Long Loyalists Poems
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In seventeen seventy-seven,
amidst the deep summer’s August heat,
Barry St. Leger, loyalist milita,
and the Iroquois walked on sore feet.
Their mission was clear: move down the Mohawk,
meet Burgoyne and split the rebel states,
except the Americans in Fort Stanwix
were effectively blocking their way.
To advance the fort had to be reduced,
but St. Leger’s force had few big guns,
so he settled into a siege of the fort,
with a mind to hold strong 'til he’d won.
But the patriots knew of the British plans,
and were not content to just sit and wait,
Tyrion County called up its militia
to save Stanwix from a bloody fate.
Eight hundred of them marched for the fort,
under the command of Nick Herkimer,
a palatine German of the Mohawk vale,
an able and determined fighter.
They stopped to camp not far from Stanwix,
and Herkimer counseled that they should hold,
to await a signal from inside the fort
and launch a two-front attack bold.
But the militia saw this as cowardice,
and said,”What else could we expect?
His own brother fights with St. Leger,
we can’t expect him to take the next step.”
Herkimer darkened at his men’s words,
and would not idly receive their scorn,
he ordered the men to be on the ready,
they would advance the following morn.
But the British knew of their approach,
and prepared to put them to the test,
near five hundred set out to intercept,
mostly Iroquois with some Loyalists.
The next day the Americans, on the move,
found themselves passing through a ravine,
unaware that eyes stared upon them
as they drank from a cool, tiny stream.
The British had planned to wait until
the patriots were all stretched out,
but some Indians opened fire too early,
a roar of muskets and loud piercing shouts.
The first volleys hit hard, stunned the militia,
a good many brave soldiers went down,
Herkimer took a ball in the leg,
and from a dying horse pitched to the ground.
So fierce was that first surprise attack,
so many patriotic souls shot dead,
that all sides involved said the tiny stream
was stained by the blood until red.
Some tried to move wounded Herkimer,
but he was still in no mood for retreat,
he took out a pipe, leaned on a tree trunk,
and said,”I will meet the enemy...”
CONCLUDES IN PART II
Tell me less and last
about who and what and why you hate
with militant might.
Speak with me more and first
about who and what and why you love
with brilliant bright.
I will listen all this day
and next,
all my life
if your voice can positively project
long enough to leave no time at all
for hate
and anger,
envy and fear of losing
who and what and why we love
our synergetic health
and not our too violent fragments of pathology
Rambling on
in front of unmediating microphones and cameras
about who and what and why
healthy nutrition and nurturing natures
of vulnerable Others
compete for your empowered
disempowering disdain,
While no lover
with a healthy mind and heart
would ever care to listen
this day and night.
Nor our next,
We have so many warmer,
yet not too warm,
vulnerable,
transparent,
courageous,
curiously co-arising days and nights
for peaceful dialogue,
discernment,
endearing conversation.
Even in that heated time
of Declaring Independence,
when hate and anger and fear
against privileged white male royalists
and their loyalists
and their unwealthy terrorists
and their unhealthy reality manufacturists
ran revolutionary high,
we boldly spoke in democratic constitutions of love
about wellness,
pursuits of happiness,
and cooperative prosperity
more memorable
than historic hates.
What attorneys advocate
and statues of Liberty
and active peace lovers hear
in and on this day
are first through last restoring health wealthiness,
equal dignity,
freedom for individuals
families
local communities
to pursue our just dignity
and wellness peace together
with democratic inclusive integrity,
liberally lavish love.
Historic hate and anger and fear
are dark memories still within us
in our sacred State of independent declarations,
yet these fade into our unloved history
of economic and political servitude
lack of benign royal gratitude,
and are not this today revolution's healthy attitude
for who and what and why we love
this Interdependence Day.
Speak with me first and more
about who and what and why you love
with brilliant bright.
I will listen all this green and glorious day
and next night,
all our loved and loving life.
The
familiar
sound
of
gunshots
rings
out
in
the
dead
of
night,as
a
sniper
takes
position
in
the
bushes
outta
sight,
Past
my
front
door
I
hear
the
sound
of
many
marching
feet,as
II
Para
make
their
presence
felt
upon
a
Belfast
street,
Gerry
Adams
does
a
hard
days
graft
and
then
its
homeward
bound,as
a
British
soldier
just
nineteen
lays
bleeding
on
the
ground,
Well
he
fought
for
Queen
and
country
so
it
comes
as
no
surprise,as
he
draws
his
last
breath,says
a
prayer
and
there
a
hero
dies,
So
many
slain
civilians
they're
just
casualties
of
war,do
the
f*ckers
even
realise
what
it
is
they're
fighting
for?
Or
has
the
whole
point
of
it
got
lost
in
the
mists
of
time,the
I'R'A
take
credit
for
their
latest
deadly
crime,
In
a
safehouse
miles
from
nowhere
there's
three
loyalists
lying
dead,one
in
a
grave
(he
was
buried
alive)and
two
with
one
straight
through
the
head,
But
the
score
it
was
even
before
the
cock
crowed,three
Catholic
civilians
were
slain,
And
there's
rumours
of
vengence
and
fights
to
the
death,and
calls
to
keep
calm
from
Sinn
Fein,
As
politicians
armed
with
pens
sit
counting
up
lost
lives,the
Ulster
Paramilitary
sit
sharpening
their
knives,
And
loading
slugs
into
the
clip
of
some
dead
soldiers
gun,"Come
on
now
lads
there's
dirty
deeds
still
waiting
to
be
done,
In
Londonderry,County
Down,in
Belfast,Newry
too,the
Catholics
and
the
protestants
keep
Ireland
torn
in
two,
As
children
grow
up
in
the
shadow
of
fear,there's
a
stench
of
death
and
bloodshed
here,
So
you
with
the
power
to
give
us
the
chance,lets
find
a
solution
and
finish
the
dance,
Give
Ireland
back
to
the
Irish...please!
or
bring
the
whole
damned
nation
crashing
down
to
its
knees.
...And though the rifles were slower to load,
the Overmountain Men made use of trees,
concealing themselves from counterfire
in places that the British couldn’t see.
With countless snipers popping out to shoot,
all the loyalists there atop the hill
knew that something had to be done quickly,
so many had already been killed.
Ferguson ordered a bayonet charge,
old steel glinting as his men pushed down,
the patriots scattered, running away,
it seemed the British would hold the ground…
But as soon as the men returned to the line,
the Americans moved back in again,
two more charges had the same damn result,
flashing bayonets could not break these men.
As they kept shooting, chipping away,
the loyalists knew that things were dire,
too many of their brethren lay dead,
cut down by the frontiersman’s fire.
These patriots were men who shot for food,
missing for them meant their families might starve,
the killed so many that white flags went up,
leaving Ferguson rather alarmed.
He rode through, hacking the flags with his sword,
calling on his men for courage and grit,
but just then the patriots spotted his horse,
charged up and shot Ferguson off of it.
An American then grabbed the Major,
and dragged him behind the patriot lines,
it was here that Ferguson did something
seen by all as remarkably malign.
When asked to surrender by a soldier,
he pulled his pistol and shot the man dead.
The patriots all fired on the man,
until his chest had become mostly lead.
The remaining loyalists struck their flag,
and they came forth to try to surrender,
but the patriots remembers Waxhaws,
there was real danger of massacre.
They remember that the British there had
cut down men who had thrown up their hands,
but William Campbell, and John Sevier,
would not allow such dishonor to stand.
They accepted the British surrender,
near three hundred loyalists had been killed,
to only twenty-eight patriot dead,
with great relief the southern states were filled.
Major Ferguson’s words proved prophetic,
though probably not in his desired way,
no force could move him from King’s Mountain,
he lies under its slopes to this day.
A light beacon in the iciest of regions,
Solar winds full of both brilliance and bluster
Glory of trenchant travelers from afar;
Skyward sorcery that time does not mar.
Shining with such a wonderful lustre,
Lantern of lucidity wherefore philosophers seek a Reason.
As every Winter grows thick,
The prowl of the sabretooth,
The hunger of the polar bear,
The pale of the moon's watchful eyeWhen one begins to sigh,
Wondering how your frost-bitten fingers will fare,
Knowing not how to go on, in sooth:
Suddenly, into place your bones and thoughts begin to click
As you look up and see her,
Fluorescing ever more wildly, frantically bright
Shimmering blue and silver
Fiercely haloing over you through the Night.
Her loyalists curse the cold which she can scarcely resist,
Trekking miles to reach her through the Evergreen forests.
She has the heart of a snow lioness
Looking after her cubs through harsh distress.
But though her beneficiaries honour her in a climate that's chilly,
She is not really averse to the comforts of Man.
In fact, she is a Lady of both magnanimity and indulgence
That it is yet unwise to deem too silly,
For she glows beyond all treats to a greater span:
Appearing before earth with a gift of utmost refulgence.
Existing by herself, like a hummingbird on a higher plane,
Where memories ancestral are stirred up, that have long been lain;
She unfurls and recharges in proud hermitage:
Ready to awaken, in you, in loneliest season and age.
Ready to ignite, when all hope seems lost;
Ready to find the Will to survive at any cost;
Ready to make the shoots push up even through the frost.
Ready to bring warmth and nourishment like the perfect host.
Though she is not perfect this much is true;
To the vulgar, her vanity sometimes stoops to kowtow.
Too in love with the humble creatures she ensnares, with a 'wow', and a
'woah'...
Too in love with the image which the crowds drew... So enthralled to the
show...
Hiding from her own lofty view
Her faults - covered by too blinding a virtue.
Mother, I still love you.
The familiar sound of gunshots
rings out in the dead of night,
As a sniper takes position in the
bushes out of sight,
Past my front door I hear the
sound of many marching feet,
As 2 Para make their presence
felt upon a Belfast street,
Gerry Adams does a hard days
graft 'n' then it's homeward
bound,
As a British soldier just
nineteen lays bleeding on the
ground,
Well he fought for queen 'n'
country so it comes as no
surprise,
As he draws his last
breath,says a prayer and there
a hero dies,
So many slain civilians(they're
just casualties of war,
Do the f*ckers even realise
what it is they're fighting for?
Or has the whole point of it got
lost in the mists of time?
The Ira take credit for their
latest deadly crime,
In a safe house miles from
nowhere there's three loyalists
lying dead,
One in a grave (he was buried
alive) and two with one straight
through the head,
But the score it was evened
before the cock crowed,three
catholic civilians were slain,
And there's rumours of
vengeance and fights to the
death and calls to keep calm
from Sinn Fein,
As politicians armed with pens
sit counting up lost lives,
The Ulster Paramilitary sit
sharpening their knives,
And loading slugs into the clip
of someone else's gun,
"Come on now lads there's dirty
deeds awaiting to be done"
In Londonderry,County Down,in
Belfast,Newry too,
The Catholics and the
Protestants keep Ireland torn in
two,
As our children grow in the
shadow of fear,
There's a stench of death and
bloodshed here,
So you with the power please
give us the chance,
To find a solution and finish the
dance,
Give Ireland back to the Irish
pleeaasssse!
Or bring the whole damned
nation crashing down to its
knees.
Their operations were smooth, enameled and HUED in pure colors. Windy's parents left her a company with a brand built on integrity and trust. For years, her life was a GLIDE, filled with peace and flowing effortlessly. Now, neither Windy nor her husband could GRASP the gravity of their decisions. They could only stare at each other and GASP, feeling betrayed and deceived. Windy and Frank departed, and there was no turning back, as the dye had clearly been cast.
Their problems were spreading like wild fires and growing like well-watered VINES. Their appointment with hostility and misunderstandings rose like a thermometer in mid afternoon on a summer day. Just to INHALE an encouraging flow of fresh support would have been welcomed like water
in a desert. Such fortunes never came, and they were left empty and dry, with nothing to pass on to their children.
They knew that every piece of their philosophical real estate that they once were able to CLASP with pride was now a slippery slop; and all they could do presently was to HOLD on to what respect and reputation they had left.
They and their loyalists had failed to detect an enemy within. They used to SOAR like eagles; but now, high tech corruption had ruined their lives. They could only CLUTCH and cling to each other and pray for a better day.
062521PSCtest, Writing Prompt-Grasp, Constance La France. 4P
The familiar sound of gunshots rings out in the dead of night,as a sniper takes position in the bushes out of sight,
Past my front door I hear the sound of many marching feet,as II Para make thier presence felt upon a Belfast street,
Gerry Adams does a hard days graft and then it's homeward bound,as a British soldier just nineteen lays wounded on the ground,
Well he fought for Queen and country so it comes as no surprise,as he drew his last breath,said a prayer and there a hero dies,
So many slain civilians there just casualties of war,do these people even realise what it is they're fighting for?
Or has the whole point of it got lost in the mists of time,the I.R.A take credit for thier latest deadly crime,
In a safe-house miles from nowhere ther's three loyalists lying dead,one in a grave[he was buried alive]and two with one straight through the head,
But the score it was evened before the cock crowed three Catholic civilians were slain,and there's rumours of vengence and fights to the death and calls to keep calm from Sinn Fein,
As politicians armed with pens sit counting up lost lives,the Ulster Paramilitary sit sharpening thier knives,
And loading slugs into the clip of someone elses gun,cpme on now lads there's dirty deeds awaitin to be done,
In Londonderry,County Down,in Belfast,newry too,the catholics and the protestants keep Ireland torn into,
as our children grow up in the shadow of fear,there's a stench of death and bloodshen here,
So you with the power to give us a chance,let's find a solution and finish the dance,
give Ireland back to the Irish....please,or bring the whole damned nation crashing down to its knees.
The restaurant was a sight to behold,
Elegant patrons, in dinner attire, stories untold.
The air was filled with a medley of scents,
Osmosis of fragrances, a sensory experience.
They were a class of society elite,
Top business leaders, their wealth replete.
Glasses raised high, in a toast to their success,
Compliments and laughter, the hall a-buzz.
It was a celebration for the political class,
A concluded election, a victory amassed.
The party leader stood to introduce the fare,
Words spoken, my understanding, a rare.
"My favorite dish, and by special request," he said,
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, ignorant specials."
Applause erupted, waiters on standby, ready to serve,
Sounds of merriment, the clink of cutlery, all observe.
But something strange was happening at table seven,
Coughing, chaos, no waiters to be seen.
Someone shouted, "We've been poisoned!" Panic set in,
Doors locked, a setup, no way to win.
A glass of whiskey accidentally spilled,
Candles set alight, the fire quickly filled.
Tragically, all were burnt beyond recognition,
The fire service arrived, but no water, a cruel imposition.
The party chairman had denied funds,
For this area, due to election results, not fond.
Instead, he'd built malls and shops for party loyalists,
All now trapped in the fire, a terrible twist.
Investigations revealed a note, left deliberately,
"We served you what you've been serving us," it read clearly.
A stark reminder of the consequences of ignorance,
And the price paid, for serving such a dish, a persistence.
As an aperitif to understand the essence of thought
Blood of a young tortoise touched my lips
Seldom as it is - pure ichor – I whisper’d in a trot
Let me get drunk on it while deifying the lunar eclipse
That is what I deserve, that is what I ought.
Is loneliness a hook up with the animalistic self?
Wearing an anorak to withstand the wind of banality
In the midst of a blizzard of an entrenched life
Giving the advantage to the senses of vitality,
Not more than Dido ripping her heart with a knife.
Give me the rise of an insurrection I dreamt about as a boy
A rebellion that would let principles be a judge,
This would surely deliver the desire for joy,
Or an uprising of the loyalists that won’t fudge
But will steer clear off temptations or a ploy.
As a grey fakir I paint a picture into a smudge,
Away from an aureate garden of gild
Into a desolate dryness of a scorch’d land
With my sole soul strongly willed
And a single stroke of my angry hand.
I wished to give tonality in sound and in colour
While being smitten by the freshly cut grass
All the riches will never appease the dolour
As I stand next to a window made of the Venetian glass.
Here I am, in justice I fall
Being accused of playing Pygmalion
Exalted to the throne of Gaslight and all
Given the heart on the platter as a medallion
Draining an amassment of turbulence
From the cluster of words that smack the gob
And remain in our ears as stubborn permanence
And I run, and run, and run, non-stop.