Comment

Comment by Olive Farmer on February 13, 2011 at 2:51pm

I'll never forget that day.
I'll never forget the instant certainty that the event was a charade, a big lie, a travesty.
I'll never forget Bush's expression, nor his gloating grin when he realised that it was working, this enormous fraud.
I knew then that it would become an excuse for more horror.
It has been.
This is in memoriam for everyone that passed on that day, and those that have been murdered since - with that day as an excuse, a justification for infanticide and genocide, for torture and rape.
It's another one for the Sheeple......

"Did you see my dive?"


"Did you see my dive?
Though I say so myself
It was a thing of beauty.
Behind me, certain finality,
In front
A few moments more.
Moments to savour breath.
It was, my friend, an easy choice.

Did you see my dive?
I like to think it was audacious
Skilful
Stylish
Full of bravado
Impeccable.

You know
When things go really bad
How Time goes so slowly?
It was, for me, an eternity.
I had time for a quadruple somersault
In the Pike position!
Never seen before.

But the "board" was so very high.
I had time.

Time to consider my life's mistakes,
Suddenly clarified for me
By the circumstances.
Time to apologise,
Time to wish,
Even time to hope beyond hope.

Unfortunately, no camera caught my excellent dive.
No lens was turned my way
Which is a pity,
It was such a great dive.
I let out no scream,
I was too busy thinking.

I think I cried,
But not for myself.
I cried for the truth.

In the clarity that comes,
I assure you, my friend,
In such a great moment,
In the eternity of those few seconds,
What is revealed is the truth.

You discover what really matters.
You find what you really wanted all this time.
Right at the end you find
What really matters is love.
What really counts is the truth.

So if you can hear me now,
Even if you didn't see my beautiful dive,
Find the time to find love in your hearts,
For all of creation,
In everything you do.

And for me
And for all the others on that day,
Please:
Know it is your duty,
Know it is your obligation,
Not to simply believe
But to find the truth.

Insist on it.
Demand it.

Because of all the truths hidden in this world of lies,
This one truth can set mankind free.

And, because it's unlikely you saw it,
It was,
Dear friend,
A beautiful dive."

Comment by Olive Farmer on February 13, 2011 at 2:48pm

In memoriam for the many slaughtered innocents murdered by our glorious masters with the dumb unfeeling acquiescence of the sheeple electorates of the US and UK.
Particularly one baby, just 8 days old. May his soul rest in love and peace.
Something maybe to print out and stick behind the windscreen wipers of the SHEEPLE as they do their shopping at the Mall.......it fits on an A4.......
Then scarper, because the SHEEPLE get really angry when you give them the truth.
Angry enough to kill another baby, maybe?

"Do you remember killing me, my friend?
Surely you must?
I was just eight days old.
But then why should you remember me, just one of the many children you have slaughtered?
But I was wrapped in a nice new blue blanket.
You still don't remember me?
I was being carried in the market by my mother.
You murdered her too.
Of course you don't remember, there are so many bodies, so many lives you have ended.
Not you, you say?
Why, it was you that paid for the missile that took my life, don't you remember?
It came from the tax you paid.
Do you remember now?
Money you regretted paying, because you need something else in your life.
Some gadget or toy.
You remember, you paid the wages of the man that aimed the missile at our market that day?
You voted for the man that gives him his orders.
The man you asked to protect you from me and my mother and the other million or so that you have slaughtered.
Do you still not recall?
I had a given name, but you know me as "collateral damage".
Remember, you were gifting us your democracy that day?
Your democracy of depleted uranium.
Or was it in self defence that you murdered me?
Or was it revenge for something I didn't do, years before I was born, knew nothing of in my innocence?
You tell me: Which just cause slammed my body into the dirt?
Did you think of me today as you went about your life, my friend?
Did you wonder what I might have become had you not slaughtered me?
Had not smashed my soft bones and crushed the new life from me?
Did you talk of me with your family?
Mention my murder to a colleague?
Spare me a thought as you filled your car at the station, ate your evening meal, watched T.V., tucked your children into bed?
Did you see my face today?
Did you wash my blood from your hands today?
It's still there, my friend, and always will be.
Did you pray to your God today?
Did you do anything to stop this murder today?
Did you protest? Did you march? Did you withhold your tax? Did you rage against the slaughter of innocents?
Did you spare just a passing thought for me today, my friend?
Remember I had a name?
My name was collateral damage. I was eight days old. Wrapped in a blue blanket.
And you killed me. Don't you remember?"

Comment by Burbia on February 13, 2011 at 1:15pm

Comment by C. Wayne Lammers on February 13, 2011 at 10:43am

My last post for today is in the form of what I call 'a writing.' I wrote this during the Clinton Impeachment Trial and it gathered a lot of interest and reprints throughout the country.

 

"GIVE US BARABBAS"

By C. Wayne Lammers

---

---

An ominous silence hung over the crowd, accentuated by the dust raised by thousands of sandal shod feet, as they waited for the final proclamation of Pilate that would free Jesus, The Christ, or condemn him to the most horrible death imaginable.

 

The silence was broken by the braying of a startled donkey crying in protest to a drunk that had staggered into him. The drunk didn't understand the protest of the donkey, but the little creature had cried it's lament at the injustice with the only word it knew.

 

Somewhere, in the back of the crowd, a small child cried softly in deference to the heat and the smell of unwashed bodies that surrounded it, while a lady of the evening, thinking to take advantage of the gathering and thereby enrich her stores, smiled provocatively at a passing stranger.

 

They waited!

 

Each, in his or her own way, waited to cast the vote that would decide the fate of Jesus, and thereby establish a precedence that was to endure throughout all of time. Indeed, even unto the present day. The buzzing of flies was conspicuous in the hot stillness.

 

Suddenly a great cry arose, as if one voice, from the now frantic people. High upon the parapets of the great house appeared Pilate. An obvious smile was on his face as he raised his arms for silence so that he might be allowed to carry forth the tradition of releasing one condemned prisoner and saving him from a fate far worse than death, that of execution on the dreaded cross at Calvary. The rule placed the burden of choice on the people, themselves.

 

The dusty crowd began to settle down in anticipation of the vote that would insure 'the will of the people,' and a nervous murmur rose up that only served to increase the tension of the moment.

 

"As is the custom of the land," shouted Pilate, "choose ye this day the guilty one whom will be free and pardoned!"

 

As if in one voice, that echoed through the streets and from the surrounding hills, the people SCREAMED:

                         

"GIVE US BARABBAS!"

 

"GIVE US BARABBAS!"

 

"GIVE US BARABBAS!"

 

And it was so. The people had been heard. The will of the people was to be done. Long live the people!

 

The trial (TRIAL!) of President William Jefferson Clinton, by the Senate of the United States Of America, is in progress; only the second trial of it's kind ever to be held in the hallowed halls of that distinguished organization.

 

Outside, in homes dotting  the backbone of America in the Rocky Mountains, in the spreading sprawl of the metropolis of Chicago, across the wheat fields of Kansas to the squalor of shacks in the Appellations, and from the nation's salad bowl in the new land of California to the steaming tropical and stagnant bayous of Louisiana, even up the eastern seaboard and encompassing the thirteen original colonies, the people wait, even though, if the polls are to be believed, the will of the people has already been made known. The White House has said it has heard the will of the people and

Comment by C. Wayne Lammers on February 13, 2011 at 10:25am

In keeping with the war theme, I sometimes like to continue writing where the old masters leave off. Lord Byron lends himself to such work because he liked to answer his contemporaries. I call this one "Ode to Iraq" by Lord Byron and C. Wayne Lammers.

 

           The Destruction of Sennacherib - Ode to Iraq

By Lord Byron and C. Wayne Lammers

 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
The host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn has blown,
The host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.

                                                          Lord Byron

 

The vision of carnage still fresh in my eye

The smell of  the corpses who withered and died

In their rise against freedom the Tyrants had fell

Their shadowy spirits sought refuge in Hell

 

Like the dreams of a child before night horrors fly

Vanquished the thunder of terror and pride

A stillness, a silence, the moment would drag

As dawn saw the waving American flag

 

But wait, was that music on top of a pile

Of rubble left standing – its only a child

And somewhere a deafening cry – No, a wail

As young girls stood proudly – and tore off the veil

 

And people are taking their joy to the street

A statue of Sadam pulled down at their feet

And freedom is surging to make up a part

Of  flourishing freedom in Iraqi hearts

 

But then, the hot desert winds turned to cold

American trumpets played taps to unfold

That same flag, now covers products of strife

The American soldiers who paid with their lives

 

The tears of the mourners, the sobs and the cries

Bring back the voices as though still alive

“We died for tradition – and all it is worth –

For freedom and mercy – for all on the earth”

 

“And we pray yet for mercy for some people’s schemes

Who lie of our mission and slander our dreams

Who desecrate principals our founders found

As we lie uneasy in unhallowed ground”

 

“Unhallowed because of a traitorous wake

Who act like they give one God Damn for our fate

We cry to America – don’t sanction our death

By denying to others the best of the best”

 

Let all feel the gaze from our Patriots eye

From those in the name of that Freedom who died

And Freedom will flourish - never to fall

Through one nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all

 

                                                                    C. Wayne Lammers     

Comment by Thomas Gambill on February 13, 2011 at 10:11am

Here is one of 12;  that I wrote in my search for truth, and while I was isolated in the CONGO.    Its called

 

THE WAVE

 

THE WAVE

 

Reflecting on a life is like riding a wave;

You start somewhere in an ocean of tides

That will one day reach the shore;

Where loneliness shall be no more. 

 

The wave has a life that it can call its own;

To never stop looking for that peace called home.

It sometimes glides in the sea with motion;

And in a storm call itself part of the ocean.

 

The wave has a journey not always kind;

The journey can be long, arduous and sometimes sublime.

It breaks on the rocks, to start again;

But with persistence, beauty and unseen force;

The rocks wear down, but the wave goes forth. 

 

The journey can be fun, touching lives as it goes;

Touching Gods creatures, some small, some strong.

Reaching a shore to play with man;

Who, in the image of God, it touches his hand;

Playing with these creatures tossing to and fro;

Making life fun for God’s creatures to go;

Thank you God, for our brief communion;

This wave can’t stay, got another reunion.

 

The journey can sometimes be lonely, when no wind blows;

The journey can be cold, where ice does flow.

From a raging storm, your strength does show;

To the gentler side, where the seal pups go.

 

The wave has a dream of the lagoon, someday to reach;

The lagoon, you see, is the wave’s final play;  

You’ve made your journey, as the lagoon does prove;

That even for a wave, God’s love will stay. 

Comment by C. Wayne Lammers on February 13, 2011 at 9:35am

Swan Song,

 

I like your work. Being an untrained poet, I don't know much about poems that don't rhyme. I write some of them, but I just call mine "writings." I will post some of mine to try and get the group going. I also write songs and music, having written around 300 in all areas of music. I am also a novelist and screenwriter.

 

But first and foremost I am a Patriot! I see things a lot different than michael handala hall, having stood up for this nation in my time, and find it hard to swallow those who would only find fault without ever having served. However, all poets get around to writing about war, sooner or later. Here is an award winner of mine:

 

Faded Footprints in the Snow

By C. Wayne Lammers   They came in numbers like the stars – countless, wolves in righteous disguise; all consuming in their hunger – still remain, unsatisfied. Crazed with power, never ending, brought destruction to our land. Ruled with lightning, spoke like thunder, soon the village could not stand. Left, no room for Buffalo. Gone, the forest proud with trees. Moccasined feet on trails of tears, could not bend us to our knees. Treaties broken. False words spoken. Crumbling parchment, this we know. Empty words and deeds encroaching, gone like footprints in the snow. Shadows cast by ancient warriors, silent memories, honored times. Still the greatness of our people lives forever – in our minds. Gone, the warrior’s ways – traditions sacred trails uncertain now. Swiftly on the wings of eagles cries the staggering question “how?” In their vision, we are gone, but our lodges still remain – await the time of all red men – joined together, once again. Where are the footprints in the snow that tend the fires of our returning – to keep alive the quest unending, and keep the fires forever burning? Where are the visions of long ago that cry on the winds in our Ancestor’s song? Our drums beat the promise our children can win, and bring back our footprints now vanished so long. They wanted us gone, but we are still here, trails in our hearts too deep not to show, but only the chosen ones can see them. We just don’t leave footprints . . . any more.

Comment by michael handala hall on February 13, 2011 at 9:13am

Dulce Et Decomrum Est III        (Part I)

In due homage to Horace & Owen i humbly nod-

For how sweet & fitting it must be to die for God & country in misguided duty & dishonor-

C'mon kiddies, who's up for good sport as the cattle car comes to town elisting butchering machines-

Who's hungry and poor, who wants to play the game of war, the continuing game from time immemorial?-

 

As blue-pencil armed newspapers rah rah their pied piper patriotism swollen with disinformation safe behind typewritters with journalistic integrity & objectivity ha ha-

As a new battle lies just around the corner & coincidently Armforces Day just a few days way,Hooray!-

White-wash that dried innocent blood off your soiled & polluted flag with ends justify the means policy-

Strike up the jingoist parade & march narcissistic down main street usa-

 

As the greatest purveyor of violence and exporter of terrorism in the world today is on the warpath, again...suprised?-

But what is the world to do,being coerced, bullied & bribed,pock-marked by 1000+ military bases in 151+ 'sovereign' states?-

For this ostentatious empire is a culture born & bred for violence before it was even conceived-

From Iroquosi to Iraqi her ghastly file is a deep,ugly M/O of brutal war after barbaric war-

 

This is self-righteous exceptionalism gone rabid amok from the city on the hill-

This is sword enforced and bible justified manifest destiny & self-delusional;' We are the greatest nation...in  the wwooorrrllddd!-

This is neo-fascistic plutocracy funded by corporate claw with a propaganda machine unparalleled-

Populated by duped & deceived consuming neutered cattle so unchristlike in Sunday Christian perdition-

As they contribute their children as cannon fodder generation after generation, the result of repeated historical insanity-

 

 

Comment by michael handala hall on February 13, 2011 at 7:03am

Trillions thrown away into the coffers of the rich

guns,tanks,bombs and cannon fodder

sent all over the world to terrorize and establish markets

they call it freedom and democracy

 

How many millions have you killed and made homeless

as year after year you occupy what isn't yours

for the morgues fill with the broken smoking dead

refugees by the millions wander aimlessly

 

Ah but america

you are myopic to all the suffering

the truth is flitered,diluted then white washed

spit shined into a squeaky clean red white and blue

 

Your consuming cattle and docile sheep oblivious

free to roam the land nside a gilded  golden cage

brave in your home afraid what your goverment might hear or see

indoctrinated,trained to obey children all look alike,don't they?

 

But can you hear that distant timbre'

it is the toll of the bell coming your way

a back blow, a returning tide

the sqwauk on the block of returning chickens home to roost

 

You are Rome and Afghanistan is your Stalingrad

your being put into the grave there by your betters

you are terrorizing insurgants vieing with freedom fighters

your days are numbered and only fools cant count

 

 

Comment by Tara on February 7, 2011 at 1:31pm

Thanks for this group Swan Song. I believe we have a few poets on the site. It would be nice to gather all members poems and creative writing works into one group.

I myself write lyrics for songs and also write poetry too. When I get a chance I'll add them to your group.

Thanks once again, peace~

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