Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Free Verse History Poems | Free Verse Poems About History

These Free Verse History poems are examples of Free Verse poems about History. These are the best examples of Free Verse History poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Free verse | |

Autobahn

Rapid Eye Movements
cruise down the Autobahn,
driving dreams of soldiers 
slaying the Beast in the East:
seeds hidden in the cuff links
that return home for the victory parade.

The victory parade of the new millennium
is a mirage: desert sand creeps 
through the streets of Basra;
spray painted slogans of “Aryan Nation”
are left behind on pock-marked walls.

High level terror alerts
scroll across the Fear o' Dome,
breeding paranoid glances 
from commercial-class passengers
while they fly above fenced camps
where centralized secret service agents
watch the unloading of another train.

"Son, do you forget the sacrifices?
Have you lost all your respect?
Okay, it’s possible that the Feds
were influenced by the Purebreds—
a minor repercussion 
of maintaining our national security.

It isn’t even about racial purity—
you are all mixed now, anyway.
Whether female, black, jew, or gay,
we must unite together as a nation;
raise its flag with pride,
and fight against a common enemy!
This enemy is trying to disintegrate
the cornerstone of our free society!

Son, can you not see! Not see-notsee-notsea-notsi-
notzi-natzi-nazi-natzi-notzi-notsi-notsea-notsee-not see!"
_____


—cold sweat.

I awaken to remnants of nightmarish images
sifting through my mind:
flocks of carnivorous sheep
with invisible shepherds.

The dream had felt so real.

I rush out of bed,
just to make sure.
From my bedroom window,
I see the neighbour’s Iron Eagle weathervane
goose-stepping towards the west.
A lawnmower growls in the background.

Everything appears normal here
on 4th Reichstag Blvd.



2016 Neu Berlin Remix, July 13th, 2016
(original version was written on March 29th, 2010)

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse | |

The Rest is Silence

I left her behind
emaciated
I left her
dying
I left her
I left her
I wanted to die there with her
there in the desert
where I left my mother
there where the stench of the dead and the dying 
filled the air
I left her
my other children dragging me on
the solders shouting
threatening..theatening
I had to go on...for the others

I left her
my little girl
who was too weak to speak
too weak to cry
my little girl
whom I smothered
knowing it would be quick
not wanting night to call
the animals to crawl
over her still living body
not wanting her to hear
the death wail of the old and frail
all around
I smothered her
and kept on walking
not hearing
not seeing
not smelling
not living
not breathing

I left her
I left my heart
I left my dreams
I left my tomorrow
and every yesterday
every memory
every hope
of a better day

I left her
and in that starless night
there in the desert
naked and bleeding
starving
shivering
I knew....

"the rest is silence."

Eileen Manassian

"The Rest is Only Silence" is from Shakespeare's Play...Hamlet. I, however, will not be silent about the Armenian Genocide. This is in memory of the 1.5 million Armenians who lost their lives in the Genocide of 1915.Though this is a fictitious write, the events depicted did happen during the Armenian Genocide in 1915 by the Ottoman Turks. One million and a half Armenians were marched into the desert in what has come to be known as the Death March. My mother's family were fortunate. They were able to run away in time. They relocated to Lebanon. My mother was a refugee at 14 years of age. She and her two sisters suffered poverty and had to work hard to make a living for the family. Their fate could have been worse. April 24 marks 101 years since that event. Not all countries have recognized the genocide. Unfortunately, America is one of them. 

If you want to read an account of those days, read The Sandcastle Girls. Read of how woman were tied to stakes as the soldiers rode past on their horses and decapitated them. Read of how the orphaned children were gathered at night and put in caves and burned alive. Read of how the woman marched naked...their wounds festering, their hair matted...almost inhuman. Read of how women committed suicide rather suffer rape while others disfigured themselves to go unnoticed. History cannot deny the genocide. If justice is not served here...it will be....one day. God told Cain..."the blood of your brother Abel is crying out to me." The blood of these martyrs cries out today for recognition.

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse | |

The Prophet

The Prophet


I read the words of a poet
From the days of tomorrow
His verse flowed backwards in time
And rhyme 
I, a fair maiden, doomed to a fate
Of obligations unseen
If only the book on my lap
Was not ahead of my youthful station on this earth

Verses seeping with promise
I long for the voice of this master of the pen
I day dream, and lose my place in this world of pain
To hear his softness in the blowing wind
Alas it must be the times he lives

No man can carry such passion
Inside a book within a book of dreams
Yet, here I am, to ponder
The romance of a tomorrow I shall never see

I am doomed to village laws and customs
A stoning that is so unjust
For I unveiled my eyes to the world before me
Staring into the depths of mans possessive hatred
I ran in fear, I ran towards the forest of hope

As they drag me by my feet
The book clutched close to my breast
Bloodied and in the moonlight, I open it
To find out, even in the future of majestic noble poets
There lies evil still
Stealing the breath of innocents and infants

I hope one day
I shall meet the author of these words
I may slap him across face for my silly fantasies
So long I dreamed the world would change as does the seasons
For better days filled with peace and kindness

I hope one day
I shall meet the author of these words
I may plant a sweet kiss upon his soft lips
Singing of songs he has long forgotten
I slowly wrap the rope around my neck

They will not stone me
They shall not claim any victory over me
The poets words, hidden deep between my legs
Shall melt within my soul
For better days filled with love and kindness
I shall kiss him sweetly in my death

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse | |

THE VAMPIRE

For I am death, the personification of pure evil,
The grand godfather, of legions of unnumbered generations.
Behold thy disciples, baptized beneath my crimson waters,
Of blood.
Then reanimated as the living undead, in mine own image,
These are my forsaken children of the Night.
Kissed by the angel of death, I'm resurrections insurrection,
Spawned in hell a creature devoid of heart or soul, yet do I
Exist, biting at the exposed throat of humanity, leaving it
Drained completely dry.
Does not the white lily turn ember red, within this the
Valley of damnation.
My throne is a black coffin gilded in golden refinement,
Residing beneath the wooden lid, the beast sleeps,
Waiting to be embraced by the darkness of night.
Slowly, emerging from mine cryptic mausoleum,
I'm famished for the taste of the living essence
Of mankind.
A gentlemen reaper of the fallen, deeply do these
Fangs penetrate into the soft flesh of humanity,
Tis a dark blessing's supernatural gift, have I been 
So given, to take life then to restore it.
Raw beasts of instinct, clinging to the ethereal
Moon, that hangs above illuminating this,
Our unholy abyss.
Welcome to a shadow nation of the unseen,
Whose roots extend backwards, to an older country’s
Unconsecrated soil, called Transylvania. 
On mine legacies crest, a red dragon with talons
Extended reaches out, grappling for powers control.
For I am Dracula, born of royal blood in life,
But in death I am a king, let these castle walls
Bleed on forever, and the hounds of hell,
Sing outside my rod iron gates.
But beware mortal flesh if you so enter,
For I will enjoy every trespasser,
Whom dares to venture within my
Sacred territory, with a fiendish smile
Upon my hungering face.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse | |

Love Notes in a Bottle

Love Notes in a Bottle

It came as a last meandering thought
How could I know?
Maybe a thousand years from now
On a far away shore
Would exist a lady of mystical lore
Reciting sonnets of medieval tales
In magic forests, dreaming of love
As I love
Who could feel a bond so delicate as a doves feathers
A pain so strong, like a tiger wronged
That to part would mean emotional low tides to come

That she could feel the loneliness of night
The scent of the morning dew
The feeling of rain upon ones breast
The smell of the rose
The view of the meadows
The Laughter as the children danced
The plea of one whose heart bleeds
The desires to capture love and yet remain free

Her eyes would show her ageless beauty
Her smile would hide her thoughts
Wrapped deep
Inside of old love letters

She would sigh
As I recited old prose
We would hand in hand repose
Knowing growing old is how it goes

Alas she is but an image in my mind
A thousand years till birth
Or even more
A fantasy, that lets me die in peace
That someone could love as I loved thee

You were my past, and my eternity
Lovers who never took flight
Broken wings, and broken borders
Boundaries never crossed
Kisses though we never lost

On every wind swept shore
I wander with the birds scouting overhead
As wave upon wave of desolation slaps my head
A woman is over there by the sea
She but a stranger in the mist
So not at all is she thee

A thousand years from now
On wind swept shore
Will she be forlorn?
Weeping for the likes of me
Whispering inside, he was here but a thousand years ago
Love letters telling loves desires
Inside a bottle and buried in sand

Alas is the ocean not made of ancient tears












Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse | |

Bastille 2016

Bastille


Many years ago
They stormed the Bastille
Two hundred and one lost their lives
The tennis court oath however survived

Jacques had his heart with the masses
Necker could not be dismissed so easily
The storming of the Bastille was to be
The birth of a nation for all men free

And free men they were
Running naked through the streets
What they lacked in cake
The made up with in red wine

The Republique was born
A democracy in infancy
Would grow through trials and tribulations
To become a multicultural great nation

Lone angry men filled with such hate
I welcome you to Bastilles’ gate
Of medieval prisons long ago
It is there, you I shall throw

You kill in the name of a God
A God you do not know
Love has escaped from your very soul
Only hate tarnishes your bitter heart

The ghosts of Bastille are mocking
The coward who is filled with such animosity
There never shall be an escape
The soul of the dead shall eternally taunt you

A criminal with no compassion
You have only given us our determination
To battle for the peace of this great nation
You bring us tears; alas we shall turn them to wine

Naked through the streets we shall always dance!

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse | |

Movements of Beginnings

                                                                   written on time’s page
                                                        with finite syllables of dust
                                                  he spelled my heritage
                                           from earth to sky
                                     along an umbilical line of faith 

                                 we fluttered from the lips of fingers
                           fully form for purpose
                       written on an invisible calculus
                that bring monarchs where birth mark lingers
            and salmons somersaulting sluice and streams
      turtles, penguins, and herons white wings
netted in design with nested tabula rasa  mind 

I have an argument
   against the beginning begotten from a bang 
      before atom or element
         I have an argument against force and natural laws
             at work without mass or embodiment
                 for embryonic gravity or forces weak or strong
                    I have an argument
                        that the singularity could not become more than fragment
                           of energy again if a single atom explode 
                              its forces flocking away from fusion
                                 for energy fission to explode

                                  a theory 
                         flimsy as spiders web
                  dethroning my majesty gulped 
          in primeval slime unlinked history from love
  minimizing the particular time of our becoming on ships 
that met the stagnant eyes of swampy thoughts … shuddering 
                                    in vain
                     the whip cracks louder than pain -
             and on our black blistered backs … crumbling 
soils in desertification threw some syllables skywards for mercy
                               starvation winds with sickle clouds of rain  
                                 they lie again ... leaving us without inheritance
                                    for all our labors, lost, and grievance
                                      what bang can buck the strain 
                                          and bring us broken souls to glory again?

Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2009

Details | Free verse | |

Prophecy of Sand

Men, they say Dominators Slayers Conquerors We have been subjugated by their culture and rules The norms and the religions of masculine fools The laws and the clowns The world one day will evolve We who have the curves and seductive smiles Are we not filled inside with the same DNA? so they say… Give us books and untie our bonds We shall rise up, making empires strong Mock not my dashing eyes Discount not, my luscious thighs I shall dance your dance into the night Have no doubt; I shall be your queen When we are embraced, for who we are Do you not see? We shall gleam like the stars in the night Genders, colors, nations too Leave them sitting in old church pews Philosophers, doctors, engineers of creation We shall be side by side, working with you So smile and behold the new golden age Suras must die, in the deserts of past sage Sisters of the sun, the gods, and the wind The old men of the past must rescind Glories are coming, so rejoice and behold Equality is the greatest story a woman ever told
Poet George Sand Notes Excerpt from letters to Gustave Flaubert Nohant from George Sand Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin, wrote under the pseudonym name of George Sand She was born in July, 1804, and is more known as a writer, but many of her prose by today’s standards are very poetic in nature. She was a feminist long before the term existed. She was very able to converse and discuss with men, as equals, and at the same time able to maintain all that makes us beautiful. She was able to see the finest details of life as well as absorb the political and cultural idiosyncrasies of the time, and had no fear saying her own views. To be an inconvenience distresses me I sleep everywhere, in the ashes, or under a kitchen bench, like a stable dog. Everything shines with spotlessness at your house So one is comfortable everywhere. I shall pick a quarrel with your mother and we shall laugh and joke, you and I, much and more yet. If it’s good weather, I shall make you go out walking, if it rains continually, we shall roast our bones before the fire while telling our heart pangs. The great river will run black or grey under the window saying always, fast, faster! Carrying away our thoughts, and our days, and our nights, without stopping to notice such small things. "The beauty that addresses itself to the eyes is only the spell of the moment; the eye of the body is not always that of the soul."

Copyright © Aurore Severo | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse | |

Silent Lies and Deception

Silent Lies and Deception


In the silence of murky waters
There slithers oily snakes of the night
Wearing masks of deception
Beware of fools singing with Stalin’s tongue

The KGB shall set you free
Drowning you in the river Volga
The cold water keeping your lips tight
Whilst the silent ones spread their deceits

Lies, lies their dirty little lies
I wonder how their tongues wag and loudly sprout
So righteous, like imams with out a doubt
I call for radio silence

When comes the clique of hate
They say they have none, and
Maybe this is true
They run out at times, spreading it to you

Those who truly have good will and peace
Growing like flowers in a botanical heaven
Never spew the bloody insecticides here on earth
That alters the genes of peace in me and you

Beware of white sheep
That howls like the wolf at the full moon
A wise man knows the meaning of silence
Silent ones simply slither sneaky prose in the night

The Caspian Sea
Holds many ghosts who if not for death
Could tell you many silent tales
Of those with a million smiles and twisted masks

Seekers of the Silent Lies and Deception

	Dead Sea and salty tombs

		Silent in womb


Notes: The last poems Angel and Devil, about mans ability for both good and evil, I continued the theme here, by describing two repressive regimes, Russian under the likes of Stalin and Putin and the Palestinian one under Arafat. The poem is either incomplete or to be continued in a second poem, as in the end I inferred the Silent one Amina, a story about the repression and hardships of women in India. An excellent book by a great author Fiza Pathan.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse | |

- The Fabulous Queen Of Egypt -

Woke up to a new life in Egypt
I was young not more than seventeen years
Adorned with gold and precious stones
My body was in the shroud of silk and jewels in my hair
I sat on a throne as a Queen

My name was Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile
During the day I lay on the silk cushions
and dozed in the shade of palm trees
Beautiful men and women kept flitting
around me with all sorts of temptations
Fed me all sorts of fruit and cold drinks

When evening came, it was time for romance
As Queen I had many to choose
My choice was of course:
"The greatest men of Rome"
Julius Caesar and Marcus Antonius
Why choose one when I can have two?

On a long journey down the Nile with
my love Julius Caesar, I was forced to
make a choice.
But a choice one must take...and the
choice was that I gave birth to a son
and Julius Caesar was the father

My love life was not popular
my husband was killed and I 
was no longer popular
It was no longer a life of happiness and joy
No, it was war and national mouming
and I would not live anymore






18.03.2012
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse | |

Children of the Divine Wind

Many times the ocean has saved Nippon, pearl of the sea, an oceanic symbiosis a speck in a fecund see. The dikes of man such miniscule plans to hold back the tide. The throngs, each and all crawl across the thin skin of volcanic soil or rise with in the hump-backed alps of remnant cones. Yet, the sea rises to reclaim its own scour the pallet of man, refine, burnish melt, reform. With pen and sword kanji drawn, samurai born with knife and bone entrails torn, honor tested tested by the hand of He, tested and found worthy. The children of the Divine Wind rise above the tsunami, as one, unbowed.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse | |

In the Dark of the Strand

Marquees bright, and neon lights, where crowds line up for movie night
We're holding hands, we're in 'The Strand', red velvet carpets guide us in

Popcorn smokes, .. drinking cokes,...  cracking jokes with Bing and Hope
Lamour's along, in her sarong,... With luscious lips, and cigarettes, 
She fills ashtrays with smoking tips, and tosses guys like poker chips


         'Movietone'  intrudes with news, which puts us in somber mood
         Third-Reich goosesteps  march again,  ... an evil presence in the wind...


Cary Grant , (a news reporter),  loves his girl, and his typewriter
"His Girl Friday", plot is witty, sometimes crazy.  But Cary loves this ditzy lady.... 

William Powell and Mryna Loy..., Asta barks, and finds a toy, ...a ploy? a clue?,....
...an earring gold.  The mystery is clearly solved.--  A crimson sun, is rising cold!


        Movietone in black and white,... graphic scenes, where soldiers die


Another night, suspense on chart.  'Correspondent' ,  Joel McCrea. 
Saves Lorraine, and claims the Day.  BUY WAR BONDs !! They'll pave the way

Bogart, Bergman bring to light, a valiant flght , within their grasp
Airline ticket, in her hand, they must part, and do what's right, no questions asked

----

          It's movie night, but you aren't here, a troopship took you far from here
           Allied troops are moving tanks.  I wait for you..God give me strength




       I'm in the Strand, within the dark,  there's no one here to hold my hand

       I'm all alone...........I heard the news....................You left it all in Anzio




_____________________________________
For Contest Chopped III Sponsored by Craig Cornish
11/23/14

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse | |

Titanic

Cocooned in orange plush, obscenely safe,
in false cinematic twilight,
light leaping out of nowhere,
dizzying the frozen yet titillated onlooker.
The popcorn-crunching crowd have eaten myth.

Beached siren,
your seaweed ropes -
drowned umbilicals -
attach you to the seabed's vast placenta.
Your rusticles drape you like a sleeping shroud.

The knife-edge of your bow; the knife plunged into mud.
A spherical light fixture sprouts a sea pen,
snaky-fingered: a poignant Medusa.
A high-button shoe rests close by.
White ocean crockery, ghost porcelain -

appurtenances of a sunken pelagian people.
Your silt bed, more than two miles below,
private even now,
refuses to yield its virgin treasure still.
A valedictory message, torn from a pocket calendar,

forced into a cold clasping hand -
a desperate flutter of paper.
Strobe, a marine rapist, raking the ocean floor;
invasion of the depths below.
Your one-way virgin voyage, inescapable.

The night was a still pool of indigo.
The berg glided silently by,
lethal as a shark's fin, with terrible finality.
The pinprick stars - flowers of light -
averted their eyes respectfully.

Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse | |

The Circles

Looked at the outside of steel window
Around in the dark, awesome feelings into the mid-night air
What the news was brought in the feelings!

Eyes of the orphan cat was flaming on the corridor.

Waiting for the light in the window 
Dark vision comes down into my eyes by cycle-weariness
Down from one circle to another circle in time-blindness

Who stands here, the Islamic old man!
Frustrated vision!
History of terrorism was carved on his burnt body
He wants to say something!

A white-complexioned Christian young man stands into the neighbor circle,
Surprised eyes! 
White-skinned history was printed on his blood-stained body 
He wants to know something!

A dark-colored Hindu boy stands into the third circle, 
Illusive vision!
History of third world is awakened on his envenomed body
He wants a little smile!

The old man, young man and boy are coming forward from the circles
Great distance... Near ...in front the room... 
Who are you? No reply
They disappear into the tuberose equipped black and white photo of my father
Dad is smiling, I am senseless! 

Tears are dropping from the eyes of our cat on the corridor.

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse | |

Great Contest Expectations, the folly of man

Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.

She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated  her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations, 
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.


Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her  Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainess risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence, 
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!

A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place." 
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
 "It is no longer good!"


Literary devices

Alliteration
Allusion
Ambiguity
Assonance 
Asyndeton 

Written December 29th, 2015


For me Poetry is food for the mind, sometimes it is an appetizer to whet the appetite, or it can be full course meal that takes a while to digest. Other times it can be a sweet desert that tantalizes the senses. I hope this piece offers some mental engagement and nourishment. 

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse | |

EDGER ALL POE

Our dark founding father, of American literature,
A sinister beacon of darkness, lighting the way
Into the darkened abyss of mankind’s soul.
Within the galleria of madness, he is the
Grandmaster of the black ink, and it's
 Written words of terror.
In thus the shadow realm, does his spirit
Still roam, on the cutting edge of fear,
A fine thin line, is drawn between reality,
And fictions illusionary world.
Life's a shunned, abandonment’s creation,
The lord's misbegotten son, embraced
The night's cloak, in it's power
His only salvation unto history's
 Remembrance, is found a truth's
Justice and notability's respect.
Loves passionate compliant servant,
Dashed against the rocks of life itself,
Broken and damaged, he rose above
The waves of poverty, and the under
 Current of tragedies broken
Heart.
Some may say he wrote from the after
Effects that laid, at the bottom
 Of the bottle.
Or afterfeeds drug endued comma, dulling
The emotional nerves concept between
Right and wrong, the social exceptionable
Norm.
But we care not what others wish to believe,
For we honor him, those of us the dark poets,
As the father whom lead the way, between
Light and dark.
Dearest Edger Allen Poe, the legend, the man,
A spiritual dark representative, with pens quailed
Ink at his command.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN



















Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse | |

THE HEADLESS HORSEMEN


On the black stallion of death,
Its red crimson eyes pierce through the night,
And the hell's beast breathes its hot brazen breath
Blazing against the darkness's chilling air!
Does he ride, this phantom of the dead,
Wielding vengeance's sword.
With one hand on the hilt of the blade,
The other arm reaching outwardly,
One finger pointing at his intended victim!
Screaming with a blood curdling howl,
Give me your head vermin, or I'll cut
It off myself, than laughing at their fear!
Beneath crimson fire moon, this hooded and caped,
Death's stalker, hunts down the innocent
Taking that which he desires the most
Their essence of life!
Run to the bridge's safety salvation lies
At the other end beyond.
For these waters cleansing baptism,
Could swallow him whole.
The headless horsemen cannot cross,
These blessed waves of sanctuary,
Or banished is he, hell bound for eternity.
This highway man, rides devastation’s
By ways, of the unknown.
Seeking to restore mind and body,
This Hessian with aggression,
Yearns for justices revenge, to what
Ends bequeath, he cares not, the price
To be paid, in human flesh and blood.
On Saint Hollows Eve, the horsemen
Gallops, across dead-man’s boundary,
Awaiting the stray trespasser, to trip into
His well-hidden trap.
Than striking without mercy's sake,
With its sharpened edge, steel slices
The mortal flesh, taking his prize,
The headless horseman rides away
Into the night.
Yelling, I'll return next Hollows Eve, be thee
So warned, for your salivations sake alone,
Don't tread in Sleepy Hollow after dark!.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse | |

Reservoir of Dreams

Draped in silent fog, is a reservoir of dreams weathering each season, with a mystifying scheme … On a wind-swept shelf, she is silently sleeping Where secrets are guarded and are hers for the keeping Looking out at the tide, where the seagulls are sweeping In her moldering courtyard, where quadrivial paths meld, Among ancient arches of an old Spanish style Names locked in history, many stories revealed Etched in the headstones, where angels have dwelled The cracked marble fountain with polished ligures, Above the church doorway, vines are withering, bare Aloft from the steeple, are the four watchful eyes Looking out to the sea, and the deep crimson tide Three vestige bells dangle from loft, overhead Their voices are quiet, with pericopes spoken Soft hymns of doves, fill the rafters, instead From crumbling ruins, bricks humbly laid There are shadows of saints...and moss covered jade A weeping old willow, with leaves crackling dry I drink with my ears, and listen with an eye Of all those who prayed, for those who passed by Unbelievable echoes, the tolling of the bells Making sense of the senseless, I can hear what it tells Giving voice to my feelings, and new hope to my eyes A peace in my heart, where the holy grail lies Are heard in the voice, in the church of blue tides
____________________________________________________________________ For The Contest Sponsored By Shadow Hamilton "Any Subject" Using Words: unbelievable, mystical, ligure, pericope, reservoir, quadrivial, 7/22/13

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse | |

Atacama / English Version

Atacama, Eden of winds,
flower of abandoned rocks and of sapleter,
homestead of flamingoes and geysers,
and above all ,
below an azure sky,
mountains are carrying on their tops 
ice of the past.

Old villages tell us their stories,
Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu, 
carry in their canons
life,
water from  deep below
let flowers and vegetables grow.


Chiu-Chiu, oasis of the desert,
a green spot,
surrounded by fragments of history
with the colour of orange, red and brown,
embedded in fragile foam of salt and hope,
the history of the Atacama.
Still alive in their churches.
Fragments of an ancient culture
reflecting on the surface of Río Loa.


Like ants – far away,
dispersed in vibrant light
some Vicuñas are looking
for tranquility and forage.
The geysers of  El Tatio
send their hot water into the cold and pure air.


How pacient the Atacama is with us,
slaves of modern times
with the desire for paradise
with the dual face of history and hope.
Salar de Atacama, show me your 
cracked and wounded face,
your wrinkles of solitude.


Far in the distance the chain of volcanoes,
with towering  Lincancabur,  
and its shouldered knapsack of crystals and ice,
holding its splendour towards the sky
with the colours of lapis lazuli and  light agate.
Toconao, the ruins of  Quitor greet you,
dormant since ages
they narrate the history of the Inca,
of their last refuge and their last battle with
Pedro de Valdivia,
who came with his men
to break the bravery of Inca soldiers
with thunder and destruction.

The waterfalls of the hot spings of Puritama
shoot their water into the air with the colours of rainbows,
drawing delicate faces of life
on dry sand and charming stones.
The wind from the mountains carries songs,
flute music, ancient tunes,
stories of salt, gypsum and clay
to the Valle de la Luna,
to let it remain calm and unchanged
with its eyes filled with dust and stones
in the eternal canto of earth.

Atacama, heart of the North,
plant of wind
in the song of history,
you make the day sound
and rock to sleep the nights,
lonely between the arms of the mountains
and the Altiplano.

Copyright © Gert W. Knop | Year Posted 2009

Details | Free verse | |

Testament

My father's abeng blew up my mother's womb
And I was chained there
Nine months in darkness drinking blood
Longing for my resurrection from the tomb
Longing to break the chains
Holding me before my birth to a carnal earth
Longing to stop him pounding
Pounding on the door of my bereft eternity
I carrying the weight of him already
The weight of them against the gravity
Of my life. My wings folded
Longing wield sword edge of flight against the sun
I burdened to undo what already is done
Have no finality here.

Look at me like an eagle flying in the sun
Blood dripping from my talons when the flight is done
O let me cleanse the world again
In the red flood that alters pain.

One day I was born screaming for a cause
I could not take kindly to tradition
Slapping black and blue a baby's arse ... laws
Must have been broken to beat the innocent
Unless it is a crime to come into this earth
To carry so much legacy
From maroon history to Jesus Christ, blacklisted
Like my my forebears: Shaka
Father of my grandfather's mother,
My other grandfather, Accompong warrior
Slain between the stones of Holland Estate and Mountain
Bridging the way for fleeing slaves
I come Cudjo less, Nanny less, merciless
Carrying on the war of generations
Calling no more for repatriation but reparation
Of human rights, human dignity, and racial sovereignty
Where Africa may find again its concord
Without false treaty and flimsy accord
Raping the Congo of natural resources and life
I come, the bushing through guinea grass
Tumbling kingdoms with wisdom and knife.
For this I was born, beaten at birth
Given resurrection from the night of earth.

My father sought to be civilize
Recite poems of Britannia's might and lies
And I, I was singing with the night
Reading a long history of pain to make write
Of my own proclamations, to declare
I shall not bend my knees, nor walk in fear
Where death measure us in dust
And vampires and conquistadores lust
For El Dorado buried in my disgust.
I am a man, and I will make my monument of truth
Upon the gravestone of the brute.

Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2009

Details | Free verse | |

The Royal Curse

It afflicts king and queen alike.
Brought to the castle 
by the master of infildelity.
He moves smoothly from one to the other.
He swiftly takes them 
as is his right, he believes.
Only to have his fill
from the fair maiden 
to the sullied trollop.
He sees them all equally
in his adventures.
He spreads his curse
from one to the other.
It robs it's victims
of their eyes and senses.
Over the years, it slowly degrades
their intelligence and lives.
It can bring down the greatest Empires
if given enough time.

Copyright © linda smith | Year Posted 2007

Details | Free verse | |

- Once upon a time -


Out of love foretold
in thousands
secret raptures from the old
Illusions coves for their powerful voices
A place where our ancestors once walked

Where trees listening
and disperse seeds of hope
Creation marvelous portrait
About the harmony - it is said
that it can develop strong band

It is a reality that can
compare with the wildest imagination
Ancient villages built of marble and stone
Wind chimes a rhythm that beckons
Mystery melody that asks us to join







13.11.2014
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved 

Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse | |

TENTACLES

In the heart of the blackest abyss, down, 
Down, in fathoms deep crypt, where light
Does not penetrate, and the structured protective hauls,
Of men, are crushed beneath pressures massive
Weight, of the oceans deepest depth.
This is truly inner spaces aquatic zone of the
Unknown, a realm of stilled silence frozen
In the icy currents of the barren straights.
Where prehistoric giants dwell, amongst the
Tidal flow, ambush predators, forgotten beasts,
From long ago, living krakens whom devour
All life, hidden within their dark domain.
In Poseidon's mighty anger, the waves answer,
To his fists of fury, hurricanes wrath of vengeance,
Gives birth to the perfect storms rage, 
Vessels rise and than fall in the tidal surging
Waters.
Nay do the sailors cry out to the Lord God on high, 
For redemption's salvation, but the sacrificial altars must
Be appeased, by flesh and bloods sacred offerings.
Summons does the mighty lord of the seven seas,
To release the last of the ancient Leviathans.
Two thousand hands, of a thousand dead men,
Heave and pull at the tethering heavy chains,
To this devil of the depths cage.
From within interments vaulted keep,
Captivities living spawn from hell, is 
Unshackled and released, to reek havocs
Devastation above.
An aquatic spider, a maritime widow maker,
Flexing and in-flexing, its body’s motions,
Towards the surface, in pulsations rhythmic
Orchestrations, the gray giant is ready to strike,
With its killing arms extended wide, to grapple
At its unprotected prey, to engorge itself with
All living matter that it surveys, within its icy reach.
As bubbles shoot upwards breaking the waters
Surface, suction cups and talon claws are drawn
Outwards, aligning his eight legged tentacles of bone
Crushing death, behold the Giant Squid, instrument of
Lethal torture, a living killing machine from the fathoms 
Deepest depths.
For it is the beast, the true essence of evil
Incarnate, and none survive its destructive wrath.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse | |

THE GHOST TRAIN

Along the mountain pine valley did the Iron Horse roar,
A steam belching black demon, burning red hot coals
Within it's steel belly.
Speed's hell bound creation, driven by greed's insatiable hunger,
Faster, faster it moves at acceleration rush, to
Achieve manifest destiny's final arrival on time.
In the distance hear another lone whistle blow, spitting,
And spewing with brimstone's gray smoke.
This indeed is the devil's train, carrying the forsaken,
To the depot of no return.
With a half empty payload aboard, Satan makes a deadly
Judgment call, stoke up those engines boys, ramming
Speed if you please.
Made man beasts are these mechanical monsters
Of destructions, lethal death weapons, chained
Down to the steel rails, and iron pikes.
Ebony stallion's racing against the winds,
As redden sparks sizzle and bite at the crisp autumn
Air, bellowing fumes poisoning the night.
The engineer of the 10; 15 out of Tombstone,
Checked his pocket watch, speaking impatiently,
He did so yell out, come along fellow's, we have a
Schedule to keep, and we've hours behind in our dead line,
So let’s pick up the pace.
Now the devil's train came out of know where,
With hell's supernatural master at the wheel,
Heckling, and laughing, relishing in the carnage’s
Utter calamity to come.
On a lone chewed up mangled piece of track,
Lies wreckages debris blood, flesh and twisted metal,
Lain stewned for miles beside the wild wilderness.
Broken bones, and sheared off limbs, weeping mother's
Cradling limp, lifeless bodies, crying why, God almighty
Why?
But the lord and heavenly father, had nothing to do,
With this unnatural disaster, nay the devil had many
Empty spaces to fill, and his passengers list was lean.
So he leveled the crimson ground with his dark gavel,
Taking souls at high velocities supernatural speed,
For this is the devil's ghost train, and it is so
Hell bound.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse | |

THE HANGING TREE

Dead men tell no tails, or so the winds of 
Destiny’s say.
On judgment hill from on high, 
Voices do echo downwards, as the 
Noose does sway, back and forth, on the
Hangman's tree.
These gallows, of oaken branches, act as tethers,
 Shackles, holding the forsaken, souls prisoner.
Ghost phantoms cling, to it's rotten limbs,
That break beneath times endless rampage.
Regrets fallen horsemen, of the old west, 
Stand guard, sentinels on horse back,
Wearing a tarnished tin star.
God's law keepers, are  branded, sworn,
By their honor, to protect even after death,
The gates of heaven, from this spawn of hell.
Beware evil desperadoes, no mercy will
This the lord's posses show unto you, 
For these riders bare a different mark.
A silver cross of justice, given by
The Almighty’s hand himself.
Say thy prayers, all lawless men,
For on this day, does the rope tighten,
Around your neck, there is no reprieve,
No salvation for evils deceit.
Hell bound are thou, the devils breed.
But beware, there is no escape,
From this grave site.
At dawns first light, as it spreads
 Across the western horizon.
Know that yee, are one of many spirits
Doomed, to be weaved within the
Tangled limbs, called the hang
Mans tree.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN


 


 

 


 

 


 

 


 

Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse | |

Agree to Disagree

                                               
                                               Mankind's greatest
                                                 accomplishment...
                                                       
                                                      

                                                      is death.

Copyright © Vincent Rossi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse | |

HOSTEL, 1978



On a pubescent class trip,
I became enamored with impossibility.
 
Vanishing verdigris yet cosseted 
the L’Auberge de la Paix,* a work-in-progress .

Floorboards slowed gawky treads with furrows.
              Ten feet above, death-row cherubs 
surrendered frail wings, a plaster molting 
advanced by workmen too eager for the plucking.
    
(The curse of romanticism 
is to perceive the imperceptible.)

Home was a bungalow with suburb secrets, 
while the hostel’s curving staircase 
openly tattled on former hosts
and guests who had perfumed stale conversations
while carrying dance cards.
I could almost hear each half-note baluster —
            treble clef handrail, so smooth  —
orchestrating encounters by the front door,
Bonne nuit, mon amour.

Once, a Grande Maison owned by une l’artiste,
then, a hostel for students in the core of Quebec City,
the building charmed with its soft dishabille, 
stripped layers of faded wallpaper, pooling;
the pong of fresh paint and sanded wood
hustled the dame into the times
with ever-going modernization.

Dorm rooms pouted.

I was not interested in tours
with corpses of cannon balls,
toy soldiers arranged on miniature plains of Abraham,
narrow streets echoing battle cries,
remnants of a lost sovereignty...  
the war of 1759
 
Why leave 
those thousand phantom pleasantries,
dusty sofas, freedom halls,
air hockey and air guitar,
             new parlour games.

Upstairs, bunk beds awaited roommates 
or daydreams
and creaked somewhat like nagging history 

Romance was a trompe l’oile, 
              a fading fleur de lys,
I can easily recall the coy throes 
of noisy pipes, closet confessions,
giggling, blameless nights
when ghosts dusted every shifting wall,

               altering even moonlight

 

* Written Aug 24, 2014

*The Peace Hostel, Quebec City
 31 rue Couillard, Latin Quarter, Quebec City

Grande Maison – estate
Une l’artiste – an artist

Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse | |

Legendary Lady Leaders I salute you

I am like
Cleopatra
embraced by serpents many
fear
always trying something new
and dramatic with my
hair
I am like
Eva Patrón
growing up with a painful family
getting lost in movies
thinking of my own
hypnotizing when I speak
First lady of Argentina
meeting you, after death
would be a treat
a nervous habit, of nibbling
on my jewelry
the similarities, between us
gave me a sense of foolery
I am like
Wilma Mankiller
Chief of the Cherokee Tribe
for ten years
fighting against Native stereotypes
despite such distress
enemies did stress
promoting to ‘be of good mind’
you were a leader, of your time
an advocator for women
that they may grow up
and become chief
as a child, you wondered
the forests, like me
not the streets
I am like
Aung San Suu Kyi
wearing three types of 
flowers in your hair
feeling at times like a 
‘splinter of glass, sharp, glinting
power to defend itself against hands
that try to crush’
winner of a Nobel Peace Prize, 
for courage, was
a must
I am like
Catherine The Great
a love to laugh,
coffee, and feeling compelled
to always fill abandoned blank
sheets of paper
you were a Royal Russian Empress,with
not one red drop of Russian blood
and her people, were blessed
to have her
I am like
the Queen of England
longest royal lifetime in history
strong built, from a miserable childhood
toughened her
this is no mystery
preferring candle light
to electricity
handwriting over typewriter
and poetry
I am like
Indira Gandhi
dreaming to live as she did
riding elephants and having
tiger cubs as companions
your own Sikh security
killed you, the story
a sad one
secret dreams of being a writer
angered, by the imbalance of
power
between men and women
listening to beat poets
like Ginsberg
as a great Prime Minister of India 
you were heard
and understood
I am like
Rigoberta Menchú
drew the worlds attention to 
native Indians rights,
because of you
your goal, to be
a drop of water on a rock
dripping in the same spot,
eventually in the world, you
may leave a mark
wearing many colors
‘because it gives you life’
insisting men and women be equals
you fought this fight
to relax, as I do
writing poetry into
 the night
I am like
Joan of Arc
French Military Heroine
burned at the stake at just
age nineteen
known for keeping your cool
even on the battlefield
being a courageous and inspirational
rare jewel
Legendary Lady Leaders
I salute you


Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse | |

SUPERBOWL SUNDAY


There’s a new American Holiday, guess what it is my football loving friends,
It’s a classical sport of champions, where helmet headed, game geared
Warriors challenge raw brawn against skill’s swiftness, to conquer and win,
With screaming fans, cheering on these gladiators’ in this deadly modern
Arena of clashing titans!
On Super Bowl Sunday, the pigskin faithful gather, around the big colored screen
Altar of entertainment, divided team factions residing on living room sectionals,
Ready to cheer for their favorite NFL sporting champions!
  Golden Trophies of victory’s honored bound glory, to conquests shinning
Athletes whom have surpassed all rivals in competition field of battle,
On this sacred Super Bowl Sunday! 
Endurance's brutal game of physical strength and agilities stamina,
Pit raw natural force against skills mental intelligence, placed upon
Each line of defensive prowess exudes bravery’s finest, producing
Distinguished, and extraordinary ability’s athletic mark of excellence!
Lit are the flames of American glory, as flash bulbs flicker from every
Fan filed level of this modern televised colosseum, above fly’s the
Goodyear blimp, flashing messages of sportsmanship to millions
Aboard!
Within thousands of U.S.A. homes views watch with awes quiets hush,
Awaiting for the next plays excitement to take place on this massive
Green turfed stage, locked gazes of stern concentration as hearts beat
With accelerations thrilling anticipation, the rooms explosive force erupts,
With one words announcement, field goal!
It’s the half times rock party festival, while tunes of fans recover,
For the next thrill ride, to victory’s finest moments of achievements
To occur, for legacy’s future generations state of remembrance recall,
In yesteryears to come, fathers unto sons, and mothers unto daughters,
Will say, “Yes, I saw that play, and I’ll never forget it either!”
At the final battle line drawn the rival warriors take to their marked
Positions, fierce animalistic growling is heard as these diehard gladiators,’
Prepare for the ultimate collision point of no return, again anticipations
Hush returns, the silence is deafening, as a nations heart rate is set
On maximum overloads racing pace!
What earthquake shake could rattle more severely at a continental
Seam, as the underdog team wins the final championship, the victory’s
Golden trophy is placed within the grasp of these athletic giants,
Whom have proved themselves true winners once and for all!
There’s a new American Holiday, guess what it is my football loving friends,
It’s a classical sport of champions, where helmet headed, game geared
Warriors challenge raw brawn against skill’s swiftness, to concur and win,
With screaming fans, cheering on these gladiators’ in this deadly modern
Arena of clashing titans!

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO: LINDA THE POET DESTROYER







Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse | |

SHADOWLANDS

                    “Once very near the end I said, 'If you can -- if it is allowed – 
                        come to me when I too am on my death bed.”

                       “Allowed!' she said. “Heaven would have a job to hold me;
                        and as for Hell, I'd break it into bits.” 



                         Oh God, God, why did you take such trouble to force 
                         this creature out of its shell if it is now doomed to crawl back
                         -- to be sucked back -- into it?

                                                     ~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed


                                  __________________________________



The division should be acute, 
the before her, the with her, 

                        the after her.

There is this constant 
rattling of doors, though they remain 
locked, in theory. I think of her 
as gone until I turn a page, 
read a passage of pompous 
dialogue and she returns,
My Joie de Vivre, 
entertaining me with that puckish 

play, unabashed.
She smiles in the dusk with crusading 
colours that bend dark horizons, 
changing clouds, unexpectedly. 

What was I before Joy? 

Content, pleasant, productive.                    
But was I alive, aware of life, 
its blissful rhythms? 
Irony defined: 
the heart which awakened stone 

                           no longer beats. 

Finally, I understand. 
Lessons are sharp things 
which infect both fresh 
and aging amputations. 
What do I do with this knowledge?
It is like learning a language 

that is no longer spoken, 
a long monologue 
unbearably forlorn, painful. 
Faith dismisses hauntings, 
yet she does so in daily degrees. 
O, the sweet ghosts that peer 

from those notes, 
my name underscored in margins. 
Why is there only one glove 
in the sewing box? 
Agony hunts me 
in the garden. Perfume almost, 
but not quite a match.  

Some rooms have snares. 
I dare not open a kitchen drawer. 
Pain waits there.
The specter of my former self, 
a staunch gent, so sure 

                            of Heaven's role, 

that cold bloke follows me 
into the shadows, 
land of man’s rage 
and despair.  There is no pretty 
death, no words can comfort 
the ravaged left behind, 
There is no poetry 
in our departing.

I only pray 
there is Godspeed in mine. 






Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2012