322.
The Philippine Eagle: A Monument
Behold the Philippine Eagle, King of Birds!
The tallest eagle, terror of monkey herds
Its crest stands tall like a rooster on the roll
Hear its vibrant, authoritative call
Like a mythical griffin, it has the cover of a lion
That's why in our nation it's called “Haribon”.
Discovered by a man from United Kingdom
The faithful, monogamous Haribon (King of Birds) is only from
The Philippines, my country…a valiant country
First known to Europeans in our year of gallantry
When our national hero, Rizal, was brutally slain
By our first conqueror – the kingly Spain
This glorious bird is our monument of courage
A living emblem of our struggle for golden age
Its dignified countenance on our coin chiseled
So splendid & adorable like a handsome young man muscled
The starring on our national basketball team's logo
This is our national bird – adore, preserve & lo!
-01/27/2015
(Dumarao)
*Defense of the Animals Collection
Quote: "The Taj Mahal, the symbol of love, signifies that the tomb can be architecture too.” -- unkown
Taj Mahal, a testament, love enshrined,
A marble ode to a love undefined.
Through the ages, its beauty persists,
Eternal love in white marble exists.
A tomb of white splendor, like a moonlit dream,
Where Shah Jahan's love for Mumtaz gleams.
Inscribed in every corner, whispers of devotion,
A monument of love, a celestial emotion.
A captive of fate in Agra's strong fort,
Shah Jahan's gaze on Taj, a solace sought.
In mirrors and windows, reflections so dear,
His heart held captive, a love sincere.
The imprisoned years took their toll,
Yet, his spirit soared, an undying soul.
In the shadows of love, he found his rest,
Beside Mumtaj, in the tomb's silent nest.
Unveiled in death, a union complete,
In Taj Mahal's grace, their love discreet.
Shah Jahan and Mumtaj, entwined forever,
A legacy of love, fading never.
Many white Americans still struggle with the issue of racism in the 21st century.This started with the Confederate monuments. The Confederate monuments do not have the same meaning to black Americans. While white americans view these works as a part of history, a past that cannot be covered over or changed ; the symbols of confederate officers being celebrated as heroes in public places to black americans will always symbolize a stain on America's very ideals. It was these people who fought to keep black Americans in enslavement and without any hope of being considered as equals to the white race. It was a wise move for cities to remove these statues and public monuments as it did not speak well for the image of America to continue to honor people who fought to deny people their basic rights and freedoms.
Those white Americans who were opposed to the removal of confederate monuments and statues, showed that they were insensitive to the black community and even antagonistic toward it. It showed that they did not understand black americans and how they felt. It was a
sign of how out of touch white Americans were with the black community.
by Maxwell "Max" Sebastian Burchett
One Memorial Day made me consider
The many tombs to unknown soldiers,
In memoriam to the lost
From wars then and now,
Unnamed ghosts.
Is memory of all without any names,
The memory of none?
Surely the names were known to some,
All missed and mourned by a loved one.
All had mothers with pain and grief unknown.
Those who fought for some cause,
Maybe not theirs,
Still paid the price with their lives,
In near and distant wars,
Extinguished in fire.
I know enough of hate,
Of powers’ desire,
To know wars will consume
Without any end
More names for the unknown tomb.
Straight perfect light moves
guiding spirits back to land
pleased to hug them
the unremoved stone
It has been there since our childhood,
it will remain there until our departure...
Is standing there telling a past story
who she asks...
Always present in the landscape,
don't move away from life...
Stone not removed... !
Natural monument of time!
Portion of our memory !
Os Merry Christmas friends of PoetrySoup !
Moss grows on the old gravestone
mooring itself into the moribund marble
spreading like a syphilitic rash
garbling the name in shades of green
the velvet glove of a thief
slowly stealing the identity
of the dead buried below
The blurred image of a willow tree
all one can still see
engraved in the soft stone
weathered by more than a century of rain
No one remains
to miss them
to mourn them
to wistfully stare at an empty chair
erased from history
as if they never existed at all
whoever they happened to be
To write and wander
among the spires
Her mystery ancient,
each look inspired
The sand the measure
of all between
What’s in my soul
—and unforeseen
(Monument Valley Utah: September, 2021)
Peac oh, peace,
I always wish you,
wonderful sculpture,
alive... !
Peace, peace...
I don't desire you
colossal
monument...
Dead nature...
dead in life... !
Fluid life dreamers
munch on cognizant pastries
shortwave misgivings
The Monuments
Have you the strength to spear a spine, and will you ladle blood pudding into the Battle Queen’s bosom, under contract that ye shall taste sudden death, and then feast with the gods, not terribly mamed, nor returned to pander for P’sy in the proximity of pathetic peasants?
It was their use of technology which over ran you. They merely hid behind their gods.
Weapons of war become ancient, but recidivism of rogues replenishes rage.
Your kid comes home with a year book, bearing a William Bedford page.
If Bedford were alive, he’d be chopping your kid’s heads off, not signing their yearbooks.
In the chilled space of time,
There she stood—unperturbed;
There she stood, cold and motionless
As if a victim of death, but not dead;
There she stoically stood—challenging
All of nature; even man himself—daring.
There she stood—leafless—her tall skeleton
Piercing the sky as if a monument to her life
And being—a naked statue with arms spread wide.
If her imaging could speak, standing there, she
Would probably say: “Joy not; mourn not…I shall return;
I shall return in all the beauty and fullness of my being.”
There she stood, gloriously rooted—nature’s most profound
Teaching symbol of the essence of life, death and resurrection—
Indeed, what could be more representative than a wintered tree!
Saša Milivojev - ICE MONUMENT
I have been searching for you
in the centuries
In lost dreams
In icy seas
Tracks covered in snow
And you are no more
Everyone ‘s undone
Winds! Turn me to ice
A monument of ice
To be awakened
By soft rays of light
Once a heart is thawed
It will beat for you
Memories I lost
Turn my blood to frost
Tear droplet so young
On snow covered ground
I shine from afar
But no one awaits
To lessen my pain
That is neverending
Winds! Turn me to ice
A monument of ice
To be awakened
By soft rays of light
Once a heart defrosts
It will beat for you
Sun will disembogue
Like honey that’s thawed.
Saša Milivojev
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
visit: www.sasamilivojev.com
every song, every line scrawled,
of poetry and of prose,
rasps at this open wound,
and calls back your absence,
like a disturbed spirit summoned,
to possess old familiar haunts,
these scrapes and slashes teach,
my senses what is refined,
and show that I’ve lost,
that which was never mine,
nine tenths of the law,
were to another already licensed
then need we flagellate so,
need we be so transfixed,
I won't accept just being,
an expense in your ledger,
a tariff paid to affection,
with no hope of dividend,
leaves and love have fallen,
blood red by the roadside,
what is life but death,
that has gone to seed
need we be so transfixed,
what is life but death,
that has gone to seed,
blood red by the roadside,
outside of the city gates
Grenfell tower
ruptures the horizon,
London's skyline is scarred
like a blackened diplodocus
or a charred monument
for a laconic London bridge
still burning
But look,
linen wraps its iron-bones
mumifying the city's underclass-
an icon for future generations
oppressively,
grief hauls a heavy granite cross
as sharp rocks splinter shins
then whips wheeze
winnowing breath
ascending a modern Golgotha,
who unleashed this hydra 's fury
whose black breath incinerates
the once laughter of our kindred?
As family once sung at Christmas,
they now hear
the endless screech of sirens,
the contagious roar of conflagration.
Is London another Guernica?
trodden by apocalyptic steads
with mothers cradling dead infants,
rocking their limp limbs
in a deep dirge to red-fired skies,
furnaced by council fascists
as politically the city is fractured.
An emerging phoenix will sprout,
magenta winged against black,
from this burning pyre, a reincarnation.
a rebranded London is reborn
perused by the London Eye
ever vigilant but now blindfolded
observing justice for the unheard
and voiceless minority
as a terrible beauty is spawned
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