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ConnectHook Dec 2015
The fact that in Mohammedan law every woman must belong to some man as his absolute property — either as a child, a wife, or a concubine — must delay the final extinction of slavery until the faith of Islam has ceased to be a great power among men. Individual Moslems may show splendid qualities. Thousands become the brave and loyal soldiers of the Queen: all know how to die. But the influence of the religion paralyzes the social development of those who follow it. No stronger retrograde force exists in the world. Far from being moribund, Mohammedanism is a militant and proselytizing faith. It has already spread throughout Central Africa, raising fearless warriors at every step; and were it not that Christianity is sheltered in the strong arms of science — the science against which it had vainly struggled — the civilization of modern Europe might fall, as fell the civilization of ancient Rome.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
this poem didn't come easy. written amidst buffeting emo's, V will not be natural flow, probably flawed. You, self-chosen people, will come along, please, to see the process, and the proceeds too.
But as usual, the poem was write before me, needing only human kindness overflowing to guide the way.

V

V words lord, excluding all others,
phonetic juggernauts,
never met a V word
that had no personality.

victory is the one word that
my/our brains
think of first.

sure there is vortex, victuals, veer
and *valor exam,

the latter,
what ever it means is a gift,
curtsy-courtesy of auto-incorrect.

but it is victory
on top,
victorious in its own way.

try it on another if you must...
what is the word that starts with a V
that first comes to mind?

so let us talk of victories.

so oft, I write in the dark,
even as I do now.

came home soul weary,
face worn-worry,
gotta go out to meet
Peter Bogdanovich later,
to chat about his latest movie.

woman looks me over.
X-ray glance,
an MRI of my heart,
no deductible charged,
but oh yes, a co-pay due, indeed!

Peter will keep,
tonight you're-mine,
to bed I send,
right after we consume
Large Thin Mush,
cause pizza with shrooms contains
mood serotonins,
that erase the
"pain of the day"

that be a victory nonpareil.
a Waterloo, a Normandy landing,
that be a victory where
both sides hug and kiss,
and make with their long,
stubby Churchillian fingers,
V's all night long
with goofy grins,
cigars and bowler hats,
just to go along.

so here I am in the dark,
having been "put" to bed,
one mo' time,
slicing and dicing letters
into a word-salade,
instead of resting.

dreaming of the day
when I can no longer need to
pretend to be a Seuss, but truly,
can be writing poems for all my
children~friends.

one for each letter
of the alphabet,
teaching us to write
upon our faces
laugh lines thin and fine,
mine, ours, yours.

product of pizza poems,
some that come not circular,
but tonite shaped
just like a woman,
just like a
*V.
For Victoria who has promised to read every poem the pizza delivery boy wrote in alphabetical order, starting with the one that was heretofore missing, one that started with the letter V.

PostScript: there could be no N,
Without the topsy turvy
V hidden inside,
Proof positive
That life is indeed
turVy
Martyn Grindrod Dec 2018
Splendid soldier you
I'm merely your descendant
barely fit to footstep follow
I'm discipled , My kindred hero

Foreign soils desperately dank
Churchillian's major tactical outflank
Death by bulleted blight
******* German bight

Evil eradication in Holland's nether land
Liberation free , Guaranteed
Twas his life he gave
Home to a war hero's grave

Death knell to heroic soldier blue
And maybe I'm a tad bitter 'tis true
My Blood lost his life to a gameplan
After all what's a medal without the man

Martyn Grindrod

My tribute to my Grandad
William Fred Grindrod
20/12/1918 - 30/11/1944
Who would have been 100 years old today.
Martyn Grindrod Nov 2020
Splendid soldier you
I'm merely your descendant
barely fit to footstep follow
I'm discipled , My kindred hero

Foreign soils desperately dank
Churchillian's major tactical outflank
Death by bulleted blight
******* German bight

Evil eradication in Holland's nether land
Liberation free , Guaranteed
Twas his life he gave
Home to a war hero's grave

Death knell to heroic soldier blue
And maybe I'm a tad bitter 'tis true
My Blood lost his life to a gameplan
After all what's a medal without the man

Martyn Grindrod

In remembrance Sunday my tribute to my Grandad
William Fred Grindrod
20/12/1918 - 30/11/1944
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
I IS SMILING


Everything always is:
'I is...'

As in:

'I is...happy! '
'I...is...tired! '

Even to negate it, is:

'I is...not tired! '
'I is...not go bed! '

(with Churchillian scowl
& foot stamp for emphasis) .

I used to love
your construction

the simple syntax of your
sentences:

'Tilly & Mummy...is girl! '
'Dónall Dónall is...not girl? '

Now I is
remembering you

just as
you was

recall your words
just as

they is
& I

...is smiling.
I've seen a lot of Robins recently
and not one single Batman,
what's going on man?
said the Mayor of Gotham.

ain't nature grand?

wrens and jays
and turkeys
that laze in the sun

penguins with scowls and
owls with Churchillian jowls,

I have a Ladybird book of
let's take a look around
and we'll see how
wonderful nature
has been to me.

still looking for Batman though.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2017
I IS SMILING

Everything always is:

'I is...'

As in:

'I is...happy! '

'I...is...tired! '

Even to negate it, is:

'I is...not tired! '

'I is...not go bed! '

(with Churchillian scowl

& foot stamp for emphasis) .

I used to love

your construction

the simple syntax of your

sentences:

'Tilly & Mummy...is girl! '

'Dónall Dónall is...not girl? '

Now I is

remembering you

just as

you was

recall your words

just as

they is

& I

...is smiling.
Antiquated hypocrisy, and historical echoes
Petty politicians, and ludicrous lords
Where they come from, who really knows
But they are oft crossing, angry, bitter swords

In reality, nothing much has changed
Future prospects, await in vain
As man, and nature, become estranged
A nation's pride, is on the wane

Great expectations, of hope, and glory
A scepter'd isle, now septic
Omnipresent hope, a fictional story?
And the doubting words of a sceptic

Unemployed multitudes, in discontented scorn
Political bias, and alien lies
Empty promises, hand-on heart sworn
Plenty of words, but are they ever wise?

As a new year now approaches
With mirrored contemplation, of ages past
Britain's grated kingdom, no longer encroaches
Distant lands, now free at last

Britannic waves, no longer ruled
Churchillian beaches, no longer fought on
Shakespearean isles, no longer bejewelled
Long gone are martyrs, like St Alban

by Jemia
most of my poems are written on the day i post them, this one was written 25 years ago....

— The End —