Alas, We All Descend

Alas, We All Descend

On forest shores where rolling waves,

ride sun sets fast on crimson red,

tomorrow finds another day,

where screams of anguish count their dead.

The Azov Sea so stained with blood,

mount their crimes from memories past,

with vengeful tales all swallowed whole,

from nightmares gone all meant to last.

Another plague of tarnished souls,

they rise again, from blackened sea,

from foreign lands and days of old,

these nightmares press, for World War three.

Like orcs they swarm, and raze the land,

break all the laws that God has made,

while sewing clouds of doom and fear,

Azov monsters, Kiev brigade.

Donetsk, Lugansk, they stand their ground,

fend off attack, break their advance,

the salt of earth protects their home,

from U.S. NATO, Britain, France.

Eight years later the horde remains,

with genocide firm in their plans,

the Azov demons show their face,

with NATO weapons in their hands.

The Rus steps in before they act,

to break the Kiev Baphomet,

they grab the demon by the throat,

despite the sanctions or their threat.

As war plays out across Ukraine,

the U.S. plays its twisted game,

accuse the Russians of war crimes,

through covert ops they place the blame.

A sanctions war begins to bite,

by U.S. fiscal plans unfurled,

the global market splits in two,

while tensions mount across the world.

Occupation sets in E.U.,

across Ukraine a war in bloom,

through bankrupt leaders in U.S.,

the world descends unto its doom.

As energy no longer flows,

the lockdown waves begin to form,

all will suffer the broken lines,

Chinese cities begin the storm.

Inflation rips our dreams to shreds,

while food costs break the south and East,

oppression, claims the north and west,

the passport game, mark of the beast.

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By: The Activist Poet

About this Poem: Most people really do not know what is going on in the world, mostly because they've relied on mainstream media to form their opinions over the years, but also because there is massive censorship put in place by search engines, social media platforms government and state / corporate media. However, the truth is out there if you are someone that doesn't like being lied to and need to know. Both sides of a story must be viewed to understand what is actually happening.

Here is a link to a 2014 video archive which is still in process of being compiled. I'm putting this news archive together because all of it was erased from the internet...so far, it covers the beginning of the destruction of Ukraine and the western backed coup there that sparked a civil war which has now drawn in Russia and threatens to engulf the world...

The world is on the edge of a knife where the global population hangs from a thread…decisions being made by those in power are based on pure greed with a complete disregard for life, humanity, and our future. We are in the hands of madmen…

Wraith World

 

Wraith World

When shivers leave you all alone,

and the darkness claims your eyes,

the candle light that is your soul,

will flicker by their surprize.

To fall into the world of wraith,

of poisons and spider webs,

where all alone you hear them breathe,

with the voices of the dead.

Mortality then grips you so,

off balance your life on edge,

breathing quick your thoughts in panic,

while your fear becomes a wedge.

The demon wraiths have come for you,

no escape when you are seen,

they feast upon the human spark,

in the darkest depth of dreams.

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Smiles

Smiles

Smiles brim with knowledge,

understanding and grace,

they feel for the universe,

while caught in loves embrace.

Infectious smiles of laughter,

beaming eyes of light,

held forever after,

our lanterns in the night.

Music is the pathway,

rhythms are the source,

smiling is the product,

of natures healing force.

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About this Poem: A few words of healing for Leah Song of Rising Appalachia to wish her good health and a speedy recovery. 

To smile is to unlock all the natures medicine 

Dancing with Memories

Dancing with Memories

My favorite song is playing again,

a music that shifts back years,

to faces and places that bring me home,

to the days we had no fears.

I travel back to be with you,

by lyrics of alluring tether

evenings filled with American Pie,

in the days we lived forever.

There was nothing then, we couldn’t do,

when all of us got together,

the world at large our modeling clay,

was ours to mold and weather.

Those roads, exciting, we traveled far,

our energy fast and strong,

those are the days, I remember well,

that come back to me in song.

Thoughts a brim with wine and roses,

eternal promises meant to keep,

the times of smiling faces,

and youthful days without defeat.

I see you there, shining bright,

defying time to end,

old memories made I embrace,

when this song plays once again

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About this Poem: Music is a most giving experience that also has the power to transcend time. Songs can take us on a trip as if we just stepped into a conscious time machine where we go back to moments long ago to see faces and places while feeling the ambience of the time…moments that seem like yesterday.

Don McLean – American Pie

The Dancing Light

The Dancing Light

Grey skies shade my thoughts with sorrows,

my essence a prisoner of sadness,

hope uplifts all my tomorrows,

but realities drive me to madness.

A glow illuminates over the bog,

gracefully waltzing out of reach,

it’s shadows shiver in the fog,

with lessons destined to teach.

The road ahead lingers fright,

my path revealed in dreams,

and when awakened by chill of night,

the light shines down in beams.

I race to capture understanding,

cumbrous weight denying me,

yet the light ahead begins expanding,

and reveals the truth to me.

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About this Poem: "The Dancing Light" was inspired by a Piano composition called "Les danses de la lumière" by Russian Composer Vadim Kiselev. Here below is his beautiful composition and the links to his wonderful music.

Vadim Kiselev LINKS:

Official Website

Facebook

Artist Profile

YouTube

Buy Music @ the Following Online Stores

Bandcamp

iTunes

Salvation

Salvation

I am spirit, I am wings,

I bring terror to tyrant kings.

I am here, I am now,

I am everywhere that I vow.

I am storm born, lightnings glare,

I am the soul’s protector n’ heir.

I am prophesized with a mark,

I am fire in the dark.

I am the watcher of the skies,

the oracle of the wise,

I am the hush of screams,

the voice in dreams.

I carry the future, and a warning,

empathy to the mourning,

I am the end to damnation,

I am your Salvation.

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About this Poem: The World inches closer to global war and annihilation but as 2016 came to an end, the lies of the west were laid bare in front of the global community…mainstream news was exposed for willfully spreading the sins of their government. All over the World, by virtue of the internet and independent thinking, the people have awakened from a spell that was cast over them by media propaganda. We now stare truth in the face…the lies have fallen, morals will be chosen as time closes in on the tyrants…Salvation is in the peoples grasp…it speaks to you in times of silence, and great upheaval to awaken you at the right moment, to fight for your freedom…and your Salvation. 

Where Ice Winds Blow

Painting By: My Great Aunt "Phoebe Harney" (Circa 1916)

Where Ice Winds Blow

A mighty forest once graced the dell,

so green and lush, the lungs would swell,

birds, so many, were full of vigour,

the skies back then bright blue and bigger.

Our home of grace built long ago,

saw harmonies dream and spirits grow,

along the mighty river Grand,

where crystal waters blessed our land.

In life we toiled in rock and earth,

our blood and sweat, our death and birth,

destiny ours, belonged to none,

and everyday came moon and sun.

Alas, the darkness brought its weight,

outside the barn, the post of fate,

trails in snow, so crimson black,

animal’s sacrificed, hung out back.

A child sobs his curse for food,

with eyes so flush his grief imbued,

outside the evening’s cold and damp,

while oil wick Flickers in his lamp.

Despondent howls sing through the night,

wolves in chorus under moon’s light,

sleep is restless, while nightmares surge,

drowning in fears, where guilt’s converge.

Haven crackles with fire and heat,

bungalow kept so warm and neat,

canning done, jars waxed and sealed,

packed away, our autumn yield.

Through winters barren lifeless thatch,

bundled with care behind the latch,

fields desolate, covered in snow,

whistling gusts, where ice winds blow.

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About this Poem: A photo struck me in a Poetry contest I entered recently, called “Outback Shed”. The Photo prompt in the contest was of an old homestead in the Outback that conjured up a memory of a painting my great-aunt made and gave my grandfather in 1916 (100 years ago.) The painting, depicted above, is of a farm at night, where outside, clearly visible is a trail of blood leading into the barn…the painting left an impression on me for a long time, that I’ve just now expressed in this Poem. Life and times were very different 100 years ago but this painting will always remain chilling with a reminder to me that all life is precious…

Economic Fall

Economic Fall

The clash of steel and iron plays on foggy screens, as raging economic fires consume every town and village across the land with echoed screams. Empty homes ablaze on smouldering markets of greed, now just a pile of embers, ash and shattered illusions.

Desperate fingers point at created enemies, scribbled on leaflets and dropped on the starving by patrician thieves. Desolation notes, delivered by Trireme commanders to man the oars and destroy the rebellions abroad.

Ship of fools, rowing in madness towards the jutting rocks of truth on the raging seas of insanity; Woe to them who are chained to the oars of empirical delusions…

The stores are empty onboard tall illusive dreams, where shell-shocked rowers fall by the weight of the chains they have come to depend on. Leaky ships eastward steering, sink to the bottom of the sea, while their cannons are fired in all directions…

The mirage of recovery fades in the pangs of unfulfilled promises and broken dreams. A generation crushed by debt, left smouldering in the ashes, has lost its hubris…the empire is dead.

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About this Expression:

Mankind’s destiny has arrived at a major fork in the road…one path leads to extinction, the other to freedom and salvation. However, the choice is blurred by the noise of propaganda and parasitic elements that drive a sociopathic leadership towards chaos and destruction…the decision has already been made for us, as we are blindly led down a road by the directors of greedy addiction, desperate for its next fix…they have chosen war instead of peace…

Upheaval

Upheaval

Perceptions in the world have changed,

imprisoned minds unblocked,

eyes are quite wide open,

no longer closed or shocked.

September brought the earthquake,

October brought the war,

November brought insanity,

by December we were poor.

The global coup came creeping,

every nation on the block,

with twists n’ plots so evil,

economies held grid locked.

The world’s been set on fire,

arsonists are in charge,

raging fires that burn our homes,

insanity by and large.

Demons run the country,

with more of them in the wings,

all trained to spin the chaos,

and the turmoil that they bring.

Heaven help our children,

their futures are not so clear,

but on the world keeps drifting,

in panic and in fear.

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About this expression:

I’m appalled and outraged by all the violence, greed and destruction that the US establishment has imposed upon the people of the World…I simply cannot accept it, nor can I live with the reality of it, therefore I write to express my disgust of it...

Truth and Lies

Truth and Lies

Brought up to be truthful, honest and fair,

and told that the answer to life was in prayer,

we made our start with endless giving,

and when assailed, we were forgiving.

The promise in life would come down the road,

but things got strange when the economy slowed.

Oil costs went up and inflation appeared,

the tale of life became very weird.

Things didn’t make sense as I grew,

the more I questioned, the less I knew.

All we had was what we were told,

and no internet for minds so bold.

The bully emerged, then came nine eleven,

criminality surged, and released building seven.

we watched it all unfold on our TV’s,

collusion of media, government, insanity.

The systems governance and media cries,

expect you to believe their pernicious lies.

While society bubbles around the World,

begin to pop as their sovereignty unfurls.

People the World over, awakened by events,

research the internet till their energy is spent.

Building seven fell, in its own footprint,

takes months to wire, should give a hint.

War was launched from that moment on,

economy is worse and the jobs are gone.

Fifteen years later, ignorance resumes,

criminals still free in corporate boardrooms.

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Architects and Engineers: Solving the Mystery of Building 7 - w/ Ed Asner

Video Source: ae911Truth

About this Poem: We want a REAL independent investigation into 911…! Millions of people around the World have paid with their lives because of a story that was covered up and continues to be unresolved. The evidence against the “official story” is overwhelming and so we owe it to our future generations to conduct an impartial independent investigation into 911.  

If this investigation is not conducted, the direct result of 911 will lead us to World War III…that path is already in motion…

Match Day’s End

Photo Credit: Artist Bob Barker Painting “Secret Messages”

Match Day’s End

Winter furnace, row on row,

chase away the evening’s cold,

lights are out, the days at end,

half past twelve, as night descends

Match day fest has come 'n gone,

the derby, cup and the song,

all is quiet, town asleep,

save two boys still on their feet…

Backyard friends so delighted,

they’re joined by wire and cup,

message sent to each other,

two boys that shouldn’t be up.

Brimming joy n’ happiness,

excitement still fills the air,

game replayed by their voices,

in detail and great flair.

All seemed lost, all seemed over,

biting moments in the game,

seconds remain with a corner,

last chance for glory 'n fame.

Moments held in pensive thought,

their defense was bullet proof,

Teddy banged the header in,

eighty thousand raised the roof.

Euphoric moment caught in time,

that includes two boys of eight,

electrified emotions,

being part of something great.

Stadium’s roar still lingers,

when the match resumes again,

the ball in our possession,

by our captained side of ten.

Ref looks down to check his watch,

reds solve their tight formation,

a forty-yarder tally,

sending all into elation.

The Bench and stands do empty,

pitch covered at Wembley way,

players aloft, paraded,

everyone carried away.

Shining smiles replay the game,

well on into the night,

reliving glorious moments,

two friends in red and white.

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About this Poem: Some magic moments in sports stay with us forever especially when experienced in our youth. All our worldly problems with their daily strife falls away to ecstatic feelings that embrace moments of hope and divine thought; and so this poem depicts the lingering euphoria of that moment by youth, having won the championship.

Visit: Artist Bob Barker – Official Website

Bob Barker Art on: Facebook

A Mid Night’s Walk

Photo: Wet Feet Warm Heart – Bob Barker

A Mid Night’s Walk

The blue grey flicker of theatre’s twilight,

pales and recedes to red velvet curtains and end credits.

Fright night is over, and just begun,

for worried faces with no way home.

Movie house ushers left behind,

two boys barely nine,

unattended left in mid nights darkness, alone,

walking empty streets, they plan their journey.

A mile to go,

roads devoid of life, dead,

young audacious intellect no longer composed,

agree upon the shortest distance to sanctuary.

Autumn fog floods the air over cobbled streets,

leaving atmosphere crisp with biting chill, swelling panic,

and two young boys attentive to surroundings,

ready to bolt on the faintest sound.

Evenings haze billows on nights breeze,

absorbing lamp light, voice and vision,

to mirror strange reflections in pools of water,

on stone roads and imagination.

Shadows lurk on silent streets, trailing,

provoking image, form and being,

by young omnipotent minds,

creators of tales, myths and legends.

Dragons breath emerges from sewers and moorish fields,

ringing alarms heard by two quickening hearts.

Foul stench and fires steam,

shed the weight of cumbrous legs.

Eyes of the beast zigzags the nebulous fog behind,

Spreading panic in the marrow of its prey, fearfully running.

The screech of the dragon is upon them,

Enticing one last blood curdling shrill of life before their fall,

Adrenalin pumping, blood flowing, lungs inflate larger,

Speed and pace faster in guarded rhythm, accelerating…

The glaring whites of the beasts eyes close in,

Nooooooo! Therrrrrrrlll…

“Who you running from? Get in the car ya dumb kids!”

Arriving at the right moment, our champion slays the beast,

and drives us home with much relief.

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About this Poem: Two young boys walk home after a late night horror show.

Photo Credit: Bob Barker – Official Website

Bob Barker Art on - Facebook

The Barnsley Boat

Photo "Joy Riders" Credit: Artist Bob Barker 

Short Story By: Stewart Brennan

The Barnsley Boat

Stonefield, the home of my precious guarded memories and immortal youth; its been so long since I was home, so the first sight of the long row of tenements today, gave me a warm feeling with a little shiver as if I had gone back in time.

All my youthful memories came flooding back as I passed by the homes of friends and families I once knew, calling out the original owners by name as I drove by. They’re still there in my mind as sure as it was yesterday.

Down a small side street within our little village of row houses, was my destination and the place I called home, Barnsley Street.

Barnsley was on the outskirts of town and descended into a marsh that served as a young child’s hunting grounds for frogs and pollywogs but also for our tree forts and games of hide and seek.

The voices of children’s laughter and merriment echo back to memory and paint the scenes of a street I grew up on in the mid 1960’s as I emerge from the car and look down the road.

The long row houses on either side of the cobblestone street had small yards just big enough to hang the laundry to dry so most of our time was spent playing on the back street that declined into the marsh. When it rained, the water would pool at the bottom of the road, which is where the undefeated Barnsley Boat was. An old rusty 1939 P8 Plymouth automobile that was our unsinkable ship, a boat that won every battle it faced.

The old steel and aluminium garbage cans across the road served as the enemy ships and sounded lifelike when we made a direct hit with a rock. Many times the old Barnsley boat was hit by subs that silently snuck up on us with their torpedoes, but we always stayed afloat by the brilliant and magical engineering of our crew.

We played outdoors, morning, noon, and night and never came inside until family would call us in for supper.

August would bring the fireflies, an alien invasion by night that we and old Barnsley held off to eventually save the world…and at wars end, we decorated ole Barnsley for the victory parade that passed by an endless row of people on either side of the street and waved until our little arms grew tired.

The old boat belonged to Peters father, Mr Wing, who left it parked outside his gate after it broke down for good. That is, until one day, Peter who had just been in the marsh with his rubber Billy boots jumped onto the hood of the car and slipped off hitting his head on the road. I saw it all unfold as I had just closed the gate to my front yard when Petey called to me and slipped.

I quickly ran towards Pete but was beaten by the lightning quick strides of Mr Wing who scooped Peter up and brought him inside his house.

I stayed outside on his back steps worrying about my friend when a lime green station wagon ambulance pulled up, followed by all the neighbourhood kids running behind it. Concern was shared by everyone as I relayed the story to them…we all stayed there in Pete’s yard waiting for word…

Within fifteen minutes, which seemed like an eternity, the ambulance attendants and stretcher came out of the house with concerned expressions and a reply to our questioning faces, “Don’t worry boys, Peter will be alright, he just has a slight concussion.”

Relief ensued then as the group of us waited for the ambulance to pull away, and as it did, we all ran behind it to give Pete a protective send off as any good Barnsley crew would for their shipmate.

A week later Mr Wing had ole Barnsley towed away to a junkyard, a sad ending for our old boat and stalwart champion…

Old memories give way to the grey skies above and drizzle falling on Barnsley road. Our marshland now turned into a cemetery holding stones with the names of people I once knew, including Mr Wing and Petey, who sadly passed away last year in a car wreck.

Here now, a crowd gathers with black umbrellas in the cemetery, with a priest waiting for the last few of us to arrive. Tom Fisk, Dave Fallen, his brother Mike, and Sylvain de Bruit, whom I hadn’t seen in years till today…no one had changed, it was like we never parted, the spirit within each of them remained so recognizable…as if it was yesterday.

A melancholy atmosphere pervades the murmur of voices gathering as another soul from Barnsley Street is laid to rest. Ashes to Ashes dust to dust, we will all meet again here, to revisit our guarded memories.

The mourners slowly dissipate and walk from the graveyard onto Barnsley Street and pass by two young saluting boys standing on top of an old rusty 1939 P8 Plymouth automobile…”another successful burial at sea captain!” “Eye first engineer, prepare to take the ship into battle!”

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Story Summary: A Man revisits his childhood home with vivid memories.

Please Visit the extraordinary Artist "Bob Barker" @ the Following Links:

Artist Bob Barker – Official Website

Bob Barker Art on Facebook

Forty Below

Forty Below

Oh my goodness, it’s forty below,

Winds are high, cars covered in snow.

I put on my boots, coat, and hat,

Walk to the car, feeling flat.

Come on baby, the sky is clear,

Please start for me and quiet my fear.

Frozen checklist, runs through my head,

Oh God, I hope the battery's not dead.

Key in ignition, I’m crossing my fingers,

Reciting my prayers, but worry still lingers.

I turn the key; the car begins talking,

rea…ly...sick…you…are…wal..king…

Face turns white, and drops like stone,

Reality kicks in; I don’t like this tone.

I remove the key, slunk back in the seat,

wish there was a way to generate heat.

New round of prayers, eyes in the air,

Turn the ignition and begin to swear.

Car repeats position; oh this cannot be,

Show starts in an hour, please start for me.

Come now baby, I’ll take care of you,

Just turn the engine, for good ole Stew?

Woo…woo…well…may…be…OK!

Yes, yes, yes, concerts on today!

Car engine running, heater on max,

Vows made, to preserve my pax.

I step out of vehicle, scraper in hand,

Slam the door shut, smiling grande.

As the door closes, I hear that clop,

Oh my god, my spirits then drop.

I realize quickly, it was the locks,

And spare car keys, are in the glovebox.

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Dan’s Return

Dan’s Return

Daylight crests the dawn, as clouds scurry across the bay, the country’s in midwinter, and filled with anticipation.

Horse and cutter clears the snow, mail sleigh is a go, lifting hopeful spirits, with letters replied in tow.

It’s been weeks since Dan returned, but today the mail cart is coming, and Phil’s reply should relieve concerns, that all is well and running.

Dan’s thoughts go back to wars end, when they said their goodbye’s, they made a pledge to redress old times, carry them back to Maine, and open up that damn wood shop.

Phil’s ship left port, two weeks ahead of Dan’s, as he recalled the singing, the excitement and the boat filled with brimming smiles. Life was in celebration and the future was ours.

Clopping hooves and sleigh bells break the frosty air to ring in mornings excitement, as the postman shakes guarded memory, places a single letter in the box and slips away with his team.

Bandaged hands excitedly waving his thanks, Dan moves swiftly towards the letterbox. “Damn these dressings, my hands don’t work. I can’t open a simple letterbox, how will I tell Phil the shop will have to wait? Here’s my Martha now to help me with these tricky things.”

“These darn hands don’t seem to work with these bandages dear Martha, could you open up the letterbox dear, so we can both take a look?”

Bundled warm in coat, boots and sweater, Martha retrieved the postman’s delivery. Eyes round and glowing, she turns with letter in hand and makes for the house.

“Yes, let’s go inside to read it, it’s too cold out here, we’ll certainly catch our death.”

Inside the kitchen, with woodstove all alight, Martha opened the letter to read Phil’s writing.

Dear Martha,

…the letter wasn’t for me! What’s that devil up to, thought Dan…and so behind Martha he stood to read Phil’s words…

When I left your Dan in France, his wounds were healing, the Great War was over, and the future was all ours to build. Dan spoke of you often with such love in his eyes, and was heading back to ask for your hand.

I went to greet his boat a day early, and booked two tickets to Maine. Dan wanted to introduce me to his future bride, so I waited at the station in great anticipation for news on his arrival. I waited long, but was truly looking forward to the reunion when the news came…Not one day out, their ship was hit by a mine, the ship sank…and all aboard was lost…there were no survivors…I’m so sorry…

Martha broke down in tears, and tossed the letter aside. Dan looked down…”but I made it home, I’m with you here, now…”

Martha, distraught, got up and ran from the empty room, leaving the letter behind…

Dan sat down in his usual spot and stared at the tear filled paper on the table…

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About Dan’s Return: Phil and Dan were comrades who survived World War I and on Phil’s departure pledged to meet up back home in the States. Although Dan’s return is not as expected…

Free at Last

Free at Last

Freed from bondage, you broke my chains,

Lifted my spirit and removed the pains.

Setting sun melts earthly planes,

And plants the ground with my remains.

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Eternal Light

Eternal Light

Come to me…

You my child, who toils in light and darkness,

I am here in brilliance, as a reminder of our bond.

Remember me, when you are weary,

when confusion blocks your way.

You are of me, and I of infinite fire,

our light is one, the candle of all souls,

light never extinguished,

that lives in thoughts and dreams.

I am the father of life, and the son of eternity,

the well of souls, replenishment of mind and spirit.

I am the light that glows, and creator of shadow,

the conscious energy of our essence.

Come to me…

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James Yuill – No Surprize

Video Source: World United Music

James Yuill Artist Profile and Music