SettlersThe tools of settlers' heavy steelSettlers31 minutes ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Rip custom, home and soil.
The heavy-hearted natives
Watch "Whitey's" restless toil.
Push more beneath the boot
With less dividing more.
A monarchy of misery
Whose rich exploit the poor.
But thin-skinned numbers swell and burst
Like over-ripened plums.
The angry minions scream for blood
Oppressors do their sums.
Bare-backed, confused and angry
I ponder white man's way.
The waste disguised as affluence
Too many, more each day.
Calavera a la michoacanaCalavera a la michoacana2 days ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Gobernador no era el hombre
Gobernó sólo en el nombre
La Parca que fue a Michoacán
Con ironía que disfruta
Le dice ya al viejo truhan
-Me lo saluda La Tuta
Al ver al pobre pellejo
La Muerte dice, elegante:
-Me disculpo, Don Vallejo,
Debía llevármelo antes…
-Pero verá, que me ocupo
Con tanto ajuste de cuentas
(Que dice usted, nunca supo)
Se me juntan las osamentas
Calavera a la chiapanecaCalavera a la chiapaneca3 days ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Harán cada chingadera
Pues no tienen llenadera
Hablando de historias de asco
Y despilfarro indignante
Está un tal Manuel Velasco
Queriendo ser presidente
Siguiendo un viejo libreto
Vendió su alma a Televisa
Quiso hacer cual Peña Nieto
La Flaca mató su prisa
Llegó a Chiapas, puesto el luto
Al verlo, le dice seria:
-¡Cabrón!¡Gastaste a lo bruto
Habiendo tanta miseria!
Calavera a la poblanaCalavera a la poblana3 days ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
De tremendos reyezuelos
Que nos protejan los cielos
Si vas a Puebla, no te halle
en un día que esté de malas
El matón Moreno Valle
Porque te llena de balas
Fue colega de Elba Esther
(Pero con más suerte que esta)
Pa’ gobernar fue menester
Fusilar a las protestas
Con su pan que se lo coma
A tan malvado oligarca
Lo mató bala de goma
Que le disparó la Parca
SWASTIKAA symbol dating beyond 10,000 years ago.SWASTIKA3 days ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
A glyph long sacred.
With origins that remain untold.
Long predating the age of old.
Used in Asia and Europe as a symbol to behold.
Until a dark cloud shrouded the message.
Tiling it 45 degrees. They make it their own.
To give there Reich Credence.
As if Fate itself had bestowed.
An Unholy edict against their chosen foes.
Further perverting the meaning of what the symbol holds.
25 years of misuse, should not undermine it's legacy.
Nor should it stop parents from educating their own.
Because people today are to Fucking stupid to know.
That history does not begin with this century.
It Foreshadows the age of stone.
AusverkaufskulturAasgeierfirmen und SpekulantenAusverkaufskultur4 days ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
kaufen die Schuldenscheine ganzer Staaten
für einen minimalen Wert
und treiben sie dann ein mit dem Schwert
Griechenland, Portugal, dann Spanien
zuletzt Frankreichs Kapitulation
die EU muss alles bezahlen
im Namen der Integration
ein indischer Milliardär
lässt Ressourchen verkommen
kauft Europa's Stahlwerke leer
um Konkurrenz zu stoppen
sonst wird alles geregelt
das Taschengeld der Putzfrau
der Kellnerin, der Bierzeltmädel
geraubte Kunst hingegen...
...ist rumetikettiertes Fleisch
verseuchte marokkanische Stangenbohnen
werden über Spanien einwandfrei
im Staatenbund der Abzocker
geraubte Kunst braucht keine Herkunft
Schwarzkonten-Alice weiß unser Wohl
ein Hoeneß spottet jeder Vernunft
alles Privilegierte der Ära Kohl
Zuhälter bleiben unbehelligt
im demokratischen Zuchtstall
der Markt agiert selbstständig
doch blechen wird die Vielfalt
© j.w.waldeck 2014
Please do nout use
anything of my work!
the Lay of IllIllkvæðithe Lay of Ill6 days ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Si! Lyss till sången, den sällsamt sorgsna,
om svek och sveda, i Sviþiods land.
Hur en smitta småsint, i smälekens smedja,
med spefull spinnrock, spinna illsluga nät,
hur folksjälen svärmas, med svartaste svårmod,
då samfälldhet sina, och sågas isär.
Hören nu alla, om de härskna herrar,
vilka högsätet inta, med högburet hull.
Hövdingar alla, som härska i hallen,
med hövisk tunga, och skenhelig håg.
Dessa högborgens hökar, vårt rikets herdar,
nu hyckla och häckla, om ofärd och harm.
Då hetsas till tinget, hembygdens söner,
på hastiga hovar, från trygghetens hamn.
Med hatets hetta, de lockas att härja,
i blanka harnesk, för hem och för härd.
Också hyrda hirdmän, till härmönstring kallas,
på järnskodda hästar, i hiskelig hast.
Härolder hojta, och bl
On the Fear of WritingCrackling words break the backs of silence.On the Fear of Writing6 days ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Words. Words. Screamed from the mouths of eternal horses.
Upon the backs of men seeking a path from hell.
There's no way to know.
There's no way to tell.
Is the world's getting smaller?
Or are we getting too big?
Wars fought over oil paint blood in the sand,
while the whole planet smiles,
"Ain't it fine?" "Ain't it grand?"
The cracking of the globe, splitting faces in two.
With some halves in the "Us's" and others in "You's".
Rising from the pheonix's ashes
to smush oily words upon the gate.
For babes are crying and winter's dying
when love is left to rot.
No more feathered wings to cradle it.
No more tender hands to keep it.
There is only the swollen pregnant moon
in the gnashing yellow night.
Inside-The-OutsideAnother treacherous hourInside-The-Outside6 days ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
ticks the heavenly, caged.
Between Life and Death
and the Rich and Beseiged
Inside the Outside lies one of two worlds
One of the men
and one of the girls.
One earth of curses,
the other a plus.
'Twix men who ride horses
and who walk in the dust.
They'll never rest
There will always be more
For those that go looking
are not those that go seeking
Because you must look
to find the In-Betweens
King JesterSo, crown the jesterKing Jester6 days ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
in his plight
of the laughing widows, merry.
Each cackle and haw
tears him apart
in his fields of poppies.
Given him the crown
make a scepter of his bread.
Carry him on
to his throne of glory;
a sordid pile of the dead.
Mock him as he cries in anger
laugh at every tear.
Chain him to his crown of glory
and listen for the jests and jeers
FarmlandSeeing life through shattered eyesFarmland6 days ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
hollowed out by crows
stinking words of slurping lies
death in perfect form.
The spoiled minds of children
who slither in the dust
devour whole their kindred
in a never-ending lust.
Come now, lads, lay down your arms
shed your hands and grin.
Fill the through and feed the farm
break your bones and skin.
Stick out your tongue and ring the bell
gorge yourself to bursting.
Taste heaven in the devil, sell
your lands of birthing.
Killing PotentialBuilding walls to watch them crumble;Killing Potential1 week ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
raising men to watch them fall
Burn your hometown down to rubble
stand in silence at the call.
Cutting forests in the spring,
smashing eggs to smithereens.
Smelting down engagement rings
just to hear the children scream.
Shut down the lawmen in their prime
kill the carpenter at work.
Stop the conman in his crime
hang in innocent in flirt.
Crush the change before happens;
halting progress in it's step.
Just watch the future's slipping
There is no shifting what is set.
Broken PeopleBroken shattered facesBroken People1 week ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
in a burning paper town.
It's the way it's always been,
like the earth goes 'round and 'round.
There are no tales to tell;
no shining knights who slay;
No high and mystic castle walls
keeping evil at it's bay.
Just piles of old rubble
in lay the footsteps of the past
to remind us that we're temporary
and that none of us can last.
Crumbling people travelling
on long crackling roads
who have been journeying forever
to destination unknown.
Tangerine ChildrenTangerine childrenTangerine Children1 week ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
float high in the sky
o’er mandarin cockroaches
who wriggle and lie
down at five 'o' clock
singing the blues
while the swans in the mire
are braying the truth.
Watch her standing there
hands in her head
she's crying out tears
for the lives that she's led.
Screaming and marching
to unending doom
for the pangs of adulthood
are one song too soon.
The skies are of bureaucrats
clouds are red tape
but I'm raining down love
into puddles of hate.
walls made of gold
for that paradise lost
the canons will roll.
Generation NextWe try to make our in a worldGeneration Next1 week ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
that doesn't want us to succeed.
Cramming food down our throat
off the plates of those in need.
Keeping safety under lock and key
for those who buy a password
and blaming those who lie in cradles
while cursing the blind for the unsightly.
We attempt to carve a space
in a burning burning walled up planet.
As we try to hide ourselves
in our prison's darkened place.
If we are ridiculed to know nothing
it's because we've heard it all.
We're raped right from the womb
and the empty babe gets the blaming.
We scream at the empty void
mocked for vanquishing the earth.
We fear the sun and shun the night
so we live beneath the greenhouse light.
There is no room for us upon the land,
but there's a torrent on the sea.
How dare our need to breathe
when there are profits to be planned.
It is not our fathers who bear the load.
It falls on them to commit the sin
and smear the blood upon our faces
and choked our mouths and tongues are slowed.
We may not fight our battles.
Crime of ViolenceHe lifts his hands in celebrationCrime of Violence1 week ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
and brought them down in exclamations
of pain from the mouths of the dying,
This blood shall be the story
of his hands bespecked in glory
to his current victims' end.
He strikes his hands about the face
and tastes their pain, his heart does race
to know them to be crippled.
He mercifully took the eyes and nose
ear are next on what he has to dispose.
He'll rid them on each sense.
For this he feels no guilt
to make his conscious twist and lilt.
His only crime is violence.
RealityLet us go then, you and I,Reality1 week ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
to watch the waters lap oh so high
to watch the lakes grow oh so dry
while they blow smoke to the sky
and frack our future.
distort the trouble,
doubt the science
on the double
lie and cheat and make a fuss
in money we trust.
And the waters they rise,
and the islands they sink
Southern Louisiana's right in the drink
The wars are here, the thirst has come
but too many bigshots sit and hum.
Repeating the mantras won't change a thing
repeating the mantras won't change a thing
repeating the mantras won't change a thing.
AirportsYou can board a plane,Airports2 weeks ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
And in a matter of moments;
Lay on a sandy beach,
Swim in a pearly ocean,
Feast on the finest feast,
Slide on a powdered mountain,
Or you could;
Wash your hands in warm blood,
Walk down a death strewn pavement,
Flee monsters from above,
A child screaming on a table,
You can board a plane,
And be anywhere,
In a matter of moments;
It just depends,
Which airport is closest.
©Alexander E. Musset
Gray Stack CityThere was a boy named Nate who was no older than eight who dreamed of seeing what the world had in storeGray Stack City2 weeks ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
He lied in his bed as thoughts ran through his head of what could exist outside of his door
Now Nate could see only to a certain degree what Earth was like away from his nook
All his thoughts and his dreams and possible sights he could see were from nothing more than pages in a book
“There is no where else that I would rather be than in a field of green watching animals live life on their own.
And if not grass then some trees. It does not matter to me as long as it is the nature that my book has shown.”
Nate spoke these words sadly as he wanted quite badly to be away from where currently was
His city was dreary and awful and weary of any change or any good cause
You see Nate lived in a place that could be described by its name and everyone would instantly sigh
With a name like Gray Stack City it will never look pretty because you did not set the expectation
is love too late?warfare pollutionis love too late?2 weeks ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
our best solution
deception and lies
storms on the ocean
torment and pain
green acid rain
envy and hate
is love too late?
ReachTo the stars I stare and dream of where we'll be one dayReach2 weeks ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I know, to make the improbable possible is the only way.
Don't let them tell you that you can't.
We rise to the heavens, pulling ourselves from the soil like a plant.
Every day that we strive for greatness we make our world a better place.
With pride and hard work we make greatness our base.
Believe in each other and change the world.
blue orbblue orbblue orb2 weeks ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
take the scales
off our eyes
White RabbitWhen I was young,White Rabbit3 weeks ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Still sucking my thumb,
I'd smiled at pictures of White Rabbits.
Looking to see
All of the beauty
of the cleanest and purest White Rabbits.
I'd lost all my joy
at the sight of a boy
who looked as he were a Black Rabbit.
When I came of age
Mom bought me a cage
and with it came a White Rabbit.
I took her to play
but she ran away
I started to cry for my White Rabbit.
I cried for some help.
Mom never did help.
She said "We'll get a new Bunny Rabbit."
I got so mad,
I really had had
to get my hands on my White Rabbit.
I ran away
not wanting to stay
in that cabin without my White Rabbit.
Deep in the woods
he sits under his hood
There I had met the Black Rabbit.
I asked "Have you seen..."
and he smirked right at me,
His clothes dirty like his Black Rabbit.
"Sit down right here,
There's nothing to fear.
We'll go out and find your White Rabbit."
Histoire d'une fin du monde.Histoire d’une fin du monde.Histoire d'une fin du monde.3 weeks ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Lisbonne, dix-sept-cent-cinquante-cinq d’un jadis :
Cette ville ultra-catholique et portuaire,
À la croisée d’un océan d’un estuaire,
Capitale d’un empire d’or et de reis.
Des autodafés, encore tiède est la cendre.
Ce premier novembre au matin, jour de Toussaint,
Dans les églises, les croyants et assassins
Au milieu des bougies à cire si tendre.
Mais qui sont les vrais saints, qui sont les vrais martyrs?
Peut-être, de cette inquisition, les victimes
Qui ont péris sur tous ces bûchers anonymes
De la haineuse Église à les anéantir!
Croient-ils ces démons que quelque Dieu les protège
Alors que leurs chants latins emplissent ces lieux,
Que la pierre commence à vibrer sous leurs yeux
Et que leur monde devient ce vibrant manège?
Des fissures déchirent toute la cité,
Les temples sacrés s’effondrent sur les fid