Congo's Estuary
A consonant undersigned. A fluttering of souls
my wholes, an entity depicted so many times,
in mind, sleep, flux and reflux, a wit oddly molds,
my soldier career medals, and candor, bestow.
A chief-sergeant in the foreign legion, enlisted,
a mercenary, my abilities challenging my death,
or any other darkened, I may grasp, perception,
pacing on Congo's Estuary blight sickish stealth.
Who inscribed my destiny on this pompous,
without meaning employment? Myself, I bicker,
our every effort, an irk of my legion, tortuous,
all maladies await for victims, of a mind weaker.
Do not drink, malaria is smiling her yellowish grin,
this water is made for beasts, insects, or serpents,
our one wrong move, they expect, so of an obscene
an idiotic, foolish end of our mission, death invents.
We remember our companions, as mines exploded
disjointing their members in a scarlet rain of pulp,
a boisterous thunder was this Hades vow, unfolded,
as a buffoon malicious spirit, rewarded 'em, to laugh.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Monk
Monk
Battlements exist in every soul's burden,
adjacent to any isotropy advertent,
his destiny impends in darkened flame,
in Hades' Nyx - for Charon's fame.
A chill of lonely an unaltered sight
One tear only, his childhood's kite.
His companions fled to other lands,
tried to count steps as blindmen wands,
and failed; as their beguiled spirit,
egresses to danger, or wants to kill it.
and then Nyx came; a soul's indictment,
foolish it was, a buffoon's agreement..
He recalls hopes, cornered to their path,
a silver cross to grasp, as soon as wrath,
depicts of choices expired or ended,
betrays gallantry never acquainted.
Accordment to fading of values advertent,
a holy abstinence in temptations afferent.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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War By Proxy
War by Proxy
France has a foreign legion
often deployed to the dirty work in Africa
USA too has a foreign legion...NATO,
deployed to do ditto in Africa.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Fresh Endeavour
So now I've taken leave of life,
I thought you'd like to know, I still
Possess a mind in love, oh wife;
A soulful eye to catch a show of
Silent beauty – ever yours;
An ear to pick the metaphors
Of tonal dance in words you say,
Grasp a thought in verse you pray
Inside your head, bemused of mind,
Softly mournful, intertwined with
Understanding tears.
I'll drift a whisper o'er to you
To tell that I am quietly calm;
Keeping time till your adieu
To flesh, upon the carol of a
Psalm of consummation. Now!
A fresh endeavour – we're forever
One together, resting yonder,
Cross our open plane of blue.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
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death death death death death death death
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death death death death death death death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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An Old Twenty-Third Man
“Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine,
Marching below, and we still gulping wine?”
From the sad magic of his fragrant cup
The red-faced old centurion started up,
Cursed, battered on the table. “No,” he said,
“Not that! The Three-and-Twentieth Legion’s dead,
Dead in the first year of this damned campaign—
The Legion’s dead, dead, and won’t rise again.
Pity? Rome pities her brave lads that die,
But we need pity also, you and I,
Whom Gallic spear and Belgian arrow miss,
Who live to see the Legion come to this,
Unsoldierlike, slovenly, bent on loot,
Grumblers, diseased, unskilled to thrust or shoot.
O, brown cheek, muscled shoulder, sturdy thigh!
Where are they now? God! watch it struggle by,
The sullen pack of ragged ugly swine.
Is that the Legion, Gracchus? Quick, the wine!”
“Strabo,” said Gracchus, “you are strange tonight.
The Legion is the Legion; it’s all right.
If these new men are slovenly, in your thinking,
God damn it! you’ll not better them by drinking.
They all try, Strabo; trust their hearts and hands.
The Legion is the Legion while Rome stands,
And these same men before the autumn’s fall
Shall bang old Vercingetorix out of Gaul.”
poem by Robert Graves
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I want to make it clear publicly that I expect more candor from this Administration during the next four years, particularly with members on the Foreign Relations Committee so that we can maintain a bipartisan foreign policy.
quote by George Voinovich
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Never Die
Hands on a window pane
Watching some children laugh and play
They're running in circles
With candy canes and French braids
Inspired to question
What makes us grown-ups anyway?
Let's search for the moment
When youth betrayed itself to age
So let the children play
Inside your heart always
And death you will defy
'Cause your youth will never die
Never Die
In searching for substance
We're clouded by struggle's haze
Remember the meaning
Of playing out in the rain
We swim in the fountain
Of youth's timeless maze
If you drink the water
Your youth will never fade
So let the children play
Inside your heart always
And death you will defy
'Cause your youth will never die
Never Die
Never Die
Never Die
I won't let go of that youthful soul
Despite body and mind my youth will never die
I won't let go of that youthful soul
Despite body and mind my youth will never die
[Guitar Break]
So let the children play
Inside your heart always
And death you will defy
'Cause your youth will never die
So let the children play
Inside your heart always
And death you will defy
'Cause your youth will never die
Never Die
song performed by by Creed from Human Clay
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's Death Again
It's Death again - He's always there -
Watching, waiting - e'er the stare!
Every time I look behind
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood -
A little clue to where he stood;
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But O! no use, he'll never go.
The adamant phantom; don't you know
He will but wait until it's time
For me to hear His fateful chime? -
The toll that claims my destiny,
To Hail: 'You're next, it has to be…'
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
The Reign of Death
Death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Destiny Recieving
Through darkened eyes we’re perceiving,
A thankless job never relieving,
Through morning, afternoon unto evening
Destiny Receiving
Some enlightened to its very existence
Can not put up any resistance
They are carried off into the distance
Destiny Receiving
It bears no strength, emits no sound
But it beats the tallest mountain down
You can’t go under you can’t go ‘round
Destiny Receiving
Though none through its eternal survive,
Emerging from one it did arrive
None may see its end alive
Destiny Receiving
poem by Legion As One
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Images
All the images that occur in my mind
have had me think of places.
I may not have seen them in this life
But then again my memory erases
where they are from or why they are seen.
Could they be from another time?
They seem to haunt my being.
Oh that I could remember
what it is I'm seeing?
They're all mixed up with love and death
and I confess my need to know
why they've surfaced in my mind
and why they never let go.
I remember the images mostly at night
right before I sleep.
They form water-colored pictures
and sometimes make me weep.
not from sadness, but from joy.
For the images have made me think
that they have surfaced for some reason.
So from them I do not shrink.
I want them to stay. I really do.
For they connect to who I am.
For I've known since I was very young
that life after death comes again.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Thermopyle
A merit of lonesome, Persephone's dark ocean
we received. A strong red wine, a wake of pain
that stings. A ghostly clad chorus, a lost odd zone
of Hades and Styx. A gloomy dim swaying
an abstract dull pain, I felt, an emotional strain.
Three hundred rain drops, and two that remain
to offer again, a destiny altered, a deadly refrain,
denial spelled about my life, over your throne
and there the air, is to betray, the death of my soul..
A mantle of arrows we wore, a lost last embrace,
a scattered emotion, a gathered devotion, away,
my fingers so callous of a never charisma to trace
there is nothing to encounter, a mist plea to obey
white of candor, a blanket of valor, so death will stay.
One thousand rain drops to bestow domain to fly
up in the clouds, Olympian vows, this wild garland
passengers of time, the epigraph read, vows comply
in a Plutonian kingdom, a cold old endeavor of blood..
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Punishment
There never really was a place of sanctity
For you, the mortal entity.
You thought you had prosperity,
The while you thrived and were.
Angels don't exist, you see.
You lived without a guarantee
Atop your brutal Earth.
Still, you had a birth.
And whither now, your crying whim -?
Answered by a tearing limb-?
Are you contrite; your valour slim?
And will He care...?
'Tis down to Him.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter,2009
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Mother’s Cry of Late
Where for art thou, soldier?
Out East? West? –
And when? –
What part your rabid history?
And why? –
What wrought your destiny? –
For whom
You’d wreak your enmity –
I crave your fate to pen!
What comprehension of the
Order? –
‘Listen up! you men!
Raze to ground the taken land!
See they die and e’er you’ll stand, for
Death is but a grain of sand –
The mighty triumph, medal grand!
Now go you well!
Amen! ’
What sight upon the bloody lie
Of war? – your doubtful fate.
‘Where for art thou, soldier? ’ –
Your mother’s cry of late.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier
soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier
soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier
soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier
soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Cavalry Charge At Balaclava
Traveller on foreign ground, whoe'er thou art,
Tell the great tidings! They went down that day
A Legion, and came back from victory
Two hundred men and Glory! On the mart
Is this 'to losc?' Yet, Stranger, thou shalt say
These were our common Britons. 'Tis our way
In England. Aye, ye heavens! I saw them part
The Death-Sea as an English dog leaps o'er
The rocks into the ocean. He goes in
Thick as a lion, and he comes out thin
As a starved wolf; but lo! he brings to shore
A life above his own, which when his heart
Bursts with that final effort, from the stones
Springs up and builds a temple o'er his bones.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Death Is Not The End
When youre sad and when youre lonely and you havent got a friend
Just remember that death is not the end
And all that youve held sacred, falls down and does not mend
Just remember that death is no the end
Not the end, not the end
Just remember that death is not the end
When youre standing at the crossroads that you cannot comprehend
Just remember that death is not the end
And all your dreams have vanished and you dont know whats up the bend
Just remember that death is not the end
Not the end, not the end
Just remember that death is not the end
When the storm clouds gather round you, and heavy rains descend
Just remember that death is not the end
And theres no one there to comfort you, with a helpin hand to lend
Just remember that death is not the end
Not the end, not the end
Just remember that death is not the end
Oh, the tree of life is growing
Where the spirit never dies
And the bright light of salvation shines
In dark and empty skies
When the cities are on fire with the burning flesh of men
Just remember that death is not the end
And you search in vain to find just one law abiding citizen
Just remember that death is not the end
Not the end, not the end
Just remember that death is not the end
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Man’s Destiny
Fear overtakes the desire to happiness,
death is an accident:
it will happen for lesser reasons.
The meaning inside the meaning.
Delay in perception was
due to, surge between despair,
and hope, between touch and go.
A transparency in truth,
is always rejected for sorrow.
Center of life was sweet.
Needs courage to go for,
a conscious death of a script.
Your existence shudders amidst,
the roar of pretentions.
I adore the bloodless coup.
The solitude becomes my timeless strength of morality
of enormous silence.
Mind suffers a smouldering fire.
The longing for the other side,
of the man’s destiny and will.
To choose was not the will for abandonment.
poem by Satish Verma
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Kelly Of The Legion
Now Kelly was no fighter;
He loved his pipe and glass;
An easygoing blighter,
Who lived in Montparnasse.
But 'mid the tavern tattle
He heard some guinney say:
"When France goes forth to battle,
The Legion leads the way.
"The scourings of creation,
Of every sin and station,
The men who've known damnation,
Are picked to lead the way."
Well, Kelly joined the Legion;
They marched him day and night;
They rushed him to the region
Where largest loomed the fight.
"Behold your mighty mission,
Your destiny," said they;
"By glorious tradition
The Legion leads the way.
"With tattered banners flying
With trail of dead and dying,
On! On! All hell defying,
The Legion sweeps the way."
With grim, hard-bitten faces,
With jests of savage mirth,
They swept into their places,
The men of iron worth;
Their blooded steel was flashing;
They swung to face the fray;
Then rushing, roaring, crashing,
The Legion cleared the way.
The trail they blazed was gory;
Few lived to tell the story;
Through death they plunged to glory;
But, oh, they cleared the way!
Now Kelly lay a-dying,
And dimly saw advance,
With split new banners flying,
The fantassins of France.
Then up amid the melee
He rose from where he lay;
"Come on, me boys," says Kelly,
"The Layjun lades the way!"
Aye, while they faltered, doubting
(Such flames of doom were spouting),
He caught them, thrilled them, shouting:
"The Layjun lades the way!"
They saw him slip and stumble,
Then stagger on once more;
They marked him trip and tumble,
A mass of grime and gore;
They watched him blindly crawling
Amid hell's own affray,
And calling, calling, calling:
"The Layjun lades the way!"
And even while they wondered,
The battle-wrack was sundered;
To Victory they thundered,
But . . . Kelly led the way.
Still Kelly kept agoing;
Berserker-like he ran;
His eyes with fury glowing,
A lion of a man;
His rifle madly swinging,
His soul athirst to slay,
His slogan ringing, ringing,
"The Layjun lades the way!"
Till in a pit death-baited,
Where Huns with Maxims waited,
He plunged . . . and there, blood-sated,
To death he stabbed his way.
Now Kelly was a fellow
Who simply loathed a fight:
He loved a tavern mellow,
Grog hot and pipe alight;
I'm sure the Show appalled him,
And yet without dismay,
When Death and Duty called him,
He up and led the way.
So in Valhalla drinking
(If heroes meek and shrinking
Are suffered there), I'm thinking
'Tis Kelly leads the way.
poem by Robert William Service
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Battalion-Relief
‘FALL in! Now get a move on.’ (Curse the rain.)
We splash away along the straggling village,
Out to the flat rich country, green with June…
And sunset flares across wet crops and tillage,
Blazing with splendour-patches. (Harvest soon,
Up in the Line.) ‘Perhaps the War’ll be done
‘By Christmas-Day. Keep smiling then, old son.’
Here’s the Canal: it’s dusk; we cross the bridge.
‘Lead on there, by platoons.’ (The Line’s a-glare
With shell-fire through the poplars; distant rattle
Of rifles and machine-guns.) ‘Fritz is there!
‘Christ, ain’t it lively, Sergeant? Is’t a battle?’
More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles.
‘There’s over-head artillery!’ some chap grumbles.
What’s all this mob at the cross-roads? Where are the guides?…
‘Lead on with number One.’ And off they go.
‘Three minute intervals.’ (Poor blundering files,
Sweating and blindly burdened; who’s to know
If death will catch them in those two dark miles?)
More rain. ‘Lead on, Head-quarters.’ (That’s the lot.)
‘Who’s that?… Oh, Sergeant-Major, don’t get shot!
‘And tell me, have we won this war or not?’
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Battalion-Relief
‘FALL in! Now get a move on.’ (Curse the rain.)
We splash away along the straggling village,
Out to the flat rich country, green with June...
And sunset flares across wet crops and tillage,
Blazing with splendour-patches. (Harvest soon,
Up in the Line.) ‘Perhaps the War’ll be done
‘By Christmas-Day. Keep smiling then, old son.’
Here’s the Canal: it’s dusk; we cross the bridge.
‘Lead on there, by platoons.’ (The Line’s a-glare
With shell-fire through the poplars; distant rattle
Of rifles and machine-guns.) ‘Fritz is there!
‘Christ, ain’t it lively, Sergeant? Is’t a battle?’
More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles.
‘There’s over-head artillery!’ some chap grumbles.
What’s all this mob at the cross-roads? Where are the guides?...
‘Lead on with number One.’ And off they go.
‘Three minute intervals.’ (Poor blundering files,
Sweating and blindly burdened; who’s to know
If death will catch them in those two dark miles?)
More rain. ‘Lead on, Head-quarters.’ (That’s the lot.)
‘Who’s that?... Oh, Sergeant-Major, don’t get shot!
‘And tell me, have we won this war or not?’
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Life of My Death
My only difference
Between life and afterlife
is my death
My only triumph
upon the whole universe
is my death
My only freedom
of thoughts from mind
is my death
My only distinction
from the angels and devils
is my death
My only decision
after all my decisions
is my death
But death is short-lived
and the thing that pleases me
is my death
Life always presents span
and the shortest spanned
is my death
I can grasp everything
but the thing out of my bounds
is my death...
08-03-2008
poem by Usman Hanif
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When The Daylight Comes
They wish to stay sophisticated,
But afraid of taking risks.
And,
Choose to bicker over petty conflicts that exist.
They wish to want what they can get,
But not retrict their nonsense.
And,
Choose to bicker over petty conflicts that exist.
Grow old,
They do...
With a purpose that molds.
And...
When the daylight comes,
They run away from the Sun.
Grow old,
They do...
With a purpose that molds.
These people do their screw ups,
In the corners of the dark.
And...
When the daylight comes,
They run away from the Sun.
Grow old,
They do...
With a purpose that molds.
Grow old,
They do...
With a purpose that molds.
They wish to stay sophisticated,
But afraid of taking risks.
And,
Choose to bicker over petty conflicts that exist.
Grow old,
They do...
With a purpose that molds.
When the daylight comes,
They run away from the Sun.
Grow old,
They do...
With a purpose that molds.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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