Anarchist's TangoYou are what you are,Anarchist's Tango1 day ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I take what I see,
My choices spin you,
Your choices fling me
It's a circle, a square,
It's a twelve-sided dance,
Match your steps to the chaos!
Leave the movements to chance!
We can fling ourselves madly
All over the place,
Just as long as your fist stops
An inch from my face
Watch the anarchist's tango!
See the freedom ballet-
Just make sure you know how
To get out of the way.
Poem - Side of RightSide of RightPoem - Side of Right8 hours ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Poem for Day 211 – 20150730
You began as the individual,
but now you serve a greater cause.
Identity merged to the party line,
personal truth subsumed by society.
Step up and don our chosen garb,
words with set meanings preordained.
Roles fixed against contrived history,
future determined by stated past.
Welcome to the hyperbole,
your role is not stained by factuality.
Perceived identity becomes the litmus,
testimony of prescribed motivations.
Your role has been predetermined,
cast against an imagined whole.
Our story has been set in stone,
mountains high only we can see.
Ministry of Truth will show your lies,
your blood shed will bring us new life.
Beware the freedom shared by most,
it only brings slavery to the rest of us.
When all is right there will be no wrong,
the truth evident in the prescriptive words.
Contrary ills will be expunged,
a single thought will have all meaning.
The narrative becomes all important,
the script by which life is played.
It is the len
The Migrations PeriodThe Rome of old is fallen,The Migrations Period4 days ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The Gallic plains are open wide,
The Alpine mountains ringing
With the crashing of our tide,
Our fierce deluge is upon you.
For all your Latin pride,
We humble sons of Teutons
Have cast your rule aside.
Rome is but a bygone thought,
All who knew it we have slain;
Never have those Latin fields
Known such a bitter rain!
The statues of your Caesars,
Have all come crashing down
Their gold diadems bartered;
For our iron Lombard crown.
Your Gaul that was once a nation
By the name, “Francia,” now is called.
Where once stood your plantations,
Now stand our kings’ fine beer-halls.
Where once your proud sons gathered
To recite old Attic dialogues
Our skalds now roughly smatter
Rough songs of our chiefs and gods.
Even in white-cliffed Britain
Seemingly so safe across the sea
Our brethren, Saxons and Angles,
Had built an Angle-land, we see.
Oh, how the whole world trembles,
As when a comet tears the skies;
Their ruined Empire is in shambles
As our proud