Retributions Poems

Live Life Here and Now

There ain’t no heaven. 
There ain’t no hell. 
Nothing to come, nothing to become thereafter or still yet to be. 
Nothing to live or die for, as a reward. 
Nothing to pay for after you die. 
All retributions, recompenses and rewards are mortal just like your life after inception is mortal, and you are doomed to die. 
So live your life as if there is no tomorrow, with nothing carried over at day's end, 
beyond hope to be better at what you do, and what you are and can be, to loved ones and others.

there ain't no heaven
nor no hell down there below
live life here and now

Turbulence

We cannot calm the turbulence in the open sky.
We must bear with its disharmony as it passes us by ~Quote by poet

Tempestuous moods erupt within, a tumultuous severe agitation
Brings forth undulating vibrations, exploding with a pounding pulsation
Retributions unholy, big blue-sky echoes with conflicting resound
When the balefully coarse maligning words mercilessly expound
Somedays gliding my way high through a stream of consciousness
Taken back by the waves soaring low to a destiny that seems endless
My soul, wrenched and wretched, lets loose from my clutching mind
Over the ocean, tempest-tossed above knotty seas less than kind
Excuse if you will my slashing unabiding, dismissive demeanor
Never shall I find where tides gently flow, and grass that is greener
Clashing and clawing through dark gathering clouds are my fate
Exit you my friend from my world and my presence before it’s too late

Out With the Old

Out with the old an in with the new
As the crowd sang, we’ve got a break-through
They said, their resolutions
And prayed for retributions
While sipping on a New Year’s woo-stew

Quatrains of Hibernal 2020

Quatrains of Hibernal 2020
By David J Walker
I
The hibernal task of passing a year of Retributions
Scribes of the Anno Mundi  write in prose of those who are left behind
Those who did not believe the mask and the lambs' blood
Were one and the same
II
The solution was said to be written on a paper ballot 
And the change in the balance of power 
would bear salvation to a 
nation still  divided by dry ideas
III
The joy of the seasons  were seen, if at all, 
In a black and white rendering 
Of the world with faint memory of 
Any other color
IV
The end, of course
Would not be the end
But the beginning of an undetermined 
Measure of recovery

After the Covid Plague

When all the sick
Are put to rest
Train station
And plague ships 
Are empty
Retributions are fought
And paid
Nature
Again
Forced from towns
Highways and byways
Rumble and hum
To the movement of mode
Again
White trails
Crisscross the sky
Will it really
Be the same
People can’t blame
Their Gods
Just there wicked
And unhygienic ways
Will malnutrition
Poverty and hunger
Mate
To birth war
And hate
Will the little
Privacy that’s left
Be taken
Stolen
Without consent
Will social capitalism
Be the new bent
Social worth
Based on a social score
The one truth
(Am already behind the eight ball)
Will persecution
Again flourish
Targeting
The Blacks
The Jews
The foreigner
Beggars, pilgrims
Disabled
Women
Will Art
Turn black
With pessimism
And a dance of death
A return of Gothic
And Gargoyles
To accelerate
The wrath
Of Gods
Life
Won’t be the same
What was
Is gone
The flux
Of our existence
Replaced with
What’s to come

Summer's Passage

No more breathless days  nor dawns oppressive heat 
no more humidities' bathing tongue , nor natures reply in retributions sung  
With swift lightning strikes  and sullen thunder , from soaring clouds black with anger 
as the long restless days pass from August into September                                                              

Among distant horizons drowning the light, 
no more lingering hours waiting for summers sun to slide into soothing night
no crickets ,cicadas or bees , nor butterflies or birds flying to destinations 
no Milky Ways broad pathways to set sail among the golden stars, blinking silent directions , 
preparing the way for Orion s mighty sword to rule in Winters reflection
as lengthening nights pass from August into September

Gazal

Collusion of illusions… life that is life
Profusion of confusions... life that is life

Our attitude has not seen exactitude 
Conclusion of delusions… life that is life 

We have been victims of own opinions 
Intrusion of pollutions… life that is life

Realization is not at a reality till now 
Infusion of allusions… life that is life

Enmity evaporates not, Rochishmon,
Revolution of retributions … life that is life

Dismal Abya Yala

Hundreds of ancient Nations,
 each speaking their own language,
 extinguished by fire, extinguished as fire
 by the Colonists, who escaped religious persecution,
 
just to persecute other people,
 just to take their land.
 Cruel as north of Black Sea
 Celts and their sickles.
 
Descendants of those 
who extinguished your Nations
 are reclining on your territories
 instead of making retributions.
 
The longer they occupy it,
 the greater is their guilt.
 In the end we all will be extinguished,
 but spirits are beyond ashes.
 
What was taken from you,
 you will reclaim.
 The spirit of God
 is commanding stars
 
as resinous chips in the lanterns
 of your forefathers.
 All powerful and holy God 
whose son was killed
 
when he became human
 by the ancestors of Colonists.
 God the Father resurrected him.
 The same God will reconcile all the grievances.

Close Enough To Still Feel the Pain

I sat   down...   down...   down...
falling into retributions of lost souls with 
heavy hearts.

I stood   up...   up...   up...
standing high enough to see the pain
crowding over the decades 
of intermediate relations.

I fell   down...   down..   down...
deep enough to catch a glimpse
of the fires of the hell I created.

I flew   up...   up...   up...
high in the sky with hawks
tearing apart their prey
like it was nothing.

I was your prey.
You were my hawk.

I was your hell.
You were my heaven.

I was your lost cause.
You were my purpose.

I walked   toward...   toward...   toward...
the black door of goodbyes...

I ran    away...   away...   away...
far enough to not see my past,
yet close enough to still feel the pain.

Written By: Laura Loo
Date Written: March 29, 2016

Do Not Seek Too Far

We seek out the moon for guidance
In love and war; as our ideal alliance
We seek out the stars for inspirations
The best and worst; through all occasions 
We seek out the clouds for creativity
From air to sea, it is all about, relativity
We seek out the sun for warmth and grace
To enhance, peace and glory to the human race
We seek out the heavens for solutions
For the sake of justice and retributions
We seek out love in far off places
But love breathes in our hearts and lives in our faces

By: Wilbert Evangelista Dela Cruz

Nobody's Land

Lenient, odd reciprocity,
chains by chains, combustion of lies,
exposed vulnerability,
an abyss full of screaming cries.

A minute passed by, I commend,
a tenacious wheel in motion,
drifting across its star-crossed end,
trespasses without precaution.

Invocation in the making,
as acolytes conjured a spell,
a ferocious beast, summoning,
from the depths, the abysmal hell.

Without retributions, no doubts,
turbulence beneath the dark clouds,
lies under an encrypted code
so critical, node after node.

Brimstone with sulfur in the brink,
a massacre of massive gore,
hopelessness awaiting such link.
Thud! And then I opened that door

What's in this life, purely trivial,
full of betrayal and deception,
the clock's ticking sentimental,
down until Earth's final motion.

6.21.2015

Holy Is the Lamb

Holy is the Lamb?


Live sacrifice
stained lamb upon bloods altar.
What is gained by such disdain
for the life blood of youths longing?
What “god” demand his worship
in the hungry mouths of children,
the fear of retributions wrath?

Why the symbol of the lamb?
Soft, helpless, innocent yet
terrified in its ignorance.
Is this but a poor metaphor
for mercy, a clandestine attempt
to herd the masses into submission?

What sanctifies the lamb, cleanses it,
making it worthy to be offered
as a palliative placebo,
to appease the fears of
the worshiping minions?

What lamb, masked by the
menace of its masters, could
satisfy the needs of their “god”?

What lamb,
chosen lest they take a child,
would not go willingly.

What lamb
sanctified by the love of those
who hold no rancor for,
nor fear of, their god
would not be made Holy?

Raised up as a symbol of 
the greater love,
the purer spirit,
the innocence
of Holiness.

John G. Lawless
10/4/2014

not submitted to the contest because it
wouldn't fit through the hoop.

Dr. King Explained.

Dr. King Explained

Love one another
Our Father, to mankind said.
We are all brothers.

Primates hesitate.
They tap into hatred’s fate.
Hanging and beating.

Falsely imprisoned.
King taught love with God’s insight.
Haters fought his cause.

Jailed, like Christ for Truth
Man’s evil retributions.
Reaping hate’s havoc.

Murdered for teaching.
All are equal in God’s eyes.
Sacrificial man.

We’ve come a long way.
Maybe, now, we understand.
Truths King once had said.

Love one another.
At last, many understand
We are all brothers.


© Dane Smith-Johnsen
April 28, 2010
Poetic Form: Senryu series.

Coming Over the Open Horizon

Coming over the open horizon 
     My eyes prospect the garish cliffs of day
     And find not gold in the morning light
               By sorrow sifted away.
       But there and there across each state
              The subtle sun of spring
            A new crop harrowing brings
      Into view ... and crows cawing to devour 
      
       The contentless cases of crumbled minds
           Tent cities, like old cotton bales
           Tent cities, like cold rotten tales
            Of gypsy curses bringing here
           Retributions of brambled despair
              And I panning through tears
             Turned away from the condition
 That was for my history the predetrmined condition
            But I could not shake the thought
              Of butterflies by spiders caught.

Seven Times Seventy Seven

“Seven Times seventy Seven”
Locked inside a room behind a wooden door;
A young man is imprisoned there; who will be free no more.
   You can often hear him screaming; behind the walls so thick;
   And you may often hear the clicking, as at the lock he picks.
He’s young and quite ill tempered; wearing vengeance like a badge;
You can hear him yelling let me out; I can handle this he brags.
    It’s true when he was leader; very few would cross his path;
    But the other one who’s part of him; is offended by his wrath.
So the thinker takes his chances; he’s prepared to mend his wounds;
After all he has imprisoned; he who could bring doom..
    He gives no weight to retributions; for he walks a narrow road;
    He must not be distracted; for his life is to be showed.

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