Author: poetryfest

Poem by: Jacob Black, Genre: Historical Fiction.

BLOOD AND SAND

I and my tribe were from the land of Gaul,

but on account of the Romans, my people did fall.

They took our children, our old and sold them as slaves,

They raped all of our wives and then they put them in graves.

I tried to defend my wife with all of my might, but the Romans fought dirty, they never fought a fair fight.

They crowded me and then knocked me out before I had a chance to finish the bout.

I woke up in a rusty cage, and in my heart, I felt nothing but rage.

I yelled and screamed to be let out of my hold until I found out that I was sold.

I was bought and brought to the Colosseum In Rome, It’s foundations built upon blood and bone.

They pushed me into the arena and put a sword, a shield in my hands.

I was about to fight on the blood-soaked sands.

Out of a large iron gate came three different gladiatorial men.

The Murmillo, The Retiarius and the Thraex Thracian.

The crowd, the massive audience for them began to cheer.

While they booed at me and threw rocks at me to cause me doubt and fear.

But I gripped my sword, my shield, and held them tight. I wasn’t ready to back down from any fight.

I attacked the Thraex Thracian with the two curved blades first.

He made me bleed but I made him bleed out the worst.

With my sword, I beheaded him with a sideways slash.

His headless body collapsed to the earth with a crash.

My name was chanted and roared from the crowd, but for killing a man I wasn’t proud.

Next to attack me was the Retiarius with his trident and net.

He was fast and strong, you could bet.

He was a highly-skilled fighter, his net wrapped around my shield, so I yanked it tighter.

I pulled him towards me with all of my might, making him fall and roll to the right.

With my sword I lunged through the air, he lunged toward me with his three-pronged spear. I just barely missed his killing blow, but I cut him hard and deep, his blood did flow.

The Murmillo was next to attack. He was on me every step of the way, he gave me no slack.

He carried with him a short sword, a large shield. With them, he expertly knew how to wield.

He smashed his shield right across my face. From his brutal blow, I tried to brace.

But I fell crashing to the sandy ground, the Murmillo now on top of me started to pound.

He punched and kicked me as hard as he could, so slamming my shield on his toes, I made him fall where he stood.

I then picked up my sword, about to slash at his head, but he countered cutting my chest deep, the wound bled and bled.

I disarmed him, he disarmed me. We both fought for life, we both fought to be free.

The crowd was now cheering louder than ever before, they knew this wasn’t just a battle, that this fight was a war.

We fought back and forth for over an hour, punching and kicking with all of our power.

We were covered in scratches, covered in blood, the blood-stained sand had turned into mud.

The Murmillo choked me with his powerfully-built arms. so I put them both in a hold to his alarm.

I broke both of them with a snap, in anger, in pain, he head-butted me hard with a whap.

I shook my head in a daze to shake off the dizzy phase. Once my head was all clear, I noticed on his face was sorrow and fear.

I grabbed my sword, but I couldn’t drive it through the Murmillo’s heart. All of this killing inside of me was ripping me apart.

I’ve become nothing more than a beast. I don’t want the Romans exploiting me as they grow rich on me and feast. So I threw down my sword in defiance to the state.

To their cruelty, bloodshed, to all of their rape.

The Roman Emperor yelled to his men from his throne, that my flesh was to be flayed from every bone.

Twenty soldiers with swords and whips came through the Arena’s iron gate.

And in their eyes, I saw nothing but cruelty, contempt, and hate.

They surrounded me on every side, but I wasn’t going to run and hide.

I would give the Romans all the pain that they gave to me.

They need to be shown that every man, woman, and child has the right to be safe and free.

We are not animals to be bought and sold, our lives shouldn’t be bought for silver or for gold.

I picked up mine and the Murmillo’s blade. Then through the Romans, I slashed and slayed.

But too many surrounded me on each side. As they lashed their whips at me, in pain I cried.

Once I was on the ground, they really began to beat me down. But I kept rising up and hitting them back, But they kept up with their vicious attack.

As they run me through with their blades. I yell IF YOU DON’T STAND UP TO INJUSTICE AND TYRANNY FREEDOM DIES AND FADES!!!!!

I am useless
And I refuse to believe that
I am wonderfully made
I realize this may be unexpected, but
“Live your life to the fullest”
Is totally a big lie
“Wasting your time alone with freedom and solitude”
Being left behind
Is more important than
Being surrounded with other people
I tell you this,
Once upon a time
There was a very cheerful girl, and that’s me
But
I felt a little melancholy
Somebody told me
I am vulnerable
I do not conclude that
I am strong enough to take a risk and prove to them that I am not useless
At some time in the future,
I am worried
No longer can I say that
I can touch other people’s heart
It is seen vividly that
I live my life miserable
It is foolish to presume that
I can socialize with others and spend some time with them.

(Read it backwards)

Like a silent wave
Humanity is lost in a dark cave
We exist
We persist
In moments, we resist

There’s not an ounce of sunlight
Same story of endless human plight
We suffer
We share
When struggling, we care

The voices in the head
Missed and dismally unsaid
We concur
We reckon
To survive, we give in

Through many promises and dreams
Comes ruthless bloodshed and screams
We protest
We detest
At the end, we remain aimless

We ask ourselves what’s next
As world shivers and disconnects
No one’s trying to get this right
Truth rarely shouts
Peace and justice is far from sight

POET personal blog link – http://www.alliamthinking.wordpress.com

Genre – Political

“Love is the power of a wise man. It is a net for a lover. It is a tool for a clever man. Love is a song for a singer.” ― Debasish Mridha

Defining love is a complex purpose,
Everyone desires a yearning for this assumed human emotion,
Sometimes ego is misinterpreted as a certain,
Outside a beating heart engaged in slow-motion.
Attachments to sentimental feelings,
Admiring the passion from within,
Wanting empathic exchange in spiritual dealings,
You should grow a soul that exists outside the skin.

Nature vs Nurture,
Bonding beyond the expected romance,
The devotion between two people is a merger,
Knowing an individual’s spirit is the true climax.
Selfless love is unconditional,
An essence intertwined with the cosmos,
Identify harmony in what is critical,
Far from the imagery, deep inside what is close.

Relishing alone can be achieved,
Conjunctions are extra pieces of the cake,
Seeing requires mixed senses perceived,
Meaning more profound wisdom than just heartbreak.
My clarity on love is still undecided,
Positive forces established conflict if you attempt to articulate them,
Regardless, allow those options in and be divinity guided,
Precision of a cut diamond can be split as a hidden gem.

“Love is a more powerful force than magic. You can trick the mind and even the heart, but never the soul. When a person is not free to love with their soul, that is not love and that is why a love spell can never truly work.” ― Nikki Jefford Entangled

The ground of waves on the fabric of dress,
glimpse upon the mirror of power.
A fearless motivated sophistication of the princess,
divided the shallow vain of tower.

The reflection of the clouds on an ocean:
they’re like the reflection of sophisticated women.
The sky the covers them beneath the sun–
gives light than other men.

The tuck of shoes pointing at the center,
the sharp waves conducted by the female–
the seductress of ground voyager–
yes! They are the prowess tale.

If women are the dawn of night light,
the dancer under the clouds:
It would be queens of light–
yes, we are tougher than ocean of crowds.

The Chesapeake* Bay
200 miles long
is a meteor crater
few people know that.
Home to blue crabs
bass, eel, oyster, horseshoe crab
ospreys, great blue herons,
bald eagles, and peregrine falcons.

Known for its bounty, but now –
fewer crabs, oysters and watermen.
Nutrient pollution and urban runoff
ruined water quality in the bay.
shellfish were “overharvested”
doublespeak for overexploited.

My dad took us crabbing
brother John and uncle George.
Chicken wings
attached to hemp string
wrapped around my wrist
dropped into the Bay.

Blue Crabs are scavengers
they eat anything
snails, bivalves,
other crustaceans, fish, worms,
and sometimes human bodies.

I could feel them tug
from deep below
out of sight.

Slowly, slowly, slowly
I pulled that long string up
too far and they were gone
sunlight scared ’em off.

A net on a long pole
in my other hand
as I pulled one up
ever so slowly
and
just, just, just
as they came into view
I’d slide that net under it
sneaky like – they spook easy –
and I kept pulling
until, right ——- there
I had it in the net
too late for escape.

But it had life left
so dump it in ice
quickly
flesh-tearing claws
are powerfully strong.

That went on all day
until we had two bushels
of feisty fighting crabs
safely stowed on our skiff.

Later, we’d dump the
lethargic cold crabs
right out on the floor
looking for dead ones
– you don’t eat dead crabs
they might have been sick.

You don’t have much time
they revive quickly
looking for a fight
and they move quickly
on linoleum-covered floors
fun to watch
but dangerous to fingers.

Then we put them into
blue and white-speckled enamel pots
– quart of vinegar in the bottom –
covered them with
cups of Old Bay spice
The crabs were steaming mad
but steamed to red death.

After that, they were dumped
onto tables covered in newsprint
for a family feast
accompanied by beer
and they were delicious.

Living in a toilet,
tiny shit.
Small, square world,
growing slimmer.
We don’t fit.

Not enough money,
at the end of the month.
Chewing leftovers.
Hungering for more.

Poverty eats your dreams.

Police dissin’ us.
Brutal,
broke someone’s arm last week.
Spraying bullets, kicking down doors.
And they say we are dangerous?

A war on the streets,
against drugs,
against us.

Violence will eat your dreams.

We have to go,
back to our country.
We were born here,
where were you
when they handed us out
shitty jobs.

Racism will eat your dreams.

Media and politics,
playing ping pong.
Increasing hate,
dividng retoric.
We don’t get changes,
we will have to take them.

Obstacles will eat your dreams.
Dreams are all we have left.

Poet’s site is:

http://www.poemosaurus.com

I stared into the abyss one too many times
Tried to believe in things which aren’t and things which can’t
Their spectre now haunts my mind
Having lost touch with solid ground

I fell into epistemological despair
What is real and what is up for grabs
I did regain my faith in truth
Though somewhat diminished under new light

Next the years went flying by
A few times madness popped in to say hi
The world conspired against me, so it seemed
Tracking my moves through the clouds small waves
Waiting for a chance to bring me down
Just with the things I’ve done online

Now I’ve recovered at least a bit
My recent outburst was brief and swift
Sure it was still an ordeal
But I’ve dealt with it in what seems the right way

The future doesn’t look so bright as it once did
But in the end I still live

Rejection Accepted

Broken in pieces

Shards of glass

Ground to sand

But glass is made from sand

And to sand glass returns

And because of sand glass returns

But not without the knowledge

And the care of the process

Overseen by the Master

As each granule speaks

Thoughts of the Master

Creating His Master—pieces

Working

All things together

The glass is formed again

Tempered for the next use

Yet able to be broken again

And reformed

The process of a life

Given over to brokenness and repentance

And trust

Because they knew

Their Master cares for them

And then…

Perfect love, reciprocal to all

—
Randy Goss
Founder: Stuff With A Message Inc
http://passionscall.wix.com/the-recorder

Butterflies & Hurricanes,
Paradoxes forgotten to mythology,
Lovers stuck in their ways,
Closure of relevant applied psychology.
Opposite forces mending conceptual sprits,
They serve as sources confining a vacuum of righteousness,
Ominous attractions display conjunctions of kinesis,
Bone marrow validity other than what is considered spineless.

Touch of the handle of the metaphorical door,
Breaking down framework enters the madman,
Wondering about all sides of what to stand for,
Captures those who have an open attention span.
Alter ego reflections to smoke on,
Rumination towards, a torch and a light,
An exchange of a sender and receiver under automation,
Specific greymatter between the duality of black and white.

Throwing cautions to the wind,
Targets of structure are locked in positions,
Alive, humbled when being skinned,
Objectivity locates truths aligned in non-broken traditions.’
Composition processes in dance,
Determining to not fix what is inherently complete,
Doubt is putting faith in circumstance,
You will know when touch executed is bittersweet.

“The muses are ghosts, and sometimes they come uninvited.” – Stephen King, Bag of Bones