The Palestinian And The Jew

We are a wronged people
repressed and censured
for our race.

We are a conquered people
repressed and terrorized
on our own lands.

Our people are herded into concentration camps
forced to suffer under the iron hand of the Nazis
men, women and children killed out of hand.

Our peole are herded into refugee camps
forced to suffer under the iron hand of the Israelis
men, women and children killed out of hand.

We bomb civilians
and assassinate individuals
but for the safety
of our ancestral homeland.

We bomb civilians
and throw grenades at soldiers
but for our freedom
and our stolen homeland.

Our first prime minister
is a terrorist you say
no! indeed he is a freedom fighter.

Yasser Arafat
is a terorist you say
no! indeed he is a freedom fighter.

The Stern Gang are not terorrists
but soldiers in our war for freedom.

The Hamas are not terorrists
but soldiers in our war for freedom.

The world should excuse our astrocities
the US and everyone else did nothing
when Hitler did this to us.

The world should excuse our terror activities
the US and everyone else did nothing
as the Israelis did this to us.

An endless circle it is
this ride of miscontrued innocence
past wrongs are munitions
employed for present actions
there is scant truth
much less any sense
in this endless cycle
of endless violence
both sides have their points
until these are redressed
there is no resolution
especially for the hypocritical judge
who speaks for his much adored freedom
but ignore moral clauses
in his own pursuit of happiness
within his just cause
the deaths of others are collateral
a mere three thousand of his deaths
and the world has to pay consequence
you take away their voice
left their political will overthrown
and yet you ask their objections
be spoken in peaceful terms
"why?" would the high-horsed judge ask
"do we bore the brunt of agression?"
"why are our shores be visited by terrorism?"
why else indeed
but the price you pay
for your splendid ignorance
to judge for others only in your own terms
and to support those who you gave free license
only to fight for so called freedom
when it is in your own cognizance.

The World:
I grive for thee
I grieve for me
for such indulgence
brings only contention
Is there an end to this
to more peaceful existance
alas I see no end
but a higher octave
to this melody
an endless malady
such is the human condition.

The Massachusetts 54th

On parade!
the 54th,
the Massachussets 54th.
Upon beach
and grainy sands,
under shadows
of Fort Wagner's guns.

On parade!
the fighting men,
sons and brothers
of coloured ken.
Under arms
and colours Union,
fighting for rights
to die as men.

unto the dunes
and forward hence.
By blood by smoke
and into legend,
the rights and dignity
of social sanctions.

"We are men!"
"equal and free,"
"whose blood does flow"
"as red as any."
"With rights to die"
"and fight as men,"
"in this our nation"
"our blood as recompense."

On parade!
the 54th.
Upon beach
and grainy sands,
under shadows
of Fort Wagner's guns.
On parade!
the gallant men,
these fighting men,
of coloured ken.
Free born fellows
educated gentlemen,
runaway slaves
whose backs are lined.

In victory
in defeat
twice rebuked.
But here
upon these sands,
their blood
emits a glorious shine.
As these gallant men
into death's jaws,
proving the courage
of brethren and ken.

Rest easy
Colonel Shaw,
the courageous dead
upon these shores.
For all glory
that have been forfend,
are now wreathed
upon deserving shoulders.

Firty Fourth,"
into the eve
of courage and glory.
Ever onward
into the seeds of freedom
and equality.

I Bid Death, Goodbye That Day

As I wait here, dying
consumed by cell-eating curse
subsumed by ever present fears
I pondered to mind, my ending.

To perchance lift, the uncertain veil
gently slipping into oblivion
nimbly leaving this borrowed vision
to wake from dreams, of living still.

But as I stood, upon the cliffs
preparing to jump the edge
preparing to end this charade
into my mind, a fancy drifts.

Of all things, a coloured butterfly
that lived beyond the caterpillar
that lived once and no longer
it never paused to ponder, but lived and die.

Past and future, we can forget
the past is over far and behind
the future is yet to be defined
but for our own, the present begets.

The truth in life, an endless challenge
in living we learn to face them
in living we learn to solve them
and always, we taste the change.

Both the bitter, the very sweet
the footprints that life makes
the memories that living creates
these are the things, that makes life complete.

Even if it is, I am to die
from this condition unasked for
from this pain ever more
if this is fate, I'll face it eye to eye.

It is better, than to grieve
to taste and feel what I can of life
to taste and feel of what might have
so when I die, I'll remember that I have lived.

I bid death, goodbye that day
promising to return, when it is my time
promising to live my allotted span
say hello to life, and be on my way.

A Stranger's Face

There I stood,
upon the middle steps,
upon the cusps of change,
upon this earthly stage.

What was has gone,
into the night,
all that's to be,
are dawned and nigh.

As I look,
into the mirrowed lake,
I saw a face,
that did'nt quite fit.

What I saw,
was a stranger's face,
that told me tales,
of a stranger's fate.

In his eyes,
a heavy sadness rest,
but in his heart,
the tears are all but dry.

In his soul,
a pool of lonesome fears,
but his dreams,
has long begun to die.

Upon his brows,
a wrinkled forehead lined,
his toughts and worries,
the burdens of his times.

Upon his face,
a downcast angled frown,
a man who's lost,
and hope will never find.

And then he spoke,
with words that grief designed,
"I am he,"
"Alas this fate is mine."

What Can You Do...

What can you do,
when you are all alone...

In a dark empty room,
with no one to talk to.
In the coldness of gloom,
with no one to hold you.
In a place all your own,
with no one to love you.

What can you do,
when the hope has all gone...

There's nothing to do,
nor a thing to achieve.
There's nowhere to go to,
nor a place to perceive.
There's nothing to hold to,
nor a thing to believe.

What can you do,
when your heart is as stone...

You feel not the pain,
but the sweetness too hides.
You ignore the rain,
but the tears fall inside.
You heed not love's claim,
but the hurt won't subside.

What can you do,
when the dreams don't return...

You sleep not at night,
as the nightmares define.
You wander without sight,
as the dreamless are blind.
You sit by the roadside,
as you are left behind.

What can you do,
When you are all alone,
When the hope has all gone,
When your heart is as stone,
When the dreams don't return,

What can you do,
but to tarry along.
Where else to turn to,
but into your own.
Where can you go,
but into the gloom.
What more to do,
but to drift all alone.

An Ode to Warrior Celts

Out of mists and under fog
rose the cry of warrior lords
blue faces O! Woad
screaming forms charging bold.

swift as winds fierce as beasts
led by druids with runes ablaze
enchanted clouds of battle rage
bards a-singing their battle staves.

the whistling whirls of deadly slings
blades of bronze that bore such sting
fey blessed men with red-eyed gleam
blood chilled cries and raging screams.

a terrible foe to those who seek
to claim the lands beneath their feet
for no other tongue can ever sate
the bloody hunts of Celtic fate.

alas like winds they fade amiss
driven and chased like hunted beasts
all but forgotten in dreams and songs
as the last spell leaves the druids lungs.

against a foe unmatched they fell to rest
as javelin and blade doth rend to shreds
the march of progress on disciplined roads
doth sweep aside the enchanted groves.

they live now in faeries' eaves
memories of times that never sleeps
as their songs enchant their spirit seeps
into the blood of kin sundered by deeds.

"we sing to the lords, the huntsmen who sleep"
"an oath bespelled by blood and by deed"
"under sacred groves will once again"
"dance the Woad with blue painted skin."

Love Is...

Love is as the tides
that teases the patience of empty harbours
an aroma of infinite wiles
that vanishes as often as fickle vapours.

Love is a bridge at times
that seeks to connect opposing shores
only to fall as certain as rhymes
and dash to pieces what hopes was before.

Love is a new beginning
a tale to start the futures to come
only to lead to further endings
and drown the future in empty chasms.

Love is at times a boon
the gift of passion that lifts the gloom
but in the end it's over too soon
a prelude to pain in history's tombs.

Love is just a guise
that we dress our pregnant pride
an emotion doomed by pretty lies
a borrowed shade whilst rains subside.

Love is a beggar's call
dressed in rags of feined innocence
to beg the scraps and table fall
and dread the strength of self-indulgence.

Love is all in all a lie
that we tell ourselves to ease our sins
for none admits their selfish wiles
solitary fears and lonely pains.
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