Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Weapon

    “I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones” — Albert Einstein

                                       

SOURCE

“People often ask me how I feel about my invention being used to kill people every day and the AK being a common weapon of ethnic conflicts. I want to make it clear that I created my assault rifle to protect my country. You can blame politicians for its spreading out of control on a global scale.”— Mikhail Kalashnikov

Midweek Motif ~ Weapon

This journey of weaponry from knapping stones into desired shape - to - this age of RDS-220 hydrogen bomb has been unique. The aim is either defense or offence. It’s interesting to know that Crossbow was once considered so barbarous that it was prohibited as a weapon hateful to God and unfit for Christians. Sigh. We’ve traveled a long way from there.

Our Motif today is Weapon. To quote Malala Yousafzai in this context, “Let us pick up our books and pens, I said. They are our most powerful weapons. One child, one teacher, one book and one pen can change the world.”

Weapons are varied; in fact anything can be turned into a weapon if the user wills. One can Find one or Be one. Now, what do you say?

The Furious Gun

by Thomas Wyatt

The furious gun in his raging ire,
When that the bowl is rammed in too sore
And that the flame cannot part from the fire,
Cracketh in sunder, and in the air doth roar
The shivered pieces; right so doth my desire,
Whose flame increaseth from more to more,
Which to let out I dare not look or speak;
So now hard force my heart doth all to break. 

Dream Deferred

by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode? 

Incident

by Countee Cullen

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, 'Nigger.'

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember. 

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—

                (Next week Susan’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Moon)