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Elegy War Poems | Elegy Poems About War

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Causalities of War

.                                                     Beneath a blanket of earth
                                                     With a pillow made of stone
                                                       Her child eternally sleeps

.                                                     While at the foot of his bed
                                                           She stands alone
                                               And weeps! And weeps! And weeps!

.                                                  Written:  November 20th, 2009
                                                    Author:  Elaine George

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Lights Out

One hundred years on and still the shout
“Everyone put your lights out”
Just for an hour from 10 to 11
And remember all those souls in heaven

One hundred years and still the cry
The perennial unanswered question “why?”
Is there a need in this hour of deed
For any to ignore or not to heed?

One hundred years, millions dead
In battles, wars and streets of dread
Trenches then, now car bombs blast
Tearing at families left aghast

One hundred years – again LIGHTS OUT
Not one city but the country throughout
Is this too much to ask ourselves
For those who died through bayonet and shells?

Lights out and let us honour our dead
Light a single candle in room or shed
Remember those terse words upon us yet
“Lest we Forget – lest we forget!”

August 4th 2014

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A Service Member's Prayer

A Service Member's Prayer

Oh, God, I feel that I have cause
To know my life might give You pause,
But fair as You are sure to be,
I seek Your way on bended knee.
I wish neither to kill nor die,
Though from engagement I'll not shy.
For if my duty calls me there,
I'll do whatever I must dare.

I seek not courage for the fight.
I seek not comfort from the night.
I ask not pardon for my deeds,
Nor any salve for any needs.
I only ask to know what's right,
To do my best to check my might,
To render mercy where I should,
To know I serve the greater good.

Oh, God, if You will hear my plea,
I ask so very much of thee.
I fear not men, I fear not death,
Yet bow my head and still my breath
To ask You, please, to do Your best,
To keep me from eternal rest,
Until the hour my duty sends
Me home to family and friends.

And if You grant my humble prayer,
Oh, God, I ask You, keep from care
Those people whom I hold most dear.
I wish them not to shed a tear
In anguish over days now done,
Where my dawn was their setting sun.
For then, if You will grant my plea,
I'll soon be nearer them and Thee.

Copyright Shawn H. Hall 2014

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My Return To Normandy

High on the Normandy cliffs
Looking out over Pointe du Hoc
As cold Atlantic winds whisper out
The names of the brothers I left behind
Now only fine marble monument shadows
Dot the trenches and empty emplacements 
As the final testimony of the fallen
Still ringing frightened with those desperate voices
Proclaiming both their lives and death
That they were ever here…

In the emerald hills of Collville Sur Mur
I can still hear the phantom naval shells screaming
Underneath the crying of men
Pulverized and dying in their comrades arms
All for the belief of the land from which they hail
While the roaring waves wash the still bloody sands
In and endless and rending cycle
That silent cacophony of brother and foe
Call out to me still for comfort and aid
Asking only to be remembered…

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Oh Syria

Reality is lost and I fear…
That someday…somewhere so near…
I will fall amongst the people so dear…
I fear…that I’ll just be another one…
Another one lost…

I wonder what the cost of my life is
not to get too political…
But I want to know what the cost of my life is
Is it money…is it land
I do not own any of them…I’m just a simple man

I remember…When I ran across your land…
I remember when I kissed my grandmother’s hands…
But you ripped my away from her…From my home
you ripped my away from my heart…you ripped me away from my soul

I feel helpless…I feel low…
It’s hard to play along when I know…I have no role
I have become a slave.
After all the love I gave.

When I look at my country…people I want to save
When I look around me…people I need to change
It seems like a hard thing to do…
when the range of people is way bigger than you

Freedom…oh how much I’ve heard that word
Freedom…oh how this idea has become absurd
when God gave us life…
He warned us only he can take our lives…

Oh Syria…my home
Oh Syria…my all
Oh Syria…what did they hurt you for?
Oh Syria…I’m here…I won’t let them hurt you anymore…
I am Proud to be your son…

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Eyes Never Dry

Her eyes were never dry
Since she was born she would always cry…
No matter what kind of lie I would tell
She would see right through me , a smile she didn't sell…
I don’t blame her when her lips fell…
She knew the world was aware of our pain…
She knew nobody cared about evils reign
She knew nobody cared about every body that laid lifeless on the city streets…
She knew…
So I understand…
In her still so young heart
Knowledge of the world there was that no man had…
Even though she knew it could get her killed she just couldn't stand 
When justice wasn't served 
When her mothers killers were free
And we get something no human deserves…
So I ask her please smile… 
The pain will last just for a little while…

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Sometimes I am glued to the Earth
See every tear,every laugh and every fist…
Sometimes my mind is flying above our world…
Hear every thought…
But even there I have no silence
In my mind the violence I’ve seen…
In my mind memories of heaven where I've been
But memories are past…
And even though they last
They can’t replace the smell of heavens grass
They cant replace every tear every laugh and every fist that there I’ve had
They’re just memories
I wish I was able to go back

and feel home…

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not lost , not forever

in honor of David J. Bredesen

Three days after your arrival in Vietnam you were gone
but you are not lost to us, not forever 

Your parents who grieved so stand by your side now.
together you wait for the rest of us.
and you are not lost to us, not forever

our children who never knew you are asking us about you
about what happened and why and how we felt 
as we tell of you and the family I think they feel for a moment as we did then
 and you are not lost to us or them not forever.

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My Grandfather High-backed chair facing the corner, Window over books so cherished Loved. Like the greatest of scholars, but still humble He was a trove of stories Air of silence on a place once full Of stories from a time past, A time of honor and courage and duty Of country and spirit; fighting an enemy Made from indescribable evil. Tales of valor, sand, and bullets Lions and machine guns, young men in battle Fighting for their lives. Knowing the enemy was like a jackal Cruel and twisted, an army of evil He witnessed it all First hand, in the heat of the day And cold of night. Tales passed on, spoken In a way that conveyed such knowledge That one was to sit in amazement, and hear it Firsthand from the chair facing the corner. Like a throne of deep thought. The day he left this world, I wept. Seeing him not but a day before, It was harder than I could have imagined. The pain is real, but so were the memories And so the legacy of the veteran lives on. The chair sat vacant, but I felt him there. The books on the shelf, the other treasures Left behind held him here on earth While the memories anchored him in our hearts. The man in the chair shall never be forgotten And the stories shall pass far into the generations.

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Behold, I saw the vision of the world
Smoldering in the ashes of hate
utterly consumed with terrors
Beaten, ragged and worn
blood touching blood
The gleam of liberty’s lamp dimmed
by the smoke of her burning
wail over her; wail and mourn 
For the smoke of her torment 
hath reached to heaven

 I turned and looked again, 
I saw the vision of the world
Hope birthed in the heart of man
Strength of an indomitable will
Faith’s torch glowing bright 
Freedoms light burning warm

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By Immaculata Ortner

Sorrow springs in black savannah
Where nature proved its pride
Silence sting like ancient drone
As dark melody rose 
Winging high in spike like dragon spew
As discomfort swells in black souls
Our top was not so high
Neither was our thoughts wild!
When strangers flirt and raid our shores in with minds of wolfish beats
Our words and swards were sheath
And the voice of our chanting drum was trunk
Groaning grey in grievous tones
As darkness shades our doomy world
They traced our path in search of liquid golds, yet with books untold
They crack our walls with no defence, speak with hoot like owl!
They create a route of no return
Where blacks goods sniveled
They cleared our greens and dent
Our springs, yet we flinch and flee in fear
But though our nights, were doomy dark
The sun could rise in place of moody moon if brothers where brothers
Our wings could mount the stormy wind if friends we trust where truly friends
And the green we have would be truly green if tooth that flashed were purely white 
Then our tales of pride would glow

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that's just how the world works

No one saw it coming, the time of doom now at hand 
War is around every corner, no one can help us now
Bombs fly and the innocent die
That’s just how the world works

Try to see the good in the world young child 
For if you don’t who will
If not now then when 
The fate of the world rests in your hands

As one generation fades 
Another shall rise from the ashes 
Spread around by war and destruction
The fate of the world rests in your hands

Heroes will emerge and enemies will be defeated
But more enemies will rise 
And our heroes will fall
That’s just how the world works

The war will end and allies will part 
Until another war starts 
Smoke filled skies will clear up
And fallen enemies shall sulk
That’s just how the world works  

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dis poem, in honor of unstable poets


Dis poem is in honor of manic mistresses who war against the fleeting flesh,
Yo, dis poem is honor of schizophrenic Don Quixotes, swingin' at windmills of panic
stricken consciousness,
Yo Dis poem,
Yo Dis poem is honor of maestro's chasin' the muse of the logos made flesh,
In words, the only comfort they possibly know,
Flowing in a reverie of ecstatic epiphany,
Caressing solace, defeating the alienation of solitude,

The man sat staring at the fractured scatterings of a generation that had forsaken kindness,
And the woman saw him, and outstretched her hand, but the agent of chaos grabbed her,
Purpose, he said, purpose,
And the angels wept,

Yo, genius shining through the tears of fear made real,
Reeling, peeling, away layers of miraculous fish feeding thousands,
Miraculous words, healing a generation,

Begging Christ for a moment's rest,
From the war that wages within,

Men sing songs of triumph,
But courage is when your very mind won't have you,
And your heart, mocks you with its mercurial caprice,

Genius shining through hilarious and cacophonous laughter,
Outraged and astounded,
Dumbfounded and incredulous,
At how no one can feel this,
Pain that seems so salient,

Raging seas of foaming mouths in ascetic white rooms of institutionalized slavery,
Thieves profiting on the sound of crying children,
Praying, wishing that their parents would piece together the puzzle of sanity,
And rest in the greenhouse of sanctuary,

But God won't have it.
For this suffering is but a moment's mist,
In the calculus of eternity,
And in the end, a tree of inspiration,
Emerges from the relentless voices,
And the world knows healing!

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Christmas Rebels (3).

Then the leader in a flash
Sent his bullet through my 
Pregnant wife’s stomach, 
Sending the bullet out of her 
To my little girl’s brain.
He was a killer glutton, for he turned to my 
Son’s brain, scattering it,
With his axe, making the brain 
Splash on my dazed countenance.
They swiftly and organisingly boundled me up
Amidst my confusion and helpless struggles,
They cut off the veins at the back of my fits,  
Leaving me in a river of blood.

Death claimed my home,
His weapons were the Christmas rebels, 
On a melancholic Christmas night.
My saddest Christmas ever.


By Charles Melody (Lightening Ink)
For all the victims in jos crisis.
Rest in peace.

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                                            SAPPHO’S FALLING STARS     (Part one)

I am descendent of Odysseus
	Hero of the past
Have I kin—I know not—I may be the last--
The Trojan War and Helen made my family's blazing fame
Thus magnified by Homer was made our honor and ancestral name

I stand this day the General of the fallen men that the Fates have tossed
across the Siren Sappho's way—
now foolishly slain-- my Fallen Stars    	 
                      		such a ragged few
                                       in this paltry breath of a moment
                                      			of mere delay--

Inconsequential time in history 
                                                                                          forever lost—

at their honor’s cost

for Mine, a Mighty Name
excuses easily such inconsequential blame
I cannot weep—I cannot pray

                      Such sacrifice of brave men
	              Lifeless , While I stand whole
	               Due to my folly 
                      Sucks the breath stark from my soul

Yarns and lore of Heroes—I know
Babe……. to youth……… in manhood……..
Each far-flung hour, day upon dew-kissed day
Nurtured ever cherished in the sweet talk of the female-breast-kissed way
      	Absorbed sensuous tactics laced with salty woman taste--so learned
	Intimately known as my manhood blossomed

Intimate Initiate—once
You, Sappho, sought my need –-
Intimate follower once—
                                I ate your passion delicious sauced with greed

(part two posted)............................................

Victoria Anderson-Throop  12/18/12 ©

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Double Folly

Where we go, we know not
Why we go, we know not
They say we go forth
Choice-less and guns shone, we head north
Let the north our fate decide

This war is folly
Even a fool understands this wholly
But this will not stop the war
No reason will a-peace this war
It's folly

Why we fight, we know not
If it's right, we know not
Yet we fight
Not minding our brothers plight
Treating them like blight
Oh what an ugly sight

But if only, you would listen
You would hear them cry
Don't ask them why
Because it was you who made  them cry
So why not try
If you could their tears dry

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When We Die

When we die: A war cry
To all people who gave their life for Kashmir in pursuit of justice for suppressed.

We are murdered. Bodies are shattered. Our Jhelum to Euphrates, Our Kashmir to Karbala. 
My eyes hear. My fingers speak. And my heat pains.
Lovers of Husain rip your limitations with chains.
Stand resolute in Karbala-reborn. In its heat. Vanish not! Your flames.

Show no fear in your eyes but give a cry
Death will bring us home. So we die

Times of glory went into ruins, but don’t sigh
The days of hope will be reborn. So we die

Blood bathed infants are we: this no one can deny
Water of freedom waits for us. So we die

Handicapped soldiers they have turned us, still our zeal is high
With weapons of light we will march. So we die

OH! You bureaucrats from the plains, your innocence is a lie,
We will set your tongues ablaze. So we die

One day you will cry that you can’t deny
We will bring the time soon. So we die

Keep your eyes dry my mothers, for you must know why
Your tears will cause floods. So we die

Don’t loose hope! My people, you still have threads to tie
Every drop of our blood will be resurrected. So we die

A coffin runs out in Lal chowk, scratch the earth for space
The white, will wake up angles of wrath. So we die

Land of Hamadan has been painted with blood
The lava of agony will burst. So we die

Keep the bangles in your arms, you widowed brides
Their music will shake the earth. So we die

Suppressed mortals are we, but Listen OH! Self made immortals  
Immortal passion of Muhammad runs into us. So we die.

This fire of celestial blaze! Fuel it up with your rage. Defy the impossibilities with might
You will go down through history as the brightest stars shinning in darkest nights.


Karbala: place in Iraq where grandson of prophet Muhammed(SAW) were killed.
Husain: Grandson of Prohet Muhammed killed in Karabala

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Pro War Fantasy

Let's hear them yell, cheer, and shout!
 Watch them pray for it with passionate hearts

Body count reaching eight thousand, but who cares?
 Mass trauma infliction, but who cares?

You can hear their excitement from miles away.
 Endless occupation is their Christmas wish

The long contained desire for scorched earth...
 Is that what they cherish in a mother's prayer?

Fifty years in and still squealing for more
 Nothing brings them comfort, but a bloodthirsty war

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FIRE ANNIHILATION cruel cycles of hate in our wake heat intense with burning flame as fearful fire-fried mice bake what glowing embers sear souls to detonate, destroy and ruin a million charred bones now coals seething land grabbers launching death smouldering their selfish hate ablaze scorching into earths dark last breath infernal planets eternal despair baptises leaf-dead sky with flames now a sinister sad clothed last prayer Inspired and written for the victims and families of Air Malaysia MH17 & In protest of rocket launching where other innocent lives are being lost daily © Kim van Breda— 21 July 2014

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Hacked down at dawn is the tree that would have blossomed
Maimed is the navel that sometimes may have grown straight
Burned is the candle that may have shone in a dark path
Stifled is the dream that might have come true
Bludgeon are youth who would have led 
Trampled by maggoty mauruders is the flowers that would have sprouted
Gone  limp  is the phallus that would have yielded bountifully for posterity
Lost is the country of our heroes past
Bath in the fiesta of blood and death
Convulse in ethnic tent and shrines 
Starved of humanity, pyromaniacs
Blinded and poisoned by blind faith 
Buried in the womb of Dogo Nahawa is a testimony of  man’s diabolical efficiency

The sadistic infanticide…
The murder of the frail, the feeble and the weak
Robbing the newly born of its mother’s milk
A horrific dot to sentences of life constructed midway 
Sanctioned by man’s sanctimoniousness
So weep, weep for the children are no more
Weep for dismembered families
Strangled, decapitated at dawn
For their bones lies buried 
In shilly- shally government committees and white papers.
(This piece is written against the background of endless massacre in Jos Plateau –North Central Nigeria)

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The Truth About Paradise

I used to think we lived in a world
With nothing at all to fear.
I used to believe we lived in a land
So perfectly crystal clear.
Away from sadness, away from anger,
Away from the clutches of hate.
I used to be full of innocence
Back when I was eight.
Now my best friends are both anorexic
And one's been raped four times.
And that girl who's aunt and uncle beat her?
She's a friend of mine.
I know a boy whose mother uses
His disabilities and disorders
To abuse him without touching him
In ways not against the law.
And his stepfather helps her do this to him
Because he's far too much in love
To realize that what they're doing
Is just morally wrong.
I have a friend who's terrified
For her father's life
Because she never knows when she'll find
That he's been killed in the strife.
It's a war of many, a war of hate,
And, sadly, for some people, fun,
And the only thing harder than being a soldier,
I've found, is loving one.
But no matter how many times people say
That they're glad there's only one war
There are many unacknowledged wars.
Just walk through your own front door.
I used to think our world was
A wonderful paradise.
Now I see that there's far too much
That's covered up in life.

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One Final Request From The Fallen Heroes.

Stark sentinels of stone, standing silent, alone.
Their comrades reflect past a speaker's dry drone.
Can cold comfort be said to these young valiant dead?
Who bequeath to us more than a safe secure bed?
Scarred, battered bones, in hushed solemn tones,
whisper one last request meant for our ears alone:

The bars in the flag shine crimson and snow.
They call out to us the rights they bestow.
Seek out every star, set midnight in blue.
Be worthy of us as we were of you.

They kept unspoken dreams, yet dark destiny deems
they can never live out, blown apart at the seams.
These stray measures of flesh that no longer will mesh,
are gathered beneath us in mounds green and fresh.
Do not shudder in dread at their crude muddy beds.
Let the living demand that what follows be read:

Here stands a sanctum where courage can roam.
These were the tools for our freedom at home.
Such love of their brethren can never be known.
Heroes lie here from whence free men are sown.

The bars in the wind snap crimson and snow.
They cry out to us the gifts they bestow.
They are every star, set midnight in blue.
Be worthy of us as we were of you.

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elegy for Marie

Send a tear to your lapel
for the debt you owe Marie
and others of her ilk,
it's just as well still 
not nearly as good 
as opening our eyes

Marie & Remi Ochlik
were shelled out of existence
while reporting to those
who would pay attention
the dark deeds of Syrian powers
A decade ago they took her eye
in Sri Lanka, but not her vision

War correspondent or photographer
is a risky title to carry
in many places on the globe,
but needs to be carried
with a terminal conviction
to those gentle of peace

Drones, tanks, and roadside IED's
all meant to turn dialogue into
monologue...into diatribe
that usurps the power of each
individual for another's own

Let us thank the megaphone,
the megapixeled shutterer,
and the twitterer, the 
militant peacenik who
will not be silenced 
into any form of domination

© Goode Guy 2012-02-22

for: Marie Colvin & all war reporters

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Bella Horrida Bella

Overloading contradictions
Heads to heads, fated collisions
An exchange of blows never ending 
A grim nightmare in the making.

Casualties, bodies everywhere
a surreal view of morbid lust
In the eye, a killer crosshair 
aimed with precision, death's a must.

Reflections on what future holds 
with what hands are capable of
the harmony of war unfolds
deep down below in hell's abode

Hatred breeds hatred in a loop,
an infinity with a twist
our existence all in one scoop
laid in textbook manner, its gist

Ahead reality's marble
drawn out in a fated circle
A call to arms to fill that hole?
Or rather, pray a miracle.