One Nation under Man

What always bothers me is the saying “One Nation under God”. What about us? One Nation under Man?

Here is a poem on that dream – the dream of the rule of men and our laws.


Human Unity

(Cr: Shutterstock)

(An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète)
Foster the future of the populations of people
who live and breathe on the bureaucracy
of the political structures that were promoted
once before, on the promise of once proud nations.
One nation, under man, not a meaningless God
who neither helps nor nurtures those in distress,
or debating against destructive, reasonless demonstrations
that blindly follow the bindings made by repressive men
without regard for the rule of the righteous man
as their regard of righteousness remains in religion
but the separation of church and state is systematically
the only sober future that will sustain our existence.

One nation under God? No, I prefer my fellow man,
who is unmoved by unrealistic moralistic laws,
that does not discriminate or differ between men,
that sees all genders and loves as human extensions.
One nation under man, the notion of new knowledge,
inquiry under the liberty of our innate intelligence,
that gives a chance to the mysteries and masteries of man
and where answers are nor forsaken, nor forbidden.
Unwarranted are these wars that wedge gaps between us
when we wear the same form of water and bone,
when all that widens gaps are varying faiths in a god
too insecure and absent to warrant continued want.

One nation under man, finally self-fulfilling
that abandoned their fictions and freely adulted,
that became rational, rising to the fore of the front
in science, systems, and the symbols of society.
Grasping destiny, desiring to develop more
of the demonstrative, developing inquirer within,
this one nation under man can begin
when the gods of children are lost and forgotten.

Battlegrounds of the Mind

Feels good to be back! Here is a poem about mental health. Discussion on this topic is important. Make sure you ask for help if you need it!

(An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète)

Temper, temper, dear child,
don’t let your feelings simmer at the surface.
Tell all, or tell none
about the battles of the mind lost or won.
Speak of what you’ve become
and the broken being within.
Repression is regression in her purest form
when touted by the chantings of sin.
You struggle within to find clarity
and precision of purpose,
to fight these feelings that bubble at the surface
and hollow the dreams little more than shallow.

Battles of the mind leave barren souls
bereft of direction or destination,
that dutifully struggle in their desperation
to find the premises of their promised land.
Destiny is a fickle damsel,
drowning the sorrows of the damaged,
but dutifully favouring the fortunate
whose fortune fails to suffice.
Herein lies both the hopeful and deceitful
who have neither health nor hope,
yet all yearn to be more deserving
and in disappointment, are rewarded with nothing.


When I’m not writing poetry, one of my favourite things to do is to play Softball. This is a short poem (fittingly) that details the quickest and most thrilling moment in a game, in my opinion.

Slow Pitch.jpeg

(Cr: City of Hot Springs)


An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.


This is the moment
of bountiful anticipation,
that split-second event,
of a momentous decision.
Standing there, bat in hand,
expecting the ball to twirl in reach,
there I stand, in longful demand
of the glory that suceeds the contact pitch.

This split-second holds hope eternal
in a game full of stats and averages.
In this split-second, I can be lethal
and score some serious carnage.
This is the hope within the moment
that fosters my slow pitch ambitions.
Within a split-second, I either make a dent
or simply scratch the surface of expectation.


Feed The Right Wolf

Hey everybody! Here is a short poem to finish off the day. For those of you suffering from addiction, or for those of you dealing with other kinds of difficult times, this one’s for you.

Two Wolves CNN


Foster the day, that inner light
or feed the darkness, that which denigrates.
This is the eternal struggle of those on the thread
between a life of plenitude and one of dread.

It is as the old Cherokee told his grandson:
the one that wins is the one you feed.
Herein lies the path where growth is begun:
foster the feeding that good feelings need.

Feeble are the minds overcome with failure,
living by the whims of their every temptation.
But free are the souls who are their own saviour,
free to pursue prospects of chosen ambition.

Feed that right wolf that wins you your freedom,
not the one that chains you to your doom.
Cater not to the festering needs of your demons,
but rather, to your own, to your life free of gloom.

Mother’s Day

It is Mother’s Day here in Canada. To celebrate this occasion, here is a poem celebrating one half (or the entirety, for you same-sex couples out there!) of the parenting duo! Enjoy :)!


CR: Cross Cards


(An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.)


She is the cradle of life,
the bastion of our hopes.
She overcomes her strife
and shows us how to cope.
She is the first teacher,
our main life’s mentor.
All we have is indebted to her
her lessons put her front and center.
She is there when we walk,
and when we start to run.
She knows when we first talk
and remembers all our fun.
She is the first friend,
our first confidante.
She is the first to attend
and the voice of a motivating rant.

Without her warm embrace,
life would be cold and wantless.
The testament of our joyous successes
is owed to mothers’ sacrifices.
They are the shoulders we lean on
more powerful and patient then all
for they value brains, rather than brawn
and pick us up whenever we fall.
This is her day, the day of the mother,
when all is stopped to be thankful to her.
This the day for cards, gifts and pamper
to ensure her day is that much brighter.
For nothing could replace her loving care
that made sure we were loved and nurtured.
Thank you, mothers, for all of your care,
and for being you; it has always mattered.

Impossible Standards

Hi everybody! Here’s a poem about things I’ve experienced on the dating scene. I either feel like people’s standards are too high on the markt or they’re not trusting of the guys with good intentions. Which is fine. But I’m hoping to show the honest guy’s interpretation of these situations through this poem.

Please keep in mind that not everyone experiences the same things when they’re on the dating scene. The verses on this poem reflect my impressions, and mine alone. They aren’t meant to be offensive, just to show how frustrating things can get.

I hope you like it.

MPasho - Rejecion

Cr: MPasho


An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète. 
I wait for you to speak,
but you don’t say a word.
Your motions are meek,
and pensive to avoid discord.
I open my heart, unrequited,
hoping for some change of fortune
only to find this conversation abandoned,
and a continued misfortune.
I wait for what feels like years
from an answer on your behalf,
but confirmed are my fears,
that our prospect makes you laugh.

Your contemptuousness is tactless,
the hallmark of the beautiful elite.
Do I have any hope of a chance
to rise above conditions I must cheat?
Your beauty houses impossible standards
unattainable for us mere mortal men,
whose attraction is lost to restrictive slander
and bound for rejection again and again.
Fairness is faltered when faced with beauty
over which men can hardly ever sway.
Here I am, honoring my inner duty,
with no possibility of pulling you my way.

You look upon me like you’re levels above,
like a queen seated before her suitors.
Me and mine fellows compete for your love,
but only I remain the lesser jester.
Yours are impossible standards
that I can’t come close to reach.
Were it not for ambitions unanswered,
I may never have given this speech.
Now I must move on towards another,
or abandon my search altogether.
Do consider these words, would-be lover,
upon searching for someone better.


Next Week’s Blog Post

Hey everyone!

I’m looking to take a break next week from posting and I’m looking for bloggers who would like to submit some entries through The Writer’s Corner.

You can do this two ways:

1-  Send me an e-mail at with your entry, if you want me to post your poem.

2- Send me an e-mail at the address underlined above, if you want to be next week’s guest poster.

Thank you! 🙂


Hi everyone! Please read the note after the poem when you are done reading it!



(Cr: The AIM Network)

An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.

Another critical juncture is upon us,
this space between falsehoods and facts.
It’s a cycle repeated through our existence,
the déjà-vus of life, death, and the like.

We are in a constant time of war,
the warfare waged on man by both sides.
There are no countries or ancestries
but only humans harming each other.

We have mastered the nuclear means
to clear our species off the board,
to wipe Planet Earth’s slate clean,
and free itself of the human infestation.

There is an urgency to survive
that no one seems to see or heed,
too caught up in the shouting match
to see the harm that hides in plain sight.

There’s the plight of inhumane puritains,
with no grounded grasp of intricate reality,
and the proactive push of leftist egalitarians,
fanatically protective and restrictive on rights.

In varying degrees, all one and the same,
caught up in man’s tugging of ethics and traits.
These are the times that define the nation,
the notion of what it means to be a human.

Caught in the crossfire of human feebleness
are the young and decent, our future hopes,
and the old & experienced, with wisdom to spare,
who want to come together and save our Earth.

The common citizen, model & exemplary
is made to choose a side in the progressing struggle
to shape the hearts, minds, and futures
of the population now made to fear & hate. 

We are at the critical juncture of humanity,
of our existence and survival in the universe,
where our survival should be paramount
and the needs of many are it’s testament.

What does this say about the human spirit
when words of comfort are lost in manipulation?
When words meant to bring together
are false faith or the consequence of politics?

This is the juncture of warring wills,
where words are lost without being spent,
where weapons are real and wills are weak
and the human fire is tempered, feared & hated.

When does it all end, this warring for want
so that we build for the betterment of all?
When does it start, our common ancestry,
to push our progression beyond pains of old?


Writer’s note:

Hi everyone! Family members have always told me that the two things that drag people down are usually always politics and religion. I normally don’t post anything related to Politics or Religion on my blog, but that is changing with this post. Keeping all this in mind, I felt that, given the times we are in, it is important to bring up both in this poem and talk about how best to continue our progress and our march forward. Politics and religion are both an effort on the part of both sides to encourage and generate dialogue. We need to be working together to solve problems, not accusing each other of being the hurdle to these issues.

When you’re at your workplace, your company will usually have a created set of values to guide its’ workers. One common thing that they will say is that communication is key. If you don’t communicate, problems don’t get solved. In the same line of thought, problems don’t get solved if we’re too busy blaming each other for our own problems.

We need to work together to solve our problems, and we need to learn to communicate, to convice each other that we’re working towards a common goal. If we want things to change, we can’t allow ourselves to remain inactive. Shying away from difficult conversations won’t make them go away.

Thanks for reading, and thank you for your continued support of “The Writer’s Corner”!

– Cd’P


Sunday Evening

Here’s a brand new poem! It’s called Sunday Evening, which is what it is here at the time of posting!

Seriously, though, don’t fight Monday. 🙂

Sunday Evening




An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.

What is it about Sunday that makes it dreadful?
Is it the sorrow for the short respite now gone,
or stressful anticipation for a work week in full?
Whatever you’re feeling on this day, you’re not alone.

We resist returning to work on the Monday’s eve
out of reverence for the deserved weekend’s rest.
We perceive the weekend lost as a moment’s reprieve
from a taxing and tiring routine of the daily stress.

Weeks are an endless cycle of adjustment,
of discontent and relief constantly relived,
but psychologically placed on abstract moments
we can’t prevent, and make us combative.

Breathe in, let the feeling of stress pass through
and desert you as soon as it came in.
Nothing stalls your enjoyment but you
if you don’t mind the motions within.

I can’t get up on Sunday’s twilight
And keep the coming Monday at bay.
It’s not for me to judge, and relive what is right,
but I keep calm, and prepare for the new day.

It’s in our code, to fight or take flight
in the face of dangers concrete or perceived.
Workweek anticipation is the evolution of our blights
and the chaining restriction of what we don’t acheive.

The joys and relief from relaxed routines
Are much indulged on the waning hours of the workweek
And quickly lost in the busy motion of weekend scenes
That they are fickle and few come the new week.

So what is it about Sunday that we dread?
Is it Monday’s workload or the week’s perceived length?
But why the stress? Should it not be spread?
Seriously, though, waking up won’t lead to death.

The more we fight, the worse the week gets.
Weekend joys are many, coming and passing.
For stress is the foster of all our heart’s regrets
that worsen the experiences we ought be enjoying.

Fret not for the work week approaching,
just soak in the moment that’s coming and going.
These are the moments both so joyful and fleeting
that are soon lost, but we know will soon be returning.


Sunday Evening_1

cr: Live Life Happy

Motorized Freedom

Here is a brand new poem for this weekend. For all of you motorcycle lovers out there!

Motorbike and City

(cr: Stern Law, LLC)


An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.


I can remember the feeling,
riding on my dad’s former motorbike,
feeling the wind blowing by,
as we sped on past motorists alike.

The physical danger, outweighed by freedom,
is drowned in the moments and scenery
that shared with me their wisdom
thanks to this piece of machinery.

The journey on a bike is long
but lasting, and filled with fair lands,
a beautiful nature to which we belong
accessible through the gears at our hands.

I hear the motor, what a nuisance,
the continuous rumble and tussle,
but it’s the tool of acceptance
of a journey long, but wholly enjoyable.

(For my uncle).