Tag: Poetry

Poetry-Thing Thursday: The Grave

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

A million to one,
the shot from a gun,
death on the run,
and a life come undone.

We should’ve known better,
than to trust in man’s sanity,
or that blood can’t get wetter,
when mixed with depravity.

But “so what” you say,
“My life’s good and okay,
good job and good pay,
no need for rebellion today.”

But what about when,
the gun’s turned in at you
will you admit then,
that the world’s gone askew?

Maybe, perhaps not.
Even if, you’re forgot.
Then again, you’ll be sought.
If so, quite a lot.

In the end all that matters,
is that life is a lesson,
and when the world’s in tatters,
we’re all a shoe-in.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: The Writer

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

I don’t care for your politics,
I have my own.
I don’t mind your rhetoric,
but please post-pone,
your desires to breed,
your opinions in me.

I am a writer,
that’s all I need.
I see your fire,
record its greed.
Take my oxygen,
incubate its seed.
But hear my warning,
listen and heed:

I’ve no idea,
what you do,
when you’re alone,
and you play the fool.
Whether with purpose,
or ignorant cool,
from you I guess,
the latter’s your tool.

See I’m a writer,
and it is my place,
to record the fire,
unmask its seething grace.
Whether light and loving,
or dark and dying,
your fire’s my muse,
and I’ve nothing better to do.

So remember please,
when within reach,
that I am a writer,
and I’ve lessons to teach.
Either through story,
or with rhythm, I preach,
everything that you,
might wish to beseech.

For I am a writer,
and it is my calling,
words never tire,
but silence is appalling,
When down to the wire,
my pen is scrawling,
or my wrists are afire,
from fingered keys a-crawling,
cause I am a writer,
and what’s more, never stalling.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Judging Independence

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Listen closely,
to the mortars’ song.
They cry of freedom,
by banging a gong,
but shriek in terror,
at a girl’s thong.

What great masses,
of fools and hypocrites,
would deny man or woman,
their in-born spirits?
Perhaps the same ones,
that themselves have no merits.

Yet those same masses,
seem to rule the world,
with chaos and madness,
and delusions hurled.
If only we, the minority,
could be quite so unfurled.

Judge not,
lest ye be judged,
but there is no jury,
and they’ve bought the judge,
forever our innocence,
has been smudged.

A corruption of spirit
of truth and unity,
and thus I must say,
without impunity,
that our independence,
caused a wisdom-immunity.

Two centuries have come,
and then some,
all but a fraction,
spent waging war.
It’s hard not to feel,
just a little bit sore.

If independence this be,
I just have to ask;
is it me?
Or have we failed the task?

Bonus Poem: We and the Feeble

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Mountains crumble beneath our feet,
we march on the morrow,
what an a-mazing feat.
That we and the feeble,
have managed to beat,
the collective ensemble,
into hasty retreat.

The world of war,
that’s broken with sorrow,
above it we soar,
we and the feeble,
well-known to more,
than those we resemble,
as the masters that from it tore
peace and serenity,
for the brazen and poor.

The seas that run red,
twist and turn, borrow,
the bodies of dead,
from we and the feeble,
whom left them instead,
of stayed to assemble,
as the vigilant fled,
after their sanity,
as away their feet sped,
away from the battle,
with arms shielding head.

We stand in victory,
once more certain that ‘morrow,
will rise as we see,
that we and the feeble,
know nothing but to be free,
from that horrid ensemble,
that we ever let flee,
with hearts gripped by vanity,
them unlike us, to be
beneath death and its terrifying rattle,
That was our plea,
to ensure that the able and feeble alike,
no longer for them, took knee.