Once again, the powers that must
In rise again in what we trust
An overseas conflict, another war
Just what in the hell are we fighting for
Families are asking, Korea has just passed
Generations again reft, how long will it last
A country in need, to rebuild again
Flags at half mast, in wind and rain strain
Once again into war, sent by the Washington Post
To send back reports to hit home the most
Military observers were the first to be sent in
Another chapter of man entering existing sin
I'm witnessing our ariel power, Lam Son 719
US planners determine their incursion, saying all will be fine
Along the Mekong River, we'll carpet bomb their supply trail
Tons of munitions and napalm, this spread surely cannot fail
Many sorties are being flown, for the wounded and the dead
Whilst Nixon and his cronies, aren't thinking with their heads
The news of losses has reached me, nineteen have been killed
Eleven missing, fifty nine wounded, more American blood spilled
Seven fixed wing aircraft, more sons in action loss
Whilst back at home more protests, fading the dyeing's gloss
To to this job that I do, I was never prepared for this
To witness such bloody scenes, and ignore that life is bliss
How can I write about a soldier, whose name I'll never know
Killed at nineteen years old, his family he'll never see grow
Or even explain to his parents, when carried from the AH-1
His body bullet riddled and limp, when lifted it bloodily run
I never went back to the theatre, called the Vietnam War
Having witnessed the wanton killing, what were we fighting for
This colonial conflict that started, us on the side of France
So many came back as strangers, many to live in trance
James Fraser's entry into the contest " WORLD OF WAR: VIETNAM "
Copyright © James Fraser
Is It God We Trust? Or Leave In the Dust?
As our courts remove God from this great nation.
We are left with a confused and lost generation!
As God is taken away from our public schools.
A huge tide of immorality is what “rules.”
The Bible is often mocked and discarded.
It was on it’s principles this country was started!
Just about anything of God seems to get scorned.
So many “rush” to worship many ungodly forms.
As God’s name is often tossed and thrown out.
We tend to forget what HE is all about!
Too often, his plans for living are tossed and abused.
No wonder, there’s many who are lost and confused!
As people forget God and worship the fallen creature.
They look to themselves and “glorify” their features.
Many ignore God, and get involved in deep addictions.
And with this, come disease,
heartache and afflictions!
As God looks and sees this nation “bleeding.”
It’s his righteousness, that we need to be seeking!
If we would humble ourselves, he would hear our prayer!
He loves all of us! And he really does care!
Won’t you come to HIM, And invite him in?
Won’t you allow him to be your master and friend?
He brings strength and nourishment to the soul!
It’s only in him that we can be made whole!
By Jim Pemberton
Copyright © Jim Pemberton
The age of time bears acts forbidding...
wrongs, deceit and vice,
In its course worldly facts are riddling,
as poetry shares its eyes.....
In the age of time, such things of want...
be more so than things of need,
as realities warrant...
such heed being greed,
In the age of time, the wealthiest show,
such boastfulness beyond belief,
while human poverty continues to grow...
in worldwide tribulation to no relief,
In the age of time, destitution keeps rising...
in need of real want and care,
as worldly governments are aware and disguising,
hunger and pestilence toll be to bear,
In the age of time, many are doubting...
true fairness of human law,
and many are shouting,
for justice for one and all,
In the age of time, many are awaiting...
for God to stretch out His hand,
to end all wickedness, tyranny, sheer hating,
thus bring peace throughout the land.
Copyright © Lawrence Ingle
On that cloudy weekend in June
I hear a soft and graceful tune
from the grey bird on the tree
Singing sweet lullabies felt
blessed in the moment
My body tingles of joy at sight
Gazing out through
my open door,
Letting thoughts fly free
Releasing love out into the horizon
Heart filled with emotion came
Grey bird stood playing its tune
for awhile and on the wings of
Then as the rain fell from the
sky the grey bird flew away
I blew a kiss to the clouds and
utterd these simple words of I
Love You father ( who's now in
heaven ) and yet I hope to hear
that grey bird sing again once
more for me
Farewell, love your son
Poem contest for Debbie -referential
Copyright © Brian Otoole
I remember his words, not that long ago
Telling of such times when crimson flowed
My Grandad, my hero, who's memories told
My bedroom window I look, it all unfolds
Neighbours fighting neighbours, why I cry
People talking yesterday now in furor
I'm young, I'm eleven, asking myself why
What's changed overnight, fueling this score
In panic surround Dubrovnik is now where I stay
Walled city, Grandads house, from Serbian tirade
Seven months endured, walls holding well
Wishing it's over ending our imprisoned hell
Again his stories unfold of countries in ruin
Fighting with Tito, heroes they one and all
Repelling the Germans, killing their doing
Repulsed he is, by their murdering thrall
Back to the present and a silence exists
Can it be that the fighting has now ceased
What I'm seeing aged eleven, people I know
Holding back tears of whom known deceased
It's now 2015, I'm a Lawyer of human rights
I've lived many nightmares, said killing sights
For my Grandfathers memories, he and all
There will be justification, when no one will thrall
Copyright © James Fraser
Cosmopolitan suburbs take shape
Form, not far from the metropolis
Streets bustle, enlist design, become cities
Drawn down the street, concrete solid
Buildings line up one by one
In the calm one structure at a time evolves
There on the outskirts of timid town
Rising from the dirt, from nothing
A flirt with creation on the street
Laid down on asphalt beds, no secrets
Familiar as a name not said, aligned
Not far from metropolitan streets
Enlisted are construction workers to create
Drawn down the road to concrete city
Blueprints sit pretty
There on the outskirts of town, worthy to build on
A home, a structure to call your own
Usual forms materialize with nature in layers
Seem to build themselves communities
Cropping up as large as life
Sometimes it is hard to find your way home
With so much going on
The road to success is always under construction
My house has a number above a wooden door
Such a detail can be useful to have to get inside
Steps lead the way on silent stones
When I go home, get in, my world slows down
Universe stops or shrinks in size, to be defined
There are many wooden skeletal chairs there
Fixated around a dining table when I arrive
Waiting for a holiday or family to come together
No prayers are said these days
It’s just a dining area, nothing else
A bed is hidden in another room
It keeps secrets but mostly it keeps sleep
Buried under pillows and quilts and sheets
Furniture remembers everything
The kitchen is the center of it all
It comes in reds and yellows with a sink and range
Fires from the stove ravage meats and vegetables
Such alterations make them manageable to eat
Ice cubes in the freezer trays stay there complacently
Waiting for someone’s drink, a friendly hand to warm them
Home has a shower down the hall
Cabinets full of towels and soap lie beneath the sink
Clean thoughts from wall to wall
TV turned up loud in the living room
To keep life serene and meek
An old phone in plastic black rings and rings out emptiness
Lies lazy on the antique table, stationary, waiting
Sits by the ancient sofa hugging floor
Listens for someone to answer the call
There is an echo running through the halls invisible
But no one picks up the receiver
No one is home
Only the ghost of a ringer
Copyright © Earl Schumacker
She dreams of a throne
where she is not alone
Dreams of stars
That aren't to far
Wishes for peace
where pain is least
Hopes for grace
where she can see his face
And still know her fame
Copyright © Tobi Osunkoya
I do not know?
Abortion at seventeen
The shades of black within you surface
before you lose consciousness on the
sanitized bed of the hospital.
No friendly face is waiting outside.
Your age is seventeen… almost.
This is the age of the quick use and throw.
The shades of black make you take an oath,
just before sleep, medicated sleep,
that you won’t attach yourself to
anyone for long. You are cured
from romances, immune from love.
These are the words that belong to past,
I urge to tell more to see if tears
are going to make you less of a goddess
which I think you actually are.
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
Copyright © Kushal Poddar
Throughout the world's history,
we read compelling stories
of the defending soldiers of the tenderest age;
and we can be moved to tears
by the purity of their courage:
they died on the battlefield,
never breaking their promise
or fall short of integrity...
Defending soldiers of the tenderest age as handsome
as the daffodils of the undulating fields,
nothing scares you when it comes
to protecting your motherland with that freedom:
as intrepid as the eagles in the open skies...
Defending soldiers as true as warriors,
you push forward with the victorious thought
of becoming nothing more
than the boldest soldiers:
seeing the smokey sky blast;
rescuing the wounded and closing the eyes
of the fallen ones bleeding on the burned grass...
If I were younger, and I had the same resistance,
I would fight with the indomitable spirit you own;
but my contribution is merely sympathetic words on paper,
which one of you will read on your return
to the homeland when all wait on you united in fond prayer:
with ribbons on trees and flags in their hands....
Defending soldiers of the tenderest age,
all past heroes had one special trait:
the persistance and will to prevail,
and the final victory on their breath;
when everything else seemed to fail,
an indisputable faith prevented another threat...
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci
My literal description:
He watched her among the beech trees,
picking up garden litter, buds, twigs and
now advanced in years,
her blue-veined hands shook with
age, gout made her stumble, on the grass.
Her likeness, arboreal, floated to his sense,
among the canopies's dross;
she, bustled by age, let nature’s corruption
break through, showing rivers of sea, on
languid limbs: and here on forest’s carpet,
Atlas, in cruel pain, tipped his globe and fell.
Written for I’Lyezette contest 6/7/15.
Copyright © peter holmes
Arthur was 16 when he entered the system
i could never ask him why
he was too old when i met him
he was on soo many pills
and not very pleasant to talk to
he heard voices
he would sometimes get up and punch someone
but who knows if they deserved it
after being in a mental institute
from the age of 16 until the day you die
wouldn't you go crazy
the first real guinea pig
i met him
i never cried for him and his pain
but he always wanted to check my shave,
perhaps a victim from some sick war crime
I'll never know
Graham is not from our country
and I've written amnesty international concerning his welfare
they say its not any of their concern
as he wears shackles and chains on a daily basis
and goes to the bathroom in a diaper and eats cold food like sandwiches
because he hits people
mainly his doctor who lies to him
in my opinion
just like the doctor lied to my dad about me trying to bite him,
but i have no proof
just lucky I'm not in chains
going to the bathroom in a diaper
I know he committed a crime but two years locked in one room
alone with a window curtain opening and closing to spy on you
is enough psychological insanity to inspire mania if you ask me
Andrew was a crack head
and held up some convenience stores for some money
so he could get drugs
now hes been in the funny farm for like twelve years
still trying to get a hold of his next hit
watching his youth disappear
watching his life fade away
jumping through the hoops of a system that holds your freedom above you
that may or may not ever grant it
Andrew ran away
gave it all he got
saw people chained to the wall
people dieing there from the age of 16 for ridiculous crud
and knew they were toying with him
so he ran away
now he on a unit where god only knows
what mind hell they're putting him through
what rainbows hes swallowing down
Shelley was the meanest woman i had ever met
but it was always worth seeing her smile
don't know haven't figured out if the drugs really helped her
but she was in that place since she was seventeen
and died in a group home from some sickness
they claim wasn't related to her meds
I'm no fool, the stuff they pump us full of is deadly and toxic
i never made it to Shelly's funeral to see her murderers
there crying fake tears
for someone they would never really miss
Copyright © Troy Nelson
The mystic lips of the moon
Propelled man to races
In the silence of darkness
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago
minute amidst such dark depths
Copyright © James Fraser
Place and Time, Time in Place
I hear the mourning dove, her lonesome call
cooing softly, somewhere in the shade.
The sum holds steady
strong and blinding, high straight up in the midday haze.
The days of summer
creep to an end, as August sheds its heat.
In short and distant days ahead
autumn reaches in, with change and dying, withered leaves.
Each season takes its place and time
not overstepping, awaiting its turn.
too soon, perhaps, the seasons pass.
Time stands still
for no one, nothing, allowing only seasons change.
Moving forward, ever forward
years, decades, centuries, bringing all things, all futures, all pasts
to stake their place and time
while history alone, holds time in place.
Copyright © DM Babbit