Droplets of Verse: ‘The Heavenly One Hundred’

Yanukovych’s hands are bathed in the blood
Of the Heavenly One Hundred
Lives cut short by bullets, in battle
Cut down, slaughtered like cattle

Putin’s puppets dispute the revolution
Propaganda machines, spewing out pollution
On the Maidan, a priest leads people in prayers
Paying tribute to those gunned down by snipers

Money stolen, amounting to billions
A thief took the wealth of Ukrainians
Yanukovych deserted his Presidential retreat
A murderer hiding away from the heat

When judgement day arrives
Yanukovych will have nowhere to hide
His finger may not have pulled the triggers
From his mansion, he gave the orders,

The President delivered his poison
In lethal high velocity, fired from guns
One day he will be brought to justice
Doomed to burn in Hell, a snake in its pit

The Heavenly One Hundred may be gone
They lost their lives looking for a new dawn
Glory is theirs, they fought to be free
They are carved into Ukrainian history

Droplets of Verse: ‘The President’s Bloody Nose’

The self-defence unit of Independence Square
Stays in the ring and keeps trading blows
Yanukovych’s snipers fire bullets
A deadly knockout for revolutionary heroes

Punches landing, thrown illegally
Bloodstains spread across Maidan’s canvas
People murdered by Presidential decree
Counted out, stone dead, floating up into the stars

Those heroes hold a place
In every Ukrainian’s heart
A memory will always remain
Courageous heroes who played their part

It’s a heavyweight contest
Scheduled to go the distance
In the heat of this battle stands Doctor Ironfist
Sharpening his political craft, learning the parlance

When the bell rings for the next round
Ukraine can count many champions
Men and women, people of all ages
Boxing from the shadows, an army of rising suns

The crimes of the President
Inflicted on Maidan’s heroes
Have been exposed, he’s got no defence
He’s left with a bloody nose

Droplets of Verse: ‘Olympians Ski Down Russian Slopes, While Kyiv Burns’

Simply a public relations exercise
Putin parades Mother Russia to the world’s eyes
Cossacks use whips to keep Pussy Riot silent
Across the Black Sea, riot police deliver violence
Under orders to clear away the barricades
Squads of uniformed thugs launch raids
The world watches an ice hockey contest
Between Russia and USA, east versus west
In the heart of Kyiv, the main event is rebellion
Protestors will never make it onto a podium

Olympic spectators consume refreshments
A range of beverages is presented
In Kyiv, Molotov Cocktails are held aloft
Shaken, stirred, lit up and hurled at riot cops
Russia is burning the Olympic Flame
Meanwhile, barricades smoulder in Ukraine
The prize is freedom, worth more than a gold medal
Ukrainians united, unwilling to deal with the Devil
For some, the fight for freedom is fatal
While Olympians play games, for shiny medals

A snowboarder stumbles, the crowd catches its breath
The riot rumbles on, angry eyes witness death
Crowds applaud the elegance of figure skaters
National anthems are played, at ceremonial parades
Records are broken on Russian ski slopes
Ukrainians live on dreams and hang onto hopes
Resolute as iron, they wait for the hour
For the President to release his grip on power
Log fires crackle in cosy Olympic chalets
Ukrainians reach beyond such simple comforts; a nation prays

Droplets of Verse: ‘If They Wanted to Live in a Submarine’

A deluge of bonuses arrive in bankers’ pockets
People are submerged in their homes, without enough buckets
If they wanted to live in a submarine
They’d club together, upgrade their rubber dinghies

A windfall arrives, making bankers even wealthier
On the flood plains of England, the curse is amnesia
Politicians persist in pointless penny pinching
The wrong rhetoric, repeatedly rumbling

Storms arrive, rainfall at record levels
People show their spirit, become sunbeams of endeavour
Cobra convenes, the snakes gather in their pit
England drowns, while politicians sit

Refugees from rain could get together
Lobby the Government for better weather
Or hijack Trident with its submarine
Ride down to Parliament, wipe that landscape clean

Droplets of Verse: ‘Maidens of the Mountainside’

Delivered to this world, divided by only a decade
We five woke up from the same womb
Walked the same steps
Maidens of the Mountainside

Those peaks were a palace
For a handful of princesses
Until our father’s fortress, our farmhouse
Got invaded by devils of darkness

We were banished, divided
Devastated by a displacement
Herded away from our kingdom
Like cattle blindly stumbling

We tumbled to another land
Father toiled on a rocky terrain
A diaspora, denied our own destiny
Building new chapters in another country

Dodging a hail of stones as we walked to school
‘Bandits!’ they shouted in our faces
The freedom of the mountains left behind
But the Lemko light still shone, in our eyes

We were mothers universal
Guiding each other through the worst
Standing together on the same soil
Wherever the wind should blow us

Hot Marketing Tips for Writers (Part 18)

When a writer is lucky enough to get inspiration he can describe as divine,  he’ll sit at his desk and rattle away at his keyboard in the knowledge he is penning something special,  something really excellent, maybe even a masterpiece.

But how does a writer find that inspiration? Well, we touched on this subject area earlier in the series, but if you want to read the actual piece, you’ll have to read through them all, because I can’t remember which one it might be. Look upon that task as critical revision for the budding scribe. Always useful.

Extensive research gives us some clues. A lot of writers find going for long walks gets their creative juices flowing, but of course it depends on how good your map reading skills are. Once you realise you’ve been following a fence boundary for half a mile and have arrived in a farmyard with a particularly vicious dog barking in your face, it can be more than a little distracting. Then again, when the nurse is injecting a shot of tetanus into your rear, at least at that point the writer feels cared for.

Other writers find going to the pub for a relaxing beer a way of generating a spark. Avoid the temptation of being drawn into a game of dominoes with the local Afro-Caribbean elders. Those guys will be hard core players and you’ll most likely find yourself wandering home at 2 am feeling very light headed, singing ‘Hits from the Bong’ by Cypress Hill.  It’s not useful if you were looking for the right mood to create your tense, post-modern crime thriller, but you might find you’ve made the pub dominoes team, so that would be a bonus.

Inspiration can often be found at sporting events, such as the Olympics. That carbon fibre bend from the pole vault creates a certain kind of tension, it could result in making a writer’s prose snappy. And watching those sweat soaked athletes hauling their bedraggled asses in at the end of the marathon is likely to make a writer realise his own long road isn’t so bad.

As ever, inspiration for the writer is an elusive gust of hot air – there one minute and gone the next. Good luck!

Droplets of Verse: ‘The Voice of Reason’

News outlets publish articles in online editions
And they often leave a comments box, to gather opinions
Anyone can create an online identity, usernames can be quirky
Curly Wurly, Snoring Doormat, Happy Fruitbat, Frozen Turkey

And then there’s the self styled ‘Voice of Reason’
With views so dark they block out the midday sun
They insist that ships arriving at British shores, carrying refugees
Should be turned away, whatever their sob stories

The Voice of Reason’s ideas are so distorted
They believe suspected witches should be burned and tortured
If a volunteer is needed to tie a hangman’s noose
The Voice of Reason eagerly pulls on their boots

The Voice of Reason will always be in favour
Of benefit cheats and scroungers sentenced to hard labour
And those who steal a loaf of bread
Should have their hands chopped off , or even better, their head

Droplets of Verse: ‘Half-dead President’

Wannabe dictator threw a sickie
Protestors sniffed victory
They didn’t sing ‘get well soon’ songs
A bitter pill sat on the President’s tongue

Desperate to preserve his own bacon
He accused the people of law breaking
Outlawed street protests and the wearing of masks
Totally underestimated the size of the task

The protestors were not pacified
Sick of this vile man’s lies
They called for him to be dethroned
Masks of defiance covered an army of frozen noses

The President’s reign was abruptly stopped
Euromaidan activists gave him the chop
He floated away on the next available lukewarm breeze
Without even a handkerchief in which to sneeze

By Ludinaroku (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

By Ludinaroku (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons