History

Abel de Larue - French Sorcerer

Folder: 
Poetry

Under influence of a Demon,

French Sorcerer, black dog,

Being known as The Smasher,

Not of this world...


Placed in a Fransciscan monastery,

By his mother in her commandery.

He became enraged, abusing him,

By beating him, he plotted revenge.


He said a black spaniel appeared to him,

Promising to help him, going to his aid

Surrendering himself as in a raid.


Arrested on charges of Sorcery,

Spell-casting, hatred and grief.

The Demon never rescued him,

For against such forces of the law he couldn't win.


He was found guilty and hanged,

But his spirit was encouraged.

Now he hates even more,

Horror, destruction and gore.


[He was executed on July 20, 1582].

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Demonology poem.

A part of history!

A part of history!
eyes wide open and a smile from ear to ear humbled at all I saw
standing inside history today surveying the past in total awe
speechless at all I saw when looking at a past so grisly
unable to speak in this moment in time seeing a part of history
walking thru a part of history I saw many things my eyes wide open`
I cant describe the feeling I got learning about a past so broken
I couldnt speak because to me there were no words to this story
standing inside the past thinking about a part of history
in that place so stained with blood, sweat and tears
all I could think about was those people who were full of fears
not knowing what lies ahead for them in a world of mystery
it made me realize how luck I am to be standing in a part of history


                 Zoeycup

Author's Notes/Comments: 

i wrote this poem when i went to luisianna to visit my brother he took me to a plantation (the hunan house plantation) i literaly couldnt speak because it was so much to take in, with all i saw came the realization that my life is a breeze compared to some it humbled me to speechless to say the least hope you like it

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Timber Merchant

 When I was a child

I remember you carrying me in your arms

the grey pseudo membrane covers my pharynx

making it difficult to breathe

Diphtheria was common in those days

You were turned away

from the footsteps of Holy family hospital

I saw despair

Flow down your cheeks

Where to now

You murmured

As I slipped into unconsciousness 

 

The haveli in Shimla

Amidst blue pines

You, your young family

My father, his brothers and sisters

Settled, content and happy

Forest was your business

Himalayan cedar, silver fir, white oak

Your touch turned them to gold

You took to the road in ‘47

Independence from British Raj and idolaters

carnage ensued

innocents, vulnerable

those who had no say, paid

The Punjabi sky above endured,

said no word but it poured

you spoke little about exodus of your own choice

and loss of everything

the hardship years, the eldest his fits of psychosis

chained, there was no PTSD in those days

people took things in their stride

his young siblings, their silent cries of pain

for the valley, the green trees

the wind that rustled between

the paths that led to nowhere

your hands never spoke of the stories

but you rebuilt the nest

and one by one they flew

some near

others to faraway lands

 

I want to know more about you grandpa

I am not small anymore but your legacy is so much bigger

One thing I am certain

giving up was never in our blood

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Today is my grandfathers 36th Death Anniversary, I usually pay a triibute in the form of a poem or a reflection. This year I thought of writing this one, a history of sorts, do leave your comments, thank you

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Quick Dr. King poem

His name was King, and he was worthy of the title.

Everyone everywhere enjoyed listening to his speeches, until they disagreed.

The world listened and heeded what he had uttered, but never changed their ways.

We wanted to go to war, the angry men were always angry, but King was always tranquil.

The oceans roared and the continents screamed from the lack of care, we were always damaged.

Because of King, our eyes are finally opened, he was truly God's anointed.

My time remembering him is almost up, but his valiant actions will always be shown through me.

Communism can stay way it is, and capitalism where it is, what happens, happens.

All King wanted was for us to be happy again, he wanted success and joy, peace on Earth,

He was a warrior and is fit for the title of honorable and harmonious champion.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

For class

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tags:

The Art of Writing...

The Art of Writing

@SachikoMochiko


 


Writing...
Humanity's engraved history,
on the tips of our fingers,
on the tip of the mind

It's a beautiful art, isn't it?
How someone's soul,
personality,
beliefs,
style,
Is expressed with a language
The art of writing

Of course, I do not
I do not limit
Limit to words...

Body language is the writing of the body
Music is the writing to decorate time
Facial Expression is the art of writing and interpreting...from the crust of a soul
Speech writes the base of language

Writing is not what you just think it is
...
It. Is. Pure. Art.


============


Now reading back on this poem, I have found my reason to write.


 


This thing called Writing. It's woven into our nature. As stated above, I consider things such as body language, facial expression, and music as "writing". 


 


 It's our own mind that limits us. Writing is not limited to words. After all, it is a way to express. Our ability to express is already woven in us from birth (for instance, when we cry, we express from the wails written, by our voice, in the air)...


 


And maybe I am mistaken...


 


When you kick when you were in your mother's womb, you may definitely express and inform something hehe...


 


 So really, it's my nature...our nature...to write.


 


Don't let yourself be the one who limits your potential! - SachikoMochiko :)

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just another quick poem...

Based on Jonathan Chiu's post: "5 Reasons you should write"

See it here: http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/youngteenwriterz/1982150/#comments

Destroying statues, burning books

Destroying statues, burning books

   By jfarrell

 

Sorry,

Statues, paintings, art

I feel ill equipped to comment on

My idea of art was 2000AD.

 

Burning books….

Books I love, books I know;

Some books scare me; yes ban it; burn it;

Some books shame me; yes, ban it, burn it.

 

But I saw pictures of Mosil, after ISIS;

Like Dresden, after England’s Royal Air Force;

Like Pompei, after the eruption;

Is ‘Holocaust of Art’, ‘Holocaust of History’ the right way?

 

I have never read, and never will, wotever Hitler’s book was;

But I instinctively want it burned;

Though no personal connection,

I can give you 6 million and more reasons why.

 

But, I don’t study hate, or politics/religion;

Maybe, if I were clever enough,

Reading this ‘material’ really would help

In resolving all the world’s hate, and achieving Utopia.

 

A great coldplay song….

“i’m gonna buy this place and burn it down”

There really are some places, some people,

I wanna burn.

 

But, if we burn our past,

Our history;

How can we learn from it?

And what might it teach us, if we didn’t burn it?

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

great line from Sting - "History, will teach us nothing."

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On Nights, Such as This…

On Nights, Such as This…

By JFarrell

 

On nights, such as this…

 

The rain teems down in sheets

From a deep indigo sky

Laden with thick, heavy, ominous clouds

 

The lightening strikes down as serrated blades

Followed by, at first, a quiet, almost unnoticeable murmur

Which grows in depth and volume to become a deafening rumble

 

The only other sound

is the hypnotic sibilance of the rain

Droning out a tattoo

 

On nights, such as this…

 

Guy Fawkes and his conspirators plotted

ISIS contrive their next act of cowardice

The dark creatures feel stronger

 

Highywaymen held up coaches

Punks with knives rob the weak

And those that thrive in darkness feel braver

 

On nights, like this

Vermin are given more courage

To rob, rape, kill…..  

anything a coward thinks will make him a man

 

Because, the day shows the shameful, pathetic excuse for the man he really is

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

yep, raining here :)

Write H I S T O R Y

Write H I S T O R Y,


Not with blood,


Not with hatred,


But with victory!


 

This is the time,


This is the moment,


Grab the dream,


Bell the blissful chime!


 

Make us witness H I S T O R Y today,

 

Make us proud in every way!

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tags:

Urban Repentance

Writing these poetic sentences as my urban repentance.
Blessing my adversaries with passive vengeance.
That's basically forgiveness and if they don't accept it.
I'm cool with it I got to use my energy more positively.
Can't just waltz in the Devil's Advocate.
Got to make a decision in the hour of reckoning.
Either chose the way of truth or commence to living lies.
A life of fabrication is nothing but false statements.
Also the malignant information that has infiltrated our generation.
I'm not speaking this way to traumatize or frightened.
I'm here to open and enlightened your minds.
Now it's time unify and put genocide to a screeching halt.
In this day of age we're in pain but it's not our fault.
We just caught in our twisted history.
Years of misery if you look at the news you'll see a cruel tapestry.
Painted with the tears of fallen angels.
This is how we was raised to hate and embrace the division.
That's why it's soo much tension killing a man for religious differences.
Then ridiculing someone because of their appearance.
I only ask why?
Why he or she must die?
Why these children get victimized?
Why we must divide?
Time for us to no longer hide behind our false pride.
I apologized to anyone I ever offended and if you do the same we can make a difference.
Call this our urban repentance!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Hearing and seeing disturbing events at school just felt like I should write on making change stopping the troubles and to all the people I ever disrespected accept this as my apology.