Poetry and Prose for any season

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Hollow Thrones

Hollow Thrones

Death and destruction reigning in filth over dry bones
kings ruling over weaker souls with little hope,
drowned deep, cast overboard loaded with misery stones
unmercifully hung with no justice and short rope

So proudly the kings rule over subjects so very poor
no concept of the natural rights of mortal man,
having power , treasure and selfish desires by the score
completely unconcerned with life's ever so brief span

Shallow pleasures lusted without thought of coming reward
stolen time and freedoms from more deserving souls,
unmindful of the many stolen lives so desperately scarred
judgment awaiting in deeply unforgiving , darkened holes

Reigns of tyranny reaped as bushels of rotten fruits
while spirit raping of better women, children, and men,
falsely rewarded homage paid from wickedly evil roots
soon to be given eternity in their evil Master's den

Robert L. 05-25-2014

-------------------------------------------------

Read more of obama's nation destroying agenda this morn ,
immediately remembered this poem from a year ago!
Strange how easily my mind made that connection, huh?
We see exactly that today as were are now being ruled as
enslaved subjects instead of free citizens..
Not only sad but a very dangerous situation IMHO..

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Warning, do not try this at home folks...
Drop your shield and lay open your bare chest for any stab...

A poet friend bet me that I would not write a true account of my philosophy, my wild young life and many mistakes.
Here it is in narrative form , the first of two parts.. --Tyr
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Blinded, by the Light(Part One)


If you can truly find yourself you can be truly happy
if not, well the world will eat you and beat you until you cry no more...
I see most people crying. Me, I ran out of tears and found myself the hard way.

I survived long enough to hear the Nightbird sing, a drunk rooster crow and
the coyote catch that damn roadrunner-in my dreams..
After that a light blinded me and within that blindness came a realization,
that three things are important , God, love and family.
All the rest is window dressing and leftover refried beans with no damn chili's... I hate that!

Every morn that rising sun tells me , get up and be worthy of the air you breathe,
Stand as tall as you can and never look down on a man unless extending a helping hand to him.
To do less is not only lazy but selfish and rude. Find a gift to give somebody, anybody at
least every week if not every day. Does not have to be great , could be as easy as giving kind words
when they are needed.

This all was told to me as a 10 year old by my grandfather. Some of it I picked up on my own after
living a damn wild young life! With too many shallow relationships, broken hearts(including mine often)
and more than a few real scars, all of which I came by honestly.

Now looking at the sunset I see rainbows just beyond the horizon. Each one has a pot of gold..
Methinks I will give that gold away and plant flowers in the pots to give to my wife.
And that folks is the wisdom sent in each ray of that blinding light I was blessed to have found!

Robert. J. Lindley , 04-19-2015

p.s.

Stay tuned in folks. I plan on another shameful confession coming soon..
Starting with my first bout of stealing a kiss from a pretty gal that I loved..
"Ain't life great"?

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Hiding Place
by Major Henry Livingston, Jr.


Hail sov'reign love that first began,
The scheme to rescue fallen man;
Hail matchless, free, eternal grace,
That gave my soul a Hiding-Place.

Against the God that rules the sky,
I fought with hands uplifted high;
Despis'd the mentions of his grace,
Too proud to seek a Hiding-Place.

Enwrapt in thick Egyptian night,
And fond of darkness more than light,
Madly I ran the sinful race,
Secure without a Hiding-Place.

But thus the eternal counsel ran,
Almighty Love arrest that man;
I felt the arrows of distress,
And saw that I'd no Hiding-Place.

Indignant Justice stood in view,
To Sina's fiery mount I flew;
But Justice cry'd with frowning face,
This mountain is no Hiding-Place.

Ere long a Heav'nly voice I heard,
And Mercy's angel form appear'd,
She led me on with placid pace,
To Jesus as my Hiding-Place.

Should storms of sevenfold thunder roll,
And shake the globe from pole to pole,
No flaming bolt should daunt my face,
For Jesus is my Hiding-Place.

On him almighty vengeance fell,
That must have sunk the world to hell:
He bore it for the chosen race,
And thus became their Hiding-Place.

A few more rolling suns at most,
Shall land us on fair Canaan's coast,
Where we shall sing the song of grace,
And see our glorious Hiding-Place.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Even should one not want to factor in the religious
aspect of this poem, the fact a person needs to hide from all to
rethink life --from time to time-- is there.
Problem is we often fail to leave that secure place and thus
fall in with the corrupt world thinking that we are ok..
When truth is, we are as far from being ok as one can get..
I know, I found myself there once..

I am up before sunrise today. Gonna watch the big ball of fire break the day and thank God that I have my life and my family.. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Sonnet: At Dover Cliffs, July 20th 1787
by William Lisle Bowles


On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;

And whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
Tomorrow; of the friends he loved most dear;

Of social scenes, from which he wept to part;
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,

And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide,
The world his country, and his God his guide.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Of social scenes, from which he wept to part;
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, "

^^^^^^ Could not agree with more!!
Here the poet points to a higher calling than selfish desires, and considerations of popularity and social advancement..... --Tyr

Soundly advances the advancement of the nation and that of its prosperity with the closing verses...

"And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide,
The world his country, and his God his guide."

^^^^^ The reality of certain deeds trumps the vanity of man..--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Have Been Living It Up Ever Since

Race on, and find the life you lust for!
Me you leave broken up and in shock.
Living in my sad dreams and closed door,
As our memory you so heartlessly mock!

If your dreams crash you into despair!
Look not for my faithful sympathy then,
I will have gone on and not be there.
Pray you to other less faithful men!

I saw that sunset you once promised me!
It came as my last teardrop had fallen.
Your betrayal forced me to finally see,
The truth that had been there callin'!

Race on, to all that you selfishly seek!
A fairytale life with a golden prince.
Broken up, fallen from the highest peak,
I have been living it up ever since!

Robert J. Lindley, 04-21-2015

Note: Written for a contest, just finished with no review, further reflections and/or revisions.
Will come back in a few days to give a fresh look and decide if any need changes are called for.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I had to bang out another poem today to enter into a contest a friend requested that I enter.
My poet friend asked that this one not be a sonnet!
So I blasted this one out today, will likely enter it after due time to proof it...
Looks good to go now... but we'll see by tomorrow.. --Tyr
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Old Campfire Memories Still Endure

Come sit with me around the crackling fire
every night camp needs its burning glow
Of Nature's forest exploring I never tire
often with my old faithful dog in tow

Fair weather is the prayer always prayed
when granted comforts this old brain
Fire soothes when bad weather is delayed
we campers dearly hate the pouring rain

Rain and wind kill all peace of mind
soft, easy night with fire to thrill
Talk, laughter and joy we always find
fire comforts when the night is still

Overhead sparkles a smooth clear sky
glittering stars dance with our flames
We accept the beauty asking not the why
talk of old friends, honoring their names

Tales of the whale sized fish we caught
hunts where we bagged so much wild game
Such memories can never ever be bought
if they could would never be the same

Come sit with me around the crackling fire
every night camp needs its burning glow
Of Nature's forest exploring I never tire
often with my old faithful dog in tow

Robert J. Lindley , 04-21-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Warning, do not try this at home folks...
Drop your shield and lay open your bare chest for any stab...

A poet friend bet me that I would not write a true account of my philosophy, my wild young life and many mistakes.
Here it is in narrative form , the first of two parts.. --Tyr
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Blinded, by the Light(Part One)


If you can truly find yourself you can be truly happy
if not, well the world will eat you and beat you until you cry no more...
I see most people crying. Me, I ran out of tears and found myself the hard way.

I survived long enough to hear the Nightbird sing, a drunk rooster crow and
the coyote catch that damn roadrunner-in my dreams..
After that a light blinded me and within that blindness came a realization,
that three things are important , God, love and family.
All the rest is window dressing and leftover refried beans with no damn chili's... I hate that!

Every morn that rising sun tells me , get up and be worthy of the air you breathe,
Stand as tall as you can and never look down on a man unless extending a helping hand to him.
To do less is not only lazy but selfish and rude. Find a gift to give somebody, anybody at
least every week if not every day. Does not have to be great , could be as easy as giving kind words
when they are needed.

This all was told to me as a 10 year old by my grandfather. Some of it I picked up on my own after
living a damn wild young life! With too many shallow relationships, broken hearts(including mine often)
and more than a few real scars, all of which I came by honestly.

Now looking at the sunset I see rainbows just beyond the horizon. Each one has a pot of gold..
Methinks I will give that gold away and plant flowers in the pots to give to my wife.
And that folks is the wisdom sent in each ray of that blinding light I was blessed to have found!

Robert. J. Lindley , 04-19-2015

p.s.

Stay tuned in folks. I plan on another shameful confession coming soon..
Starting with my first bout of stealing a kiss from a pretty gal that I loved..
"Ain't life great"?

She had just turned 17 and I had loved her since she was fifteen!
She had long, long dark brown hair, prettier than newborn pups and a smile that melted my heart!
Softest voice in the world and a genuine love for caring for others!
I was a year younger and very shy but we had over that two year time talked often .
I could tell she liked me but I was too afraid to mess it up by going to far too fast.
And there it is folks, the 'ole fear that holds so many back--fear of rejection and/or of messing up
a good thing. When one thinks the treasure is or could be theirs one day they are careful not
to blow things. And often being too damn careful is the culprit that blows it all to hell.

As things progressed(ever so slowly) I noticed this gorgeous girl had no boyfriend and had turned down
cold those that had boldly asked her out ! That had to be a sign , she had somebody else on her mind!
To play it safe I began a long range plan . To get the curious cat I told her I had two big secrets I could
never tell anyone in the world! I brought this up every time we talked and finally she started asking me to tell her!

That was exactly what I wanted yet I played it out a few weeks more. Until finally I knew she was bursting to find out.
My Pandora plan had worked like a charm.She was in a tizzy to find out those secrets!
Then the time came.. We were alone in her backyard, no soul about other than we two. I mentioned my secrets again. She
begged me to please confide in her.

Thats when I did it , tripped the trigger so to speak. I boldly declared it will cost you for me to tell.
Without missing a beat she asked , cost me what?
Eureka! I knew the bait had been taken ! I then very shyly said it is embarrassing for me to say what. She persisted .
I then said , ok, will cost you a kiss! She was surprised but took it in stride. She then said ok, if thats all I'll do it!
But only if you tell me the big secrets. I agreed to that and suddenly she planted a big one right on my lips,
putting a lot into it as she hugged me !
Like finding a pot of gold, I was suddenly a billionaire in love..
Then it came-- what are those secrets?
I smiled and said this, first one is -"I have been desperately wanting to kiss you for two long years"!
She laughed and then asked, and the second secret is?
I came back with this, "and I was wondering if it would as great as I imagined it would be"!
Well, was it she shot back? I could only nod like a red-face young fool.

She was floored methinks. She blushed and then came the sweetest gift of all. She grabbed me and kissed me long and hard!
She then laughed and said, " I have been waiting for you to make the first move for a long, long time. What took you so long"?

Thats when it hit me, fear of losing, fear of rejection sho' makes a lot of people lose out on a lot of time! Time that could have
been put to much better use!

Later that day I apologized for my tricking her into the kissing deal.
She then shocked me by her reply.
"I was sure it was something about you and me, most likely that you wanted for us to be a couple, go steady or yes even kiss.
I played along(--get this folks--) because I did not dare act too fast with you because I did not want to lose a good thing"!
Thats when I found out, when it comes to love , the gals are light-years ahead of we guys yet even they succumb to fear!

Fear can be a good thing but far too often it holds us back. Facing that fear and conquering it should be a well practiced policy
in life. Lucky for me that I later put that all to good use. As I had a great longing to date "almost" every beautiful and sexy gal I met ..
But that story is for another day.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I just found this result at my Poetry forum. Not too shabby out of 35+ entries...
Even more so since I very rarely ever write any form of humorous poetry.............--Tyr


Humorous Poetry
Contest Judged: 4/21/2015 12:00:00 AM Information About the Contest
Sponsored by: Thomas Martin
Place Poem Title Poet
Contest Winner Medal 1 The Tooth Fairy's Confession craig cornish
Contest Winner Medal 1 Sunday not Gumday Seren Roberts
Contest Winner Medal 2 My Lucky Dog Surely Has No Fleas Robert Lindley
Contest Winner Medal 2 Mary, Mary Eve Roper
Contest Winner Medal 3 Abundance Debbie Guzzi
Contest Winner Medal 3 SALE CRAZY nette onclaud
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My Lucky Dog Surely Has No Fleas

My lucky dog surely has no fleas
they all jumped from him onto me
His luck could be quite fetching
were I not so furiously scratching

When he sneezes the cold I get
my lucky dog could win any bet
Good night sleep he is a winner
Gas wakes me, damn chili dinner

Chasing the ladies he is tops
my pick-up lines are all flops
Lucky dog always gets his gal
I waste time drinking with a pal

He has fun chasing the fast cars
if I did that I would have scars
Yes sir, my lucky dog has it made
while I get to write this tirade

Robert J. Lindley, 04-19-2015



Sponsor Thomas Martin
Contest Name Humorous Poetry
Enter Poetry Contest
Deadline 5/18/2015 12:00:00 AM
Note From Sponsor No updates yet...
Contest Description
What to Submit?

1 original, poem on the theme of .humor.............
Any form is acceptable, but no more than 20 lines.
May rhyme or not rhyme. I am not much of a stickler for onprecise forms
or meter as long as the theme of the poem is not affected.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Just blasted this one out this morn. A new contest sponsor offered a contest on anything romantic , must rhyme , must be new and be 40 verses or less.
I thought, hmmmm, lets see if I can blast one this morn.. I came up with this. The play is between moon, moon goddess and a real woman. As everybody knows the moon equals Love..
You may notice that I did not go all sappy on this. And thats because there will be at least 30/40 of that kind in the contest. I tried to hit a higher mark , plus I am not really into that unless I am writing a real love poem to my wife.-Tyr




The Moon Goddess


There you are, among the bold stars shining,
this bouquet of love for you I am holding.
That is me reaching up to touch your face,
this sweet moment my love-heart does so race.

I see your sexy, tan legs streaming on down,
the gold in your hair and the purple gown.
Beautiful vision, a feast for any lonely man,
chasing your heart, will win it if I can.

As you arrive upon earth to dance tonight,
I will adore you and treat you to any delight.
Your beautiful grace is such a heavenly sight,
our love grows everything becomes just right.

I love the shine of your long golden hair,
excuse me darling, I can not help but stare.
Fantastic image of your body so hotly divine,
my greatest prayer is that you will be mine.

So sad that our time tonight is now ending,
I promise, every night we will be spending!
Each dance as you move with that bright light,
your love my joy wedding each and every night.

There you are, among the bold stars shining,
this bouquet of love for you I am holding.
That is me reaching up to touch your face,
this sweet moment my love-heart does so race.

Robert J. Lindley, 04-23-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Began my study of this poet.. He was a rebel and an adventurer........-Tyr

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com

When he was not yet 17, Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91) electrified Paris's literary society with the incendiary poems that later made him the guiding saint of 20th-century rebels, from Pablo Picasso to Jim Morrison. "A Season in Hell," "The Drunken Boat," and the prose poems of Illuminations were epochal works that changed the nature of an art form--and yet their author abandoned poetry at age 21 and spent the rest of his short life as a colonial adventurer in Arabia and Africa. "He was writing in a void," explains British scholar Graham Robb. "In 1876, most of Rimbaud's admirers either were still in the nursery or had yet to be conceived." Hardly surprising, since the poet was a difficult and frequently unpleasant person to actually know. The Parisian poets who took him under their wing soon discovered that Rimbaud was ungrateful, crude, and as scornful of their precious verse as he was of the Catholic Church, bourgeois proprieties, and everything else his disapproving mother held dear. Rimbaud's stormy affair with Paul Verlaine estranged the older poet from his wife and, eventually, from most of his artistic friends as well. In Robb's depiction, the poet possessed from his earliest youth a restless, searching intellect that permitted no compromise with convention nor tenderness for others' weaknesses. The author doesn't soften Rimbaud's "savage cynicism" or gloss over his frequently obnoxious behavior, yet Robb arouses our admiration for "one of the great Romantic imaginations, festering in damp, provincial rooms like an intelligent disease." Like Robb's excellent biographies of Hugo and Balzac, this sharp, subtle, unsentimental portrait is both erudite and beautifully written. - Wendy Smith


Dance of the Hanged Men


On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune!

And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms:
Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipes
Which once gentle ladies pressed to their own,
Jostle together protractedly in hideous love-making.

Hurray! the gay dancers, you whose bellies are gone!
You can cut capers on such a long stage!
Hop! never mind whether it's fighting or dancing!
- Beelzebub, maddened, saws on his fiddles!

Oh the hard heels, no one's pumps are wearing out!
And nearly all have taken of their shirts of skin;
The rest is not embarrassing and can be seen without shame.
On each skull the snow places a white hat:

The crow acts as a plume for these cracked brains,
A scrap of flesh clings to each lean chin:
You would say, to see them turning in their dark combats,
They were stiff knights clashing pasteboard armours.

Hurrah! the wind whistles at the skeletons' grand ball!
The black gallows moans like an organ of iron !
The wolves howl back from the violet forests:
And on the horizon the sky is hell-red...

Ho there, shake up those funereal braggarts,
Craftily telling with their great broken fingers
The beads of their loves on their pale vertebrae:
Hey the departed, this is no monastery here!

Oh! but see how from the middle of this Dance of Death
Springs into the red sky a great skeleton, mad,
Carried away by his own impetus, like a rearing horse:
And, feeling the rope tight again round his neck,

Clenches his knuckles on his thighbone with a crack
Uttering cries like mocking laughter,
And then like a mountebank into his booth,
Skips back into the dance to the music of the bones!

On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

- As translated by Oliver Bernard: Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems (1962)
-----------------------------------

Au gibet noir, manchot aimable,
Dansent, dansent les paladins,
Les maigres paladins du diable,
Les squelettes de Saladins.

Messire Belzébuth tire par la cravate
Ses petits pantins noirs grimaçant sur le ciel,
Et, leur claquant au front un revers de savate,
Les fait danser, danser aux sons d'un vieux Noël !

Et les pantins choqués enlacent leurs bras grêles :
Comme des orgues noirs, les poitrines à jour
Que serraient autrefois les gentes damoiselles,
Se heurtent longuement dans un hideux amour.

Hurrah ! les gais danseurs qui n'avez plus de panse !
On peut cabrioler, les tréteaux sont si longs !
Hop ! qu'on ne cache plus si c'est bataille ou danse !
Belzébuth enragé racle ses violons !

O durs talons, jamais on n'use sa sandale !
Presque tous ont quitté la chemise de peau ;
Le reste est peu gênant et se voit sans scandale.
Sur les crânes, la neige applique un blanc chapeau :

Le corbeau fait panache à ces têtes fêlées,
Un morceau de chair tremble à leur maigre menton :
On dirait, tournoyant dans les sombres mêlées,
Des preux, raides, heurtant armures de carton.

Hurrah ! la bise siffle au grand bal des squelettes !
Le gibet noir mugit comme un orgue de fer !
Les loups vont répondant des forêts violettes :
À l'horizon, le ciel est d'un rouge d'enfer...

Holà, secouez-moi ces capitans funèbres
Qui défilent, sournois, de leurs gros doigts cassés
Un chapelet d'amour sur leurs pâles vertèbres :
Ce n'est pas un moustier ici, les trépassés !

Oh ! voilà qu'au milieu de la danse macabre
Bondit dans le ciel rouge un grand squelette fou
Emporté par l'élan, comme un cheval se cabre :
Et, se sentant encor la corde raide au cou,

Crispe ses petits doigts sur son fémur qui craque
Avec des cris pareils à des ricanements,
Et, comme un baladin rentre dans la baraque,
Rebondit dans le bal au chant des ossements.

Au gibet noir, manchot aimable,
Dansent, dansent les paladins,
Les maigres paladins du diable,
Les squelettes de Saladins.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Dance.html

The Cheated Heart

My poor heart dribbles at the stern
My heart covered with caporal
They squirt upon it jets of soup
My poor heart dribbles at the stern
Under the gibes of the whole crew
Which burst out in a single laugh,
My poor heart dribbles at the stern
My heart covered with caporal.

Ithypallic, erkish, lewd,
Their gibes have corrupted it.
In the wheelhouse you can see graffiti*
Ithypallic, erkish, lewd.
O abracadantic waves
Take my heart that it may be cleansed!
Ithypallic, erkish, lewd,
Their gibes have corrupted it.

When they have finished chewing their quids
What shall we do, o cheated heart?
It will be bacchic hiccups then
When they have finished chewing their quids
I shall have stomach heavings then
I can swallow down my heart:
When they have finished chewing their quids
What shall we do, o cheated heart?

May 1871.
-------------------------------------------------

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Dreams, Battles and Waking To Rejoice


Times that my mind wakes to take flight
flying away in spheres of magical dreams
So often are near hour of black midnight
when dark powers dance with their schemes

A journey into the devil's unholy realm
to battle the hordes of his evil beasts
Flying blind with no master at the helm
slaying engorging demons at their feasts

Girded with truth's invincible shield
long sword of bravery in my right hand
Solemn vow to die before I ever yield
cutting out the heart of Lucifer's band

Every battle goes on in a nip and tuck
slaying the filthy beasts left and right
Always my feet seem to get me stuck
as daylight rises to defeat dark of night

Times that my spirit chooses to wake
victory is rewarded for valorous deeds
I rejoice deeply for goodness sake
as God's truth met my fighting needs

Robert J. Lindley

04-21-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Keith Douglas (January 24, 1920 - June 9, 1944), was an English poet of World War II.

He was born in Tunbridge Wells, Kent, and educated at Christ's Hospital and at the University of Oxford. He had a difficult childhood, his father deserting the family when Douglas was at preparatory school and his mother unwell for long periods. In one of his letters written in 1940 he looks back on his childhood: 'I lived alone during the most fluid and formative years of my life, and during that time I lived on my imagination, which was so powerful as to persuade me that the things I imagined would come true'. Within days of the declaration of war he had reported to an army office with the intention of joining a cavalry regiment. Like many others keen to serve he had to wait and it was not until July 1940 that he started his training. On the 1st February 1941 he passed out from Sandhurst, the officer training school, and was posted to the Second Derbyshire Yeomanry at Ripon. He fought in North Africa in 1941. In 1944, he took part in the D-Day invasion of Normandy, in the course of which he was killed.


How To Kill
by Keith Douglas

Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.

Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears


And look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being damned, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.


The weightless mosquito touches
her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Such depth to this write and speaks volumes about the inner workings of the human mind while engaged
in war and facing death to do ones duty!
People reject the answer thus war exists !
Yet the answer can only solve all when its accepted by ALL...--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Inspired by the poem , How To Kill , by Keith Douglas....
This is my tribute to that man, that poet, that soldier , that fallen hero, that thinker....--Tyr




Once Touched All Time Stands Still


Death again, the glorious symphony
mortal man has found his destiny
Once touched all time stands still
darkest hand exists only to kill


Spring, the time of earth's seeds
man rots helplessly in his needs
A few souls live in blessed relief
resting within their holy belief

Summer, life races into high gear
Sun shines, man has very little fear
His life is like a smoothed stone
Harshness seen only after he is gone

Fall, seeds planted for fair or ill
man still imposing his evil will
The stone moans with its new cracks
coldness coming with its attacks

Winter, the season so damn unfair
darkness coming fast from everywhere
Death trumpets its arrival with cold
man meets Fate, be he young or old

Death again, the glorious symphony
mortal man has found his destiny
Once touched all time stands still
darkest hand exists only to kill

Robert J. Lindley, 04-25-2015

Note: The Hand of Fate and the dark Hand of Death both
travel with man as giver of fruits from his bitter harvest.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

New poem , written this morn for a contest. Based very loosely upon my poem titled , A Golden Steed Gallops.
Hope you may enjoy this one....-Tyr


The White Stallion Arrives


The White horse came in so very fast
with purpose and great deeds to last
Arriving in a spirited tour de force
evil alerted, took notice of course

Sitting upon its huge, stalwart back
knight ready for any vicious attack
Dark forces were quickly sent to meet
the fighters to engage and deadly greet

Stallion knew the lay of the land
also the power of the warrior's hand
Racing to meet dark and deadly foes
with courage only the brave knows

Warrior with sword of truth in hand
slew hundreds in the dark demon band
The charging stallion knew his job
slay those whose aim was to soul rob

As the enemy lay in forced disarray
the white stallion reared up to bray
A signal he was in tune with his knight
that he knew victory was soon in sight

When the last dark beast met its fate
sun was about to rise and not to late
The knight planted the victory flag
as he slew the last flying demonic hag

As sun and its glow lit the waiting sky
White stallion flew into the bye and bye
Echoes blasted back a victorious sound
promising Hope would always be around

Robert J. Lindley, 04-25-2015

[LongTermGuy]

Dreams, Battles and Waking To Rejoice


Times that my mind wakes to take flight
flying away in spheres of magical dreams
So often are near hour of black midnight
when dark powers dance with their schemes

A journey into the devil's unholy realm
to battle the hordes of his evil beasts
Flying blind with no master at the helm
slaying engorging demons at their feasts

Girded with truth's invincible shield
long sword of bravery in my right hand
Solemn vow to die before I ever yield
cutting out the heart of Lucifer's band

Every battle goes on in a nip and tuck
slaying the filthy beasts left and right
Always my feet seem to get me stuck
as daylight rises to defeat dark of night

Times that my spirit chooses to wake
victory is rewarded for valorous deeds
I rejoice deeply for goodness sake
as God's truth met my fighting needs

Robert J. Lindley

04-21-2015

`....I like this one Tyr...very good....