Gabby wailful goes wane
Gassy wagtail
Gruff white-livered
Grudging walleyed
Grubby wanton
Grouchy warlike
Great weasel
Gross-out wicked
Grizzle whiney
Going in will-o'-the-wisp
Going with his big baby
We live in such a diverse, multicultural world
Yet I have to ask why Black History isn't taught
What is it about the black culture that mankind
Refuses to educate, elaborate, reveal, and expose
Black history is like taboo; no one wants to speak or preach
I often wonder what the men of old said about the first man in the world
Were their words dark and cold, vicious and malicious
Vindicated and warlike, or did they write about a race
That was independent and intelligent
Powerful and wise
Great and Spiritual
Excellent and Gifted in Yah's sight
I choose not to offend, but I cannot help but follow the pen
You see, I am not the master mind behind the words I write
I am just the vessel that's used to inspire, awaken and motivate
Teach and educate a culture that has forgotten how great they are
Beneath a sky once soft and blue,
Now painted smoke, a darker hue,
The cries of children split the air
A lullaby of deep despair.
The earth, it shakes with fire and flame,
But none can tell the world who’s to blame,
Innocence lies in crimson pools,
While tyrants play with warlike tools.
A mother holds a lifeless hand,
A father searches through the sand,
A baby’s toy, a shattered shoe
Reminders of the life they knew.
The angels weep as souls take flight,
Torn from sleep into the night.
They rise, like stars against the black,
But dreams don’t soar;they’re pulled right back.
For every blast that scorches skies,
Another child stops asking "why."
The sky rains down not hope, but fear,
And silence follows every tear.
Gaza burns, the world turns blind,
Yet echoes linger in mankind.
A prayer for peace, a mournful sound,
As broken hearts fall back to ground.
Let not their deaths be lost in sand,
The blood of Gaza stains our hands.
Speak, until the silence ends,
Till bombs give way to peace again.
Old men promulgate warlike dreams;
Alas, young men are sacrificed to abet their schemes.
August has clutched us by the throats and given us a shake.
Anything outside this month needs no oven to bake.
She is straight out of Mars, warlike and suppressive for sure.
Her heat index is outrageous, her motive is pure.
She wants us to submit, to recognize her as the queen.
She is as ruthless this month as I have ever seen.
I wake up and look at the calendar and moan.
August is still here I tell my dogs, who also bemoan.
She keeps us in our houses after ten o’clock each day.
The corn and wheat and barley are shriveled up they say.
The grass is brown, the flowers are trying not to die.
August, why are you so mean, I truly wonder why.
big and badass mammal
bluff and warlike charges
bold most untouchable
brave dominant creatures
brawn and fierce the Polar
based predators on earth
baby cubs lovable
3/10/2022
The Bear is my subject
In Search Of Prey Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
How Many Syllables
The mystery of man
This is the third day after new year and the day
equally dark and miserable as they were before
the new has number changed.
On the Eve of festivity, drunk people thronged
narrow streets hoarse voices and screams
upsetting dogs and cats.
oddly, we celebrate the new year with
warlike gestures like fireworks.
Most of my friends are dead, yes, we too danced
the golden calf, not knowing what life was about
I still don’t know.
On the third sober day, the same old bombs
killing people, as arms dealers drink champagne.
Our democracy is for the well to do
for us subjugation and waiting for Godot.
FALSE HOPES
She appeared just from nowhere
And I fell in love with her.
I thought she was my love forever
But she turned out just a blur.
I wanted her to be my friend
Rejoiced for no seeming reason,
Believed she’d love me in the end
But she squeezed me and left freezin’.
I thought she was my joy,
Star on the path of my life,
Believed in her - half-witted boy!
And wished her to be my wife.
She turned the devil incarnate,
The very devil in her flesh.
Her eyes were evil, full of hate.
They were rotten, never fresh.
Although she was a short young age,
She sounded off like a subhuman.
With youthful spleen and warlike rage,
And I preferred an earthly woman.
Warlike streams of rage flow through me.
I am primed and ready for whatever else they have in mind.
On the edge of my seat, waiting.
Hoping they will try something.
Picturing myself leaping on their shoulders
And biting off their ears.
Praying they will show back up.
We are all probably lucky that they do not.
Perched along a limb
in the darkening, mercurial eve,
the trickster hovers in mania.
Wingspan iridescent in the shadows,
he stands sharp in his observation
blending in to the dark night.
An indomitable eye in focus,
unceasing with his hoarse call -
Bitter and biting in sound.
He balefully takes flight
gliding over his bounteous kingdom,
secure in the wily, swindling con.
A harbinger of evil,
an omen follows his glide:
the reaper is soon to follow.
The sudden silence provokes
a chill down the spine
curling 'round in stirring fright.
Taking a warlike stance,
he circles over his unsuspecting prey.
Venomous in his feast and descent.
A scythe, sharpened steel,
gripped tightly in bloodless hands;
a lone cloaked being whispers commands.
Rumbles strike open the dirt
in the graveyard beside the oak.
silhouettes manifest, crawling through the night.
The trickster surveys the siege,
as screams rent through the sky.
The eve of madness is upon us.
War
In a kingdom full of combatants I heard a naval, military struggling
Combat
I am non violent And I am recovering
Death shall bring troops
'War!' said I, 'thing of jihad.'
Do they believe in God
Quite odd
And those eyes have all the warmongering
Wars
Great war - great war - great war!
Only this and a nuclear winter
Snowing atomic gluserian
That antiwar, antiwar campaign
War
I remember I was feuding
And the clans never advocating
I crave the antagonistic, calorific awareness
awareness calorific, the antagonistic I crave
War
Eagerly I looked for the disaster
War
It was castor, alabaster, vaster!
Not
I crave the warlike, war-torn warship
My conflict, I could not awaken hatred bliss
Do not enlist
Still is planing, still is planing
In there stepped a medievalist 'red army faction'
God makes love, man makes
War
8/11/20
written word by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020 ©
Rise up ye armies of peace and love
Make known you're tactical plan
To rid the world of this evil scourge
Of wars and the killing of man
It's not too late but it soon will be
Beyond our efforts to change
This world is still a beautiful place
To neglect it would be a shame
We surely must realize it's just a loan
This irreplaceable world of ours
The mountains high, the rolling seas
The sweet-smelling scent of flowers
No more abuse let's all make a pact
And treat this planet with dignity
Respect for providing this absolute beauty
How tragic to miss this opportunity
Let's put an end to this constant upheaval
We start out as such innocent tykes
Bewildering how far we've gone astray
And traveled this path so warlike
Rise up ye armies of peace and love
Put an end to this strife and selfishness
We owe our lives to this place of beauty
Let's forget about all this foolishness!
Those who are ignoramus,
nothing teach ...:
The world is
getting crooked with
with the misconceptions ...
Those who do not have
tenderness and just suppose
all is conflict .... stop i
your warlike souls and
reflect a little ...
The world is violent
because of this belligerence ...
Those who are on the outside,
seek to enter to live ...
those inside may
leave once in a while
to know the sun ... kiss
the moon...!
Those who do not love ... allow themselves to be
touched for love ...!
do not be afraid
there is love for all ...!
Those who do not sing ...
for lack of tuneful voice ...:
know that all sounds are
impressive and melodious .. be hoarse
or bel canto ...!
All who do not know,
be ready ... all
deserve the glories,
because everyone is the same
before the creator of the universe ...!
So learn
to live
Brexit Sonnet No.21
‘This Emerald Isle’
So where’s it gone, this border fraught of ours?
It can’t be seen, this separation sore,
Drawn ‘cross troubled Isle by warlike Mars;
Scratched on map by infected hand of war.
Ignored by happy breed of Brexit man,
This spectre’s yet to come to Leaver’s feast,
Its fortress build and scupper faultlined plan,
With moat defensive, to drown the Brexit Beast.
So letteth not your Brexit lover’s passion
Be chilled or damped by spectre’s waiting rage.
Ignore it by all means and truth do ration,
And think of happier things that turn your page.
This blessed plot, this earth, this Emerald Isle,
Must choketh not on Brexit’s bitter bile
©Keith Murphy
Brexit Sonnet No.16
‘Diverse Woven Strands’
Our embroidered story, with boundaries crissed and crossed,
With boats and men ‘o horse in serried rows.
With comets, relics, hawks and battles lost
And headless, limbless men this fabric shows.
Some say it t’was the Kentish Saxon hand
Whose needle rudely stabbed the linen cloth.
Others swear title stems from William’s land;
But time flows by and quenches warlike wroth.
So histories fused, and diverse woven strands
Are spun together, strong and future proof.
A Nation built on history’s shifting sands,
Woven under Europe’s very roof.
Treat it well this cloth of ours to share,
Break not the warp or weft on Brexit’s snare.
©Keith Murphy
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