Neville is a wonderful man, both parties said in a gushy way
He can meet you at the coffee shop nearly any old day
I was not ready to date, and made excuses, one after another
These friends were quite pushy, more than my godmother.
Six months later I agreed to meet this virtuous man.
He is a Viking, but he won’t tell you this, said my old Gran.
He did not have to tell me. His attire spoke for itself.
He was wearing enough armor to line a long shelf.
His beard was enormous, and he had a helmet with horns, two.
His war paint, metal cuffs and a copper shield were a tip off too.
If he is hiding the fact he is a Viking, he is not doing a good job.
We had one thing in common, we both have a neighbor named Bob.
Today, there will be millions of emotions,
All convoluted and insane,
From the most basic and inane,
To the rancorous and everything that isn't plain.
But amidst all the revelry and reign,
Against all the war paint and pain,
At the end of all worlds and cleaning up the drink stains,
There is one thing that I want you to know,
I stand on this stage, and I look to my side and see the best of men at the show.
I see the man that I laughed with underneath the TV glow,
I saw the man I cried with when the going got low,
I see the hand that sat on my shoulder when I was at my worst woes,
I see the personality I always turned to when I needed help,
I see the one man who didn’t give up on me when I moved states,
I see the only person I’ve been able to rely on for 18 years.
They say friends come and go,
But brothers will be there for you no matter what.
And I’m glad to have the best brother of all.
They built this world for the other hand,
Every door, every tool, every scissors command.
Ink smears across my palm like war paint,
While spiral notebooks mock me with their constraint.
But I am the mirror breaker,
The rule shaker,
The one who writes backwards
And dreams in reverse.
Ten percent revolution ninety percent poetic evolution
I am the southpaw standing alone
Against a kingdom of clockwise clocks
And right-turn locks.
My hand moves left while the world turns right,
I am the shadow boxer in broad daylight.
Every signature is an act of defiance,
Every handshake, civil disobedience.
They say I'm sinister—
From the Latin for "left"—
But I am the artist
Of beautiful theft,
Stealing moments of pure rebellion
With every stroke of my rebellious pen.
I am differently commanded.
So here's to the lefties, the rebels born,
Who face each day like breaking dawn,
Carving our paths through a backward maze,
We are the 10 percent uprising,
The minority surprising,
The ones who reach across our bodies
To write our own stories.
I want blue war paint
so my enemies will cringe
it could make me fierce
red if you do not have blue
green if you do not have red
I need to cover up this soft face
so I can terrorize my enemies
long enough to turn them into friends
Bold stories mark skin
Ancestral markings scream fierce
Warriors inside
Charging through the Mystical Chords Of Time
The March Of The Light Horseman On The Frontlines.
War Paint on my Soul, I AM a Warrior
Armorial, I Gleam like a Super Light Soldier
Coursing Veils I AM Luminous
In Feathers Of Illuminance,
Marching Up The Halls Of The Golden Pantheon
Sun Born, I Shine Forth A New Dawn
Light Bright, Against The Grain Up High
HOPE Is The Name, I Breach Legendary Heights
Where The Fruits Of The Soul Are Prolific
There, The Master Of The Sword, the Flights Exquisite
Triumphing Through, Like A Solar Adonis, I Am Victorious
Bondage Conquering, One With The Cold Tip Of My Sword, I AM GLORIOUS!
The loudest, fiercest fighter brave
Amidst a sea of coward men
I wear my war paint bound to save
The underdog that might have been
Or sometimes quiet as the night
Entangled, buried, rooted deep
I wait unyielding for the light
Patient poised for peace to reap
But never waver, always be
Proud warrior, steadfast and true
I walk these steps on bended knee
This life, on loan, I will not reu
The woman who stands before you,
She sheds her armor,
To shall her honesty,
The truthfulness of her heart.
Her pure of heart.
She takes charge.
She never backs down.
She let's them see exactly who she is.
She leaves it all out there,
On the ground for all to see.
She's a hero.
She's a savior.
Yet, she only sees herself,
As a simple woman who,
Supports her sisters in,
The dark days ahead as we all,
Try and fight for what is only ours.
She is a mother.
She is a sister.
She is a wife.
Above all sheis a warrior.
In my visions I see her as a Valkyrie.
Oden is by herself.
He believes in us.
He fights for us.
I hear the war cry.
I visualize the shield maidens,
Hearing their war chant as I see,
Them grab their armor,
Shields and their swords,
Getting ready for war.
The Valkyries stand before us.
No words are necessary,
As she holds the elixir of war,
The bottle of elixir in her hands,
The war paint.
The war chant continues.
They started this and,
We will finish it.
I visualize all this as I,
Finish writing the bill.
I bill I will introduce to Congress,
Titled "The Valkyrie Bill."
Messy hair, flashing eyes
over emotional battle cries;
Sadistic screams startling spectators,
war paint like a gladiator;
Ferocity in the veins of a warrior
Perfect storm, beautiful disaster.
we are puppets
and
we are paintings of puppets past
historic yet breathing
living but not alive
we are dancing upon your no mans land
and we are spinning to the melody of the tears our mothers shed
upon the same
no mans land
history is a wind up doll
history repeats itself
like the hiss of a broken music box
the sound
the clamour is silent
but the white noise that rises from the ashes of our mothers cry is
deafening
past is prologue
our tongues are tied
chained to the rhythm of
breaking through but not breaking free
our hearts are sinking in the trenches of yesterday
our minds are reaching for the scraps of tomorrow
and we are still
spinning
but we are spinning into focus
our smiles are wilting
our eyes are gathering dust
our war paint is fading
our war is over
because we were never really at war with you, puppeteer
because you too are a puppet
of many puppets
of many puppets
of many puppets
of many
We kids from the fifties were always dressed as cowboys or cowgirls.
Our TV shows in black and white included guns, bullets and horses.
The men were the shooters, the women helpless, Indians died all over.
I decided at a young age I would be an Indian; I hated the cowboys.
Not fond of the cowgirls either; except I did like their fringed skirts.
I discovered that Indian women wore fringe, and decided to be one.
We had cap guns, and got to shoot all over the place, if we were boys.
I was a girl, and was encouraged not to shoot but rather to have a doll.
Wearing war paint, I scalped my doll and named myself Wise Eagle Woman.
The other girls avoided me, thinking I was the strange one.
Word spread about children of the corn
It's crazy cause lots more were born
More killers, no saint
Face covered with war paint
Causing plenty of families to morn
Today I took off the war paint
Laid down the mask
And showed my face to the world
Not the face of my dreams
Not the smooth, unmarked skin of my youth
Not the face that you loved
When we first loved
But it is my face
Deeper lines around the eyes
A small down turning of the mouth
Probably from all the words
Heavy and dank
Brown spots from lazy afternoons in the sun
Green eyes like the grass we laid in
Nose as wide as the iridescent sky
We danced under
See this line here and that line there
Carved by laughter and tears
Markers of a life
Containing all the wisdom of age
Today I took off the warpaint
Because I am no longer at war
With myself or the world
And the mask covered everything that was real
See me
Let me see you- your face
And we can wade through the canyons and valleys etched there
Splash in the river of your tears
And live in a field of freckles
Under the shade of your eyelashes
Seeing each other as such
Can we ever not be beautiful
Delivered from the bowels of the ancient tombs of Pharaohs forgotten
The steampunked chest plated falcon loving gatekeeper approached
We were fearful of his neon green glance and psychedelic war paint.
He was not your typical partygoer. It did not take a genius to see this.
Dragon like feelers in a moon pattern were part of his body’s armor.
Intimidated, we stopped dancing and started to look for exits.
An evil eye neck plate with falcon-like attitude stopped us in our tracks.
Where is Gyemaster? He asked. Voice compelled us to stay in place.
We obediently allowed him to scan us with is eyes, one by one.
Satisfied, he moved to an eager young giggling female freshman.
She stopped moving, was dead silent now; her face glowed orange.
You know him don’t you? He asked her in a hologram way.
She nodded and he led her from the party as you would lead a donkey.
If this had been any other guy, we would have resumed dancing.
Instead we wandered off to our houses to cower and hide.
Frightened by a falcon loving gatekeeper from beyond the future.
Should hearts obey man or God?
This is so dirt simple —
Two sheaf ears in a pacifist pod
Fear thee anthem thunder
more than the
firmament lightning rod?
There’s no question
which one
gets the soul loyalty nod
Doesn’t dove eyes
starry follow the Celestial sky will?
Compassionate commandment
engraved in stone:
A holy decree, “Thou shall not kill”
This passionate pacifist plea
deserves an universal bleat
War paint ain’t peace palette proper
Napalm hope being
dropped from a camouflage chopper
Silo echo prayers,
whisper incensed Arrows
are wavy boasting
Cemetery sepulchre rows
ere manicured revelry neat
Olive branch naysayers
extend digital particles fungi
Angry flow bloodstream
trigger the plutonium release
Obey a loving God, not hateful man,
ought not we?
Bullet dodge thermal extinction plan
is this scarlet ink sob,
pacifist plea
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