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The Two Hundred.

Another killed,
More blood spilled.
Yet another dead,
Now two hundred.
Tragic milestone,
Accustomed we've 'grown'.

15/08/09

poem by Guy Lipmore
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The Slipping of Meet Notes

Accustomed to lies.
What does the truth really mean?
Accustomed to lies laying low on the scene!
Accustomed to tell them...
And protect when told.
Accustomed to lies,
Whether fresh released or old held on hold!
Accustomed to lies...
Without a bat of an eyelash moving!

Accustomed to lies.
Dishonesty is accepted and shown.
At the work place
Where the slipping of meet notes,
Does not provoke disdain.
Accustomed to lies...
And that's how our lives remain!

In heated sex away from home!
Regardless of who spies on another,
Both buffer their suffering by what's condoned.
Accustomed to lies...
And what is taught is always known!
Accustomed to lies.
Accustomed to holding on to them,
Until time flys!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Druid Revival

Maligned, tortured, killed
An ancient Shamanic Cult
Oppressed, blood spilled
'Druid revival' shall result

ROTMS

poem by Ray Lucero
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A Dead Heart

You chip away,
At my heart.
It breaks,
Into two.
I cry,
And just want to die.
I wipe my tears away,
And run away.

My broken heart,
The one you broke,
Is dead,
And so am I.

You have killed me,
With words so strong.
I became weak,
And lost my will to live.
You thought wrong of me,
Seeing my body lay still.

I get up,
And take you down.
I punch,
Looking for blood.
I kick,
Trying to make the kill.
I break an arm,
A leg,
And a hand.

Blood is pooling,
I get up,
Wipe the blood away on me,
And leave.
I look behind once,
And see your dead,
But you're actually dead,
Unlike me...

poem by Dragon Crenshaw
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Good Morning Dear

Mickey newbury
Were the nights any sweeter
The mornings any cooler, when she was here?
Or was the mind grown accustomed to hearing good morning dear?
Should I still feel all the sunshine
That remembering brings to mind with my thoughts of her?
Lord, we both know things could never be the way they were
Her little girl illusions
Built the wall of confusion between right and wrong
That stands between her and the dream I had cherished so long
Now faded and tattered, once all that mattered when she was here
And a mind grown accustomed to hearing good morning dear
Were the nights any sweeter
The mornings any cooler, when she was here?
Or was the mind grown accustomed to hearing good morning dear?

song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Is War

Bullets Fly
Good Men Die
Don't You Cry
I Will Try
Blood Is Spilled
Our King's Been Killed
I Watch You Flee
Please Don't Leave Me
You Don't Care
Life's Not Fair
You Go
My Blood Will Flow
Ever-Clear
I'll Be Here
Forever
And Ever And Ever
I Love You
That Is True
Love Is War
You Travel Far
Just To Get Away
Today Is The Day
Please Say I Don't
He Won't
Love You Like I Have
This Means War
He Won't Win
He Has Sin
Goodbye
I Won't Lie
I'll Be Back
I Don't Slack
See You Soon
At Noon.
By The Way Jade
I Won't Fade
War Kills
Love Is War.

poem by Ivy Strife
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Tendulkar's 100th Ton

My father gave a chocolate
when I walked hundred steps
In eighth standard, in maths
I got hundred out of hundred.

The hundred meant me more
When I watched Tendulkar,
hitting his hundredth century
after previous, waiting almost a year.

Delighted every spectator
watching the great cricketer,
either in the ground or television
hitting historic hundredth ton.

Since last ton hit in March last
waited eagerly every fan and sportsman
March 16 of twelve was set
to witness that great moment.

Every one was waiting fully excited
date would go down in history of cricket
Tendulkar would score hundredth hundred
setting the milestone of achievement

(C) S D Tiwari

poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Two Mothers

Israeli and Palestine conflict

Prostrate with grief
Rachel weeps for a dead son
Killed by a suicide bomber.

Prostrate with grief
Sarah weeps for a dead son -the suicide bomber
Who believed blood would set his people free.

Blood begets blood
Reprisal follows reprisal.
And there is no honour in death
Only tears of mothers for dead children.

poem by Colin Ian Jeffery
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Remember The Alamo

Freedom within grasp of their hands
Travis' men held the Fort in line
If later, none among them stands
Still, blowing all throughout those lands
Is cause that walls could not confine

It grew strong with the blood they spilled
And Crockett shed his blood for more
Pop! Pop! Pop! Bom! Bom! Bom! till killed
Yet outside, Fate has been fulfilled
Houston struck to even the score

Freedom earned not without a fight
For dream to live, and as they choose
In precepts that will give them light
To say which one is wrong or right
By themselves, without pride to lose.

poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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The Blood of Thousands

Thousands upon thousands are slain
Each year, are killed in cruel, cold blood.
Thousands cry out, but to no avail—
They are attacked with cruelest hate.

They scream and shout!
But do we care? No! and we never will!
Let’s murder some more! Kill more from inside!
It doesn’t hurt us in the least!

They’re as dead as dead can ever get—
They’ll not trouble us again.
They are gone and now you can rejoice!
Take pride in your murder of innocent blood!

Who are these thousands killed every year?
The infants in your womb!
Murderess! ! Fiend! Heartless animal!
You don’t deserve motherhood!

Abort them. Go ahead. At least they’re in a better place,
A place you’ll never go! At least it’s over, and they
Didn’t have to deal with you, selfish pig!
I hope that guilt tears you apart the way you did to them!

This is abortion.
This is evil.
This is.....
Murder!

poem by Paige Scott
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Their Closest Relatives

People hypnotized and transfixed,
Have grown more accustomed
To their movie productions.
And those creative emotional TV shows.

So accustomed to myths,
People are.
And the praying to what is believed,
To what has been embedded
In their minds,
Exists.

People do not wish to be told,
About the thought process of Nature.
And how that goes.
Or about Earth and Mother Nature.
The relationship between them.
How that works and what they know.

People wish and desire to accept,
They are more powerful
Than that which 'allowed' them life,
And gave to them breath.
People reject with a dismissing of this,
That which gifted them and permitted their lives.

People have grown more accustomed,
To their movie productions.
And those creative emotional TV shows.
Yet,
Give zero respect to their closest relatives.
The Sun, The Moon
And how together,
They affect their lives lived here on Earth.

People have chosen to become accustomed,
To ignoring as if they do not hear or listen.
Or are aware of them with comprehension.

People choose not to accept this as is.
People choose to believe from that which exist,
They are not born from it.
People choose for themselves to believe,
For them
There is no connection to perceive.
Even though what is they can not conceive,
Flows through their veins and bleeds!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Accustomed To Opposition

I've grown accustomed to opposition.
As well as foolish maneuvers.
And those who object to those positions I have taken.

Nor will I apologize with regrets for those forward steps,
I chose to make that tested my faith.
And admit I do,
To the making of mistakes!

But obstacles and the fear of them,
I could not allow to slow my pace.
And those who choose to procrastinate,
With a hesitating done?
Well...
I perceive as being committed to wasting time.
And time as we live it as lived is not guaranteed to anyone,
To just sit back to see it come to leave.

I've grown accustomed to opposition.
But you know what?
I am here to participate and experience my life.
What others choose with a priority to do with their own,
I refuse to let their choices made get in my way.
I am not prone to the seeking of acceptance.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Diadochi

When word was brought that Alexander was dead
In Babylon, gossips said it was not true;
For if that demigod spirit had shed
So vast a corpse, its corruption then through
The whole world would reek; men from Carthage
To India would pause and sniff the air,
That by the stench declared the End of Age
Like an incense-wafted funeral prayer.
Yet he was dead, and in time earth did stink
With the metal tang of blood. Forty years
His funeral games were held, and men did think
His dying crueler than his life. More tears
And blood they shed, his diadem to strive,
Than he had spilled in Asia, when alive.

poem by Mark Sauer
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Branded

Tragic is the self misplaced.
Tragic is a lost identity...
And no familiarity on anyone's face.
Tragic in denial
Sits the misfits feeling on trial
For lives lived reeking and stinking of bile.
Tragic for them,
Love is not recognized at all...
Nor suitable to start,
From a place within them that begins.
And this becomes tragic for those
Unlike them but comprehending,
These tragedies
May not always be self inflicted...
As they are branded!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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When Earth Quaked

Earth uncovered
Two hundred thousand dead
A woman groaned
Stone slabs crushed her head
These are the times
When God weeps

When the earth quaked
I heard His steps
In my pain
I am filled with anger
My blood curls
As I ponder
How many lives slip
In this quake's blunder
This is how earth rage

I am thankful
For the hands He sent
The press
People from every corner
Friends I never knew
This is how you know
He never sleeps
Many dead
But many spared

So I am not mad
New lives conceived
Still lives to be lived
Two hundred thousand dead
But millions breathe

poem by Buxton Shippy
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There are people who said he killed over a hundred men. Historical fact doesn't corroborate one hundred men.

quote by Keith Carradine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Hung Me

It's dead, it'd dead you killed it all
you fucked me over, you watched me fall
the life you sucked right out of me
dead you hung me from tree.

My blood spills out onto the ground
it screams, it cries without a sound
there is no victory here for me
dead you hung me from a tree.

You can run but you can't hide
you'll try to say it's suicide
torn apart for all to see
dead you hung me from a tree.

I'll prove to you your world is wrong
your power has gone on way to long
watch my body swing so free
dead you hung me from a tree.

Free from you I find my peace
in a grave that's six feet deep
the cage unlocked, I found the key
dead you hung me from a tree.

poem by CJA Anderson
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Names & Numbers Games

A man who kills five people
is called a psychopath, a serial killer

A man who kills ten people and himself
is called a terrorist

A man who has a hundred people killed
is called an entrepreneur

A man who has a thousand people killed
is called a politician

A man who has ten thousand people killed
is called a Minister of Justice

A man who kills a hundred thousand animals
is just doing his job

poem by Anthony Weir
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Elegy On The Death Of A Church Mouse

‘Colonel Gaddafi is dead; long live Gaddafi’,
- whose words those are?

don’t shoot, don’t shoot,
enough blood is spilled!
Gaddafi,
a leaf from the tree is dead;

leaf sprouts, leaf eats, leaf sleeps in the sky,
leaf waves the world in the cheer of palm,
makes no sand out of storm,
no beating themselves by the horse drain,
no hanging noose by the cock’s strain.

Leaf feeds the tree with green
when upon it’s tender face, the horrid-sun shine,
leaf, bearer of flower, bearer of seed,
never the taster of the sap from earth
till drops dead in the paleness of red,

‘don't shoot, don't shoot,
upon the sand is blood,
for the Colonel is dead’,
said, the tree,

and said, ‘Long live Gaddafi!

poem by Saranyan Bee
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Egyptian Martyrs' Blood Peace Protest Spilt

medical sources
said
at least
five protesters
had
been killed

1,030 wounded
like battered leaves
littered streets
in bloodstained
Cairo protest defiant
thirteen were killed

in Suez six in Alexandria
a teenager was shot
dead in Port Said
al-Jazeera reported
martyrs' blood peace protest
spilt to dislodge a tyrant

poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Lost Soul

Singing a maudlin,
the boozer was dancing
before the temple
and twirling his moustaches often.
He bit his tongue at times
and scared at those who pass,
showing his point finger.
“ I had my trust in you
but you made me sad and mad,
cuddling the culprit worst.
I pulled my knife from the sheath
and killed you both at dead of night.
Who would dare to tell the police?
But I couldn’t quell my conscience, Sir!
It keeps me always awake
and eludes my catch to hack.
I don’t say I am honest
But why I killed my wife
to leave my children in strife? ”
Pulling me towards him,
told me his tragic tale.
I patted on his back
and showed his children standing there.
A lost soul is not lost for ever.
For a new lease of life we must try our best.
---------

poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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