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There are always survivors at a massacre. Among the victors, if nowhere else.

quote by Lois McMaster Bujold
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Survivors

...i never meant to break your heart, please forgive me.
No I never meant to hold you back
I never meant to turn away
Please forgive me
I never meant to break your heart
Id give my last breath before I do
Please forgive me
No I never meant to hold you down
I never meant to break your heart
Somehow, somehow
We are survivors
No I never meant to hold you back
I never meant to turn away
Here we are standing here
Survivors in the night
No I never meant to break your heart
Ill always be here for you
Heres my word, take my hand
Survivors in the night
No I never meant to let you down
Id give my last breath before I do
All I ever wanted was to be right here
Survivors in the night
When all is said and done
Well find a way
To put all this behind us
Well find some way
cos you know that I wont be leaving
Yes Im here and I wont be leaving
No I never meant to cause you pain
No I never meant to hurt you
All I want to do now, is to try my best
Survivors in the night
When all is said and done
Well find someday
We can forget all this
Somehow, some way
And as long as Im here
Therell be no worries any more
And all these promises Im making now
Ill hold each day
So dont ever. dont ever, dont forget
That I never, never meant to break your heart
All I ever wanted was to stand beside you
Survivors in the night
We are survivors in the night

song performed by Phil Collins
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Massacre Of The Unborn

No survive
Unborn child
Cut to pieces
Left without a name
Unwanted because of the problems of humanity
Unspeakable crime
Silent war is the name of the game
Millions are dying in actions of death and pain
Misguided mothers make this happen
Sometimes for a financial situation
Or a sexual mistake
[Chorus:]
Massacre of the unborn
Massacre of the unborn
Massacre of the unborn child
Innocent blood cries in vain
Defenseless lives are slaughtered everyday
They should make a law against this insanity
Unborn corpses are growing in extreme quantity
Premature stage
Slowly destroyed by the human race
[Lead]
Tortured by tyrants
Unjustly demise
Infant children are left to die
Just innocent lives they slay
There is no chance to escape
Murdering is the matter of this case
A merciless torture to take
No one will live, because they won't survive
There's infant dying
Can't you see
That they will not have a chance
Of growing up in this life
[Lead]
[Chorus:]
Massacre of the unborn
Massacre of the unborn
Massacre of the unborn child

song performed by Incubus
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One Of The Survivors

(sung by johnny thunder and chorus)
See johnny thunder sitting on his motorbike
Riding along the highway,
Rock and roll songs from the nineteen-fifties
Buzzing around in his brain.
Johnny thunder hes one of the original bebop generation
And hes got no time for complicated music or too much sophistication.
Hes one of the survivors,
The motorbike riders.
You ought to see johnny thunder riding down the highway
One of the rock and roll survivors,
Twelve bars flowing through his brain.
He digs jerry lee lewis, dion and the belmonts,
And johnny & the hurricanes.
He plays hound dog, oh boy, and great balls of fire
And boppin at the high school hop.
And hes got no time for phonies or posers
cos they dont know how to reel and rock.
And he plays little egypt and ooh poo pah doo,
And he plays poison ivy and blue suede shoes,
The hollywood argyles, danny & the juniors,
Dion & the belmonts, johnny & the hurricanes.
Hes one of the survivors,
The boppers and the jivers,
Yeah and he rocks all day.
Johnny & the hurricanes, johnny & the hurricanes.
Got my freedom riding along the freeway.
I ride a hundred miles an hour but I dont mess up my d.a.
Rock, rock, rock, rock, rock n roll.
You cant stop rock n rollin music play.
(repeat last two lines)
Feel those vibrations flow in my brain.
Got my freedom riding down the highway,
Keeps me sane, feel alive,
Im one of the survivors.
Feel all right.
First gear, second gear, third gear, fourth gear, all right.
Old johnny thunder looks a little overweight,
And his sideburns are turning grey.
But he still likes to bebop, boogie and jive
To his worn out seventy-eights.
Johnny thunder.
Hes alright.
Hes one of the survivors,
Twelve bars flowing through his brain,
Jerry lee lewis, dion & the belmonts,
Johnny & the hurricanes, johnny & the hurricanes.

song performed by Kinks
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Widow of Massacre

Some said she lost,
None said she crossed,
Nothing was known clear
Something about her was fear.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.

If asked, she never say,
because witness you can pay,
She lost hee husband,
Then lost her hand.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.

Behind her, there're stories,
Behind stories, there's worries,
Her village was ambushed,
And in bullets, washed.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.

She survived the claws of wild,
After death of her single child,
Finally she ran to this village,
Where we paid her homage.
Everything, though said
She's a widow of massacre.

poem by Buyunde Acura Sylivester
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Massacre

A blast fantastic.
Lightening fast.
And penetrating with quickness.
Nothing earthly,
Could track this flash!
Or detect by radar!

Massive the massacre!
An intelligence ending all ignorance,
Defended!
And overnight as those slept...
Invisible were the 'beams' that crept!

Sending signals that awakened consciousness.
With a refreshened depthness,
None would suspect.
Or could arm themselves to protect!
A dawning of awareness...
Arriving with no contest to test,
Not this power!

And the hour of unrest stirs!
Transfers implanted are made!
A massacre endures,
An accomplishment meant to enlighten,
Ensures success.
Not a frightened eye was blurred with fear!
Nor a weapon used,
In the clinching hands of those who laid,
Calm and peaceful!

And when the dawning Sun,
Moved thick and darkened clouds away...
Voices were heard rejoicing,
In ways never heard before!

'I can see! I can see!
Beyond hills.
Beyond valleys.
Beyond restrictions...
Enforced upon me!
Inside my mind is such clarity! '

Removed from them were veils,
That held their visions conflicted to limits.
This massacre indeed occurred!
Murdering all indifferences forever.
Gone within districts now lifting restraints.
And painless was this timeless visit.
Leaving those without faith...

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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ValentinesDay

ValentinesDay
ValentinesDay

A Massacre



CharlaXFabels

FortyEighth
Valentines Saint Massacre Day was in Chicago the man played them a tune on his fiddle. The Aftermath The newspapers instantly picked up on the crime, dubbing it the 'St. Valentine's Day Massacre.' The story appeared on front pages around the country, making Capone a nationwide celebrity. While Capone seemed to revel in his new fame, he also had to deal with the new level of attention from federal law enforcement officials. Capone is sitting by his swimming pool catching his non existent fish and he begins to reminisce this is Capone speaking now 'The boys missed MORAN it was a terrible thing' The spaghetti was gotten cold and now the fish that eye find will have to do to feed the diseases in my mind eye the Capone knoe that now eye am just dying of all the real good times. Alphonse 'Al' Capone was one of the most famous U.S. gangsters during the 1930s, a Chicago-based boss involved in illegal gambling, bootlegging (illegal alcohol) and prostitution. Capone got his start in New York, working as a thug and bouncer (where he got the three scars that spawned his nickname, 'Scarface') .Al Capone spent the last year of his Alcatraz sentence, which had been reduced to six years and five months for a combination of good behavior and work credits, in the hospital section being treated for syphilis. He was released in November of 1939 and taken to a hospital in Baltimore where he was treated until March of 1940. For his remaining years, Capone slowly deteriorated while staying at his Palm Island estate in Miami. On January 25,1947, he died of cardiac arrest. Eye saw a stranger carry love in his right hand today he carried his love in his hand a bunch of flowers in a wrapper for a vase and eye thought of Al Capone disgraced. Eye can still remember the movie how he bit the punk's ear in Jail to make him think that he got sick too. The only thing worse than that is to lay in a blanket that has been stolen many times. On another of his movies the floozie was in bed asking him if he liked it too of course they was talking about manicures. He made the Chicken if he made creation was it the full blown bird or just the egg it would make no difference to that Chicken only to the education evolution. A small reference to the Jesus how can anyone still please him. There is a marker on ALS grave My Jesus Mercy.

poem by Charles Hice
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There are always survivors at a massacre. Among the victors, if nowhere else.

Lois McMaster Bujold in Ethan of Athos (1986)
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The Race for the Cure

I had a sister once
She had sunshine in her smile
She was everybody’s friend
For you she’d gladly walk a mile

When I see her in my mind’s eye
Jeanette’s forever young
When we lost her to the monster
She was only 41.

So that is why tomorrow
I’ll be racing for the cure.
With caregiver’s and survivors
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if my step should falter
As I am no longer young
Her ghost will run beside me
Until my race is run.

Perhaps you have a sister too,
Or someone that you love
Perhaps she’s a survivor
Of a battle bravely won

We must celebrate the victories
Each year there are still more
Until what was a feeble cheer
Becomes a mighty roar

So that is why tomorrow
You’ll be racing for the cure.
With caregiver’s and survivors
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if your step should falter
For you are no longer young
Your survivor friend will pace you,
Until this race is won.

Gather at the starting line
Young and old together
The sisters and the daughters
And survivors feeling better
There may be 20,000 here
The organizers say
They fail to count the shadows
Who will run with us today.

So that is why today we’re here
All racing for the cure.

[...] Read more

poem by John F. McCullagh
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From Gehinnom

From Gehinnom to the middle class
they moved, and they became
a memory collectively of mass
destruction, living flame,
the Holocaust that some of us now call
the Shoah and, like divers,
plumb depths to find their traces and to haul
wrecked hulls that lack survivors.

Leon Wieseltier, addressing The Jewish Center in Los Angeles on Yom Ha'Shoah,5758, asks: 'Who are the survivors? They are the ones who may dispense with collective memory, because they rely on personal memory.' He says of the survivors: 'They went from Gehenna to the middle class...and we must bow our head to their normalcy. For it is a spiritual achievement, one of the greatest spiritual achievements in the history of our people.'

11/7/98

poem by Gershon Hepner
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War: a massacre of people who don't know each other for the profit of people who know each other but don't massacre each other.

quote by Paul Valery
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Pharsalia - Book II: The Flight Of Pompeius

This was made plain the anger of the gods;
The universe gave signs Nature reversed
In monstrous tumult fraught with prodigies
Her laws, and prescient spake the coming guilt.

How seemed it just to thee, Olympus' king,
That suffering mortals at thy doom should know
By omens dire the massacre to come?
Or did the primal parent of the world
When first the flames gave way and yielding left
Matter unformed to his subduing hand,
And realms unbalanced, fix by stern decree'
Unalterable laws to bind the whole
(Himself, too, bound by law), so that for aye
All Nature moves within its fated bounds?
Or, is Chance sovereign over all, and we
The sport of Fortune and her turning wheel?
Whate'er be truth, keep thou the future veiled
From mortal vision, and amid their fears
May men still hope.

Thus known how great the woes
The world should suffer, from the truth divine,
A solemn fast was called, the courts were closed,
All men in private garb; no purple hem
Adorned the togas of the chiefs of Rome;
No plaints were uttered, and a voiceless grief
Lay deep in every bosom: as when death
Knocks at some door but enters not as yet,
Before the mother calls the name aloud
Or bids her grieving maidens beat the breast,
While still she marks the glazing eye, and soothes
The stiffening limbs and gazes on the face,
In nameless dread, not sorrow, and in awe
Of death approaching: and with mind distraught
Clings to the dying in a last embrace.

The matrons laid aside their wonted garb:
Crowds filled the temples -- on the unpitying stones
Some dashed their bosoms; others bathed with tears
The statues of the gods; some tore their hair
Upon the holy threshold, and with shrieks
And vows unceasing called upon the names
Of those whom mortals supplicate. Nor all
Lay in the Thunderer's fane: at every shrine
Some prayers are offered which refused shall bring
Reproach on heaven. One whose livid arms
Were dark with blows, whose cheeks with tears bedewed
And riven, cried, 'Beat, mothers, beat the breast,
Tear now the lock; while doubtful in the scales

[...] Read more

poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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An Epistle Of The Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole

Still let low wits, who sense nor honour prize,
Sneer at all gratitude, all truth disguise;
At living worth, because alive, exclaim,
Insult the exil'd, and the dead defame!
Such paint what pity veils in private woes,
And what we see with grief, with mirth expose;
Studious to urge-(whom will mean authors spare?)
The child's, the parent's, and the consort's tear:
Unconscious of what pangs the heart may rend,
To lose what they have ne'er deserv'd-a friend.
Such, ignorant of facts, invent, relate,
Expos'd persist, and answer'd still debate:
Such, but by foils, the clearest lustre see,
And deem aspersing others praising thee.

Far from these tracks my honest lays aspire,
And greet a gen'rous heart with gen'rous fire.
Truth be my guide! Truth, which thy virtue claims!
This, nor the poet, nor the patron shames!
When party-minds shall lose contracted views,
And hist'ry question the recording Muse;
'Tis this alone to after-times must shine,
And stamp the poet and his theme divine.

Long has my Muse, from many a mournful cause,
Sung with small pow'r, nor sought sublime applause;
From that great point she now shall urge her scope;
On that fair promise rest her future hope;
Where policy, from state-illusion clear,
Can through an open aspect shine sincere;
Where Science, Law, and Liberty depend,
And own the patron, patriot, and the friend;
(That breast to feel, that eye on worth to gaze,
That smile to cherish, and that hand to raise!)
Whose best of hearts her best of thoughts inflame,
Whose joy is bounty, and whose gift is fame.

Where, for relief, flees innocence distress'd?
To you, who chase oppression from th' oppress'd:
Who, when complaint to you alone belongs,
Forgive your own, tho' not a people's wrongs:
Who still make public property your care,
And thence bid private griefs no more despair.

Ask they what state your shelt'ring care shall own?
'Tis youth, 'tis age, the cottage, and the throne:

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Savage
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Allegany Camp

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amelia earhart in japanese war camp

[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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The Horrible Scene

On their deaths lies 46 dreadful tales
From their blood emerged boiling ire of revenge
Eyes on fire, multiple grinding teeth of tigers
Hearts ripped apart from their lost of kin
Massacre covered the glowing day of dreams

Slugs litter, Blood scattered
Watered the land in red, painted the lane - departed
Some were buried alive, some were raped
All ruthlessly slayed, in the name of political reign
Is this how to win the power by exterminating your contender?

Justice to those victims of this horrible scene!
Justice scream to those Maguindanao Massacre victims!
Don't just stand there watching, do something to stop these killings!
We are begging......please be God fearing, those who are ruling!
We don't want these scenes, we don't want sufferings.....please stop slaying! ! !

25th 0f November,2009

Please pray for all the victims of these dreadful injustices happening around the world! ! !
Thanks and love to all of you.......

poem by Catrina Heart
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Upon Appleton House, to My Lord Fairfax

Within this sober Frame expect
Work of no Forrain Architect;
That unto Caves the Quarries drew,
And Forrests did to Pastures hew;
Who of his great Design in pain
Did for a Model vault his Brain,
Whose Columnes should so high be rais'd
To arch the Brows that on them gaz'd.

Why should of all things Man unrul'd
Such unproportion'd dwellings build?
The Beasts are by their Denns exprest:
And Birds contrive an equal Nest;
The low roof'd Tortoises do dwell
In cases fit of Tortoise-shell:
No Creature loves an empty space;
Their Bodies measure out their Place.

But He, superfluously spread,
Demands more room alive then dead.
And in his hollow Palace goes
Where Winds as he themselves may lose.
What need of all this Marble Crust
T'impark the wanton Mose of Dust,
That thinks by Breadth the World t'unite
Though the first Builders fail'd in Height?

But all things are composed here
Like Nature, orderly and near:
In which we the Dimensions find
Of that more sober Age and Mind,
When larger sized Men did stoop
To enter at a narrow loop;
As practising, in doors so strait,
To strain themselves through Heavens Gate.

And surely when the after Age
Shall hither come in Pilgrimage,
These sacred Places to adore,
By Vere and Fairfax trod before,
Men will dispute how their Extent
Within such dwarfish Confines went:
And some will smile at this, as well
As Romulus his Bee-like Cell.

Humility alone designs
Those short but admirable Lines,
By which, ungirt and unconstrain'd,
Things greater are in less contain'd.
Let others vainly strive t'immure

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Marvell
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Pharsalia - Book VIII: Death Of Pompeius

Now through Alcides' pass and Tempe's groves
Pompeius, aiming for Haemonian glens
And forests lone, urged on his wearied steed
Scarce heeding now the spur; by devious tracks
Seeking to veil the footsteps of his flight:
The rustle of the foliage, and the noise
Of following comrades filled his anxious soul
With terrors, as he fancied at his side
Some ambushed enemy. Fallen from the height
Of former fortunes, still the chieftain knew
His life not worthless; mindful of the fates:
And 'gainst the price he set on Caesar's head,
He measures Caesar's value of his own.

Yet, as he rode, the features of the chief
Made known his ruin. Many as they sought
The camp Pharsalian, ere yet was spread
News of the battle, met the chief, amazed,
And wondered at the whirl of human things:
Nor held disaster sure, though Magnus' self
Told of his ruin. Every witness seen
Brought peril on his flight: 'twere better far
Safe in a name obscure, through all the world
To wander; but his ancient fame forbad.

Too long had great Pompeius from the height
Of human greatness, envied of mankind,
Looked on all others; nor for him henceforth
Could life be lowly. The honours of his youth
Too early thrust upon him, and the deeds
Which brought him triumph in the Sullan days,
His conquering navy and the Pontic war,
Made heavier now the burden of defeat,
And crushed his pondering soul. So length of days
Drags down the haughty spirit, and life prolonged
When power has perished. Fortune's latest hour,
Be the last hour of life! Nor let the wretch
Live on disgraced by memories of fame!
But for the boon of death, who'd dare the sea
Of prosperous chance?

Upon the ocean marge
By red Peneus blushing from the fray,
Borne in a sloop, to lightest wind and wave
Scarce equal, he, whose countless oars yet smote
Upon Coreyra's isle and Leucas point,
Lord of Cilicia and Liburnian lands,
Crept trembling to the sea. He bids them steer
For the sequestered shores of Lesbos isle;
For there wert thou, sharer of all his griefs,

[...] Read more

poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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911 Memoriam Words

911 Memoriam

The sky in Texas mourned this day
A million places joined her.

First thought a movie
Then realization of news
Then fears for civil liberties
Relapse into television addiction
......The face of the young fireman caught going up
.......By one of the survivors coming down.

At another massacre in another time in another place
General Bradock's dieing words come home:
'Who ever would have thought it? '

THEY did.

My month of shock their joy.

poem by Bill Grace
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Canto the Fourth

I.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!

II.

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.

III.

In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone - but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

IV.

But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

V.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
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The Miseries of Man

1 In that so temperate Soil Arcadia nam'd,
1 For fertile Pasturage by Poets fam'd;
2 Stands a steep Hill, whose lofty jetting Crown,
3 Casts o'er the neighbouring Plains, a seeming Frown;
4 Close at its mossie Foot an aged Wood,
5 Compos'd of various Trees, there long has stood,
6 Whose thick united Tops scorn the Sun's Ray,
7 And hardly will admit the Eye of Day.
8 By oblique windings through this gloomy Shade,
9 Has a clear purling Stream its Passage made,
10 The Nimph, as discontented seem'd t'ave chose
11 This sad Recess to murmur forth her Woes.

12 To this Retreat, urg'd by tormenting Care,
13 The melancholly Cloris did repair,
14 As a fit Place to take the sad Relief
15 Of Sighs and Tears, to ease oppressing Grief.
16 Near to the Mourning Nimph she chose a Seat,
17 And these Complaints did to the Shades repeat.

18 Ah wretched, trully wretched Humane Race!
19 Your Woes from what Beginning shall I trace,
20 Where End, from your first feeble New-born Cryes,
21 To the last Tears that wet your dying Eyes?
22 Man, Common Foe, assail'd on ev'ry hand,
23 Finds that no Ill does Neuter by him stand,
24 Inexorable Death, Lean Poverty,
25 Pale Sickness, ever sad Captivity.
26 Can I, alas, the sev'ral Parties name,
27 Which, muster'd up, the Dreadful Army frame?
28 And sometimes in One Body all Unite,
29 Sometimes again do separately fight:
30 While sure Success on either Way does waite,
31 Either a Swift, or else a Ling'ring Fate.

32 But why 'gainst thee, O Death! should I inveigh,
33 That to our Quiet art the only way?
34 And yet I would (could I thy Dart command)
35 Crie, Here O strike! and there O hold thy Hand!
36 The Lov'd, the Happy, and the Youthful spare,
37 And end the Sad, the Sick, the Poor Mans Care.
38 But whether thou or Blind, or Cruel art,
39 Whether 'tis Chance, or Malice, guides thy Dart,
40 Thou from the Parents Arms dost pull away
41 The hopeful Child, their Ages only stay:
42 The Two, whom Friendship in dear Bands hs ty'd,
43 Thou dost with a remorseless hand devide;
44 Friendship, the Cement, that does faster twine
45 Two Souls, than that which Soul and Body joyn:

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Killigrew
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Robin Hood and the Prince of Aragon

NOW Robin Hood, Will Scadlock and Little John
Are walking over the plain,
With a good fat buck which Will Scadlock
With his strong bow had slain.

`Jog on, jog on,' cries Robin Hood,
`The day it runs full fast;
For though my nephew me a breakfast gave,
I have not yet broke my fast.

`Then to yonder lodge let us take our way,
I think it wondrous good,
Where my nephew by my bold yeomen
Shall be welcomd unto the green wood.'

With that he took the bugle-horn,
Full well he could it blow;
Streight from the woods came marching down
One hundred tall fellows and mo.

`Stand, stand to your arms!' crys Will Scadlock,
`Lo! the enemies are within ken:'
With that Robin Hood he laughd aloud,
Crys, They are my bold yeomen.

Who, when they arriv'd and Robin espy'd,
Cry'd, Master, what is your will?
We thought you had in danger been,
Your horn did sound so shrill.

`Now nay, now nay,' quoth Robin Hood,
`The danger is past and gone;
I would have you to welcome my nephew here,
That hath paid me two for one.'

In feasting and sporting they passed the day,
Till Phoebus sunk into the deep;
Then each one to his quarters hy'd,
His guard there for to keep.

Long had they not walked within the green wood,
But Robin he was espy'd
Of a beautiful damsel all alone,
That on a black palfrey did ride.

Her riding-suit was of sable hew black,
Sypress over her face,
Through which her rose-like cheeks did blush,
All with a comely grace.

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
Added by Poetry Lover
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