again
His water canteen shot full of holes
In his boots his feet feel like red hot coals
All that marching through the night
A sorry bunch in the moon so bright
The order comes from up the line
Charge straight and true
Now those in charge now know what to do
Our intrepid hero puts his life on the line again
In the muck and bullets, the blood, the pain
Onward they rush over hill and dale
No way have they wanted this charge to fail
Bullets fly, cannons roar
No peace amongst the blood and gore
Where will he be later, heaven or hell?
It’s onward's and upwards so who can tell
Only so many words
so many ways they can be heard
Every word ever used
Abused
So many ways they have been arranged
Rearranged
Deranged
Put this way and that
Hi, my name is Pat
When do our words run out
Nothing new left to shout
Sit there and pout
No new stories to write
All that is left is the fight
You just rewrite the old
Stories already sold
Every word
Already heard
Just twist it here
there
Without care
Nothing left to say
Same thing every day
Hey, I'm in a book
Have a look
A life time it took
But still the same
Lame
I know I'm to blame
I see tomorrow
Past all sorrow
Love you can't even borrow
Lost in plain sight
Hidden from the inner fight
Words is the curse
The worse
Grown up with an autistic view
In the well in which I grew
All I ever knew
I think
I blink
Longing for a common link
If nurtured right
With love as a light
Maybe out will come a beautiful flower
Something life seems to sour
By the hour
Lost in the sarcasm of what is real
How should I even feel
Hidden among the words I write
My only light
Nothing is ever right
Nothing ever wrong
Sorry these words are taken so long
Life promised me a song
But here I am still holding on to the light
Continue my fight
Words bombing my brain
Drives me next to insane
Maybe one day they will run out
In my brain, no longer shout
Peace at last
Going so fast
I see times past
So clear
Memories held dear
Some in fear
Among a crowd
The silence beats so loud
Waiting
Not hating
Relating
With what I know not
My heart beats so hot
People I don't understand
Life ain't that grand
My word
Still unheard
Lost in my head
Love never fed
Lonely is my bed
Trying to write them all down
So in them I don't drown
Waiting for the words to run dry
Tears one will cry
Don't know why
Madness
Is the same as sadness
Is sometimes gladness
One and the same
Whom is to blame
Wish to be free
What is left to see
Who am I meant to be
Drowning in the word
Never to be heard
“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”
Plato
Politicians keep lying
Hate keeps breeding
Jets keep firing
Babies keep dying
Mothers keep crying
Homes keep tumbling
Hope keeps crumbling
Time keeps ticking
Injustice keeps screaming
Funerals keep delaying
Peacemakers keep meeting
Media keeps shocking
Propaganda keeps faking
Tanks keep bombing
Earth keeps shaking
Fear keeps spreading
Soldiers keep fighting
Widows keep weeping
Sorrows keep growing
Babies keep dying
Mothers keep crying
Tears keep flowing
Hunger keeps increasing
Journalists keep reporting
Poets keep writing
Music keeps playing
Teachers keep teaching
Clergymen keep praying
Preachers keep preaching
Protestors keep protesting
Faith keeps searching
Peace keeps fading
Ignorance keeps showing
Missiles keep shooting
Humanity keeps bleeding
World keeps sleeping
Babies keep dying
Mothers keep crying
“Look carefully and see if there could possibly be pain like my pain, like the one bestowed by You upon me.” – Lamentations 1:12
I walk the width of 2000 pound bomb crater in the densely populated refugee camp, searching centimeter by centimeter for the pieces of inhumanity littering the ground, reminding me of the legionnaires of the fascist air force bombing Guernica brutally, wondering how Picasso would paint this tragedy?
Gaza, now the biggest open graveyard in the world, with the bombs breaking the record in Guinness book of record, guttering hospitals, bakeries, schools, and convoys of war refugees, after decades of oppression.
There are cries of the wounded under the rubble, with no way to reach them,
and the stench of death spreading to the distant shores, to the throne of God.
Into Gaza I go, to find hell and retrieve my conscience.
But, you hear the voices? They don't stop singing, over the abyss of war,
Palestine will be free.
A decade of sorrowful September;
Man creates the act of a transgressor;
The tragedies open page to new era,
Killing the others turn into raw sutra.
Hijacked planes, hits the skyscrapers:
Skin sign of the international haters;
Their inner goal is to demolish,
All the infidels must be abolished.
An evil and immoral interpreting
Of the sacred benevolent teachings;
To veil the heart and soul, to see,
To invert freedom and democracy.
Tried to attempt to distract the world;
The life vanishes around the earth;
The intention to build peace by killing;
And to use human as suicide bombing.
A decade of sorrowful September;
Majority walked away from terror:
Bloodshed, slaughter and tearing.
Clear up the right and wrong doings!
11 September 2011
Van Gogh's Yellow House
On the corner of a cobblestone street, a yellow house is located,
and nearby, there is a bistro to eat at and a café where friends meet,
which are illuminated by a sulphur sun under a cobalt sky.
A train barrels past the sunlit house of unfulfilled dreams
as I enter the building and grin as life passes me by,
because I can’t see the future for the tears in my eyes.
Through cracked-open green shutters, as reclusive as I can be,
I see gawkers with their arms outstretched and fingers pointing,
saying to each other, “Look up there, the painter’s crazy.”
My heart has grown cold and dry. Destiny has been mean to me.
And now, the police come to my door to force me to leave,
by decree of law, with a petition signed by the community.
Still, the scenery inspires me, and I can’t relinquish my painting.
With palette in hand, I mix red, green, blue, and yellow paints
and brush their hues, tints, tones, and shades on the canvas to create
“The Street” (with audience) on 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France.
***
Note:
On May 1, 1888, Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890) rented four rooms in the Yellow House at 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France, and lived there from September 1, 1888, to March 1889. Fellow artist Paul Gauguin (1848–1903) shared the house with Van Gogh from late October 1888 to December 1888. It was here that Vincent van Gogh painted many of his masterpieces.
Van Gogh was forced to leave the house in March 1889 when the police, acting on a petition signed by thirty townspeople claiming that Van Gogh was mad and a threat to the community, closed the house.
The house was severely damaged during an Allied bombing raid in World War II and later demolished.
On quiet Sundays between the revolutions,
After the bombing and before the morning,
The soul returns in tired, injured steps
to help my grandpa pick mushrooms in the forest.
When dirty victims go back into their drawers,
for reasons only politicians know,
I see the kitchen where my mom was panicked
The stew's too bland - no salt or bread at all.
When spy detectors clean the human race,
Black suits and ties push buttons of decision,
I stick a branch in quaking wicked pace
to stop the rhythm for the ants in trouble.
There's so much air - sometimes you suffocate
"Atlantis" - can you see me cry?
Important sightings trying to locate?
There's just the black box and my final flight...
www.scripca.com