*A Relevant Poetry Group*
Come and Add your Poetry/Prose/Creative Writings!
Your Poems or Public Domain Poetry/Prose/Creative Works are Welcome!
Latest Activity: Feb 2, 2019
Started by Spydaman13 Apr 25, 2013. 0 Replies 0 Favorites
From The GetApril 25, 2013back in mommies womb already groomedlike a thorn rights ripped torntwinkle in daddys a stain on the sheetthought form wavelength frequency in factyoure infinite all that…Continue
Started by Tara May 25, 2012. 0 Replies 0 Favorites
Perpetual State Of Awake Blue pill, melancholy, slumberingred pill, fired up, awakeninghigh wire, low wire, puzzlingwant to be a live wire, electricity Down trodden, up trodden, stumblingawaking,…Continue
Tags: relativity, perpetual, electricity, NWO, matrix
Started by TommyD. Last reply by vernon dodge Feb 4, 2012. 2 Replies 0 Favorites
The following is a poem I began writing in high school(circa 1983) and finished in 2000.A Band of Gypsies WanderA bone chilling wind blows from the north. There is mystic magic in the air, somewhere…Continue
Started by Nynke Etk Fokma. Last reply by O.R.M.E. Oct 23, 2011. 5 Replies 2 Favorites
January 27th, 2005Awaken ancestral wisdom, and find your investment…Continue
Tags: inductance, capacity, burning the tree
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.
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
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.
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
Here is one of 12; that I wrote in my search for truth, and while I was isolated in the CONGO. Its called
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.
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 –
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-
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
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~
You need to be a member of Poetics 12160 to add comments!