Let not your sword be drawn at any man's bidding.
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Ballot Or The Bullet
Give me liberty or give me death
No truer words have ever been said
Well are you prepared for your very last breath?
Dont you dare start what you cannot finish
So when we face, face the adversary
No longer are we the minority
And when history repeats her hour
The pendulum will swing, swing into power
Though not in vain like our forefathers
Freedom, never had no room for cowards
For in the end, there will be equality
By any means necessary
The ballot or the bullet
The choice is up to you
The ballot or the bullet
Tell me what you gonna do
The sword or the pen
Can be held by the same hand
Whats it gonna take to liberate?
An emancipation, a false proclamation?
All these token words that you legislate
Sound a little bit absurd. hey! and a little too late
When a house is divided, it just will not stand
Once its decided, a line drawn in the sand
Ah! the ballot or the bullet
The choice is up to you
The ballot or the bullet
Tell me what you gonna do
The sword or the pen
Can be held by the same hand
The ballot or the bullet
The choice is up to you
The ballot or the bullet
Tell me what you gonna do
The ballot or the bullet
The choice is up to you
The ballot or the bullet
Tell me what you gonna do
The sword or the pen can be
The sword or the pen can be
The sword or the pen can be
The sword or the pen can be
The sword or the pen can be
Held, held by the same hand!
song performed by by Van Halen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue, until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."
quote by Abraham Lincoln
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When the sword of rebellion is drawn, the sheath should be thrown away.
Mu'tamid's Lament In Prison
In my breast,
A wail of grief,
Without any spark or flash,
Alone survives,
Passionless, ineffectual.
A free man is in prison today,
Without a spear or a sword;
Regret overwhelms me
And also my strategy.
My heart
Is drawn by instinct to chains.
Perhaps my sword was of the same steel.
Once I had a two-edged sword-
It turned into the chains that shackle me now.
How whimsical and indifferent
Is the Author of fates.
[Translated by Mustansir Mir]
Note: Mu‘tamid was the king of Seville and an
Arabic poet. He was defeated and
imprisoned by a ruler of Spain. Mu‘tamid's
poems have been translated into English
and published in the Wisdom of the East
series.
poem by Allama Muhammad Iqbal
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When the sword is once drawn, the passions of men observe no bounds of moderation.
quote by Alexander Hamilton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Don't Leave Your Kiddy Bidding In a Gloom Room
Don't leave your kiddy bidding in a gloom room,
Plan to go soon.
Don't you leave your little kiddy,
Bidding in a gritty city.
Since no one will give you pity.
And think you a dizzy biddy.
Don't leave your kiddy bidding in a gloom room,
Plan to go soon.
And ditch your pitching itch,
To scratch more than just a bit.
Don't you leave your little kiddy,
Bidding in a gritty city.
Since no one will give you pity.
And think you a dizzy biddy.
Don't leave your kiddy bidding in a gloom room,
Plan to go soon.
Or be stuck and out of luck.
Thinking you can make a buck.
Scratching more than just a bit.
Don't you leave your little kiddy,
Bidding in a gritty city.
Since no one will give you pity.
And think you a dizzy biddy.
Don't leave your kiddy bidding in a gloom room,
Plan to go soon.
Don't you leave your little kiddy,
Bidding in a gritty city.
Since no one will give you pity.
And think you a dizzy biddy.
Scratching more than just a bit.
And you will not admit,
That you can't handle it.
And someone will come along,
To use you to do wrong.
And you will waste your time,
Convincing you are strong.
Don't you leave your little kiddy,
Bidding in a gritty city.
Since no one will give you pity.
And think you a dizzy biddy.
Don't leave your kiddy bidding in a gloom room,
Plan to go soon.
Or be stuck and out of luck.
Thinking you can make a buck.
Scratching more than just a bit.
Of a life you should give up,
And not feed greed.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.
quote by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sword Of Mine
The Sword that I carry
Though made not of iron or steel,
It is a mighty sword
That I proudly do so wield.
Though it wont break the skin
Or combat the weapons of a foe
But this is a mighty sword of mine
More precious than silver or gold.
This sword that I carry
I proudly display it in my hand,
For I know this sword of mine
Is greater, than any other mans.
It comforts me when I am tired
It will warm me when I am cold
It will lie down beside of me
To protect, and strengthen my soul.
The sword that I hold
Is tattered, and so very worn
It has been a friend along side of me,
In the sunshine and many storms.
It has shown me a path to follow
And has lit the road that I walk,
And those nights when I was alone and scared
Then to me, I could hear it talk.
The sword that I wield
Though may be different, in shape or size,
But it is the same sword
Which for years has cushioned the souls cry.
It has been here since the dawn of time
And will be here when the great walls fall,
And then when all men of war and hate reflect,
My sword, will be the mightiest sword of all.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Prayer For An Innocent Man
Oh wont you listen o lord to my plea for justice
Cant you hear my cry for help
Try to heed my honest prayer
And judge me in my favor
cause you know my heart
You have come to me at night
But its so hard to speak no evil
In a hole deprived of light
So I pray for you to answer
And to turn to me and smile
Shower me with love to save me
From demons deep inside
Protect me as you would your own eyes
In the shadows of your wings
And learn to know the sound that echoes
When an innocent man sings
When an innocent man sings
When he sings
So I lie with all my failures
Praying to my best friends ghost
Time to kneel instead of sitting
And let me do thy bidding
Wont you let me do thy bidding yeah
Help me do thy bidding
song performed by by Vertical Horizon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Latter Rain
A ring of haze encircles the unshrouded truth within
Another seal is broken as the heavens prepare
To break forth in fulfillment
A blanket of deception is layered on sacred writings
Which contain the thoughts of the One who is Almighty God
A sword unsheathed is drawn bringing legions of demons to their knees
By the covenant prepared before the earth itself still
So many choose to warm themselves beneath deception
A ring of haze encircles the unshrouded truth within
Another seal is broken as the heavens prepare
To break forth in fulfillment
A blanket of deception is layered on sacred writings
Which contain the thoughts of the One who is Almighty God
A sword is drawn
song performed by by Zao from Where Blood And Fire Bring Rest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vibrations
The battlelines were drawn.
While drinking the sun
I set myself ablaze
A hooded dilemma
of his kindness
starts boiling in chaotic dissonance.
A backlash stops a self-search.
Who am I and why do I belong
in the spinning of descent.
There were flames in every home
and biting dust of the moon.
Where the man will go.
The birth’s print and death’s answer
had the bidding game.
I was standing in the middle.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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The Young Warrior
Mother, shed no mournful tears,
But gird me on my sword;
And give no utterance to thy fears,
But bless me with thy word.
The lines are drawn! The fight is on!
A cause is to be won!
Mother, look not so white and wan;
Give Godspeed to thy son.
Now let thine eyes my way pursue
Where'er my footsteps fare;
And when they lead beyond thy view,
Send after me a prayer.
But pray not to defend from harm,
Nor danger to dispel;
Pray, rather, that with steadfast arm
I fight the battle well.
Pray, mother of mine, that I always keep
My heart and purpose strong,
My sword unsullied and ready to leap
Unsheathed against the wrong.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Intelligence, Or Wisdom?
intelligence measured...
test tubes, or degrees,
black robes, dialogue,
swords arrogant drawn...
wisdom though,
validated by experience,
cannot be measured,
but knows enough to
keep the sword in the sheath!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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War of Words
from a bottle of ink
spread into paper field
my word soldiers
pen is the sword
mind is the general
invading the blank land
sword is drawn
mind is attacked
conquered by abstract thing
called word
from a bloody throat
fly into air space
the word soldiers
tongue is the cannon
heart is the general
destroying memory bond
cannon is shot
heart is hurt
separated by abstract thing
called word
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Sword
THE FORGING OF THE SWORD.
At the forging of the Sword--
The mountain roots were stirr'd,
Like the heart-beats of a bird;
Like flax the tall trees wav'd,
So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
So loud the hammers fell,
The thrice seal'd gates of Hell,
Burst wide their glowing jaws;
Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
Kind mother Earth was rent,
Like an Arab's dusky tent,
And monster-like she fed--
On her children; at the forging of the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
So loud the blows they gave,
Up sprang the panting wave;
And blind and furious slew,
Shrill-shouting to the Forgers of the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
The startled air swift whirl'd
The red flames round the world,
From the Anvil where was smitten,
The steel, the Forgers wrought into the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
The Maid and Matron fled,
And hid them with the dead;
Fierce prophets sang their doom,
More deadly, than the wounding of the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
Swift leap'd the quiet hearts,
In the meadows and the marts;
The tides of men were drawn,
By the gleaming sickle-planet of the Sword!
* * * * *
Thus wert thou forged, O lissome sword;
On such dusk anvil wert thou wrought;
In such red flames thy metal fused!
From such deep hells that metal brought;
O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word,
But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!
Less than the Gods by some small span,
Slim sword, how great thy lieges be!
Glint but in _one_ wild camp-fire's light,
Thy God-like vassals rush to thee.
O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word,
But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!
Sharp, God, how vast thy altars be!
Green vallies, sacrificial cups,
Flow with the purple lees of blood;
Its smoke is round the mountain tops.
O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word,
But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!
O amorous God, fierce lover thou!
Bright sultan of a million brides,
Thou know'st no rival to _thy_ kiss,
Thy loves are _thine_ whate're betides,
O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word,
But dumbly rul'st, king and lord.
Unflesh thee, sword! No more, no more,
Thy steel no more shall sting and shine,
Pass thro' the fusing fires again;
And learn to prune the laughing vine.
Fall sword, dread lord, with one accord,
The plough and hook we'll own as lord!
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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He Entered Into Battle With A Blunt Edged Sword
He entered into battle with a blunt edged sword,
But he did not know quite why.
His sword selection was done without motive,
To battle and kill his fellow man.
So subconsciously he picked out this sword.
This sword not of this world, not out to cut to bleed.
But this innocent man didn't wish to realize,
What prize he would pay.
In midst of this battle, recieving the swiftest,
Blows from his enemy,
This soldier just kept getting hurt.
Five, six and seven more blows made him hit back,
This soldier proudly used his blunt sword,
Till his nemesis bearing a razor sharp one,
Came along and challenged the already fallen one,
Who gave a swift plunge into his enemy's heart.
But the enemy did not stagger or fall.
Neither did the soldier with the blunt sword.
This soldier's enemy left the battleground,
When he saw that the one with the blunt sword,
Knew all along the possibility of his death.
Still he fought, so he himself could die,
Which the other soldier was saddened by that man's stance.
He told that man, 'if we all fought battles with a blunt
sword,
Then we would all truly win,
For the battleground would know no mortality.
He further told him, 'because of you, your side
Truly wins. But so does our.
We love you,
Blunt edged sword soldier man.'
poem by Vera Sidhwa
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The Expiration
SO, so, break off this last lamenting kiss,
Which sucks two souls, and vapours both away;
Turn, thou ghost, that way, and let me turn this,
And let ourselves benight our happiest day.
We ask none leave to love; nor will we owe
Any so cheap a death as saying, "Go."
Go; and if that word have not quite killed thee,
Ease me with death, by bidding me go too.
Or, if it have, let my word work on me,
And a just office on a murderer do.
Except it be too late, to kill me so,
Being double dead, going, and bidding, "Go."
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Laird Of Waristoun
Down by yon garden green,
Sae merrily as she gaes;
She has twa weel-made feet,
And she trips upon her taes.
She has twa weel-made feet;
Far better is her hand;
She's as jimp in the middle
As ony willow wand.
'Gif ye will do my bidding,
At my bidding for to be,
It's I will make you lady
Of a' the lands you see.'
* * * * *
He spak a word in jest;
Her answer was na good;
He threw a plate at her face,
Made it a' gush out o' blood.
She wasna frae her chamber
A step but barely three,
When up and at her richt hand
There stood Man's Enemy.
'Gif ye will do my bidding,
At my bidding for to be,
I'll learn you a wile,
Avenged for to be.'
The foul thief knotted the tether;
She lifted his head on hie;
The nourice drew the knot
That gar'd lord Waristoun die.
Then word is gane to Leith,
Also to Edinburgh town
That the lady had kill'd the laird,
The laird o' Waristoun.
* * * * *
Tak aff, tak aff my hood
But lat my petticoat be;
Pat my mantle o'er my head;
For the fire I downa see.
Now, a' ye gentle maids,
Tak warning now by me,
And never marry ane
But wha pleases your e'e.
'For he married me for love,
But I married him for fee;
And sae brak out the feud
That gar'd my dearie die.'
poem by Andrew Lang
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Within the Alamo
He drew a straight line
Across the dirt floor:
Within, it was death-still--
Without, was a roar
And a scream of the trumpets:
Within, was a Word--
And a line drawn clean
By the sweep of a sword.
No help was coming, now--
That hope was done.
No more the free air,
no more the sun
Bright on the blue leagues
Of buffalo-clover.
Travis drew a line
And they all crossed over.
Travis had a wife at home,
Travis was young;
Travis had a little boy
Whose tight arms clung,
But Travis saw a far light
Shining before:
Travis drew a sword-cut
Across the dirt floor.
And now the old fort stands
Placid and dim,
Blinking and dreaming
Of them and of him;
And now past the Plaza
Other tides roar,
since Travis wrote "Valor"
Across the sand floor,
And the guns they will rust,
And the captains will go,
And an end come at last
To the wars that we know,
But as long as there travails
A Spirit in man,
In a war that was ancient
Before Time began,
Here will the brave come
To read a high Word--
Cut clean in the dust
By the stroke of a sword.
poem by Karle Wilson Baker
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The paladin
That You provide for me, make plans for my life
according to coming events,
is what a person expects from an almighty God
but while my life is almost falling to pieces,
I am involved more by Your calling,
times passes quickly in day and night
and in my simplicity I wonder how much longer
I must alone keep the front
have got to protect the gates with the sword of the word
while hordes in the dark night are coming on storming
as if they are totally unstoppable?
It hurts me when people in rebellion against You throw words,
even try to trample, to ruin my own people
and where I see this happening their sword
has been drawn against me as well, I make it my calling, my work
to with words hit thundering hammer blows back
although I am standing alone against overwhelming numbers.
poem by Gert Strydom
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