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Narrative War Poems | Narrative Poems About War

These Narrative War poems are examples of Narrative poems about War. These are the best examples of Narrative War poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Narrative | |

Gold Star

I remember as a young boy, going out to play, I would sometimes see old Mr. Kimball, sitting on the steps of his porch, often reading the paper. World War II was in full swing so the newspapers and radios were avidly sought out for the latest news.  Mr. Kimball was a fireman, and probably not even that old, but he seemed that way to me.

Sometimes, he would invite me to sit with him and we would talk about everything and nothing.  I loved spending time with him because, he was the only grown up I knew that took the time to entertain the mind of a young boy.

In his front window hung a small flag. It had a red border surrounding a white field, upon which there were two blue stars.  I was always curious about it, so I asked him what it was.  He said “It's a Sons in Service flag.  One star for each son serving.  You remember my boys don't you?”  I did of course.  Chuck, the oldest, used to tease me, calling me a sissy to get a reaction.  Bobby was a couple of years younger, and the bike I was riding once had been his.

Mr. Kimball went on to explain how Chuck was now in the Army and fighting in France.  Bobby was in the Navy, aboard a ship somewhere in the Pacific.  He didn't say it, but I'm sure he was worried about both, communications being what they were back then.

One day, when I was walking over to see him, I noticed that the flag had changed.  It now carried one blue star, but the other one was gold.  With the innocence that comes of being a child, I asked what the gold star meant.  He quietly said “It means Chuck is coming home”, and without further comment, he turned and went in the house.

A couple of days later, I saw a hearse pull up to the Kimballs house, and four men carry a flag draped box up the porch steps.  That is the moment the meaning of war came to a small boy.  I knew Chuck was home.


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Scars of Love- A True Valentine Story

War leaves scars. They are emotional. They are physical. They are spiritual.

My brother had proposed to my sister-in-law on Valentine's Day, and so it was on that fateful day, 12 years later that his and her lives would change forever.

My brother had invited his wife to the posh Phonecia Hotel in Beirut for a cosy romantic lunch date while their three kids were in school. They decided to sit at a table facing the window so they could see the beautiful view outside. They could see the azure sky touching the Mediterranean in the distance.

At first, they sat opposite each other, but feeling amorous, my brother asked Pam to sit next to him. She was facing the glass window. 

During the meal, as they chatted, little did they know that a very important government official was passing on a street close by and that this event would mark them forever. 

"On 14 February 2005, Rafic Hariri, the former Prime Minister of Lebanon, was killed, along with 21 others, when explosives equivalent of around 1,000 kilograms of TNT (2,200 pounds) were detonated as his motorcade drove near the St. George Hotel in Beirut."

This was only a short distance from where my brother and his wife were having their Valentine meal. The glass window imploded when the car bombs detonated, and my brother and his wife were thrown off their chairs.  They were soaked in blood and for a while, found it hard to see or know what had happened. They were in a daze. The extensive bleeding was caused by the shards of glass they had been peppered with as the floor to ceiling glass imploded. They looked at each other and the ghastly sight was more than they could take. 

In the mayhem that ensued, they were able to make their way outside the building with other injured people. Eventually, an ambulance rushed then to the nearby American University Hospital. It was nearby because my brother taught in the Business Department of the American University of Beirut, so they had decided to have a quick lunch in the nearby vicinity.

Extensive work was done on both their faces. My sister-in-aw had a tooth knocked out from the force of the impact as she was thrown to the ground. Her injuries were more obvious as she had been sitting facing the glass. Up to this day, my brother sometimes has pieces of glass make their way to the surface of the skin on his face, and he has to pull them out. That's how deeply they became embedded.

When later asked if they wanted cosmetic surgery done to cover up the zig zag scars on their faces, my spunky Canadian sister-in-law replied, "Why should we? This is part of our history, of what we have been through, and it gives us a great story to tell."

I wish I were as brave as she is. The three children had a hard time seeing their parents in this state. Pam had to stay in intensive care for a while and when the kids finally did get to see her, Dylan, the middle child, burst out crying and said, "Mama, I don't like what's happened to your face."

This is life in Lebanon. We have lived through the war. We have survived. We have scars that tell the stories. I have written a full article on this, and will post a few excerpts later. 

We live in a spiritual battlefield. Christ came to rescue us, the wounded and the dying. He CHOSE to walk into the war zone. Jesus carries the scars in his hands and in his side of that rescue mission. He carries these marks for eternity, a sign of His great love and passion for us and for our salvation. He came to rescue the hostages of war....and "by His stripes, we are healed."

Isaiah 53: 5- 

But he was pierced for our transgressions,
    he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on him,
    and by his wounds we are healed


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Old Soldiers

He sits in a wheelchair pushed to the curb.  The people around him move aside to assure he is able to see.  His shrunken body  a shell of what it used to be.  His breathing labored, aided by the tube that extends from the oxygen tank attached to his chair.  On his head, he sports a blue campaign cap with VFW stitched in gold.  He is one of America's finest, come to pay his respects.

Behind him stands a younger woman who has guided him there.  A daughter perhaps, fussing over him, adjusting the robe in his lap, assuring his comfort.  He shows no resistance to the attention, but simply sits and waits.
  
In the distance drums are heard, soon to be joined by the sound of horns.  A stirring march riffles over the crowd, and an electricity grips their senses.  Soon the call of cadence is heard. The measured tramp of boots, perfectly in time with the music. It grows louder until at last, a military formation looms into view.  Uniformed soldiers, marching in perfect rows, perfect columns, gleaming boots, ribboned chests, weapons at rest on their shoulders.  The crowd stirs.  Small flags are waved.  Cheers erupt.  Pride hangs thick in the air.

The color guard approaches.  Banners held high, snapping in the breeze.  Some spectators remove their caps while others cover their hearts.  Children, hoisted to their fathers shoulders, clap in excitement.

The old man tugs at the woman's sleeve and motions for her to come closer.  She leans down and listens as he speaks, then asks "are you sure"?.  He nods his head.  Walking to the front of the chair, she removes the robe and, grasping his outstretched hands, pulls him slowly to his feet, where he stands with her assistance.  Those around him watch as the frail, stooped body, with some difficulty, stands more erect.  They see the pain etched on his face, and the tear that escapes his eye as he offers a salute as the flag passes by.

Suddenly, the cadence count stops, and in it's place is heard a command .  A command  normally reserved for when passing a reviewing stand.  "Company, eyes right" the guidon bearer bellows, and with that, he returns the aging veterans salute, a sign of respect for an old soldier.  After all, it is his flag.  It is his country.  He bought them both many years ago.


Bob Quigley
Jan 10, 2012


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Battle Scars

Don’t judge that kid with her arms all scarred
Don’t brand that kid as bad
You never would have survived 
If you had the life she had
So say a prayer and show you care
She’s paid more than her share of dues
Don’t put her down or say bad things
Until you’ve walked that mile in her shoes
Those who suffered in war earn respect
They are greeted like super stars
She came from a war you wouldn’t understand
On her arms, the battle scars
Her own home was the battle zone
The desperation, feeling all alone
A situation she felt no escape from
Then late at night the urges come
Innocence lost like a bad dream
No self respect, no self esteem
It is an ongoing battle to feel whole
You can see the beauty within her soul
Sometimes I pray for a Judgement day
You have no heart if you look away
Flashbacks come and the anger stirs
The guilt she carries isn’t hers
There is a need for justice long past due
A need for acceptance from me and you
With anger, despair and fear demanding
The child needs some understanding
In spite of all the tears she cried
There are still battle scars deep inside


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WAR- A Cherita suit

Terrified in a corner She screams Hearing the rockets Exploding Shattering her heart Once more... They shake Their heads not accepting Is happening again Forced to move out They leave their homes With no place to go The horrors of war Are just to many To count No food, no water No help Just missiles Destruction and death Piles stacked up Of smoking debris Mangled bodies Carried out Breathing no more Innocence In their eyes Long gone Just horror And pain for those Children to witness A treated of Peace That can't never work For a long time Permanent Peace Only till Jesus Returns! Dorian Petersen Potter Aka ladydp2000 Copyright@2014 10.12.2014


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Dusk

Dusk covered the land
Like a million blankets the sun blackened
The dawn of the fiends has come
The imps arise from black holes

Thick dark smokes engulf the land
Red rivers of marred blood run freely
Hyena’s laughs and cries so vivid
Flimsy hopeless screams fill the night

 Police sirens nowhere heard
All victims of the diabolic demons
The flattery head men are quiet
The dreaded gloom has no march!

The denizens of slums asphyxiated
The fierce fires devour their huts
Mothers and babies murdered in cold blood
Justice slapped on face with no utterance

Remnants of the paranoia, brave cowards
Would sneak and live to tell
Their seeds in songs and narratives
Who will burn the blankets of terror.


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Evacuation and Loss

The night shone for the full moon,
Sky brewing a coarse monsoon,
Bolted were windows, locked were doors,
The frequency of death frighteningly soared.
But who was this infant high upon the hill?
He denied the storm and just stood stone still,
Eyes shut like blinds and fingers dug into ground,
Felt he could move no muscle, for was sadly street bound.
Shutting his eyes, arms wrapped tight round
His skinny body, battered and browned
Praying for the sake of friends, family and all
However imaginary, he imagined them call
 “Boy, come to us we love you most”
“Our love for you is bigger than the Canadian coast”
“Do not cry, remember our love”
Joining their gaze in the beyond above,
He softly mumbled a song to forget,
The once daily song that was always a duet,
Alone on that hill without any feel,
Of an afterlife he finally accepted, wasn’t real
Tears met the floor, now bathed in yellow light,
As lightning struck him too quick to fright,
Child lay on the floor, dismembered and black,
Though his mouth was smiling and his happiness had come back,
As re-joined with family, head held high, 
He waved his tortured existence goodbye.
Hugging his mum and his dad the same,
Somehow put an end to the incessant rain,
The natives emerged from their homes, safe and sound,
The boy crying for happiness at the new life he had found.
Soul peering at his body, dead at age eleven,
Holding family’s hands they could finally pass on and join heaven. 
The touch of their skin brought old emotion,
 Parents who were torn betwixt war and devotion,
A child whom they gave their best shot,
By train to board and bomb to not.
The grave of the boy with the electric crown,
Who carried a burden he couldn’t live down,
Stood proud in the yard of cobbles and stones,
For everyone knew those were a heroes bones,
When you look into the sky on a stormy night,
Remind yourself of the boy’s plight.
As he is the clouds that damper weather,
Out to protect his town, children altogether,
He wanted a life for them around,
That didn’t consist of being mentally wound,
A life that he could never possess,
But he did not bathe in spiralling depress.
Life is sacred, upon that hill,
Those cobbles and stones bring great goodwill,
For the sun only shines on that grassy land,
Still holding marks of the boy’s humble hand,
Some say that the yearly rain,
Is him up above, the tears of a chain.
The chain of the tears shed on that night,
Of the fear and happiness’ conventional recite,
Up above, being tucked under the covers,
Is a little boy with an injury he recovers,
Mother kisses his head and says her goodnight,
Father over bed, comforting a nightmare fright.
Drifting off, the boy could hear,
A little rhyme to calm his fear,
“Boy, come to us we love you most”
“Our love for you is bigger than the Canadian coast”
“Do not cry remember our love-“
The young man rose slowly in his bed,
Opened his eyes and smiled as he said
“I’m here”


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The USS Indianapolis

It was in July of 1945 
  And the USS Indianapolis
Had a crew of nearly 12 hundred alive
  But a Japanese sub fired and did not miss
 
American sailors had completed their job
  Delivering parts for the first atomic bomb
Some sank with the ship, others in the sea did bob
  No food, few lifeboats, ocean deceptively calm

Surprise attack, no distress signal had been sent
  It was four days later those floating were spotted
The survival rate was just 25 percent
  With hundreds of sailors’ bodies the sea was dotted
 
In the movie “Jaws” as Captain Quint had related,
  “The sharks came cruisin'. So we formed into tight groups.”
Six men per hour were killed while for help they waited
  All were lost but 316 Navy troops

Some victims died of exposure or starvation
  But far more were killed by the sharks that had attacked
These men lost their lives in service to our nation
  But bomb parts delivered had a deadlier impact

One of the last ships that was sunk in World War II
  The Indianapolis had turned the war’s tide
With a mission carried out by a courageous crew
  Victory was soon celebrated by allies worldwide



This is an entry for the History Poems contest


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New Start for Captain Mazy

Wading through flooded streets as hurricane rain poured
A man fell into the flow when sharp thunder roared
As a journalist reporting live from the scene
I saw lightning crack through the sky, heard the man scream

“Is he homeless?” I asked the emergency crew
The director shook his head; the answer he knew
“He lives in our park now, but served in Vietnam
He saved his entire unit from the Viet Cong.”

The team pulled him from the gutter to the shelter
I brought him tea, forgot I was a reporter
I asked why he’d screamed, his memory seemed hazy
“Did you hear the bombs drop?” asked Captain Bob Mazy

The emergency director took me aside
“We call him Crazy Mazy,” he did confide
He suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder
Can’t live with the lives he took following orders.”

When Hurricane Kate passed o’er the Gulf Coast
I’d seen much destruction, but remembered Mazy most
His story I broadcasted and vets contacted me
The donations poured in; so many gave freely 

Soon we’d accumulated twenty-five grand
Just enough to buy Mazy an acre of land
Then people from his home state gathered one weekend
To build him a home, much effort they expended

Several social workers set up counseling services
To meet all his needs, everyone made concessions
Local stores gave him clothing, food, even a job
No longer “Crazy Mazy,” he was now just Bob

A gentle man who soon overcame all his fears
On Memorial Day, he was greeted by cheers
Accolades he’d never heard when he returned from Nam
But attitudes had changed and people’s hearts had warmed


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God Is Not A Murdering Maniac

This is to those idiots leaving their own countries
to join terrorist organizations in foreign lands.
Religion is not very difficult to understand.
God is not a murdering maniac! God is love!
The Devil is a murdering maniac!
I know you stupid fools who think being a terrorist
is a good thing to be are the dumbest of the over seven billion souls
currently living on earth but even you damn ignoramuses
should have enough active brain cells to understand this one simple fact:
God Is Not A Murdering Maniac!


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The Angel Of Death

As I walk this earth 
Bare and broken
Blood soaked and driven
My soul in supernova
My mind, frenzied.

My body bruised
My sword well used
Nostalgic, 
Breathing in fresh paint 
From beaten bodies and torn souls 

Sudden movement
A quivering soul
A careless action
My attention
To hold. 

A smile drapes
Bearing into my soul
The world disappears
My deathly hunger
Implores.

Slow and pleasuring 
Each clink of steel 
Warms my heart 
Sweetly,
Mending my soul

First blood, 
A lonely bead 
Inviting my wrath
It trickles 
No warning sold.

Teasingly, it lays in waiting 
Pulling me closer
Lonesome 
Begging almost 
To bring more 
  
An abyss, 
It draws my victims in 
Craving, wanting, yearning 
To feel bloodied flesh 
Broken 
Against my skin
Irrevocable
A fear, I sense 
Another victim to claim

Pleasure streams 
Anticipating
Envisioning,
Blood oh glorious blood
My eyes feeling, each soul I’ve claimed

A vulture stalking its prey 
Bloodthirsty
Yet again
Imperative, a mission
Deep wanting, to quench

Valiance, a virtue, I dare not detest  
Submissive, he glares eye to eye
His being laid not to rest

Unsteady, yet giving.
My hands he guides to my sword
Thrilling me more 
A kiss so chaste
My heart explodes

Like a child 
I revel, 
Rapture so pure 
Beautifully he whispers 
“Be a sinner no more 

Take my soul
Gruesomely, I beg 
Treasure the blood
That my body 
So willingly sheds 

Your craving 
To sate 
I was born to the earth
Release your demon 
Release it form its depths 

Stay hidden no more
Bare, naked, run free
Believe it not a disease
But a gift 
As I see.

Unsheathe your sword
Glorious, shall it gleam
Purified, ready 
Through my heart 
Shall it go.” 

Ecstatic,
Pleasure shudders through me.
A kiss I lay 
Goodbye, my dearest 
Your debt has been paid.

By
Amanda Miller 
{This is to a new friend , a faceless being 
that brings out the person hiding in me }


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Embattled

They burst forth and charge downwards
Matching uniforms shiny against the grey sky
Their only desire to smash suicidally upon our ranks
We hear the thunder of them coming, and carefully prepare
The vanguard already lie smashed upon the ground
The rest will soon swell the regiments of the defeated
Moments before they arrive we deploy our umbrellas
Countless warriors smash harmlessly inches above our heads
Their watery remains dripping from our defences
Mingling with those of their already fallen brethren







Contest : FALL YOUR CHOICE any theme/any form max 12 lines
Honorable Mention


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Misguided Symphony

He composes talons as men walk into the fire

Twisted hatred inspired in fountains of meat

A self propelled corruption of delusion

Raining sheets of copper sparks 

Blind knives open sand whipped architecture

Two breeds of darkness, light engulfed

Dystopian bred ignorance swallowing rage

Fluctuating temperaments shroud utopia


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WRITE TO OUR HEROES: CONTEST

rolling in the dirt weighed down
strays every where and nowhere to hide
no will to die but the guys with you before yourself
crawling around in a foreign land sweating a gallon of wet

you can hear the whiz of war planes in the air
think back to the ships sending them there
most important the other men before yourself
How long as it been since you've seen your child
if you live will he understand be proud of dad
your daughter sweeter than life
do you miss her hugs 
you know you're everything to her
you dominate her dreams

i want you to know as i sit here with you on my mind
as i sit here with my daughters because of your sacrifice
my heart wants to burst and rejuvenate your spirit bright
how do i thank all the soldiers who defend our democracy
thank you for everything you afford me
when even one of you dies a little bit of me dies too

i know no matter how empathic i am
i will never really no how bad war is
you are the soldier brave
with your face against the wind
so let me say this. 
thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you
from every pore I possess
thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you
from every vessel in my heart
thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you
from every drop of my blood
thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you

before you get back on this side 
we are doing everything we can
make sure on your return
there will be people to take care of your needs
do everything we can and more
just one last thing
thank you.

Maurice Yvonne
September 1 2014
Mystic Rose-Contest


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The Weapon To End All Weapons

  
 

To the fighting men and women and to all military personnel,
   I only want to wish for you safety and God keep you well.
We are proud of what you do and you are always in our thoughts and mind,
   I am working on a weapon too that when you shoot someone with it they turn 
from mean to kind.
My Mean To Kind (M.T.K.) weapon is nearly done.
   I’m in a hurry so I can produce enough for everyone.
Just point my M.T.K. and zap them once or twice.
    The more the zap the more the nice.
No more blood will either side ever let,
     Maybe just an honest days worth of sweat.
How cool will that be to finally bury the grudge,
    And sit down with your enemy over a hot chocolate sundae with fudge.
Instead of a hateful staring glare,
   Just zap him once and end warfare.
Heck I may just zap myself again,
    I’ll zap you too and you can be my friend.


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The Game {Narrative}

Two giants stare into each other’s eyes
Each out to prove that he is more wise
The battlefield is broken down into squares
The moves are recorded to keep the war fair
The armies line up in parallel lines
Each solider a piece of timeless design
The pawns look across and each of them know
When it comes to sacrifice there the first to go
But that is ok for this is their place
Better to die for their King then live in disgrace
Each pawn is driven or so it would seem
Reach the end of the board and answer your dream
The Castles stand at the corners of it all
For the true defense is found in their walls
The Knights have their own special move
They will pick you apart if they fall in their groove
Next to the Knights the Bishops pray
Asking the Lord to guide their way
The Queen is the most powerful as it’s always been
For she holds the hearts of all of her men
Next to the Queen the King stands with pride
For he has an army and a giant on his side
Two armies collide each seeking the fame
Of placing a W next to their giants name


I picked war to place this under
because I had no idea what to put 
it under. open for suggestions. 


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Always My Baby

As I think back to yesterday, 
my vivid recall of your days of play.

I can still see you laughing as you ride your bike,
and all those expressions for the things you liked.

Now you are a man, and you stand so proud,
as you salute your commanders among the crowd.

Soon you will leave me for a far a way land,
filled with violence, and miles of sand.

Your dream has always been, to serve, and protect,
my son so proud of his country, with no regrets.

I pray for your safety, while wiping my tears,
your only nineteen, I can't hide my fears.

So tomorrow you will leave me, and your dreams fulfilled,
but you will always be my baby, and my life you thrilled.


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Paratrooper's Gracious Descent—Mother Earth Below

It was the day I wanted the most
Yet dreaded as the worst,
Seeing the jumpmaster’s eyes
Way up there in the sky,
Waiting for the scream
“This is a paratroopers’ dream
Stand in the door—lean and mean!”
C130 paratrooper’s Jet, 1500 feet above earth
M16 Weapon by my side, ready to hit the dirt 

Knees bent as a dog’s leg on the ledge
Crackling nerves on screeching edge
Cotton dried mouth like a Sahara’s wedge
Soldier before me threw up his lunch
Stomach flipping—fear gripping  
Paratrooper’s static lines scraping, moving
Shinny brand new paratrooper’s boots 
Shivering to a shuffling groove
Trembling to its new roots

Cold palms slippery from sweating
Camouflaged face twitching like electric shocking
Eyes like a road map dredged with red
Boots shuffling towards the elliptical edge
Heard the jumpmaster’s words 
“Go, go, go—jump soldier!”
I felt like a lonely hanging leaf 
Growing from the side of a cliff
Just dangling in the breeze
Like a trapeze with distance in between

The moment of truth arrived
Saw the green paratrooper’s light
Heard the Jumpmaster’s voice—“Go!”
Cannonball leap into the rushing breeze 
Wings of angels—still praying all the more
One thousand…two…three…four…
Parachute opened above—“Puff!”
Then I knew from the Lord
As I descended safely below
I am still His beloved!




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Life

Life 
Arabic Poem by: Riyadh Al-Ghareeb*
 Translated into English by: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
 ================================
 
It was not his idea 
He did not wave to the sundown of his life
Quite simply, he let life go by 
He was the only one who did not care about the war 
Rather, he listened to music 
And wrote poems 
While 
Shells were falling all around him.. 
Not once, he thought about death 
Nor he paid attention to getting old in the mirror 
All that he cared about
Was a woman he imagined loving him
And waiting for someone who may come back 
Carrying a small snippet 
Emblazoned with the script 
From extreme madness “
 To... “
He lived in his illusion
Even as he became a poet. 
When his life was clotting
And nightfall of life was waving to him
He realized
All that was going on around him 
Was not his choice 
And the life he encountered 
Was not his life.. 
So, 
He tried to get rid of his blue beard
And bitter tears 
Near the nearest war 
of his country’s 
A country that has become 
Addicted to wars.
 
He let his hair grow long 
His dark skinned face
Was on the verge of revealing nightly starvation
At noontime, his children were panting 
After a lifeless Dinar..
His final poem
Was laden with the grief of the world 
But that world did not care about what was going on..
In his only room 
The smell of onions mixed
With the smell of the empty pots; 
Hanging onions 
Was the most beautiful memory in a country 
Without memory 
It's his life 
That he wanted to be 
A part of his ration card, 
His birth record
And the rest of his poems. 

“Woe to the ruin!” 
He said
Removing the dust from a painting of him
Made, in a stolen moment, 
By a painter who died two wars ago.
He was laughing 
And holding a drink with an innocent cheer
As, above his head, birds in the somber colors of the sky were flying
Suggesting the he was important 
And his life was of interest to others. 
He flicked his tears 
And on the tile of his room floor
He saw wars reproduce, 
He saw his children go to a new war 
He saw his wife coughing her years 
Painful looks
And said to himself 
That life 
Was not my idea 
It is a naive game.
However 
Let me keep on this road 
At the end, I may find paper 
For my friends to wrap me with
Like the oldest statue 
Standing on the way of passers-by 
And the country!!!!!! 
---------------
 Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
 USA
 * Riadh Al-Ghareeb is a poet from Iraq


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ROAD TO FSLT

                                                                                                        written:may/30/2009
You must go,yes!
 
Go against slumber,
 
When even early birds ignore worms,
 
But the falling thorns purnish gurus
 
As the roaming anti-mother blanket kills faint gurulings.
 
Here we march marshals,
 
Along grumbling swift paces,we shall!
 
Walking-yarn appetises expectations,
 
Since many paths leads to the road.
 
Diverging to coverge,we must!
 
As swarming of the apocalyptic plague of the book,
 
Brushing along all along that belongs,
 
Into the shipping tower,we all plunge.
 
Now blinking sea-eyes of a naked mind,
 
All beholding spoons for a bloodless war.
 
Its too late to retrieve and hot to hold.
 
An often dreaded monster you face,
 
Must in "Government call" retire.
 
Yes! warm to hum,
 
like a soldier into war,
 
triumphant but not victorious.
 
When asked why? we say,
 
this is the ROAD TO FSLT.
 
                         BY:TUTUOLA MICHAEL


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Christmas Rebels (2).

But night’s bell came with tears and without love,
As our bamboo door talked,
“KNOCK! KNOCK!!”
Before my voice could speak,
Legs ruined down my door,
Then eyes in different heights
In the starry night like 
Torch lights… attacked 
Me with their voices.
They came in mass,
Some brandishing cutlass,
Some matchets, guns and arrows.
Gang upon gangs,
Displaying their flags,
Blood stained, tattered, hair, shaggy.
They held human heads for their 
Oracles of war.
They were muttering songs as if 
Forced to sing,
They had leaves and grasses in the 
Middle of their mouths, they were mostly teens, 
They were the Hausa rebels… 
“Wait! Wait!! Wait!!!
Where are the bells?
Is this day not Christmas?”
I was asking myself,
A short tick man came out of the mass,
Not looking like human,
He looked backed at the rest,
Feeling like the best.
He weakened my hear drums 
By the manner of his question,
“Hausa or Birom?”.
To send my religion to the bottom?
Whom for this day, is Christmas? 
And sweet Messiah’s Calvary at Golgotha?
I wasn’t prepared for that, 
So the truth came out like a blast
“Birom!!”.
“Yee! Yee!! Yee!!!
Enemy tribes” they shouted 
Like savage talking drums.

(To be continued in the next, same Poem).


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THE HOLLYWOOD RANGER

Their lived a man once upon a time in Hollywood
Who in peace and war his glory stood
Reaching by far his story could
For he was known to share holy food 
From a holy book in Hollywood

Always alone he used to be
With his broad sword no enemy was left free
He could slash and shriek zubb zubb like a bee
And took a holy book and said, ‘Lord forgive me.’
And finally admitted this is how it’s suppose to be

He went to the coast to enjoy the calm see breeze
And watched immigrant ships telling him to freeze
 He killed people who had pads on their knees
And preached to those who has none of these
And could finally pray as usual in the breeze

He stood for all joy and stood for anger
For he had to use both his book and his panga
As they both worked on people to kill their hunger
He gave a wait to his finger
Which pointed at the book to kill the anger

For his missions he never was late
I don’t know how because there were no calendars to tell the date
Nor clock to tell the time, but sunrise and sunset
When he hunted his need until he would get
And his book and sword was used on time, never late

He was known to be a Hollywood ranger
Who could welcome any stranger
Whether for peace or war he was ready for any danger
On Christmas he used to sing away in a manger
And he was ready to preach and fight as a ranger

Stories were flying about adventures of him
But publishers were scared to publish his film
Nor light on him could beam
For they were afraid of his team:
The holy book, the sword, and him

Now you may wonder how I’m writing about this man
It’s neither because I have a gun
Nor because I’m able to run
But it’s because he passed away and he’s done
And every creature in Hollywood remembers this man.


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New Year- New Bomb Blast

     On December 7, 2013 a bomb blast killed former Lebanese Minister, Mohammad Chatah and several others. Less than an hour ago, another bomb blast took place in the Dahieh area in Beirut. My husband is away....my daughter is out at a friend's house, and I'm sick to my stomach of not knowing......where is safe, where can we go? This is the latest Post on FB by a student of mine showing a picture of the explosion. "New Year....New Bomb." 

     I'm tired of this. I'm tired of the rest of the world turning a blind eye. I'm tired of feeling guilty because I'm in my nice warm house and there are Syrian refugees living in tents. There are little children dying of the cold. I'm tired of hearing of the blood of martyrs being spilled. I'm tired of hoping and wishing for peace for this country and knowing....it will NEVER be. I'm tired.

    I'm tired of reliving fear. Tired of worrying about the safety of my brother who lives in the downtown area where all the political figures have their mansions. I'm tired of hearing him talking about some embedded glass shard working its way out of the skin of his face...even now. He and his wife were injured in the bomb blast that killed Prime Minister Rafic Hariri years ago, scarring their faces for life.

I'M TIRED OF THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I AM TIRED...

Eileen M Ghali


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VIOLATED

 HELP! HELP!
 She is sinking,
 Sinking into the abyss of despair.
 Her brain is striken And her mind is stifled.
 She has been enervated.
 Her integrity is being manipulated,
 Irrationality acts as spring board to moral decadence,
 Opacity then entangles her efficiency
 While her eminence sleeps.
 She became vulnerable.
 Poor thing, she is raped, maimed and looted.
 Has she not been violated?
 Does her plight warrants a revolution?
 However, she demonstrated.
 She shrilled,
"No!", "No!"
 She pleaded with her predators.
 All these were to no avail
 Her future seems gloomy
 As the predators succeeded in orchestrating yet another tragedy.
 Engulfed in this evident realm of adversity.
 She sits and ponders
 With tears flooding her miserable cheeks.
 She then cried,
 HELP! HELP!
 I am sinking,
 Sinking into the abyss of despair.


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After the Liberation

General Eisenhower was a man of foresight
General Eisenhower had photographs taken
because he knew that evil is eternal
because he knew that Satan is immortal
because he knew someday some would deny
that it ever happened....


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The World War II Years



For what's it's worth, here's my recollection Of my young years growing up in Canada in the 40s Right off the bat, you may think the war years Were difficult for me and my family With rationing of food and the everyday necessities of life I remember my dad dividing up our food in the pantry And when we used up our share of a certain item like butter Before the next allotment, we did without This may sound difficult to believe This is my recollection... but it wasn't that much of a hardship This self-imposed rationing was a voluntary thing No ration police breaking down our door to check us out As a young lad, they were exciting times The good guys against the bad guys We were too young to realize this wasn't a game People of all ages were dying horrible deaths It all seemed so distant, so far away Even though a couple of German U-Boats were detected A far distant inland down the St. Lawrence River My memory of that momentous day when both wars ended Was an overwhelming feeling of joy and exultation Passed down from the celebrating adults We in Canada didn't have it bad But let's all hope and pray that cooler heads prevail And we don't have another one that could be a war to end all wars A cataclysmic event so devastating It would end life on earth as we know it! © Jack Ellison 2014


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Guess I'm Just Old Fashioned



Love, love, everywhere And still not a drop to spare Will someone please explain to me Why we humans, who were originally meant to love Continually wage war Am I delusional, living in my own little world Oblivious to the way of us humans People blowing themselves up on a daily basis And taking innocent people with them And for WHAT??? That my friends is sick, utterly insane Maybe that's it... these people are deranged Love, love, everywhere And not a day goes by when it seems The top news story is how many were killed today By these lunatic extremists Guess I'm just an old fashioned dude © Jack Ellison 2014


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Blame The Devil

Blame the devil for the 298 murders:
those poor lost souls who were aboard
flight MH17 in the clear blue skies
far above the nation of the Ukraine.
The evil old serpent we call Satan
has taken human form and calls himself
Vladimir “Vlad The Mad Cad” Putin.
He is the same soulless stone-hearted beast
he always has been but is far uglier than
anyone could have ever imagined even in
the most nightmarish dreams of our youth.
The devil indeed lives among us and he is
out for more blood, including yours and mine.


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Little Irish And Big Ski

Little Irish and Big Ski
were both better soldiers than me.
Everyone had a nickname
and nobody’s was the same.
Mine was JayJay, I don’t know why,
probably because it didn’t belong to another guy.
Little Irish was a short stocky joke telling Irishman
and Big Ski was a tall skinny Polack from Chicagoland.
We served in a war zone we called “The Nam” so very long ago
where everyone looked the same, be they friend or be they foe.
I made it back home alive and well,
          except for nightmares forever in my head.
Not so Little Irish and Big Ski,
          both my good buddies have been a long time dead.


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Gone With The Wind

We sat next to one another in class
from the first to the third grade.
Her name was Jennifer Penelope.
She preferred to be called Jen.
I instead called her Jenny Penny just because
that was the way I was way back then.
Both of our fathers were in the Air Force.
War broke out in some place called Korea.
Jenny Penny’s father was sent off to Guam
and my father was sent off to Japan.
Her mother took her back to her home state of Ohio
and my mother, my sister and I went back to Louisiana.
Puff! Poof! Abracadabra! Puff! Poof! Alakazam!
Jenny Penny and I were both gone with the wind.