Long Writings on the wall Poems
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Why we'd catered to the foundation of unpopular beliefs beyond what a romance like ours would follow beneath the calmness of people like us the fascinating wonder along the cities shoreline of gut wrenched haste we'd found each other in spite the gathering of hatred bestowed between the lines of a completed manuscript well kelp under my pillow why we'd balanced a certain novel approach to be forgiven if our love affair caused pain the lessons learned the writings on the wall poetically prohibited to love after writing a romantic love affair smothered by the mafia the creativeness the cunniness the sinking values of the old country crawling beyond the olive branches grapevines and lemon trees of tuscany finding me within the cupboards of cedar raw bourbon cigars painting a warm glass of merlot suddenly Italia began to bathe in my sweet nectar of kindness wrapped in nothing but desire hence a quiet find where being a female writer with masculine views why rather frowned upon throughout the twenty first century unless it's displayed on a mahogany mantel where Mann have left torn pages rippled wrapping of memos reminders that a woman could not write masculine binderies playwrites from beyond what's seen what's heard what's felt breaking barriers of what one believes should be allowed only in a sullen thought process the thinking kind the moral findings of patience and thought musing over the masterpiece I craved over labor pains breast feeding and hearing that a woman just can't write organized crime novels to be or not to be charmed by affection yet honored to be a writer
They have told us the consequences of our actions,
We have been told about the trailing reactions,
We turned deaf ears,
Our insatiable desires have ruled us,
Our voracious longings have
chauffeured us to plunder her home,
We take more than she can give,
We take and leave little,
We rely on the law of replenishment,
Inadvertently bringing to bear our punishment,
We decimate her home,
Leaving her frail and bare,
She cries out for help,
She tells us to read the writings on the wall,
She tells us to ponder on the meaning of the words,
She tells us to consider the impending troubles,
That gloom will bring,
We say we don’t mind taking the fall,
For there'll be a season of rejuvenation,
Her hands will bear us before we stumble,
Oblivious to the fact that we have weakened her hands,
We stand at the edge of the cliff.
February 14, 2023.
Humanity born on the bone of an earthen mound
froze graphics on cave walls hail their Ice Age strive,
wall carvings speak three trees, a forest be sound,
harsh times craft crept the charged choice to thrive,
they owned their time, and those old craved their life.
The continental divide craft the Americas,
termed yarn cave lifers to cliff dwellers,
from the mountainous Incans Cuzco etchers Transamerica's,
Aztec and Mayan walled labyrinth kaleidoscopic cellars,
and Far East Orient, and Indian subcontinent chiselers.
Biblically phrased had enlighten the world of Christians,
as writings on the wall are prophetically profound,
the world's a better place for Catholics and Protestants,
most have read that Scripture blesses all Faiths as sound,
Christ states to the fish and loave eaters on top of a mound.
Throughout time, an omen from The Rock of Ages,
from a second or to a millennium of years ago,
says nothing but for the claimant to ascertain the sages,
and so a man of God locked in the den of lions. Oh, woe!
Sees Daniel alive surrounded by lions. King mop & mow.
Wars between King Nebuchadnezzar and The Persians
and The Medes that had led to his loss and surrender,
and eventually to his death. The Persians claimed versions
of the city of Babylon, and The Medes took the other,
half yond Babylon. Nebuchadnezzar reflects, dies a believer.
Words on the wall are meant for just you to fathom.
Do not dawdle, if there's time, sleep on it. Then awake
and process what might be a deep chasm or a tiny atom.
Your righteousness doubted, rid the evil, and do what it take
to claim, the Way, the Truth, and the Life as a keepsake.
Words were not enough to explain the ancient stories that came before,
Beyond the slightest imagination of what took place during times of mixed truths,
Written by those who were lucky to read and write.
Decided before time seemed to matter,
belonged a vague cave illustration about right and wrong.
Lost in-between translations
from Egyptians to jews,
paintings within the cave only there to amuse.
In hidden language between the lines that rise the whole truth.
The pyramids built on the labor of slaves,
proves hard work and sacrifice shall forever remain.
Writings on the wall from tombs to public bathrooms,
proves most opinions expressed is nonsense that's not true
#The_writings_are_on_the_wall
How do I turn my heart back on, how do I shut my eyes on you, when all I have to live for is only you, how do I sleep when you are not well, how do I smile when your eyes are teary, how do I live, when you are nowhere near me, how do I breath in your absentia, when the world suffocate me beyond my endurance, where should I go when to you is where I'm constantly led to, where do I hide, when your shadow spooks me, how do I unshackle myself from you, when you are always everywhere, and in everything I see and touch, who do I become when you are map my life navigates on,
When distances shuts us apart, when the world is busy pulling us sideways, when after all the fighting and temporary rejections still in my tattered emotions, walking back constantly to where you are, where do I go to heal, when you constantly have stabbed hope lifeless out of my heart, where do I go for the writings are on the wall,
Where do I go, where do I hide, where should I confine to, when I'm welded to your destiny, how do I breath when my lungs have shed the last of its least, when my body has lost the last drip of blood fighting for you, where do I go when all I'm left with being shelves of strength lost in trying to make you understand, to show you the writings on the wall, where do I go when I'm stripped of my pride, dignity, loosing myself to prove a point to you, where do I go when my efforts are shed in vain, when beyond hopless my emotions have dried to, where do I go when the writings on the wall blocks me from seeing beyond you, from thinking beyond you, from hopping beyond you, where do I go when all I have is you
Where do I go, when the writings on the wall haunts me day and night and everywhere and in everything I do, where do I go, with this chain on my soul, constantly reminding of the writings on the wall
For you, I will risked it all, when life is ebbed out of me, my world shattering, for you I will drop in my last breath on your feet, for the writings on the wall are me and you and no one else, the writings on the wall
#Poetic_Ink
Your love is likening a bed, at home;
With four posts as legs represents the world you see;
And the sheets on top are the skies, (blue skies)
God you are the bed I want to lie in;
Covering my lot, filed with trues;
Your the blanket that keeps me warm;
As the comforter
You keep me secure
And the blanket keeps me worm as the comforter releases its own;
From the sun to the vast reaches of space;
God you're the bed I want to lie in;
Because you keep me from danger and all harm;
In my lot, filled with the trues;
And I don't want you to stop;
No, NO, No;
Your love is liken a bed at my home;
You keep me rested safe and warm;
Father, God you are the bed I want to lie in;
And the blanket keeps me warm as the comforter releases its own
From the sun to the vast reaches of space;
Your like a small plate a springtime, breakfast with bacon and eggs;
God you're the bed, the bed I want to lie in;
So that you can keep me warm;
Lay down my burdens;
I lay down my troubles now;
I rest here and I am no longer tired now;
Your love is liken a bed at my home;
You keep me safe and rested and warm;
I just want to be blessed and received;
God you are the bed I want to lie in;
written by James Edward Lee Sr. Aug 10 2011
taken From my anthology " The Writings On the Wall" 2011(c)
Operation Barbarossa
the panzers start to roll,
Breaking out from Poland’s Baltic,
towards Sevastopol,
Ten million soldiers strong,
go goose-stepping east,
The Fuhrer’s Wehrmacht,
alongside his waffen SS elite.
No margin for error,
nazi Germany’s biggest gamble,
Get this wrong, and under
the red army might get trampled
But no need for worry, as
all before starts to collapse,
Generals believe be over by Autumn
or Christmas perhaps.
Murdering and enslaving millions,
as they overrun,
Reds burn their own cities,
denying shelter for the hun,
Hitlers well oiled machine,
begins to slow right down,
As Stalin moves his factories,
to out of range towns.
Nazis keep attacking,
as only they know how,
But stretched thinly on the ground,
winter has settled in now,
Can see domes of the kremlin,
victory looked so close,
May as well be a world away,
buried deep in Russian snows.
So nothing for it, must dig in
wait for the spring,
Writings on the wall,
offensive over, blunting their sting,
Then comes the counter,
sure as day follows night,
Red army attacks all fronts,
clad in cloaks of white.
The tide starts to turn,
in ruins of Stalingrad,
Germans are surrounded,
uniforms reduced to rags,
No food in their belly’s,
living off dogs and cats,
Paulus the general surrenders,
Throwing Hitler into a spat.
Killing still not over,
lots more bitter fighting to be had,
Stalin sacrifices millions,
in suicidal counterattacks,
Both sides face off daily,
in a mammoth slugging match,
prisoners were not taken
none left alive to catch.
So in the end Nazis crumble,
not beaten by a better army,
Never stood a chance,
once America joined the party,
Russia lost thirty million people,
Stalin did not care less,
Was only one real winner in
WW2 and that was the U.S.
By
David Kavanagh
In WW2 every life and sacrifice counted,
my poem is looking at the wider bigger
picture and is not meant to belittle or
negate any of the other allied nations
involved in the ultimate victory.
Oh, to read 'em now,
those writings on the wall,
poems, parodies of Poe and Pound,
stuck there with jam, back then.
Ah then! Carefree and footloose,
students of literature and art!
Life was so easy. we didn't care a bit.
(I had a reason not to make a rime).
Bob wrote fatuous lines about some man
"who flitted from corner to corner
of his misspent life" How apt.
Back then! We mocked both Heaven and Hell!
Then Bob's just broken-off engagement ring,
melted down, drip-drip, till nought was left
but some base alloy black and drab.
Bob talked to some imp, (or was it Puck?)
perched where walls and ceiling meet,
He said he did, who cares that much.
(I had a reason not to make a rime).
We mocked life, now life mocks us.
To read 'em now, those writings on the wall!
I’ve asked myself this question
Now for thirty years
If the writings on the wall
Why isn’t it more clear
How’s a man supposed to go on
Always asking why
What’s meant to be always seems
To somehow pass him by
Cause a heart knows
Where it’s soul
Was always meant to be
And this heart knows
Just where it’s
Supposed to be
Every breath we breathe apart
Is one less that we’ll share
Every feeling that goes unsaid
Leads to pain and despair
We keep playing hide and seek
From the fantasy
That’s bound our souls from the very start
This wanting you is easy it’s the distance
That’s tearing me apart
Cause a heart knows
Where it’s soul
Was always meant to be
And this heart knows
Just where it’s
Supposed to be
Yes this heart knows just where it’s
Supposed to be...
Hey! brother
I've noticed that you talk to God
could you pray for me
could you send up a conversation all about me
I've have failed the Lord our God miserably
Please pray for me
And you see in to the Lord
and you talk to Him profusely
And you're not ashamed to speak His name
In private or in a room full of human beings
Publicly nor privately well could you send up a prayer for me
In Jesus name
could you pray for me
In Jesus name
I don't believe or think He would hear me
To the heavenly Father I don't think it would be a bother well could you send up a little
Prayer
Now you have two knees could you bend down and use one for me
To send up a praise for me
Because you're not ashamed to speak His name
Amen
from anthology "The writings on the Wall"
James Edward Lee Sr.
08/03/11