Molotov Poems

The Killing Field

Ariana nodded, tremolo fingers,
and they ran across the killing field,
watching the steel-toed kite ascend—
a fleeting instant of triumph in the vacuum.
Josh scoffed as it dipped,
both caught in the pull of the abyss,
falling but not landing.

They took turns gliding it,
Bald headed eagles filling the air,
until it sank into the seabeds,
the depth charge igniting underground.
“Let’s see who can jump the highest,”
Ariana said, voice light but steady,
aiming to beat his rebound.
Josh clapped, mocking her.
“Ready to launch?” he asked,
handing her the Molotov cocktail.

Strike Back At Terror

His grandfather attacked mine
    to remove him from land that grandpa had bought
  Oozing hatred from deep in his gut
    he'd force grandpa off of land that he sought

  Then his father attacked mine
    with molotov cocktails, homemade bombs
  I asked my father, why not strike back
    my dad was silent, a good answer he lacked

  Now the grandson attacks me, ever more viciously
    Yet the world shrugs it off, doesn't seem to see...
  But when my family's attacked, when I strike back at terror
    ~ Why is it I, the Israeli, who's always in error?!

Ukraine and the Wolf

I grieve for those in Ukraine
Who woke up one day to find
The wolf at the door.

They do not fold,
They fight with everything in their arsenal.
Molotov cocktails, grandmothers with weapons,
Those brave enough to stand in front of tanks
All are images that will stay with me.

Their leader fights among them, 
Proud Ukrainian man with a family of his own
His rallying cry is heard round the world; he fights for his country.

Hunt the wolf; end his reign of terror.
Catch the wolf in a trap, and let him wither and die.

Warpath

grandma makes
molotov cocktail
   freedom fights
 with action
profanity in Ukraine
warm heart on warpath

3/1/2022
Give Me A Shadorma
Sponsor: Sotto Poet

Molotov Cocktail

If you want to take a trip to the moon,
you won't make it in a hot air balloon.

Where education is concerned, you didn't go far.
No, you can't order a Molotov Cocktail in a bar.

News Flash

Kurt turned his white daddy in
  for going to Washington
January 6 at the President's request
  Kurt heeded the call, full of zeal and zest...

Amanda turned her black daddy in too
  A Molotov cocktail he threw
At a white police officer in Portland
  Unarmed and undermanned

Now Kurt's daddy's in jail
  Amanda's is out with no bail
And that is the end of this
  'With Liberty and Justice for All' tale

____________________________________
Note: Names have been changed to protect
         all the parties involved.

A Cheerful, Optimistic Fellow

Off to college he'd gone
  a cheerful, optimistic fellow
laidback, easygoing, mellow
  not one to boom or to bellow

But the folks there taught him
  to be ashamed of his privilege
That due to his fair white skin
  the college had let him in  
  
They told him that his part-time job
  served the corrupt capitalist mob
that he should get out there and protest
  with all the strength he possessed

So he turned against the 'system'
  rejected those who would kiss him
learned to make a Molotov cocktail
  targeted a cop; now he's in jail

Yes, off to college he'd gone
  a cheerful, optimistic fellow
He'll return home a bitter young man
  robbed of hope ~ no future, no plan

Rioting From a Recliner

I must admit I do enjoy watching the country unravel at times
that's what spices up a mundane life
makes us appreciate calmer times.
How I do enjoy watching the uncoiling mayhem
Martin looter kings and Drama queens 
trying to ignite a darker form of change
(passive resistance and civil disobedience be damned).
How I do enjoy watching the uncoiling mayhem,
a combat sport at its very finest.
A twitchy thin blue battle line versus
a pulsing cluster of malcontents...
A mixologist's dream:
tumblers of tear gas
Molotov on the rocks 
pockets of flaming shots - 
Goblets of salt rimmed shattering glass -
whirling cherry bombs and baton.
Wrestling matches-naval shots and bloody Mary lips.
The blue man group atop Battle horses
sirens and flares inter-coursing...

Wish I had the balls to join in the fun.
but I do the next best thing,
steer my recliner-straight into the fracas.

Quaking Terror

Run, run, run from the outbreak of quaking terror, 
but where can you go or hide because it's not done. 
Trapped, in bitter anguish, hands cuffed behind your back, 
it’s taken your pride, you'll remember forever. 

The locust has been released from its amber cage, 
reproducing, scatter millions, killing slowly 
igniting a Molotov cocktail round beings 
with its infected poison sting convulsing rage. 

People are feeling pain from the quaking terror.


3/19/2020

House On Fire

Some say don't fear while others fret
On all of the happenings 
We've struck a match to our past

"Now the house we've built is burning" 

Our forefathers built with blood, sweat, and tears
The foundation we have here
Well into two hundred years 

"What lessons are we learning" 

The contract in which they wrote down
Constitutes sacred ground
Flick the Bic and burn it down

"Not worried over who we're hurting" 

Generations yet to come
What will we be teaching them
That hard work makes great kindling

"Does anyone else find that disturbing" 

Overtime it was bound to run its course
Now we know why Miss Liberty carries a torch
We tossed a molotov cocktail onto our own front porch

"Now the house we've built is burning

Born In the Grave

She had serious anger issues,
     a walking time-bomb set to explode
Only took one untoward look
     to make her lose all self-control 
Sent her careening down the path
     of a bleak penitentiary life
Another not-at-home mother
Another absentee wife

So what became of the husband you ask
Her ten-year sparring partner
On the first anniversary of
     when her fiery blast went off
He was drunk driving ninety — 
     a blazing vehicular Molotov
Crash ...   burn ...   black hearst
When she heard news of his death,
     she mourned him with a curse

So what became of the kids you ask
Five children left home alone
Got buried beneath the emotional rubble,
     their innocence vaporized ...   pppfftt!! ...   gone

They were children conceived in make-up lust,
     between rounds of fights royale
They were children raised in abject neglect,
     destined to only experience living hell

They were children born without hope,
     they were children born in the graveyard cell
They were children already dead,
     lo, before their first breath was ever exhaled

If History Was Food

-----------------------------------------------------

The Day the Drum Died

The Day the Drum Died/Dedicated to The Watts Drum Circle


It's festival time!...Congeros!...Timbaleros!...Same place same time
The Villager Caller is on the scene looking and waiting to do his thing
Start with a calypso rhythm...tap... tap...tap..tap...tap...tap...
One arrives with nothing but his pride
Another one comes with no drum...Then another but his ego won't let him 
inside
The sacred drum circle in Watts once thrived...Every drum every color and 
size...
Tumbas...Quintos...Djembes and Talking Drums too!!
What caused all this creative energy to subside? 
Why slap these drums anyway?
This is a legacy of our African Ancestors
A commemoration of 1965 when Molotov cocktails flew by
Not Mongo! Not Berretto!...Get real and get down...
Otherwise, the generation to come will remember us and sing a sad song 
called...The Day the Drum Died

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Best Medicine

If laughter's the best medicine
I think I've had an overdose
It's coursing through my body
From my head down to my toes

I'm worried about my Ass
They say you can laugh it off
I'm building up pressure
Like a giant Molotov

I am taken to the funny farm
They think I've gone nuts
I started seeing animals
Walking around without butts

How is it possible
It seems like a bad joke
I'm laughing so hard
I start to cough and choke

I guess in the end
I really did overdose
It didn't quite kill me
But it really came close

So control your laughter
Maybe one chuckle's enough
That dang old funny
is powerful stuff



written by: Richard Lamoureux
Smile you're on Candid Camera Contest

Phryne Ii

Greece you are waiting for me.
With white speechless marbles
within the August heat.
With sullen and loveless areopagites
carving my name on sea-shells.

Hypereides, you liar.
Praxiteles, oh so blind.
You Xenocrates, son of the *****.

And me that I was thought
I would return bearing banners
to rebuild your Thebes.

A roar under the earth.
Ashes in the wind.
Athens rises in the sky
and charges against me.

Why should I be afraid?
Why should I run for a shelter?
No!
I don’t want you to cover my eyes.
I want to see the terror in yours,
when after the execution
you’ll find me at the exit,
waiting for you
with a molotov cocktail in my hands.

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