Long Frontier Poems
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Atlantis rises
Under the water a city floats.
Invisible walls protect the people from the ocean.
Above the waves, nobody knows of the city below.
The worshipers lay flowers before their Gods to show their devotion.
For centuries this city has stood against the wave of incoming tides.
For generations its people have tried,
To find a way to live above and not just accept being uprooted;
But there are those would claim to rule,
So Atlantis must remain secluded.
The Atlantian’s feel trapped inside their sphere.
They want to find land; they want a new home and a new frontier,
But this city is the hand they have been dealt.
Even in this united community, there are those who cannot be helped.
They plot and scheme and think of change,
But they cannot wait to see that day;
For they are impatient,
So they act on instinct.
Not willing to discuss, they move with mistrust
And without a sound, they blink…
They disappear and gather in secret to speak.
Security seek them, but the protectors are weak.
The time has come to leave this place!
At night they leap into action, a war on the base.
Guns are waved, orders are shouted;
Shock and awe are a necessity, as to not be doubted.
Stolen ships of exploration;
Part of the human spirit has been taken.
But the community comes together to unite around those who remain.
They still think about those who decided to leave,
But the minutes soon turn into days.
Soon those who left are all but forgotten;
Life moves on without a mention of them.
All that which they stole has been replaced.
Years later a city rises from beneath the waves,
To appear before the world; a mystery unravels.
The people who never existed have found a way to travel.
How did they survive beneath the sea all these days?
With magic and machinery, they found a way.
A future voice; an alien being.
Time travel; all knowledge available to be seen.
As the city grows to reach the land,
The ocean is its arm; the city is its hands
And as the hand rises, the people multiply.
The city continues to grow until it reaches the sky.
Now the ocean is unseen, the land is no longer green.
Everywhere the people look, they only see concrete.
The view disappears;
Sky scraper towers.
Humans have advanced through the years,
But gone are all the flowers…
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
It was now growing dark as the sun was going down
When a stranger rode into Soup Creek, a frontier town
No one could see his face, he was all dressed in black
An old boy was heard to say "I think he's come back".
He took his horse to the stable, then went to the boarding house
Before he went in looked across the street, to the town jailhouse
There was a familiar figure sat outside, in a rocking chair
Cradling a Winchester and the stranger, felt his cold stare.
He'd returned after all these years; he had something to prove
And just after a few days back in town, he would make his move
But Sheriff Koplin is no fool and he had planned up far ahead
And had formed a posse whilst the stranger slept in his bed.
Three fiesty girls from the saloon, Jan and Jenna, Tania too
And a Texas ranger called David who was just passing through
With gambler Milton who was deadly, with a colt forty five
And Tom the undertaker who looked more dead than alive.
It was the evening of the showdown; the stranger came out of the saloon
The sun was now setting but the tension had been building up since noon
From his holster he withdrew his pistol and then fired shots up into the air
The stranger was not one for living a peaceful life and he just didn't care.
Sheriff Koplin approached him and said "Hand over your gun"
And the stranger replied "Lighten up man, I'm just having fun"
The stranger was laughing now and looking down at his feet
The townsfolk were nervous and had disappeared off the street.
Then behind the stranger came a shout in a loud Texas drawl
It was Jenna disguised as an old woman, covered with a shawl
"You heard the sheriff " she shouted, "Put your gun on the ground"
The air was now thick with tension and you couldn't hear a sound.
Then from nowhere the rest of the posse appeared pistols in hand
They abhorred bullies and conflict and were prepared to make a stand
The stranger realised he couldn't win and threw his gun down
Walked to the livery stable to get his horse, and rode out of town.
The drama was now over but it could have gone either way
Sheriff Koplin and his posse restored peace, and had won the day
It was now days end in Soup Creek in that peaceful frontier town
All you could hear were chirping crickets as the sun was going down.
Written on 20th May 2022.
...They proclaimed that we ‘oppressed women,’
it’s the refrain of loud femenists,
forgetting that before birth control
nature gave us little choice in this.
That before we had technology,
when life meant brutal, physical work,
that there just weren’t all that many jobs
physically weaker women could work.
They forget that the woman’s franchise
arose on America’s frontier,
that we blazed the path for suffrage,
their equality started right here.
Now why would a nation do all that
if they cared so little for females?
If we sought to be patriarchal
then I dare say the strategy failed.
And yet the left keeps raging about
rights which women have been long endowed,
Why should we buy all their self-hatred
when there’s so much for which to be proud?
And worst of all these fools like to claim,
that we’ve learned nothing, it’s all the same,
which I think is a sure sign that they
have something dreadful wrong in their brains.
We look at our mistakes all the time,
we brood endless on our sins and scars,
America lacks no self-reflection,
if anything we take it too far!
We get so obsessed with all our wrongs
that we think they drown out all the right,
we selfishly think it’s all our fault,
then of the truth we sadly lose sight.
Many cultures can’t ask such questions,
ask the Turks about past genocides,
or see if Communist China will
own up to all the Uighurs that died.
You don’t see many Japanese kids
who know about the rape of Nanking,
yet every American does know
that Wounded Knee was a horrible thing.
Why should we regret a culture that
tries to learn rather than disavow?
Our growing should not bring self-hatred,
to be honest, it should make us proud.
In the end, these issues are smokescreens,
thrown up to keep good people off track,
the left wants us all to hate ourselves
because self-hating folk rarely fight back.
There’s no logic behind what they hate,
hell, it changes hour-to-hour,
what unifies all these self-hatreds
is whether it will bring them power.
That’s really what’s behind all of this,
like some grand Machiavellian scheme,
to make free people into peasants
they first must be cut down and demeaned.
In truth, they don’t like Americans,
they don’t like people who stand unbowed,
so reject their vile self-hatred,
embrace all the things that make us proud.
I.
When he was born he was named Reid Gibson,
and his parents weren’t the richest of folk,
didn’t have money to buy land back east,
so off to the great frontier they did go.
This was way back in 1823,
and young Reid had only just reached age ten,
his father found farming prairie a chore,
he had never been a diligent man.
When in town one trip, buying some supplies,
he heard tales of trappers in rocky peaks,
starting daydreaming of some quick money,
and more news of beaver-trapping did seek.
Reid’s mother thought it was all a mirage,
but Reid’s father cared little what she thought,
it wasn’t a woman’s place to judge men,
so new rifles and beaver traps he sought.
He took Reid with him, saying it was time
for the boy to begin learning a trade,
Reid was afraid, and wanted to stay home,
but his pa pushed him along anyway.
They crossed the plains and by some miracle
avoided the Plains nations on their mounts,
somehow got their way to Fort Kiowa,
where the fur trappers told them, “Turn around.
“The ’rees are raiding any who go west,
taking scalps from any whites they find there.
A man like you will not last very long,
for you child at least, you should take care.”
But Reid’s father was a confident man,
too much considering what he’d achieved,
he’d come all this way to make his fortune,
and balked at all who told him not to leave.
So they went out as the fall settled in,
searching the mountains for ponds and for plews,
they found one but didn’t have that much look
since neither of them knew quite what to do.
A week had gone by, the tension did rise,
Reid’s father’s frustrations gave way to rage,
his father’s shouts gave away where they were,
the Arikara came, and not to trade…
They ran down his father by the pond shore,
struck at him with lance until he fell,
then leapt from their horses, cut off his scalp,
and celebrated with a piercing yell.
Reid tried to hide in a nearby forest,
but these warriors were good at their craft,
they found him in moments and dragged him out,
at his struggles they let out belly laughs.
One of them held a hatchet to his throat,
the other spoke, then the man abated,
they bound up his wrists, threw him on a horse,
Reid realized he would be captivated.
Masses forming classes boarding:
Corral Gates of slaughter, hauling, sorting- human beings-aborting
our innocent(sons and daughters)
Bishops Queens and Cannon Fodder-
their crop of sheep sacrifice to image of the Beast
es cargo for the Elite Machine; of
Underground in plain site, lined
in Streets of Gold of their El Dorado deep-sites.
Our lives for sell, sold.
Titanic-transport of souls clandestine sport of spoil
Moonlight witches pissing on fertile soil
Mid-night
Their platform of unsee able points of light inconceivable blight
A ship of fools run ary
By heretics
making waves rushing blood-*** noise Vampires sucking dry
Kendrick and Cyborg sex ploys
Buoys and curls pinging toys waving
Bye to your rights
While your eyes are sewn tight
As celebrity whores say "come get me boys"
and the message boards are alight
Why are you so dead inside?
River Styx is taking you for a ride?
You'd be at 666 Flags if Apathy was water, water on the brain slide
The Final Frontier
The Motive is clear
You've been contacted by Demons
By the "Art of the Deal"
In the guise of...Behind the sky's
glove...chemical lines drawn by mechanical sky d(r)oves, to obscure the happenings above;writers on the storm exhausting their lies and Political heroic acts of altruistic "Love" the "Dragonborn." The Kingdom of Mourn.
A Game of thrones a game of bones non_chalantly thrown.
Hung in the balance, drawn and quartered by AI Phalanx algorithm.
Clouding the mind.
Not seeing flashing signs-
"*** poison kind ...of malice-flashing in neon."
Hiding behind crown Masons-ring brotherhood blood and chalice.
Unplugged radar, telethon tears.
Honing your sites ip and your fears, cook and rinse till juices run clear.
Till you are stuck in the hole with Alice.
Why are you so dead inside?
River Styx is taking you for a ride?
You'd be at 666 Flags if Apathy was water, water on the brain slide
Hide behind your tools
Crafty handiwork to snoop
On the people for the people
Of who?
Of the Media, spoonfed search-the Wickedpedia
Omit what doesn't fit, the narrative
and feed- -retrofit the needia
Face condoms up when what you
are touching is as unclean, as Cardi D and the itinerary of the beast, riding another beast,
biometrics and vaccine
Chic Waco was the marshal of our little town.
Stood near six-two and usually sported a frown.
Never said a lot but what he said, was said mighty clear.
Most likely if he was talking to you, it was something you wasn't wanting to hear.
Chic was a mighty good marshal and did his job the best he could,
There were those that gave him problems and he'd let them know just where
they stood.
This one good for nothing family were as ornery as could be.
When they got to drinking they'd threaten anybody they would see.
That's when Waco usually always earned his keep.
Most times them boys didn't want to go quietly, so Waco would just rap them
on the head, and pile them in a heap.
Them Trusdale boys packed an awful fierce grudge and just wouldn't let it lie.
When they got sobered up they said reckon that marshals just gonna have to
die.
Well they thought and they planned for about a month and a half.
Then the youngest got caught stealing a Circle D calf.
He was brought to town and sentenced to hang.
Word got out ain't no Trusdale, what would ever swing.
They said marshal if you try to hang our little brother Jack.
You just painted a bulls eye on the middle of your back.
Well that didn't set well at all with Waco and he told em flat out don't be a
threatening me.
If your wantin gunplay just whip em on out, then we'll all get to see.
Chic said Trusdales I'm calling your bluff.
He said you're backshootin, yellowbellys, and you ain't got the stuff.
Bout that time the oldest I think they called him Will.
Reached for his iron with intent to kill.
Waco saw him reach and he shot him dead.
Then he felt the bullet that was fired by Will's brother Red.
It didn't do much damage it was fired in haste.
Then Waco pointed at Red and let him have a taste.
The only brother left was a shaking like a dog.
Waco looked at him and said scat on out a here before I unleash this hog.
Little brother Jack they hung him out back.
The one that ran somebody found dead , snakebit outside their old shack.
Reckon that the moral of this story is don't mess with Chic Waco
Reckon them Trusdales hadn't heard in Chics younger days he was known as
Kid Wacko!
Höchstzal 25 Worte!
I hear, I listen, I read, I observe, I sense; there are words flying around everywhere and from everyone including me, at an awesome pace.
There are things in life that don’t add up and make a perfect equation, or the equation is correct and we can’t understand the math?
I hear the rustle of the leaves outside my door, a coolish Spring wind pushes on the tongue of the tubular chimes to ring softly.
Crickets singing in the evening, their drone serving as a rhythmic background to the other sounds of fans whirring in the house, natures soft parade.
You are a light that I’d not seen before, though your presence was always there, and when we did meet, your light laid me bare.
A soft pale shadow traced a signature sly smile around your slightly parted lips, a greeting of eyes met there; time took its humble bow.
During my time of resplendent wonder and love, I suspended all reason in order to pursue an ideal of friendship, expressed as an untethered heart
Happiness hovered over their conversation, its essence as pure water, a spring bubbling over in gestures as sublime as a spider’s web bejeweled in dew.
At this age, of which I have alighted at time’s behest, I am attempting to throw the shackles of chosen conventions out, for further browsing
A thread of lusty exuberance spread across the sky, crackling electric spear-like bolts earthbound, melding soil and soul adjoined in molten union.
That svelte black leopard teased out a ‘yes’ from me, her tight look and glassy eyes sparkled so alluringly so guileless, yet smart as pavement.
I’ve never see the sky yawn so earnest and ravenously as it approached the dawn, the night sky quickly evaporating into a waning black thread.
Listening, the rustle of leaves nervously quacking, winds caress entwining branches, their closeness abandons convention, freeing all frontier, swept clear, cool airs inhabit shady premises.
There is that place, that space, that offers a gentle soothing warmth, moist as the tropics, sweet as ocean sugar, hooked on the lip, caught.
The skin, the canvas, the block, the stone face, ready for the etch, the brush, the chisel, the needle, vulnerable to the artists peculiar passions.
Robert Sherriff - Australian - Poet -Author - Singer - Actor - American Historian – Photographer
Has anyone seen my old friend? Abraham
In the ever-turning pages of history, specific years stand like pillars, holding up the weight of profound change: 1865, the year of the Civil War's end and the abolition of slavery; 1881, the year of President Garfield's assassination; 1901, the year of President McKinley's assassination and the rise of Theodore Roosevelt; and 1963, the year of President Kennedy's assassination and the Civil Rights Movement.
Will history repeat itself on January 12, 2025? Each of these years marks a moment of transformation, a shift in our nation's consciousness.
Remember 1865, when Abraham Lincoln's vision of unity and equality was cut short, yet his legacy ignited the flame of freedom that still burns bright.
Reflect on 1962 and the iconic moment when Marilyn Monroe serenaded a president, symbolizing the complex interplay between fame and politics. These were not just moments but testaments to the resilience and determination of these historical figures, inspiring us with their unwavering strength.
Recall the turbulent days of 1963, a year stained by the loss of John F. Kennedy, whose dreams of a new frontier were silenced by an assassin's bullet.
Honor Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr., voices of a revolution that demanded justice and equality, their echoes are still heard in today's struggles.
Bobby Kennedy was a beacon of hope whose journey was tragically abbreviated, yet his call for peace and social justice continues to inspire. Like stars in the night sky, these figures illuminated the path to a more just and equal world.
These years, these figures shaped the world we live in. Their legacies remind us that change is born from courage, that progress demands sacrifice, and that the fight for equality and justice is not a chapter in history but an ongoing narrative that we all contribute to. It's a call to action, a reminder that the fight is not over, and we all have a role to play, emphasizing the urgency and importance of our contributions.
It's a collective effort, a shared responsibility that binds us together in this noble cause.
I feel angry,
Angry at the world surrounding me,
Angry at the person I can clearly see,
Full of rage so ferrocious it blinds me,
This pent up wrath that boils inside me,
Blasts out full force, an explosion for all to see,
This intangible fierce red wrath of energy,
All around me are definitely in jeopardy,
My vision becomes compromised,
All I see is anger, my pulse pounds in my head,
My blood burns hot through my veins,
My thoughts filled with rage and bloodshed,
I feel angry, my hate is hungry,
My fists ball up tight my jaw is locked shut,
My teeth are clenched every muscle tensed,
Consumed by a fire of fury and discontent,
I am angry, and its growing angrier,
People think they can take advantage of me,
Taking all I have, especially my positive energy,
Then they replace it with only negativity,
My anger is angry, I am atomicaly angry,
At the struggles he almighty bestows on me,
Expecting me to smile and always be happy,
No one understands how this affects my psychie,
I am truly so angry,
To loose my thirst for life that once drove me,
Dreams and opportunities snatched away quickly,
Let down by my own body, once strong now sickly,
Left alone with only my mind and body controversy,
I have no other option but to beg for mercy,
As this sinful rage consumes me entirely,
I can no longer see the worlds joy and glory,
Dear lord please I beg heal me,
Dear lord please I beg help me,
Dear lord please I beg have mercy,
Dear lord please have pitty on me,
Life is so short, I feel how I'm left to live mine,
Is not only shameful its wasteful a true crime,
How loud must I scream help before I loose dignity,
How many poems must I write as a poetress about me,
Will someone be able to see my poems need enallage,
The message is clear my bodies weak, my eyes tear,
My head hurts and my heart aches is it still unclear,
I fear I will not survive this distructive path another year,
I hope and pray everyday for a new frontier,
Please read my words hear my plea, catch every tear
Help me find the path back to being me,
To live a proper life full of happiness and glee,
I no longer want to be angry, I want to be happy.
Perhaps like a lightning
bolt of clear out of the blue
rigor mortis (tenon and
three decades hence)
two thousand fifty nine if you
count from January 13th 2019, adieu
attest that day 9 months I did brew
in wound (of the late Harriet Harris),
now finds me loved ones
crying boo hoo,
after this stiff mortal
Earthling bid toodle loo
with symbolic casket
(carrying cremated urn of ashes)
remembrance attended
by gentile and Jew
sharing positive memories purportedly
about this nondescript
fellow they knew
mainly indirectly, poignantly,
and wickedly shot thru
with his insightful humorous scribblings,
plus magnus opus titled
"How do ye do,"
an informal rambling missive bereft
of any subject and
devoid with little clue,
the purpose of said hefty tome
out weighing The Federalist circa: knew
lee after American independence
Papers, written by true
purrs under the pseudonym "Publius"
but great (as a great doorstop), or
alight as tinder for barbeque
since many admirers never
read his text written in Hebrew,
fluency acquired spending
final years he grew
old, since automatic citizenship
granted based on genetic goo
plus Mediterranean climate helped promote
longevity to century his health did hew
thus naturally pronounced philosophy,
where he drew
quite a wide web asper the many
claims Matthew Scott did eschew
to maintain longevity (more
quackery than science), but who
could dispute glorious
principles, not to poo poo
analogous to placebo effect
harmless fervent coping methods,
whether to cure ague
interestingly enough he cited ack hue
puncture for a gamut of physical ills
as well he did advocate chew
wing food (after taking small bites)
until mouthful became pulpy slew
(proponent of Fletcherism), this to
exercise dentures in addition
to maximize stew
pen diss experience of simple
routine eating view
wing thoroughly good (by George)
said quotidian activity grew
tubby spiritual, similarly basic
functions in general did get skew
ward whereby meditation on intrinsic,
metabolic and scholastic
processes to name a few
added a dimension of enhancement prior to
exiting life into frontier mortals can only rue.