You can’t see the real me
Cos I’m preconceived all through
I’m a slave and you are free
Though you speak as if subdued
Cos you serve the cult of Themis
So your words come out managed
Freedom’s your romantic thesis
You’re a usual kind of savage
Double minded, weighed and measured
Multiplied and taught to pay
And we share the same pleasures
In details and every day
What’s the difference, if there’s one?
Slaves are saboteurs, you say
While you spoke this, slaves all gone
And you’ve got to work all day.
This poem is for whomever is messing with
my lines and cadence on some of my
rhyme poems and a few others on the
Poetry Soup site. I sincerely apologize to
whoever reads my work and likes it. Those
that have been reading me for awhile know
what's up. If I cared enough about the foolishness I'd make a complaint but I have
a feeling it won't go anywhere. I'll just say this instead. Do you not have anything better to
do with yourself/selves? Lol smh
Whoever is responsible should be ashamed.
Carry on
............................................................????
You can jumble my words but I rise for
it is meant for them to see
It's all about the words not an ego or
whoever wants to block little me
Seeing is believing & I can see hate makes
people do silly things
I'm obviously a bell in a hollow mind & you
can't wait for me to ring
Do something else with yourself instead of
taking aim at a target
I guess followers will do anything because
being a leader is the hardest
A matador to lame saboteurs looking for
a response in the red
I'm laughing so I guess you'll try again
if this is how you make your bread
And so it’s make your mind up time, right here in the U.K.
I guess you’ll get the same thing soon, in the U.S. of A
Candidates will waffle on each night and every day
The gullible will swallow every single word they say
For the won’ts then will and the wills then won’t
While the don’ts all do ad the dos all don’t
And some veer left and some veer right
And some will talk like black is white
It’s yes means no and no means yes
And less means more and more means less
No wonder we’re in such a mess
When their true views we can but guess
In this campaign that’s laden with
Paid saboteurs and nobblers
Integrity means my vote goes
To he who answered, “Cobblers!”
—————————————————————————————
[Only Nigel Farage would answer a stupid question with
A plain, simple “Cobblers”. Indeed, he did just that in
Interview with the BBC’s Nick Robertson. Go, Nigel!]
It is hard to walk in the sand especially with boots and a heavy rifle.
Manuel and I would sit on a rock and watch the moon give birth to
a distant blue Africa.
Franco's Guardia Civil were not all thugs. A few were poets.
Manuel's father had worshiped the general and had blessed
the day Guernica 'that Marxist nest' had been flattened.
That was decades before he was born, yet Manuel still patrolled
the beach, weaving between sunbathing tourist seeking nonexistent saboteurs.
On his rounds the young conscript fell in love - often, but in winter
(when his sneering corporal was away), he would sit in the bar,
tongue curled like a snail shell, dedicating lurid hyperbole
to every female foreigner that had smiled at him, and to all
the Catalan girls that never did.
That night the moon seemed to translate for us.
He asked me earnestly:
if I thought Franco would ever lift the ban on bikini's?
"Never!" I replied, "The Pope and the Rightists are against it."
Manuel rose and shuffled sadly away, his rifle dragging on the sand.
That night the moon came close, to bask on Manuel’s beach,
and she without a stitch of cloud-cover over her matronly form.
Sneaking into the enemy camp,
the guards all fast asleep
Crawling past the sorrow and pain,
old promises to keep
Deep within the saboteurs grasp,
for one last time, alone
Burrowing into uncertainties lair
—to despoil the unknown
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
she knows naught of a life that is her own,
so giving all she has to mate and brood ...
and tho deep-down within, she burns alone,
for just one treasured passion that is hers,
her kids and husband, precious saboteurs ...
require her love, and selfless fortitude.
a dream of dancing feet is now the haunt
of little feet that danced into her heart,
and one knight, true, her charming confidant.
so maybe, one day, she will twirl her toes,
but she has no regrets, as goodness knows ...
a wife and mother ... play the grandest parts.
When fate clashes
With destiny or
Your illusions
Clamors with reality
If hope and dreams
Are saboteurs
Then what happens to
Your future;
If in this life, you
Cannot face the
Challenges that
Appear and
You live inside
Your head,
Huddled up in fear
In your own little
World of illusions
Where you get treated
Greatly.
You have become a
King inside
Your world and
Your status is quite
Stately.
As long as you stay
Tucked away-
Inside the castle in
Your mind.
You'll never have to
Meet the fool
That plays you in
Real life.
There is a fool out here
That looks a lot like you;
He even he sounds
Like you do too.!
Could this fool that we
Witness with our eyes
Somehow be in your skin:
Or is there a pretender
Out there:
Pretending as if he's you?
We, your friends want to ask,
Is he of some kin?
Because it seems there's a
Fool out there acting
As if he were you...
African Proverb says
“You have become a
King in the land of illusions
While in the land of
Reality you remain a fool”
Sit for Short Spell
Do I need to be in lead or left behind
Or end up lost where no one can find
Perhaps exactly where I want to be
Half way between you and also me.
Middle of roader really could be called
Over hill and dale things have hauled
Ending up at dearly beloved's door
Seven years ago and then four score.
Troops were in Gettysburg so I heard
At Appomattox Courthouse was word
War had been over and finally done
Still are all in debate as to who won.
All of this started to set the stage
For twenty-first century and computer age
When World Wars were finally complete
And our enemy Germany we did defeat.
We have lots of looters and saboteurs
That all of us now must have to endure
While we in America have much compassion
Middle East has been home for any assassin.
How much longer must this have to go one
Until whole world is wiped out and then done
Some say right it truly may be hard to tell
So what we should is sit for a short spell.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier - Canada
We all know you now
You have fallen at our feet
You have guarded them all with life and limb
Noble and brave
Only to fall at a cowards last call
You have stirred the souls of the unknown heroes
Their appall shall seek the just dues of our defamers and saboteurs
Young lads who now welcome you in the hereafter
Shall haunt our enemies from near or afar
The drum rolls sound, as the rifles salute
The Unknown Soldier
You are unknown no more
Notes: In memory of Nathan Cirillo and Patrice Vincent both killed in cold blood on the week of Oct 26, 2014 by cowards in the name of Islam. Nathin Cirillo was standing guard at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
Also in memory to the 1000’s of unknown soldiers, young men, who fought so that we may be free.
The time has come my dear for us to part
It was not my intention to hurt your heart
Our goals and views are just to diverse
I scratch the surface but you totally immerse
So many people love you, I feel I can't compete
You'll always be the driver and I in the back seat
Abundance of comments and praise for you awaits
While I wither in the shadows your limelight creates
I promise to protect you from crazy saboteurs
Please remember my heart remains with yours
06/13/2014
~For PD's contest~
Obsolete is the byword
that keeps us buying anew,
products that last forever
simply would never do.
Paydays come in many forms
some junk is another’s treasure,
so creating problems to be solved
makes sense by the repairman’s measure.
There are industries of industry
who perpetuate themselves,
flooding markets with one thing
keeping others on the shelves.
This breeds the disingenuous cause
of saboteurs and fixers,
spawning each other endlessly
pitting inventors against the nixers.
Exhaust pipes made of mild steel
rust out and fail routinely,
planned obsolescence creating need
proving the point supremely.
Somewhere somebody is planting a bug
in my computer or my lung,
where a technician or a doctor
gets paid to see it undone.
And somewhere somebody is saying a prayer
to stop this insanity,
of misguided and opportunistic
cannibalization of ingenuity.
Anarchy is witnessed,
Strategy is called for,
Youthfulness is called upon,
Execution is on the roll.
Motivated by materialism,
The conscience is sold out
Indiscipline rules willfully, and
Fear is the air to breathe.
Scenes of violence all over
Generated by the “gods”
Yes, the "gods"and barbarians of the “science of power”
Leaving nothing but an eyesore
Venoms of influence are pryingly invited and spat out
Igniting a scene of social unrest, and
They sit in the comfort of their abode. Whilst,
Observation becomes the ally of their misdeed.
Horror is witnessed
Sorrow is the bitter taste.
Terrorism yet to be invited and
Saboteurs, oh yes, Political Saboteurs pry in their abode
Rationality conflated with conviction is consulted
Options are laid nakedly on the table
Complex is the choice to be made
Yet, a decision must be made.
Let them be combatant of their own combat.
By,
Augustine A. Harun Jnr.
AJ Harun
Initially intended as a lyric, I wrote this in iambic pentameter. I'm interested in any
feedback, much appreciated. Enjoy.
Your distant posture softens when I near,
Despite the pledge that you are quite content.
That smile returns, your eyes shed their veneer,
Remembering those wild nights we spent;
Our bodies burning with enlightenment.
We drank the sacred wine and freed the dove
That soared through our unstable atmosphere.
And for awhile it nobly thrived above
The saboteurs determined to appear;
Contriving doubt and casting out its spear.
You met your share of charlatans who knew
The secrets to the alchemy of love.
The rumors of their magic were untrue
But still the fantasy fit like a glove
With just a little tweaking and a shove.
I pardoned guilt and from inaction rose
Onto the pedestal I overthrew.
But all the deities that I impose
Have failed to move me where your spirit blew.
Condemned to dust because they were not you.
From day to night the hours politely went,
Like nervous children shifting in their rows;
Afraid of what the silence might present.
Perhaps a revelation to suppose,
Depending on the future that it shows.
A Forgery of such style
In a touch shall call,
again, to sigh and fall.
To the Ageless Jazz leap,
'round midnight
A Generique Portrait
Consumed out of Love
Never wasting their pretentious time,
Claim to reveal your elite taste
True colours with bile chased
Poloroid of Authentic appearance
Easy to Fake
They talk all TS, Magic lanterns and
Michaelangelo
By public confession in Adoration of Dr Kaligari, The Somnambulist and stencilled spirals
That early editing, Knocking cells on continuity or giving the audience creative control in
image's connections. Montage from Intellectual graphic matching of Codename Saboteurs,
Features fading to their namesake. Emotional etched through out Vertov's Working
Documentary (“The Kinetic eye”? Following Moscow's Day by the people , early stop
motion as he explored Moving Image , Back when Trains sped at the audience .
Between these lines Hopefully a syllable address
of modest articulation.
For the Outsider , Crafting World by his Blend of Diction..
Roses had gone wilting
after surgery.
Biovision
of acrylic lenses
was projecting a corrupt green mount.
The rubber king had a papery laugh.
How you deal with a maverick –
matter – of – factly?
Pall bearers of a tall legend
were carrying nitroglycerine sticks
unfazed.
Saboteurs of moon night were scheming.
I was sick of pretentions.
Brown and black scars
become a honeycomb
hiding the agenda.
Stigmatized devotion gets back at you
after still birth of truth.
I will wait sine die for the verdict
of hope.
SATISH VERMA
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.