Poem (and contest): A Country Life

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mr_morgan
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Location: East Coast

Poem (and contest): A Country Life

Post by mr_morgan » Tue Apr 18, 2023 8:35 pm

Antelope Hill Publishing is holding their 3rd annual poetry / writing competition. Entries are accepted from March 15th to April 30th 2023, there're a few cash prizes, and this year's theme is "Touch Grass". Here is my submission for the poetry section. I wrote this simple poem in March of 2022.

"A Country Life"

A country life is the life for me
The fresh mowed grass and poplar trees

A porch to sit, some tea to sip
I'll watch the horses prance and skip

The chickens crow, and strut, and peck
The lumber's here, let's build a deck

A fencepost leans, on either side
It's rainin' now, best head inside

All cuddled up, the fire roars
My love for you forever soars

You're sittin' there so soft and bright
I'm glad you got to be my wife

Our kids're somewhere raisin' hell
Those little tikes, I love 'em well

We'll raise 'em up, then let 'em go
Our hair is turning white as snow

We're older now, and losing sight
A cane to stand, with vintage pipe

The kid's are here, they got the rest
Now's time for us to leave the nest

We'll go together, hand in hand
The Upward Path, Creator's plan

I love you dearest, that much is true
A country life, for me and you
- Mr. Morgan

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Will Williams
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Re: Poem (and contest): A Country Life

Post by Will Williams » Tue Apr 18, 2023 9:42 pm

I don't know how the folks at AH Publishing judge poems, but with the penultimate stanza you'd get my vote. ᛉ
If Whites insist on participating in "social media," do so on ours, not (((theirs))). Like us on WhiteBiocentrism.com; follow us on NationalVanguard.org. ᛉ

Ray W
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Location: Tennessee

Re: Poem (and contest): A Country Life

Post by Ray W » Mon Dec 25, 2023 3:14 pm

This is the way a poem should be--simply creative.
8-)

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White_Vengeance
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Re: Poem (and contest): A Country Life

Post by White_Vengeance » Tue Dec 26, 2023 6:45 pm

While this poem cannot be construed to fit within the theme of "touch grass," I am still going to post it. This is a poem I wrote some years ago, titled, "Could You Really Know Me?" As based upon its title, the reader should be able to glean the essence and the meaning of the poem. From time-to-time I still write poems, just not anywhere near the depth, dimension, nor complexity of Ezra Pound.

While an undergraduate we were required to complete 12 credit hours in both Humanities and Social Studies, so I took a course titled "Modern American Poetry" for one of my Humanities classes. I was the only student in that class who was not majoring in English; regardless of that fact I think I pretty much "blew away" my fellow students. That is not bragging, but cold, hard facts. For some strange reason that is almost entirely unbeknownst to me, I picked up the concepts of evaluating poems, getting inside the poet's head (and most poets are very, very esoteric, inscrutable people; and most, if not all, are White), and writing poems with some amount of relative ease.

Could You Really Know Me?

I was Saturday night,
And you were Sunday morning.
For a fleeting moment we could touch at midnight,
And in that fleeting moment, could you really know me?

But I am looking 'cross the river,
Longing to be near,
The water is too deep, too wide; I cannot reach you.
I'm as close as I can ever hope to be.

And if I was Winter dying,
And you the virgin Spring,
Gladly to your warmth I would surrender,
To melt the snows and set the rivers free.
But I am standing on the mountain,
Longing to be near.
Our eternal destiny is much too distant; I cannot reach you,
I'm as close as I can ever hope to be.

And if you were a casket of the finest wine,
And if you could satisfy a drunkard's thirst,
Well, I'd surely drink until I could not see,
But I am lost in the enemies' wicked storm,
Longing to be near.
The wind…it blows too hard…I cannot reach you,
I'm as close as I can ever hope to be.

And if I was Saturday night,
And you were Sunday morning,
For a fleeting moment we could touch at midnight,
And in that brief moment, could you really know me?

And in that brief, fleeting moment, would you care to know me?
Would you care to know me?

White_Vengeance
Any White person who can see the threat to the future of the White race today and who refuses, whether from cowardice or selfishness, to stand up for his/her people does not deserve to be counted among them.

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Will Williams
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Re: Poem (and contest): A Country Life

Post by Will Williams » Wed Dec 27, 2023 12:27 pm

mr_morgan wrote:
Tue Apr 18, 2023 8:35 pm
Antelope Hill Publishing is holding their 3rd annual poetry / writing competition. Entries are accepted from March 15th to April 30th 2023, there're a few cash prizes, and this year's theme is "Touch Grass". Here is my submission for the poetry section. I wrote this simple poem in March of 2022.

"A Country Life"...
I asked AH for their winning poem and received it, below. It's pretty good but long. I'm partial to yours. ;) Try again in 2024.

Hello Will,
Please see attached a pdf of our winner, Unveiling, by Jacob Hersant. Unfortunately, Mr. Morgan's submission was not selected as a winner.
Sincerely,
Konstantin
A.H. Publishing

---

F I R S T P L A C E W I N N E R I N P O E R T Y

Unveiling
by Jacob Hersant

The standard of falsehood ascended; its reign over nations extended;
Obscured—the decline of your strength near a century ago
Has hidden the truth from the rest of your kind: in the fighting the best of
Your race were destroyed by your enemies then in a blow
So painful, today you’re still reeling. The problem before you of healing
The damage inflicted obstructed by multitude bound
To specious acquaintance and being: the many dependent on seeing
The shadows of sight and on hearing the echoes of sound.
Entailing unnecess’ry lenience of life and exceptional convenience,
You needn’t traverse far to soak in the splendorous joys
Of seeing the fury of battle, of hearing the foe’s dying rattle,
In comfort and safety at home idly playing with toys.
Your captor is wanting you weak for his sake, and too frightened to speak for
Yourself and your brothers and sisters; your frailty’s his might.
He wants you to live in seclusion, elated in carefree illusion;
No threat to his rule—he your lord, you his slave without fight;
Compelled to survive in an ocean of lies upon lies, your devotion
Defeat, your involvement, enslavement; to darken your view
And make you submit is his yearning. He bans any question concerning
His rectitude; merely to ask is the biggest taboo.
He solely permits you misusing your God-given gifts, and abusing
Your essence for meaningless fun and a journey of ease.
He’ll actualize people according to only his plan, by rewarding
Desired behavior, by barring the person who flees.
Reality gladly neglected and nothing remotely suspected—
Naive—you are driven and duped to the darkest disgrace.
His glow’s not for truth or for beauty; fulfilling his arrogant duty
To pacify tense populations with spectacle base
And blinding amounts to its end and its limit: its power to bend and
To shape sensibility, value, and worldview towards
His falsehood. Your senseless consuming is surely and steadily grooming
You. Master without the command of innum’rable swords
And servient soldiers to hold them, he needs only method to mold them—
The masses I mean—into following orders by choice.
The wandering intellect spacious; its craving for fancies voracious;
Invasive beliefs are implanted in minds by his voice;

Oblivious children immersing within his false world—not coercing
Through terror—too spineless to dominate men underfoot;
Instead, he can fashion a panic about the pure feelings organic
To man and replace them with mangled opinions. He put
This thinking in place for submitting the people to yoke. He is spitting
Upon you; he sneeringly laughs at you mired within
The marvelous maze he created. He’s keeping you servile and sated
Where nothing has meaning, where nothing is virtue or sin.
Delusion compared to the wonder—the fearsome unfathom’ble under
Which everything rests—cannot move us the effortless way
The latter can, for the Creator, His skill and His genius are greater
Than that which He made and the works they produce every day.
No need to reflect on creations of man as one would machinations
Of God, for the former was built, understood and designed
By men as a mere imitation upon the Allfather’s foundation:
The worth of man’s craft has the splendor of nature behind.
The priests and philosophers reckoned the minuscule feats of man second
Behind the one feat, which began the whole tale in which men
Create their subordinate stories—the real and imagin’tive glories—
Enjoyed and endured by all beings contained in His pen.
Real life is about the unveiling of truth; entertainment entailing
A lack of significance—wasting your time with fake deeds,
Fake content, fake lives—these excursions can only be doltish diversions
From what’s of the greatest import: the real world and its needs.
God gave you your strength for the seizure of life, not existing for leisure
Alone. So why put so much time into frivolous things?
Abandoning purposeless pleasure pursuing, and learning to treasure
The genuine joy that authentic accomplishment brings
Is crucial for flourishing; wear your achievements as armor and spare your
Proud ancestors’ souls of regret; do not tarnish their name
And wantonly waste your essential ability; natural potential
Engendered by lineage ought to be utilized. Aim
For virtue, establish your worth in this world, and remember your birth in
This age of deception and idleness brings you the chance
To honor your blood to the greatest degree. Disregard all the latest
Discouragement spoken by enemy liars; advance—
Secure in belief and undaunted—or else you’ll be pestered and haunted
By thoughts that you wasted your singular shot at this life.
Discover, embody, and struggle for truth. Do not carelessly juggle
The countless conflicting distortions; your country is rife

With folly and vile superstition. Adhere to your doctrine and mission.
Your moment is coming; the fury is breaking its cage;
The squalor and shame will be shattered; the horrible madness that mattered
Before cannot flee the inferno of riotous rage
That boils in your blood; the demise of the wicked and decadent lies of
This system’s approaching. Partake in the glorious growth
Of National Socialist actions against the abundant distractions,
With White men and movements prepared for the fight and the oath.
The sunrise’s genuine gleaming awak’ning the multitude dreaming;
The lightning igniting the lies with its terrible blast;
Continuous truthful production and falsehood’s perpetual destruction
Affirm what is real cannot be overcome or surpassed.
If Whites insist on participating in "social media," do so on ours, not (((theirs))). Like us on WhiteBiocentrism.com; follow us on NationalVanguard.org. ᛉ

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