These Holocaust Love poems are examples of Love poems about Holocaust. These are the best examples of Holocaust Love poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
The stars may wink their last goodbyes,
the sun may disappear,
the moon may shrink and come to naught
and I will shed a tear.
The universe may turn to dust
all flora, fauna waste away,
we may spend our time in darkness
hoping for a brand new day.
Will you still be here to comfort me
to fill my eyes with pride,
and swell my heart with tenderness,
my love, my blushing bride?
Read the Bible and the words that are said.
Times of trouble and tribulation are ahead!
All one has to do is read the book of revelation.
To read about this world and this nation!
Days of wickedness and evil that abounds..
Shall very soon. Come
“crashing to the ground!”
For our sin, there’s a price that has been paid!
Many have become sin’s servant and slave!
Many will not escape God’s judgment and wrath!
They’ve chosen the wrong direction and path!
Right now... There’s a path
and a way to “escape!”
Please do it right now! Before it’s too late!
The right path to take, is through Christ alone!
He must be the lord of your heart and home!
Jesus alone, can bring hope to your soul!
He’ll never leave you!
Is what he wants you to know!
Times of trouble and uncertainty
are well on their way!
Christ can help you to overcome!
He can do it TODAY!
By Jim Pemberton
The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation
The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?
Name: Rightful Jack
I see the lonesome, washed up, tragedy...
My people, the children, meant nothing to them...
Sacrifice my palms with the blood of one thousand sons...
Analytic substances, known as the air we breathe...
There is no longer peaceful currents, the sea is now a liquid black...
The storms were greasy, the fires were oblique, every word was bled...
They always perceived error in our effort...
But no harlequins were in our already dead, hellish survival...
No one else can be held liable...
The undeniable stench of the deceased mothers...
One man regurgitates his bowl of slop...
Another procreates his remedies of the red drenched taupe...