The Golden Platform


Posts tagged Poetry

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When I was eighteen I had a morbid tease
It always began when I grabbed my car keys.
I’d roll down all the windows in order to feel the breeze
As I drove too fast I’d steer my car with my knees.

But that isn’t it, that isn’t it at all…

Because my friend and I had this game…
Our empty souls were desperate you see.
As we drove we’d stare out the window
We were looking for things to crash into,
We called this game, “Sizing Up Trees.”

P.S. this is just between you and me.

Filed under Poem Golden Platform Original Poetry

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The Writer, Abram Bartholomew.

Soundless he sat over his typewriter,
He had always considered himself a literary prizefighter.
But today no idea came that he could use,
Even as he stared at a photograph of his muse
He looked up from the photo and out the window at the trees,
Wondering if one day he’d produce the next Brothers Karamazov or Ulysses.

The writer stood up and walked around his home,
He took a short walk and gathered up all his poems.
Many of which had been published in books and magazines
The rest however had collected dust and never had been seen.
He stood in his house all weary and alone,
Wondering if one day the words he scribbled would make him wealthy and known.

He was self absorbed and cared little about the perils of his friends.
The only reason he had them was so he could use them in the end.
He only wanted their praises, he only wanted their gifts,
He never believed in friendship and those other myths.
Although his poems spoke of love and unfettered morals,
His life never reflected these fabricated laurels.

He wrote of the beauty of love but in reality found it profane
He knew in his heart relationships were for the weak and insane.
He once had a lover but his lover threw his trust away,
He bound himself in silence and in silence he would stay.
But there was a desire in this poets heart he couldn’t suppress
He wanted to write a novel that no one would ever second guess.

He went back to his typewriter and placed his fingers on the keys,
He started typing a few words and placed his hands on his knees.
The writer threw his hands in the air and began to shout;
“Why can’t I find anything to write about?”
He thought about his life and wondered if he had anything to say,
But all he could come up with is how he’d like to curse the day.

On his bookshelf sat the classics from the early Greek to modern man,
He wondered how a mind could conceive of something like The Beautiful and Damned.
After a few moments in his seat he desired to move.
So he got up and decided to walk to the cities womb.
He was seeking inspiration in the cities chaotic humanity,
But he wasn’t sure where this center of life should be.

He embarked on his journey, leaving his homes mediocrity
As he neared the city limits, the trees lost their density.
He was a stranger in this strange place,
As the residents cast skeptical glances on his face.
Worried mothers grabbed their children and brought them inside,
Because they knew the devil, like this man, had a dominant stride.

He really did not care what these peasants thought,
His only real concern was the fame and fortune he sought.
Before he knew it he had walked through that wretched town.
No one in this world would ever bring him down,
He walked to the heart of the city beneath the noon day sun,
He found a bench and watched the people for inspiration.

In his observations he was delighted to see
That the people showed no love, compassion or solidarity,
As they shoved their way through the city streets.
“People are delightfully dismal” became the writers new philosophy.
He watched a couple who thought they were in love,
“But,” the writer thought, “these two have no idea what they’re dreaming of.”

The hour of lunch soon did appear,
So the writer entered a café and ordered lunch and a beer.
He sipped on his beverage and took a drag on his smoke,
And looking at his empty plate made an insidious joke.
“You know what is so great about starvation?”
“It will get rid of the worthless people in this nation.”

The writer got up from his table and stepped back onto the street,
The café was getting full which caused an unbearable heat.
The writer was having difficulty finding inspiration
And wondered why he had chosen this destination.
So he gazed in store windows and visited the salon 
And decided that there must be better ways to spend his afternoon.

He walked by the beggars and walked by the sick
And he sought out the company of the popular and rich.
He dusted off his coat and dusted off his hat,
And he thought of all the places to tell them he’d been at.
Even though the writer hadn’t been out of the country at all
He developed a small story of how he walked Chinas Great Wall.

The writer neared a white marble palace
He could see waiters serving red wine in gold rimmed glasses.
The writer walked up the front steps and subtly made his arrival.
He was happy to be with civilized people instead of those outside who acted tribal.
He had an inability to think about others,
He would often smile when he thought about the ways they could suffer.

He walked around the room acting humble and divine,
He wanted to give the impression that he was moral and kind.
He took a sip of his wine and placed it on the tray,
Then he commented to the waiter, “isn’t it a lovely day?”
He walked into a room made from the finest wood,
And gazed upon a beauty he barely understood.

In the corner laid a book all tattered and frayed,
And on the binding was the title “The Beginning of the Human Race”
He flipped through the pages and this is what he found,
There was evil in a garden and God had cursed the ground.
So he closed the book and hid it in his coat,
He figured he would change a few words and say, “this is what I wrote.”

The writer took the book and headed straight for home,
He wanted to get as far away from the marble palace and its marble dome.
He walked back through the city and back through the town, 
He wanted to get back to his typewriter and get this idea down.
As he walked, the houses soon  were replaced with trees.
All he could think about was placing his fingers on those keys.

When the writer neared his house he took a look around,
He was comforted in hearing the wind and other natural sounds.
He stepped into his house and took the old book out,
He was happy that he finally had something he could write about.
So in his seat he began to write the Origins of Man
He wrote about the gods, and wrote about a snake and finally the Nuglian.

The writer wrote about a tribe who only cared about themselves,
After six hundred pages he envisioned his book on hundreds of library shelves.
He said the Nuglians is where all humans came,
He said in a footnote that since no one knew this it was quite a shame.
The writer wrote his book in twenty long days,
Then he submitted the manuscript to a publisher on the Sixth of May.

The publisher liked the story and wrote the writer a check.
They also congratulated him for sticking out his neck.
The writer basked in his glory and his instant fame,
But he couldn’t get over the fact everything felt the same.
The only person he could thank was the person he called his muse,
So he took the photo from the shelf which was just a picture of Abram Bartholomew. 

Filed under Poetry Poem Original golden platform

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Discourse Poetry

America is not beyond ‘good’ or ‘evil’. 

But, you say; “there are safe guards that’ll

prevent the government from going too far!”

Huh? Did you not notice their total Constitutional disregard?

Do you really believe some ancient words

on a damned piece of paper will prevent

them from putting a bullet between your eyes?

If you read that fucking piece of paper

you perhaps would’ve realized

That IT is NOT the ‘safe guard’ that’ll allow you

to sleep warm and safe at night.

You are the real protection from Government

tyranny - you dropped the ball and now we have

a TOTAL WAR economy.

The ‘troops’ aren’t your saviors, they aren’t 

even your friends. They are the one’s 

that when it comes down to it

"were just following orders" in the end.

When the Government declares you the enemy

you’ll be a corpse just like so many

Afghani and Iraqi citizens.

So get off your fucking ass and reclaim

the power back. There is no way to say this

without alluding to sedition - but destroying every

facet of Government must be your solemn mission. 

There is no time for Presidents or useless elections,

just get your ass into the streets and cause some

mayhem and destruction.

Every point of authority must be brought to

it’s knees. There is no time for mercy, there is no 

time for sanctity. Only through destruction of this

police state society

will you find the framework for a world 

of harmony.

Filed under golden platform Original Poem Poetry

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The Animals are Leaving


One by one, like guests at a late party   
They shake our hands and step into the dark:   
Arabian ostrich; Long-eared kit fox; Mysterious starling.
One by one, like sheep counted to close our eyes,   
They leap the fence and disappear into the woods:   
Atlas bear; Passenger pigeon; North Island laughing owl;   
Great auk; Dodo; Eastern wapiti; Badlands bighorn sheep.

One by one, like grade school friends,   
They move away and fade out of memory:   
Portuguese ibex; Blue buck; Auroch; Oregon bison;   
Spanish imperial eagle; Japanese wolf; Hawksbill   
Sea turtle; Cape lion; Heath hen; Raiatea thrush.

One by one, like children at a fire drill, they march outside,   
And keep marching, though teachers cry, “Come back!”   
Waved albatross; White-bearded spider monkey;   
Pygmy chimpanzee; Australian night parrot;   
Turquoise parakeet; Indian cheetah; Korean tiger;   
Eastern harbor seal ; Ceylon elephant ; Great Indian rhinoceros.

One by one, like actors in a play that ran for years   
And wowed the world, they link their hands and bow   
Before the curtain falls.

Filed under Poem Poetry Animals

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The children killed by war by Ed Ciaccio


The children killed by war

Should haunt us forever,

Their mangled limbs,

Charred bodies,

Innocent minds,

Unreached dreams

Cursing us for our blind zeal

For revenge,

Or security,

Or defense,

Or patriotism,

Or freedom,

Or any other lazy lie we tell ourselves

To excuse the murders we do.

So we banish their photos, their faces, their shattered lives

From our TV screens and news pages.

Not seeing is willful blindness,

Never facing the awful truth

That condemns us.

Filed under Poetry Poem Children War

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War’s Remains

by Lesley Docksey


Salvador Dali : The Visage of War

March 21, 2012

War’s Remains

Oh mother, I am off to war
And glory shall I win!
Oh son, my son, what have you done,
What grief you’ve put me in.

Oh girl, my love, you’ll wait for me
Until I’m done with fighting?
And I’ll be back one eventide
When candles you’re a-lighting.

Waiting is a bitter time,
And hopes, they keep retreating.
And he who left so valiantly
Was not who came to meeting.

Oh mother, wheel me through the door,
For I’ve no legs for walking.
I cannot tell you of my war
For I’ve no tongue for talking.

Oh mother, I would sing a song
But I’ve no lungs for singing.
What have I done, what have I done?
Oh see the grief I’m bringing!

Oh girl, my love, I’d hold you close
But I’ve no arms for holding,
And oh, I’d fold you to my breast
But I’ve no hands for folding.

I hear the pity in your voice,
And I’ve no eyes for crying.
I’ve nothing left but memories,
My killing, people dying.

I’d buy you flowers and a ring,
But I’ve no hands for giving.
Oh leave me here and let me die
For I’ve no heart for living.

© Lesley Docksey 21/03/12

What was the inspiration behind this poem? I feel so strongly that, if we could only make people face what war really does, the damage it causes, they would be more prepared to join us in campaigning to stop war. As it is, the public is encouraged to feel insecure; to support efforts to combat ‘terrorists’; to believe that every soldier that dies is a ‘hero’. And the politicians (and of course big business) try to keep any images or information about the appalling damage out of view, because they know how outraged people would be once they had been brave enough to look at that damage.

Like all the major news stations in thrall to the powers that be, the BBC won’t air any graphic war footage because ‘it offends public taste’. I ask you - when was war ever tasteful? So, until people like me get listened to, until the public recognises the death and destruction we are responsible for when we send our armies off on yet another military adventure, I guess I’m in the business of offending public taste.

Filed under Dissent Free Speech War Murder Poetry Commentary

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