Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Prose Poetry War Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About War

These Prose Poetry War poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about War. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry War 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 | Prose Poetry | |

A Girl From Darfur

I can show you where the brimstone sun has no remorse,
and where devils on horseback, have burned our homes, have pillaged our farms.
A killing spree,   the drum of guns, some tried to flee, but died,... each one.
The screams, I dream! Oh, the cries........the cries....... 
I try to mute the sound of them
For...,  I was there, I hid in fear,  was somehow spared, but now I look for 
something, ...something, ...something, here, ...someone to care.
A bit of food, a bit of shade, such bitter taste is in my mouth
A world of hate. To have no shoes,...a walking ghost.....
a blistered soul, I have no hope....  but nothing, nothing left. 
My eyes are blurred, and fires burn, a heavy world, shouts out despair.

Where are the flowers that used to bloom, where are voices, that once I knew?
There are no flowers here...just flies, in waist-deep dust, and a hot orange sun,
that coughs up sounds of fear and guns, and swords and words against my ears, I 
live in fear with no one here. 
I'm just a girl,  or at least I was....    for just a while.

I was defiled, when found by one
He spared my life, but did not see, I'd rather die than be this girl, who feels the 
shame in being free.
I once had a mother, I once had a father, I once had a brother who made me smile
Where did spirits, lift and go, when the devils on horseback came to kill? Spilling 
blood as if for fun?  For thrill? For what? 
Where were the Gods? Where are the ones who turn their heads?
In desert's dust with blood red crust.  They poisoned our wells, burned out our land, 
ravished and raped, and relished their brand......, 
nomads came, leaving shame, evil and horror came like rain.
Janjaweed, the name, I cannot say... I live with shame, a world, insane
I try to sleep, but I cannot........I can't forget and I am lost, the cost too much,
a swollen tongue and calloused feet,  across a land of bleached white bones
Alone, alone,....lost and done...a vanished one sees me  
There are no flowers, there are no trees, 
Famine as my lone companion, a pool of mud a home to stay,
Life drains out more every day, my belly eyes are parched,
and I can't tell
if I'm alive, or if I'm dead, dried up tears are what I shed....
Where are the flowers for my head? I've been scorned, 
all I have, and all I see is wind and rain, sorrow and pain
thorns, and dust, and a grave, that waits for me

Inspired By Cyndi's Challenge on Genocide 8/28/2014
Devils on Horseback – The Darfur genocide (ongoing) The Janjaweed (translated, 
devils on horseback) slaughter and rape the women, men and children of Darfur. As 
of today, 480,000 people have been “exterminated” and 2.8 million displaced.

Let's not turn our heads away from this, or from other atrocities being committed 
throughout the world.

Details | Prose Poetry | |



"I never travel without my diary, one should always have something sensational to read . .
 . " Oscar Wilde, 1891 

Tues    May  9:   
Just when I was busy with plans for Russia, Rudolf Hess dropped by with  crazy notion of
flying to UK for peace.   Said he bought  some new boots yesterday   for the trip  - 
dead   shiny .  I’d like a  pair like that.    I told him  -  forget the trip   and tell
me where you got the boots. 

Wed     June 22:     
Invaded Russia.   Eggs for lunch  -  hard boiled again -  I hate that. Must speak to Eva
about it.

Thurs    June 23:      
11:00  am - heard Chamberlain on radio again – that dreary voice!  that paper-waving 
droopy-moustached  old gopher!   My small black moustache  is much neater.     
12:30 pm -   inspected new bunker in East Prussia  with smoother concrete walls .   Eva
wants  to wallpaper  them    (nice little red flowers) and why  not?    
8:00pm -  after dinner,  practised  arm-gestures for  big Nuremburg speech  on Saturday. 
 Rehearsed a few ad libs. . . .  Eva liked them.

Fri    June24:      
Rained all day.   Slow day  (almost invaded Egypt) - stayed in and read.      Eva dyed her
hair  creamy-yellow.    ( I’m gonna start calling her Blondy.)           That new german
shepherd Bormann   gave me  -  I took her out for walk. . . . she's called Blondi  too  
 (Joke there  - the guys will like it) .   After dinner we all  listened to Franz Lehar’s
“Merry Widow” again.  I love it.   Eva fell asleep;    so did the dog.

Sat   June 25:   
Nuremburg speech went ok. Got all the ad libs in except one.    Rommel was on the phone
talking about Africa and Libya, and some place called Tobruk. Must make a note – where is
Tobruk? P.S. Must find out where Libya is.

Sat    Dec    6:  
Just read the latest in the newspapers....almost four million Russian prisoners  now.
Sun   Dec  7:  
Those crazy Japanese have  gone and done it. . . . oh  boy, they’re gonna be in trouble! 
Thurs   Dec 11:   
Oh, what the hell. . .  in for a dime in for a dollar :  this Russian war is too  easy,  I
need a bit of a challenge. Think I’ll whiz down  to the  Reichstag tonight  and tell ‘em
we’re declaring  war on the USA.    Might  get a pair of those shiny boots there too.  

Written by Sydney Peck  
for Constance La France ( A Rambling Poet )  -  Contest Name:  The Diary

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Estaba lleno el Verano /Der Sommer war voll/The Summer Was Full

Estaba lleno el verano,
Estaba lleno el verano
de flores, de deseos
como un espejo de cristáles azules,
reflejando los sueños 
y el suave color del cielo,
estaba lleno el verano
con nuestro amor.

El color de las casas 
antiguas de Oxford,
limpias como después
de una lluvia de leche,
blancas y maravillosas.

Estaba lleno el verano,
lleno de nuestro amor
y de canciones.
Estaba lleno el verano
de calles angustas y cerradas.

Estaba lleno el verano
de espuma, de murallas antiguas,
de música abandonada y olvida.

Estaba lleno el verano
y nuestro amor hize brillar
los sitios como la nieve
hace blanquear las estrellas
en noches de invierno.

Estaba lleno el verano,
lleno de nuestros deseos,
lleno de flores frescas 
de un paraiso extraño.

Estaba lleno éste verano,
lleno de abrazos y besos de nuestros corazónes.


Der Sommer war voll,
der Sommer war voll
mit Blumen, mit Wünschen
wie ein Spiegel aus blauen Kristallen,
der Wünsche wiederspiegelt,
der Sommer war voll mit unserer Liebe.

Die Farben der alten
Häuser Oxfords,
sauber, wie nach einem Regen
aus Milch,
weiß und herrlich.

Der Sommer war voll,
voll von unserer Liebe
und von Gesang.
Der Sommer war voll
von engen, verschlossenen Gassen.

Der Sommer war voll
von Schaum, altem Gemäuer,
von vergessener, verlorener Musik.

Der Sommer war voll
und unsere Liebe ließ die Plätze erstrahlen
wie der Schnee 
die Sterne erstrahlen lässt
in Winternächten.

Der Sommer war voll,
voll von unseren Sehnsüchten,
von frischen Blumen 
eines fremden Paradieses,
voller Umarmungen und voll der Küsse unserer Herzen.


The summer was full with
flowers and dreams
like a mirror of  blue crystals,
reflecting dreams
and the soft colour of  the sky.
The summer was full with our love.
The colour of the ancient houses of Oxford,
neat as after a rain of milk,
white and wonderful.
The summer was full 
With our love and songs.
The summer was full with 
narrow, crowded streets.
The summer was full with
the foam of old walls,
full of forgotten and old tunes.
Our love threw light over the sites,
like snow let shine the stars 
in winter nights.
The summer was full with our desires
and fresh flowers 
of an unknown paradise.
The summer was full 
with our kisses
and with our hearts.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Kilted Warrior

He stands proud and strong, this kilted warrior
head held high against the unending pain
of a heart born out of sadness
for the loss of those who came before him
and thoughts of those who would
continue on when he himself was no more.
Proud men one and all
vows made, till surrendered in death
to defend that which
was their birthright, the very land
upon which he now stood.
The call to battle though long since silenced
came from within his very heart and soul
blood of the ancient ones raged in his veins
his sword by his side...shield upon his back
he stood ready to charge into battle
to do what was expected of him since birth
to fight as those before him fought
without fear, but with a strength
only a battle hardened warrior
knew and understood.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mocking The Raven

When I was young, I would mock the raven,
Never dreaming her harsh call was a cry
Across the water to the castle of her brother
King Bram, the Raven, ruler of the British Isles.
Never did I dream of the destruction 
That would follow this desperate plea
Sent upon the wings of a blackened crow.

When I was young, I thought childhood
Would last forever; secure in my father's care,
Content in the loving arms of my mother,
Never did I dream of the devastating war
That would follow this messenger of our doom
Carried across the seas to inflict upon our land
A war of vengeful purpose and contempt.

When I was young, peace prevailed in our land;
Our King was just and beloved by his people.
Then came a marriage, an alliance between
Ireland and England.  Queen Branwen;
Discontent, lonely, hungry for power,
Hated by her court for the intrigue
And bloody sanctions imposed upon all
Who did not obey her sanctimonious whim;
Queen Branwen, beautiful daughter of England.

When I was young, I stood beneath
The blasted pine, looking up at the black bird
As she screamed out her litany of wrongs,
Watching as she lifted her wings to soar across the water.
My father, general of Ireland, fell upon the shores
Fighting to repel Bran's vengeful warriors;
My mother, condemned by her beauty
Fell among the vanquished women.

When I was young, I did not fear the raven;
Now I live in the court of the Raven King,
He, who conquered my people for naught as his sister
Queen Branwen, the White Raven, took her life
And walks now, shriven and pale, among the graves
Of the fallen warriors; forever singing her lament
Of sorrow and regret; far too late, far too late.

When I was young, I believed in the goodness of men.
Now I am old; my raven hair is streaked with silver.
The voice of Bran echoes through this palace
As he cries out exhortations to his conquering soldiers;
As he cries for peace and fellowship in his land.
When I was young, I would mock the raven;
Now I am old and have harnessed the power
Of the raven's call.  I cry to my people for vengeance;
I wait for their rescue, as I haunt the halls of the Raven King.

[Loosely based on the legend of Bran, the Raven King of England 
and Branwen, his sister, who was married to the king of Ireland.  
It is said that King Bran speaks still in England through the cries of the raven.]

{by Deb Radke -- written for the contest 'Among the Dead'}

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Son Kidnapped


                                         My Son Kidnapped

                       My story is thee only one I needed to write  
                     one year In captivity underground me and my son
                    days passed by we were prevented of food & water
  bombardments outside were heard, suddenly a militia ran towards my son kidnapped him to be killed running after him screaming his name I knelt to pray
         Oh my God without him I will die show him the way to come back
   sleeping on the floor one night I heard him call my name I knew he came       
                     we held each other tight our tears had no end.                                                                        
                                           Therese Bacha

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The soldiers` immortal job 
is urinating on the fence of the world.

By : Maithem Al-Atabi
Translated by :Laith Seher

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Quality of Mercy

A mouse doesn't ask for mercy from a cat. It can't meow the syllables.
Though its stomach is full, the cat, being unacqainted with mercy, will toy with a mouse. 
Does the tiny heart that beats to bursting point, feel eternity?.... while pinned to the floor by that mighty paw! Any soldier could tell you.

Suzanne Delaney

Details | Prose Poetry | |

As the Castle Fell

For every step I take toward the sun,
the spark that lit the fire inside me dwindles.
History slated on unforgiving stone erodes;
A weakly chiseled dream.
But I will remember it all,
and tongues shall breed these words
and hold them with intent.
Oh, how we have fallen!
Mighty and meek alike.
We were once just, and strong.
But greatness has cast down it's
poisoned banquet and corrupted hearts
that once bled for glory.
It is with a bitter tongue I speak these words!
Remember the reason we set foot outside
of our city gates.
Remember the certainty in your hearts;
that we men would give people hope!
Hope for life without malice.
Hope for a life of freedom!
A chance for prosperity!
                   ...but what prosperity have we given?
Short of the bountiful throng of arrows that have captured
the eyes of this land and left it's people in fear?
Does a just King rule with the might of fear?!
Or does a King rule with compassion?
I ask you men,
you loyal few.
What would you have me do?
Would you have me slaughter this woman;
this beautiful princess of her people and take her
home as a prize for conquest merely because her
husband was the one that stood in the way?
Is her beauty the cost of her life?
She has wronged not one of us,
and yet you Brakkdus scoff at the thought of
her surviving her King. Why?
Here I thought men of honor followed me,
I thought men of courage swung my blades!
And, yet you fear this woman who could no
sooner do you harm than your own from the
bed that you left her in!
No, Princess Xavia shall survive her King
and remain here with her people.
I refuse to conquer the land of a tyrant,
only to settle for it's fallen ruler's morality!
If that does not befit you, then surely I am not your King.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved
Princess Xavia's Response
I stand with humility before such valor
My people have borne
the burden of swords and arrows,
they are silent with fear and trembling before you
Which would be yours
to burden them with once again
yet you offer them freedom
and me my life...when you could shame not only me
but those who are entrusted to me
I would prefer to fall upon the blades of your men
than to become flesh passed amongst them
the destiny of a woman
who has became the chattel of a lost victory
My blood be shed before such shame
be cast upon me
Yet you.... you have offered me back my Kingdom
and restored my name
Gallant your soul in the shadow of such a night
beneath the dark stars
where only the flames of a burnt, ashen city
provide any warmth for my grieving people
You have offered them hope
through a frail vessel such as myself,
such honor is seldom written upon the hearts of men
in days such as these
Your compassion is a light in this darkness
these times inscribed with blood
such is this age,
when the voice of stones speak more gently
than the hearts of men
Dark are these days and black is the moon
of these nights,
in these lost reveries we journey through
dreams that have become nightmares
Yet strength has arisen in one man,
a leader who throws light back
at the fallen stars
granting the nights a moment of solace
for your honor has returned hope
a light stronger than blaze of the midday sun
And as I take back my broken people
we shall take refuge in your kindness and in that light of lights
shall we rebuild this Kingdom,
our sanguine ties shall bind us
and we will rise.
I gratefully accept my life
returned to me through your kind hands
And secretly, within a whisper
it is my prayer
that when I look upon your countenance
and the time comes
that I shall gaze into your eyes again
it shall be as the queen you have restored
to her throne and to her people
and who keeps quietly within the space between her heartbeats
and the hope that she will share her throne
beside yous
should you find her efforts and her heart
(c)  Katherine Wyatt 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Wasteful Generation

It all started so well-life that is, under the cloudy rainy skies, under the clear blue skies.
The masters had gone-hope bekoned-now we could do it ourselves, so we taught; we, the 
renaissance generation.
But alas, we tried too much, too soon. And before we knew it, the skies had turned crimsom red-
red from the blood of the fallen that the earth had taken.
We also lost our innonence because we taught we were ready and could do it better.
Realised we were not. But really the wasted generation? No, was the answer.
Or the lost generation? No, again.  Maybe, the wasteful generation.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cry Africa


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Come by the Sword Die by the Sword

The Bard of the Norseman
A warrior’s fame and for glory all Norseman live worthy of life
Worthy the Norseman with warring axe to victory and spilt Saxon blood
For spoils of the serpent’s lair lie across the whale’s road
Far from the girls in the houses they love
Seeking a quest these warriors of Oden -always the dream for a bard’s song
Now set sail upon a journey –a glorious adventure- a hunting do they go
Do steer the battered sea-steed adorned by dragon’s head and tail
Endure the breaker of trees from artic northern hail
Skid the waves and endure towards a foreign mystical shore
Below a pallid sky-candle and darkening gray dim light
Nebulous rains doth hinder the rudderman’s  impeded sight
Till at last the first oarsman peers across the misty horizon 
Mystical panorama- calls acclamation unto Oden- makes call of reached land
These feeders of ravens rave honor into Oden
Lord of the gallows hath made the glory of the elves to shine
Down upon warriors the sun makes glisten- their metal horn helmets and shields
Set afoot to feed the eagles-prey on either Christian or druid-with a wounding-hoe
Seeking untold fame and glory and carry back a dragon’s hoard load
To brighten the battle-sweat of those made conquered 
And sing unto Oden- tell their tales- make legends of victors
Believing Valhella's glory to come thus hunting they do go  
Doth all Norseman perform deeds of valor with axe victory and slaughter-dew
So did live the Vikings Danes Anglo Saxons who wore warded blue

Details | Prose Poetry | |

O! America Reverse

My opinions are changed, 
My heart lacks fervour, 
For you lunched the war, 
To liberate who are already free,
To enrich who are already rich, 
To make the fierce, more ferocious.

When will the time intrude you,
Make you see the brilliant aspect of the affair,
And humanity will sing the song of peace?
When will you peep into your inner-self 
To see the reflected image of you own?
When will you obey the divine commands
And make out them that God forbids pollution
Smog and fumes of turmoil wrapping His fair Earth?

 Now open your eyes
The shores are red; 
The lands are coated with blood,
The skulls are scattered like stones, 
For the sake of oil or the reserves of gold,
Be aware a single drop of   human blood 
Possesses more worth than all treasures
That the earth contains. 

Now stop killing; enough, enough, 
You neither surrender, nor do deprive others
Of the rights which the divine commands allow,
Go through the lanes with moderate bearing. 

Live like a benefactor among the nations, 
Share with them your victuals,
Stock of knowledge and skills,
And snatch them not of their own.
Return fathers to the orphans,
Husbands to the widows,
Brothers to the waiting damsels, 
And sons to the aged mothers,
If not then compensate them all,
For the broken hearts, shattered dreams.
Hatred against you thrives, 
Magma against you grows,
Let the volcano sleep, 
Beneath the layers deep, 
And only once apply,
The strategy of the weapon of love 
Discarding the old devices of uranium. 

The amount you spent on the arsenal 
Would have been enough to feed the world 
Though ten times bigger; 
If you had ruled the hearts,  
The world might have been a different place
Of love, peace and harmony. 

Through force your aims will never be gained,
So amend the ways and stroll on the route 
That enhances you in respect and esteem;
Review and revise the modes of actions,
 Follow not the path that leads the world
To the chaos, and on the point of no return,
For there will be a dark dungeon of curse,
O! America, for the sake of humanity reverse.  

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ousted by None but the Night

Ousted by None but the Night   
Arabic Poem by: Adnan Abu Andalus*
Translated by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_n_silk)

The dusty street is bare 
Darkness there and the horizon  
As if, the night was sprinkling fear
Nothing there
But a policeman followed like a ghost
A street cat  
A wailing ambulance 
All where time is open for running

Who would stroll in the range of bullets?
To come back in the morrow like a spinning top
Without a head?
 Who would walk alone?
 And fly off with the meekness of the past
 In Baghdad’s night?

Who would believe that AlZawraa held her lungs 
And ousted the breath of her patrons?
And that “Abu Nawas” replaced  
His last glass of wine
With a cup of black coffee?

Shahriar uttered it 
To protest shampoo ads!
Scheherazade wore the veil 
Bad boys of the night 
Shunned flirting with girls
In the Girls Street.
Translated December, 2012
 By: Em. Prof. Inam Al-Hashimi
* Adnan Abu Andalus is a poet from Iraq
from his poetry collection  “The Smell of Doomsday”

 1 Knowing some of the history of ancient Baghdad may be helpful in facilitating better understanding of the poem. Baghdad was famous as the center place of the “Arabian nights” or the "Thousand and One Nights Tales" where Scheherazade, night after night, told the king Shahryar a different tale of romance and adventure to keep him from killing her in the morning.. Ancient Baghdad, nicknamed "AlZawra’a", was known for receiving, with open arms. night-patrons in joy and without fear. The poem refers to the glamorous past of Baghdad in comparison with the grim and gloomy nights of modern Baghdad after the war. In doing so, the poem mentions some symbols of the past and historical figures from old Baghdad and the Golden Age of the caliph Haroun al-Rashid (died 809 AD), and presents them in images contrary to their characters. Such figures include the licentious poet “Abu Nuwas" who wouldn’t recite poetry without being drunk. And the afore mentioned Scheherazade and Shahryar.

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Santa Claus stripped off his beard and red suit 
And left the show in the officers’ mess
Pulling the last tiny pieces of cotton wool from his stubbled chin
As he ran to his position 

At the end of the starboard bow catapult of the Carl Vinson
Eighty feet above the stormy grey Arabian Sea     
He watched as far off down the flight deck 
The final touches manoeuvred the F22 into the cradle
Its ordnance today a hundred kilogram fragmentation device 
For a rebel bunker in Afghanistan an hour’s flying time away
A surprise delivery for them;
The salt wind whipped the last cotton from his face.

Then his thumb pressed the green all-clear button  
Engine screamed to maximum and the catapult released
The flying load into the grey sky. Another successful delivery.
He checked his area of the mechanism after the aircraft blurred past

And hurried back inside to finish his Christmas dinner
Merry Christmas Santa, they all yelled as he came in again.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life, Now A Blind Date: A Cry Against Boko Haram

How can geographic points for interaction and socializing become haram? Catching up with the flying time and constant upgrade in civilization process; these too are also haram? Is seeking knowledge and applying understanding haram too? Funny enough, a particular 'god' gives his affirmation to this way of stone age enslaving way of living. Females with males on the same platform is unthinkable and their significance and huge role in a modern society is so haram. 'must', 'force' and compulsion; their coat of arm. dialogue and democracy abominations and canal. In short, all are considered haram. Spoken words without submission; submission without worship and reverence; reverence not to a supreme called 'Allah' enough reasons, for death to shop on souls. Free will, liberty and freedom; worst of all, the right to live have now been considered haram. Even with such a babaric ideology They forget that....................................... the use of communicating devices is haram why use video clips and satellite cells instead of crows and birds? They forget that......................................... the use of bombs and weapons of mass destruction is haram. Why not use stones and bare fighting skills? Even the bow and arrow are invention of knowledge and science! They forget that............................................ machines and wheels are also haram. Why not use camels and horses? They forget that.......................................... the cotton and silk they wear are haram. Why not use leaves and animal skin? The same ideology they propagate is the same they contradict leaving them with absolutely no excuse and gross foolishness in committing these huge crimes against humanity. This is not a war, yet we have prisoners and girl slaves? We aren't in the battle field yet people are dying in mass and numbers? Holy smoke! This is the 21st century for goodness sake... yet we are compelled to live beneath stones and find warmth beside raw fires? Woe unto you, masters of terror! don't forget that after a time cycle another hour immediately begins. You'll be caught up with your deeds and the whole of nature will spit on your existence. Life has been sweet, mysterious and full of hope like an expectant mother. Even though you've succeeded in making it a blind date; we'll face the occasion with hope never giving up on the final sight of a beautiful new acquaintance.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Take a look at the picture books,
watch the news.
Read about it in the papers
the are fighting out of the blues.

Children are dying,
mothers are weeping
fathers are fighting
till this day i know not why.

Barbarians at the gate
pull up the draw bridge too much war.

Children are suffering
what happened to farming, making fine wine and chanting?
building fine structures and singing sweet tunes.
We say we are civilized
by making weapons of mass destruction,
we say we are civilized by sending children to war.

Barbarians at the gate
pull up the draw bridge and flood the carnal
we cant let them in
they are causing problems for the children.

Barbarians at the gate
open up your bible and say a prayer
cause we are of he who is greater than he who is in the world.

Barbarians at the gate
we have to give thanks and praises to the king of kings.
He is the conquering lion of the tribe of Judah

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Arabic Poem by: Abdulsadah Al-Basri
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
  In the book of our lives, 
  The trains wrote their eternal epic
  And kept taking our names 
  Embroidering stories and tales around them
  Train for travelers 
  Trains of goods 
  Trains for the wounded 
  Trains for soldiers going to war 
  Trains of death 
  Trains for convicts 
  Trains of prisoners of war
  Trains for water 
  Trains for inspecting stations 
  Trains for lighting
  Trains faster than life 
  Trains ... 
  Trains ... 
  Trains .... 
 And the trains are telling the story of a dream 
  Perhaps in the memory .

  the poem was written in 1999 and published in yr. 2000 in the poet’s second collection titled   ??????  (Topography) .
 Translated into English by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
 * Abdulsadah Al-Basri is a poet from Iraq

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Toy

The dead  woman hugs  a dead child,
The dead child hugs a toy ,
Which has two lives.

Written by :  Amenah Mahmood , Iraqi Poet 
Translated by : Laith Seher 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trees of a Dreary Autumn

Trees of a Dreary Autumn 
Arabic poem by: Saad Yassin Yousuf*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)

At a light
Said to be "dawn" We got to the shoulder of the Sea book;
Our wrecked boats were floating 
As wood stained by bloody waves,
Heads of children slaughtered
By the voracity of a false 
Prophet, Eyes yearning farther than the kingdom of light,
Wooden pencils robbed of their sun color,
Withered flowers,
Pictures of palm trees, standing
Drunk on the cliff, waving to other banks,
Butterflies that lost their color of light, 
Remains of time, 
Cut-off- ears and marks of defeat.
A beach shoulder crying over the nests of its seagulls 
Mumbled:" A cheap spring 
Is what the miracle doves 
Have paid their throats a price for its singing!!! “
I loosened the ties for my steps,
But I stood as if pinned to the ground;
I tossed away the moment, in which I bereaved my sea,
And went on flirting with
The fuzz of my dreariness.
The couriers of death, 
Still in haze black jackets, 
Raised a mast stained with clay mixed in
Oil of desires; 
It’s a spring chocked with the blood of flowers, 
Smoke of the lost horizon, 
Pirates and autumn
Branded with palms 
Stained by the blood of a grassy dream
Beneath a cloud of straw
And ashes......
The sap rising in it stopped to green and give colors 
To the branches of dreariness.
Oh! How reckoning troubled us
With all that comes with it;
The jars in its coffers
Are full of
Forgotten pains, 
Fear of the moment, 
Broken wings, 
Songs shattered in the voice 
Of reed pipes trying to play it, 
And days of spring
That turned into
Trees of a dreary autumn.
 Translation by: 
Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
 March 6, 2013
 * Saad Yassin Yousuf is a poet from Iraq
Link t0 the original poem In Arabic :

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Love Not Allowed

He had fallen in love when he had first seen her, her dark black hair and green eyes had 
been what had attracted him.

Yes he knew the danger but he had smuggled her out, taken her to his home and he had not 
told a soul what he had done.

She was nineteen and he was fourtythree, he did not see the age difference and only saw 
her beauty, if anyone found out he was hiding her then he knew they would be both killed.

She had lived with him for eight days, in that time he had never tried to seduce her or make 
any advance towards her, he clothed her and provided food and any comfort that she 

On the eigth night she came to his room, she was naked when she slipped into his bed and 
they made love all the way until the dawn, it would be their last night together.

They came the next morning, he knew he had to shoot her, the Luger given to him by his 
father two years ago was the weapon he had to use.

She wept silent tears for she knew what must be done, he put the gun to her head and 
pulled the trigger.

He put the gun to his own head as he heard them break down the door, he knew they would 
have both been punished to death and this was the only way.

They were too late to stop him and he pulled the trigger with the gun at his head and his 
body fell to lay with the dead body of the woman he had loved.

It was not supposed to had happened, a German guard falling in love with a Jewish girl 
condemned to have been gassed to death at the camp.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Distant Warrior

I get this wondrous chill as night falls
in mountains or desert sand
and I find myself dreaming about
home, my fondest memory
from this far away land.

I miss the special lady who 
stole my heart, my thoughts
and all there is of me;
and I deeply cherish 
our final moments together.

I think about the children 
I left behind, how I miss them 
and pray they’re  fine -
and it’s hard Lord,
it’s so very hard.

It’s times like this that I wonder
why I volunteered and I
get this knot in my stomach -
then I cringe and find myself 
trying to hold back tears.

Soon the battle will begin
when I’ll hear my own heartbeat
through the creepy sounds 
amidst treacherous mountain sides or
drifting sands and whirling winds.

It’s  time spent in worry,
fear, and some regret
as I encounter my fate
in the war so near
and I must admit, I’m scared.

This stench of war, 
the sight of it all,
it’s that awful image
of how I imagined hell
after Lucifer’s fall.

I wonder to myself,
“Does it have to be
that generations of people 
can’t seem to agree 
to the simple concept of peace?”

Soldiers don’t start wars
but they surely fight them,
making all manner of sacrifice
and I doubt that even once
did a soldier ever like them.”

Then I think of  “Old Glory”
and I’m filled with pride.
It’s a warm patriotic feeling
which overcomes me
from deep down inside.

I’m confused, scared
and battle weary.
I worry about those I love
as I cling to my faith  
and pray to God above.

I’m a distant warrior,
an American fighting man;
not an aspiring hero,
but just a simple soldier 
trying to do the best that I can.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Are we any different from all the ants
That live underground and on the plants?
We scurry about our daily lives
Consuming everything just to survive.

We kill, we maim, we conquer, we destroy
Leave nothing in our path, that's our ploy.
If you're not one of us, you're one of them
Out of our way, we bring nothing but mayhem.

There's billions of us and billions of you
That doesn't matter, we'll kill til there's few.
We're part of the madness, here on this earth
Nothing can stop us, you have no net worth.

Armies of ants, locked arm in arm
We bring no help, we just bring you harm.
Say what you will, say that we're evil
All that we want is your total upheaval.

We are the ants that live underground
Planning your fate, to make it unsound
You haven't a clue, what's in your fate
We can guarantee this, it'll be checkmate.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

kindle for the fire

This chair has chipped paint.     
Its shadow is long by its side.    
Due to the light pouring through the window    
Slanted only like the sun in the middle of August    
Fragments of dust float around the chair    
Like suspended stars, or the pixel points on an LCD screen    
Through the shaft of light streaming in    
Through the heat oozing, and seeping into the pores    
This chair envelopes like a warm embrace    
Soft ruby pink cushions impressed:     
Feathers where the cushion is ripped stick to your bottom     
To be annoyingly brushed off    
(Like brushing the curiosity of a stranger aside,   
Yet this chair is no stranger!)    
The chair’s white coating wilts within the dankest humid air, and you feel it:    
Like the skin you wanted to shed when you first entangled from sheets this morning
 This chair rocked my great grandmother and her children, and my mother    
Creaking like an anchored boat on a calm day at sea.     
Exposed grey brown wood now soft to the touch unless it is where it splinters   These jagged pieces are small and piercing at certain points    Like the penetrating eyes of a gaze that commanded long ago-   
To take her son.          

For this, the entire chair will be kindle for fire in autumn.    For this is where she sat and remembered.    
She remembers watching fire settle on the waters-     
Red and orange arms spreading- 
War in the distance is better.           

Her heart was slammed shut and darkly cloaked.    
The blaze after two black holes collide disappearing    
And she was not comforted by the arms of the chair, when war came too near    
This I remember, on this too hot day in the middle of August. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The menacing clouds of war 
Often pounce to create havoc, 
The pigeons of peace 
Scared and scattered, fly away. 

The storm of hatred 
The storm of enmity 
The storm of death 
The storm of destruction, 
These devastating forces 
Design the ugly face of war. 
Men or women 
Children or youth 

Aged or the sick 
Rich or the poor; 
The ferocious WAR 
Without care and concern 
Without pity or parity 
Extends its biased hand 
Against the co-humans. 
Ignoring the path of truce 
The will and wish 
Of the super powers 
Ultimately would prevail. 
It is the co-human 
Who bears the brunt? 
It is an act inhuman 
That should be denounced. 
On whom ?
 Should the blame be put? 
On whom ?
 Should the outcome be focused? 
How far is it justified? 
To instill fear among citizens 
To enforce self-declared laws 
To massacre the innocents

To rain bombs on civilians 
To create mass destruction 
To treat civilians as criminals 
To aggressively destabilize nations?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Paying the Piper The Great War

A fist clenched, face muscles flexed on pinched cheeks, huge sinews appeared on his neck,
The veins in his arms were like twisted lengths of blue rope and his eyes bulged in his anger,
His brother lay face down in a rancid pool, a lifeless corpse, another name in a very long book,
Ghosts in a grey dawn, moving then disappearing, then boom as mighty cannons fire into the sky.

Turning the body over, wretched wounds had ripped his face, ripped his youth, ripped away his life,
A gray morning, the same as other mornings, cold grey twilight, but this day will never be forgotten,
The strong brave man, who had seem so much, cried uncontrollably and his hot tears fell bitterly,
He knelt in filth, to cradle his younger brother and rocked backwards and forwards, unbelieving.

Once they played on long sultry hot days and when the rain fell it refreshed scents in the warm air,
They ran through fallow fields, pretty meadows scythed clear of hay, into a fine wild flower garden,
In days where the air slumbered lazily, they climbed thick leafy masses of high, ancient oak trees,
Always watching and warning his happy little brother, never climb too high nor stand on dead wood.

Laying down and looking up into autumn skies, warm, soaring winds shaping passing fluffy clouds,
Rising early as the sun once more shines, on those brilliant days, the calmest most impressive beauty,
Watching from afar in school looking after him, chasing bullies away, enriching his early days,
Beneath these warm shimmering suns, running, over to hedgerows picking sweet ripe black berries.

But those days are gone, gone forever, replaced by fear and hate, nobody will ever be the same,
Every day staring at death's grinning sated face, trying not to be caught in its cold red eyes,
And we all know the piper must be paid on these killing fields, but his wages are far too high,
Today on this early grey morning, shadows disappearing, a young man and his brother paid in full.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Barbed Wire Faintly Twitches The Great War

Laying in the morning twilight, yawning, my head nods down and I jerk it up again,
The barbed wire faintly twitches, someone has touched it, will it be a friend or foe,
Shadows float across a near dark landscape then fade away into nothing, an early start,
Machine guns begin rip the earth, and rips the last turf, then rips all the shadows away.

I've had enough and more, I have stopped talking to anyone, I just cannot be bothered,
The daylight makes me angry and people talk to me, I just stare way over their heads,
Some think me strange I don't bloody care, just leave me alone, get on with your day,
Don't comfort me, keep away, let me fight my own darkened demons in my confused mind.

Sudden sharp cracking noises and an odour, a stench of gunpowder, a sour smell of bitter death,
Head pointing directly forwards having no eye contact with anybody, just in case they want to talk,
I sit on mud soaked ground and someone shouts something at me so loudly and I just ignore him,
An N.C.O. running, splashes his way towards me, shouting, swearing and screaming I take no notice.

He pulls me up off the wet ground shouting abuse, why? but I can no longer understand him,
He lets go of my soaked lapels and I sink back down to where I was, his face an angry red,
I hear the word insubordination and that makes me laugh wildly out loud, it makes me stand up,
Then I decide to climb the ladder and walk onto 'no mans land', again the barbed wire faintly twitches.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Legions of Rome

The legion march quickly north, 
armed with glaudius , pila, and, scutum.
Prefect Claudius Flavius was in command of the First Cohort.
Vanguard in the lead, flankers to the sides, rear guard looking behind.
They marched steady and strong under a blazing hot sun.
Each man weighed down with 60 pounds of armor, weapons, shield and rations.

They did not falter, 
and they did not stop for water.
Such is the discipline of the legions of Rome.

At the end of the day they made their camp.
That night the equites legionis scouts found the enemy.
 and the battle was planned.
The legion was up before dawn and prepared for battle.
The First Cohort, four hundred eighty men in all, marched to the battle site ahead of the others, and formed four maniples.
When the rest of the legion was formed,
Flavius commanded the First to move forward toward the screaming enemy. 

They did not falter,
and they marched in good order.
Such is the discipline of the legions of Rome.

At the command of, " Iacere pila". they hurled their spears at the enemy shields.
At the command of, " Contendire vesta sponte" they drew their glaudii and engaged,
attacking the left flank of the enemy formation.
Armor and spears, swords and shields met in a horrible clash.
The centurii and optio shouted orders above the blare of the bugles.
Pilae were hurled. 
Scuta banged against scuta.
soliders pushed, shoved, yelled and cursed.
Glaudii thrust forward in unrelenting, grim determination.

They did not falter, 
and they gave no quarter.
Such is the discipline of the legions of Rome.

In the end the enemy line unraveled, and those who were left ran for their lives.
The equites chased them down.
The battle was hard fought.
The list of the slain was long,
and the lesson the legion sent was clear.

Those of the enemy that got way brought this message home.

The Roman legions are strong and disciplined.
They do not falter,
and they give no quarter.
Do not test the power of Rome.

Details | Prose Poetry | |



 "Verloren in meiner Einzelhaft
 vor dem Alleinsein in dieser Schlacht
 Wartens und Hoffens, dass jemand kommen und mich retten
 und diese Einsamkeit werden nie driften mich zurück in die Tiefsee.

 Wahre Liebe Ich habe in einer Lebenszeit gewartet
 hat direkt vor mir kommen unerwartet
 aber meine Ängste und Zweifel von Ihrem kommenden
 hatte mich zu erreichen, um Sie immer noch bei Unsicherheiten behaftet.

 Nun, da Sie in meiner Reichweite sind
 Mein Leben war noch nie so komplett
 Nur du und ich sind alle da ist
 Nichts anderes, nur du und ich.

 Verunsichert Ihrer Liebe für mich
 Manchmal frage ich mich, was Sie wirklich das Gefühl,
 vielleicht war es nur mir, wer wollte das kommende
 weil du nie gesagt, was Sie wirklich suchen.

 Und dieser Moment fürchte ich ist bereits gekommen
 Wieder allein zu sein, zurück, wo ich schon weg
 Du da bist, und hier bin ich
 noch fragen, ob wir jemals wieder dasselbe sein.

Eines Tages, ich weiß, dass sich unsere Wege wieder kreuzen
 die Verbindungen hatten wir können restauriert und ausbessert werden
 Schicksal und Bestimmung bringt uns wieder näher
 Du und ich zusammen, bis für immer.. "

 ... Eger seni ne kadar çok sevdigimi bir Bilsen ...
 ... Seni seviyorum ... xoxo

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dodging Hate's Siren-Shriek

Dodging Hate’s Siren-Shriek 
                       by Odin Roark

He had survived
Six months believed to have made him a man.

He only wanted his mother.

Time was running slow,

Such hopeful beginnings,
Such bestial endings,
Caked fingers bear blood,
Water too precious to remove.
As desert sand’s insistence
Makes mockery of fear’s dry heaves.

Skittering boot prints
Like zigzagging sand pipers,
Short of food,
Wary of enemies,
Making patterns so plain,
This prophetic hide and seek death dance.


Seems right—today.
Months of sand storms and fire,
Left but sun baked flotsam,
Mixed decomposing bodies of friend and foe,
Their survival charges piled high,
Making but for stumbling of boots
Across rotted bodies and limbs,
Even flies and rats now ignore.

With fingers blood-welded to weapon,
He lay down among the carnage,
Eager to know the peace,
The quiet,
The involuntary resolve,
Just for a moment,
Or two,
Just until the siren-shriek
Of an incoming missile's presence...

Just until it finds him and stops.

Not much to ask.
Not much
If anyone…
Is listening. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


It only takes a moment
One second of your time
To make a change
The invisible children are starting to be heard
With your help they can be saved
Just take a moment to listen
Joseph Kony is a villain 
A terrible, terrible man
Take a second to find out why
He kidnaps children
Right from their homes
Puts them into his armies
But thats not all
He forces them to kill
Sometimes forces them to kill
Their own parents
He has no cause, no worldly plan
Just wants to grow his power
And he MUST be stopped!
If enough citizen support is gathered
We can make a difference
We can assist in his arrest
All it takes is a second
Look up the Invisible Children Inc.
Look up Joseph Kony
Look up information and join us
As we fight for these children
Who alone may not be heard
And as we fight for the capture and arrest
Of Joseph Kony
....................................................Joseph Kony 2012   We WILL make a difference!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


SUN TRAN history 
 Passenger Pigeons carry messages to people entrenched at 
www.wwone/ditched in doughboy britches wearing Army boots of wool 
 August 3, 1914 special free edition of the BerlinTageblatt announces "The War 
with France” The Kaiser rolled away and fell from Germany the world is saved 
they proclaim the war is over 1918   
 His hat was very black and ebon his vest hung down in back front was cut in 
western sling style his hair was off white gray an old gunslinger out of old 
Tucson days. He took a transfer out of his pants pocket and tried to slide it in the 
bus to make it work but the driver had turned it off to see his face light up he had 
been caught for this was the very first bus. NO the driver said simply with a smile 
that will not work and left it at that and up to him he did not frown but added the 
dollar paid the money for the fare the first time not again his bogus attempt at a 
free ride had failed. He took his transfer paid he learned his western lesson 
there the driver being kind and understanding could have been demanding that 
he leave the bus and March 24, 2008 has come the carrier pigeons are taking 
messages to the war is over Hitler dead go home and live 
without a gun without a dread.  She simply simpered she opened up her bag a 
purse no doubt without a dime or dollar amount inside her friend paid for hisself 
one dollar kept the transfer in his hand she kept repeating to herself for all the 
crowd to understand eye left the wallet with the money in it at home the wallet MY 
wallet is NOT in this bag it has been left at home the man he seemed astonied 
when she said in certain tones did you get a pass for me NO he said don't you 
remember my pass and your pass is both in your wallet left at home the driver 
moaned a bit but let her be she let them ride he said eye gave to you my pass to 
keep for me she said so sad MY WALLET is NOT in this bag it is left behind at 
home IT'S EVERYTHING the carrier pigeon flew with messages to the troop in 
the trenchment ditch at 
The message simply said 
we airmailed 
 every missle 
that we have 
to hit the enemy 
the world is over now 
do not try to do anything 
just pray 
we are all going to see 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thirteenth Fable

 Thirteenth Fable 
Thirteenth Fable 
Fables of CharlaX 
There is far too many to make a short list there is superstitions eye remember 
when eye was just a kid. The many things my girlfriends had to tell me things 
they ruined life at such an early age there is the BROKEN MIRROR that brings 
the SEVEN YEARS bad luck? The black cat crossing my path. The ladder that 
was never under the beam do not step under that in a funk of disbelief eye did all 
them things and now eye am homeless could it be that eye am superstitious or 
just unlucky in my life but then eye have met my violet flower my only one and only 
new life partner she is such a wonderful person not a superstitious reason in her 
curtain eye am certain of that now? The cat was never black enough to scare me 
but there was that just one time? It ran of course because my petting would have 
kept it from the dinner the mouse tail sticking out of a very black and ebon mouth. 
No bad luck can come to me AH HA eye cried its nothing. Then eye ran a little up 
the hill to home. And almost strangeld self eye ran full tilt boogie into the wire 
clothes line nearly taking off my head and losing all the dread of dying for there it 
nearly was. That was back in 1961 the time is not important there was never any 
time for love. Some things eye can remember but choose not to keep at all. Do 
not mop the floor under my feet is one. 
Do not make such sweeps under my feet and yes we did we told the girls to put 
the feet up so we must seep there anyway do you want me to get fired from such 
an important job as this one? 
They screamed and left the diner sure that bad luck was to come upon them oh 
gentle reader ewe don't laugh Erline never sweeps behind the counter. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I have not eaten today,
But my heart is filled
Not hungry of affection.
I had a fill of you last night
A fill of you for a life time

All around us are walking corpses
Corpses of political disregard
Humans of no nations
Even when they are bona-fide citizens
Your blood and mine flows in them

The government abhors the poor
Feeds them with empty promises
Shoves them through the door
They pay the bills
For social amenities they can’t find
Pay taxes for their castles 
Government built in the air
But we know their ancestors
Filthy dogs eating from the king’s crumbs
No; Lets not unknot the knot
Soon a messiah might heed us

In heaven’s book of life,
I heard the poor names are there
In here’s book of life
It is deleted.
Thus, in your head,
Lays your kingdom and glory 
Get rich or die trying
Or; be their poor and keep sulking.

Well, like them I saw… 
I have not eaten
Flesh gone weak to skeleton
The solitude of love within
Keeps me living; I am breathing
But I am moving,
Towards your direction
I see your beam

I feel new
When I see you
From my heart 
Seeps through the rays of the sun
Its fun; this love on death line
We survived the genocide
We survived the war
We survived love
We survived us
I love you too.

This poem is dedicated to the abused tribes of Rwanda and Nigeria during their respective civil wars resulting in near human annihilation. Though time has passed, we still feel your pains chilling our bones. The survivors.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The war that can be won

The mind commands the body immediately obeys, the mind order itself and it meets arrogance and lets that mean genie out of the bottle.

In your addictions the line between life and death is very thin a war that has only one win if you keep using and letting that evil genie in; death is slow and sure. These are the guideline that you have set; stop and think, do you like being satan pet? keep this thought on your mind, the setting of guidelines belong to God not man!

Logic is blinded and you forget about the past, the future is an unknown; why just to get high? Every endeavor is a challenge is it not, just for a high that just don't last.

Fear not all is not lost! Addiction is a war that can be won, that is if you keep certain things in your mind, fighting it with all your heart, and all of your mind. Lean not on your own understanding, but finding faith in God of your own understanding;. Place your trust in Him; He not demanding.

Addiction and recovery encompass neatly identical tactics, they are both learned behavior and they are both controlling factors. Neither one accept anything less than total victory. the first one will bring about your destruction and second one brings about a chance to live a life free from bondage.

Open your eyes don't let illogical thinking be your guide, living life with satan by your side, just for the brief moment of that high. This life type of living is shaded and it is unkind; demons controlling your mind.
 Word to the wise, wisdom and strength comes from the One that is Setting most high; let the Lord edify. Life in the Word will become excitedly gratifying ; in this your will find strength without any boundaries and all that you need is faith and belief that Jesus can set you free; Pick up His words and read John 3:16.  
Nothing beat a failure but a try; so I pray for you and so please stop getting high.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Waiting for Angels The Great War

Does your coat keep you warm and dry my dearest friend as you lay still and silent,
Did your metal helmet protect you on ruined fields as God called and took you away,
Did it hurt when you dropped to your knees and your blood soaked into already wet mud,
As you dropped from your knees face down forever, did you see your loved ones again.

I will stay by your side and keep you company, waiting until the angels come for you,
Do you know it's near spring the sun will soon have some warmth and dry our clothes,
In your last spite of sorrowful desolating memories, did you go back to your home and friends,
And if you went home , did you smell the thick cut grass along old lanes and hold your sweetheart.

Do you remember when we were young, just last year, can you remember that long ago,
And the different days with our sweethearts, walking in beautiful warm spring days,
We strolled many miles into distant dales, villages and across the wild brown moors,
We sat by a moorland stream talking important talk, of our future working the land.

Soon the bugles will sound, the same loud bugles that brought you to this last place,
If I ever go home I will see your father, and break his heart, you were his only son,
Like a brother I will always remember, we have seen much so quickly in these bad days,
Walking away my feet sink in churned mud and filth, I will tell his dad gallant lies.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Need to Know The Great War

Somehow I always knew you would die, you had the mark of a man that will not make it,
It had to happen, you had so much to live for, a wife, a child and a good solid family,
The sight of the blood and suffering you found it hard, I saw you turn your head away,
I would bet my boots that you look down from heaven and still you turn your head away.

What's it like up there, can you sleep at night and is it so cold it makes a man cry,
When you smile does the mud caked on your freezing face crack when it has dried hard,
Are there black and white rats that feed on dead bodies the whites going for the eyes,
Do you have someone to hold you and whisper kind soothing words, quietly in your ears.

Was there an angel standing near as you climbed up the ladder for that very last time,
I need to know! is there is an angel sitting by me on the very long and lonely nights,
Please, please tell me there is more than this and that one day this will all go away,
It's been so very long and so very hard, I need to know my friend I just need to know.

You was a decent friend and I miss our long talks on these long bitter winter nights,
We talked of home and I sobbed, your kind words of hope kept me going, in hard times,
I wished we had been friends before this, you were a good kind man and a good friend,
Somehow I always knew you would die, you had the mark of a man that would not make it.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


What happened to all the young men?
And the young women too? Those ones get married.
But where have all the young men gone? 
Have you not heard, have you not seen?
There is a war in the land. 
Which war without the sound of guns, you might ask?
Economic war- the young men are economic warriors, fighting in far off lands; that is what most 
have become. 
I know, but where are our brightest and best? 
Funny question- in wars you lose your best men first.
So, would they ever come back or are they the lost generation?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Peaceful Illusions

between missile silos
we pitch tents
we starry speak
we kindle love
we lightly sleep
between missile silos

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Would there be The Great War

Where are my sweetest dreams, where are my happy memories, where are my dearest friends,
If I could light a candle for each lost friend, it would be a huge inferno, would this be hell,
Could there enough wax, in this wretched angry world, to make candles for all our lost souls,
If there were wax, would there be sufficient forests for matches to light so many candles,
And will there be a day when one man is left, he would have nobody to fight, nor to kill.

Would it be the last day of the Great War, would that man sit listening to birds singing,
And if he listened to the birdsong, would it be a song about the brutal stupidity of man,
Or would it be nightingales singing sad songs, so very sad songs, your heart would break,
Could the last man live on with his broken heart, the losses, and the horrors of the war,
And if that man walked back home would he be given a white feather because he did not die.

Would he be called lazy if he did not dig many millions of graves to bury our dead hero's,
Before each burial would he take a last letter from everyone's pockets and send them home,
If he did would he pencil footnotes of how brave the son was, the husband was, the father was,
Would his gallant lies be justified and give solace to the millions of grieving families,
And would there be that many wooden pencils because the forest were felled to make matches.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Time Wasted

Time is too precious to waste.
Time has been wasted.
It flies with every blink.
Wasted, wasted on trivialities.
Baraka and mercy in time lost over time.
We can never regain lost times.
Relive the nightmare of our now realities.
Countries are in disarray.
People are at war.
The poor suffer more.
Youth without the hope of a decent future,
Time has shown us how wasteful we have been and still are.
Africa is one of the richest continents.
Africa is the poorest of the poor.
Famine, poverty grip the hearts and bodies of children.
Everybody too scared to speak their minds.
Raped by colonialism,
Raped by the west,
The instigators and third parties of all the chaos,
Time and time again they use the same strategy.
Half the world to blind to see how time has gone wasted.
The futures of our beloved Africa, in the hands of incompetent leaders
Greed in their hearts and blood on their hands,
Fall in the trap of divide and conquer.
Time precious, waits for no man
Wasted, wasted.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


He hated his brother
Because he practiced another
Men of same wombs
On each other, inflict wounds
The free thinker; their observer
And he saw; eye sores
Men beheaded… burned
Women disemboweled
Drug traffickers and the mafia
Show more angels heart
Men obsessed with religion
No place free of them
Hold this illusion
Four virgins and a mansion
For just one man in heaven
So die a martyr
And make it even
In the beginning, was this so?
When men die, do they go?
PLEASE: give me no fairy answer
Except self proven ponder

On the other side
I heard Christ died
Men turned it merchandise
One name, many voices
As the voices, so the vices
Repent. Be baptized
Or die ostracized
Yet in sex, their leaders
Abuse youths and feeders
Adultery in the upper chambers
Sucked the poor dry
So the rich benefits and not die
Name not names
Lest you give them more fame
The free thinker; their observer
And he saw…eye sores
Grieve not alone in chest
It’s same in north; south; east; west

I heard God has his own powers
And he for himself mighty might
So why do for him men fight?
I heard also, the goat can bite
When pushed to the wall
Be that so,
Then there is:
The goat-
The applied force-
And the wall.
Who is the Goat? Man
Who is the force applied?
Circumstances against man
And who is the wall?
Religions against man

Details | Prose Poetry | |


What can I do? I’m helpless
Witches are stuffing my brain with straw
Pernicious thoughts raining spurious angels-
Sons of bloodsheds, their beautiful faces
Wait for a cab sailing to perdition.

My organs are atrophied as head swells
Like a big bug, spreading its wings and ejecting
Bad fumes on the inebriate city malls, and
 Levitates between yes and no
Sorry, from today, on principle, I’m your foe
Sorry, I must kill you, my chips dictate so.

I ‘m duped by Macbeth’s witches, I have
Killed Banquo on a barren heath to fulfill their
Prophesies; strange delusions release their
Sperms in my innards to fructify evil plan
To stop the future coming on the earth-face
To stop the riverflow, to stop the human grace.

 I am barren, nothing restricts me to kill
Grenades command me, bullets demand dues
Missiles fall like crackers at the wedding
I have sinned, nukes cry wolf, battalions move
I have sinned, birds lose nest, babies mother
I have to shoot the first shadow of my father
I have sinned; I have to blast my twin brother.

What can I do? I’m helpless
Girls are ravaged by squiggling worms 
Widowed Cats are seeking hearth
I have sinned, world waits a second birth.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What have we Left Behind The Great War

When I joined and wore my khaki uniform girls lined the streets, they kissed and hugged me,
I was six inches taller and so very proud, my dearest wish was to be in France at the front,
Swaggering, I walked in my hob nailed boots they sparked as they noisily scraped the ground,
All the boys from my village joined we were treated with pride we enjoyed our new adventure.

We were all teenagers with fresh faces as we marched to the trenches we had second thoughts,
Men wounded carried away from the carnage, bandaged, covered in filth, limbs missing oh God,
Exhausted faces some one shouting, 'march this way! march this way', towards the heavy guns,
Marching with hearts beating fast with mingled rapture, butterfly's a new dread of tomorrow.

The truth was here, did we ever dream that so dark a day would come, the swaggering stopped,
The harsh sounds of a thousand boots in unison crashing to the ground gave me goose pimples,
We marched by rivers and marshes past oak trees budding and birds sang in the early morning,
A thrush stood on an overturned blasted lorry singing a rhapsody, an ecstasy, we marched on.

Plum-bloom falling in showers on gentle breezes, blowing white carpets over the muddy ground,
Villages, left behind will have maypoles on the green, girls with ribbons in their soft hair,
Wild cherries in flower, rockets purple and white in full bloom, kissing sweethearts in woods,
Wallflowers in cottage gardens, rich masses of gold and delicious deep spicy country smells.

What have we left behind, what are we going to, now so near the cannons whump the rifles spit,
Single file along mud corridors then onto the front line stepping over men finding our places,
Watching the rats, smelling the stench, corpses rotting, unreal faces and gut wrenching wounds,
Looking along the line, every thirty yards a non commissioned office reeled off the many rules,

This will be my last place on scorched earth, people laying dead, rotting just a few feet away,
I will ever see my loved ones, my home or the colours of a fresh spring day, my time is written,
My dad will mow the corn, and pick apples from a orchard by a meadow, the meadow by the stream,
A premonition, I know will be true, will leave me and my friends lost in a foreign brutal land,

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Welcome My Brave Friend The Great War

Hi my friend and welcome to my house take my hand you are now in heaven,
Away from flooded trenches the years of sodden clothes you always wore,
Eating tins of rat infested meat, maggots sharing your food your life,
Tell me my friend how did you cope with the shells all day every day.

You helped a young sixteen year old who took the kings shilling early,
To him war was romantic he felt good when he wore the kings uniform,
You were there and you helped him as he begged to go home to run away,
You gave him some of your steel my friend you protected and taught him.

The whistle went you climbed the ladder stood in no-mans land you waited,
On a sea of thick and cloying mud that was once a fragrant colored meadow,
You ran in front of him to take the first bullet the boy owed you his life,
And when he fell you knelt by his side he wanted you to be his real father.

In the torn fields you hated your trenches as much as any man yet you cared,
I don't think anybody has seen so many men die before it was the war of wars,
Fear makes men evil taking them to a level of darkness they have never known,
There is always one that stands high above all and you my friend are that one.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When they love their children as much as they hate us the war will be over

When they love their children as much as they hate us the war will be over

Its doesn't matter which side your on
Whether your a viva viva palestina
Or an am yisrael chai
You know which side is evil, committed all
Wrongs, sometimes you meet people who 
Extol the virtues of this treacherous, 
Terrible oppressor /terrorist
With their shock and awe tactics and 
Disregard for freedom or the right to life And the pursuit of happiness
And sometimes for a minute, particularly 
When you talk to someone you think is 
Intelligent it becomes harder to maintain the 
View on this malignant party you tried hard 
To campaign for and against and although 
Peace (of mind) is all you want
All you could dream of
With this entity at the negotiating table 
Independence is swapped for catastrophe And war
If you give them what they want you will
Have nothing except the need to a right of 
Return to a better time

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Survived Janjaweed Part 1

I was a girl of only 5 years when I looked across the desert and saw a cloud of smoke covering the skies off in the distance.  I remember being afraid that my grandmother might be hurt because she lived there with my Uncle Sofarlo, his wife and my cousins.         
     It was during the season of the drought, so the sky was bright blue everywhere except above Grandma’s Village.  I thought that the blazing sun had sparked a flame in one of the huts.  All I could do was hope that Grandma was okay.
     A few days later, one of my cousins, Lekelo, stormed into our hut and collapsed on the ground.  He said that Uncle Sofarlo was a little way behind and was bringing grandmother in a cart.  
     I never saw Lekelo so thin.  His face looked like leather stretched over a skull.  His skin was scorched and terror shown through the tiny slits of his sunken eyes.  They were almost swollen shut.  His tears had made mini-gullies through the ashes that stuck to his charred face.
     He fell to the floor of our hut and Mom ran over to put a blanket under him.  My oldest sister drew a bucket of water and brought some leaves to wash and soothe his wounds.  Everyone was running around trying to help him revive, but it did not look good.
     Of course I was terrified.  I might have been only five, but I knew that something awful must have happened.  He kept muttering the same thing over and over, “Janjaweed, Janjaweed, Janjaweed” until finally, he spoke no more.  
     Dad frantically sounded the drum.

Copyright 10-13-2014

I chose Dafarian Genocide.
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: GENOCIDE: SPEAK FOR THE LOST... the FORM IS POETIC PROSE  Sponsor	Cyndi MacMillan


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Positions: Part Three

Positions: Part Three
Arabic Poem by: Bushra Al-Bustani
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)

The Position of Grief

Was the sky blue in any day?
 I have never seen it clear! 
 Sine the time of the Mongols to the Amiriya** day
And from the Amiriya day to the muddy days of the plot.

The two rivers are pouring from your fingertips, and I am thirsty
 There or here
 There is no difference 
 Since the globe is a ball for the blind to play with
 Forgetting that Earth is the inheritance willed to us
 The night is dark, as the stars have fallen in my blood.  
Since you departed, 
Moaning of the words has been obscuring the light from my paper
And digging a cave for my pleasure in the trunks of trees
Since you departed, 
The night has turned into a silent old man
Falling asleep on his cane
And I am withering as a wish did not come true 
As I court the tears of my waiting. 

Since you departed, 
Your voice has become an aching child in my blood, 
A burning flute
And a never drying tear drop in my wound.
Since you departed, 
My coffee cup has been extinguished
And two seats have fallen of the terraces of the stars.

Since you departed, 
The water turned yellow
And the fingertips of words have been dry.
In the last watch of sadness, I hear your footsteps
And see shadows walk away

The tavern keeper Sidori said:
“Pamper the boy who holds your hand!”
I replied:
“But they kidnapped the boy
Taking his hand away from mine...
A history of colors was sparkling in his eyes
And writing canceling writing
Amidst the ordeal whispers were faltering
But they may not dig graves for his heart and mine
As long as there are veins for water in the sand of my soul
And lamps that refuse extinction in the erased script.”  

Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
*Bushara Al-Bustani is a poet from Iraq
** Al_Amiriyah refers to a shelter used by civilians during the Iraq-Iran war in the Amiriyah neighberhood in Baghdad.  It was bombed by the USA Airfirce  with two lazer-guided "Smart Bombs" on February 1, 1991 where more than four hundred civilians mostly women and children were killed and a thousand were injured.

Details | Prose Poetry | |



They are not the “War Fighter Soldiers”
yet they have seen more blood than most.
They wear the gladiator garb, stand tall
at taps in stiff salute to flag at end of day.
They hear the screams of war’s demands,
exacted without prejudice, see only war’s
true colors in the drying shades of red.
They see the mother’s faces as they speak
unknowing words, treat the wounds of
innocence incased in harsher world.
They are a soldier’s last defense against
war’s final tally, the nurses that will
care for them, become their final ally.
They suffer from the pangs of war,
its loneliness and fear.  Return to us
with hardened hearts that could no
longer bear the sights and sounds
of war’s contemptuous disdain.
They carry wounds that can’t be seen,
save for their tortured faces,
hide their memories, and pain,
in duties failed embraces.

John G. Lawless
For Carol Eastman
Unsung Hero Contest

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christmas is Real

When we consider the losses and grief,
if we arrived at the manger.
Then Christmas is real...

If one nation is relieved by another,
even if we bury our dead.
If we arrive at the manger then
Christmas is real.

If in prayers, we bond with the hurting
world on a global basis.
Erases the fears and arrives at the
Then Christmas is real.

Christmas is real when each of
mankind reaches out with love
to another.
The reflection of his eyes will
show from the manger.

God Bless all the troops serving this Christmas.
350th Mobile Public Affairs Detachment

AR RAMADI, Iraq - "I'll be home for Christmas" are the final words I said to my mother as
I made my final call to her last spring while I was on my way to Iraq. We agreed never to
say "goodbye." I stated a similar claim to my wife. "Goodbye" has a finalization connotation.

"I'll be home" is a statement of confidence.

Five unexpected extensions later and we're still here. It's Christmas in the desert for us.

Military bases during the holidays are loathsome.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

His Forever Plastic Flower

His Forever Plastic Flower
                by Odin Roark

Before the war,
He had no fears,
No worries,

Today he has his bench.
He really shouldn’t complain,

“How come,” he wonders,
“How come my stars stay so cruel?
They don’t give me luxuries,
Nor burn down my bench,
They just keep me off balance,
Like the incessant flip of a quarter,
Spinning its blurring dance
Between heads and tails.”

He knew his disorder was getting worse.
Like so many homeless vets,
He too was starting to chase his street-reliant shadow,
Stomping it here,
Kicking it there,
Like a maniac after a ghostly enemy.

“Why must my heart continue to beat,
But not with life,
Merely blood rushing to and fro,
Sloshing about looking for
Something alive inside?”

Subway trashcans remained his daily fix,
As another day,
Another horoscope
Supplied his disillusion with a dreamer’s transfusion of trust,
Always inserting its sterile needle,
To feed a habit of “wanting to believe” promises,
Unless today the astrologer blew it.

Even so…

He soldiers on,
Thankful to still have some faith left,
A bench to sit upon,
His forever plastic flower to dream on,
And new memories serving to comfort him from back when.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shell Shock The Great War

One day the noise of the shells the sights that should not be seen will go away,
The shaking and the fear and sleepless nights will soon be a thing of your past,
Hiding inside in a darkened room your head in your hands rocking back and forth,
All will be a distant memory you will forget your three year misery in trenches.

Your haunted eyes will calm you will walk out into the sun again and not hide,
The stammering will go away along with your anger you will enjoy good company,
Your hideous scars will fade and you will get used to walking on your one leg,
Learn to accept pity these people want to help you they want to do their bit.

Wretched dreams you have about seeing thousands upon thousands of dead friends,
Memories, fields full of dead and dying screams for help you standing helpless,
Hating yourself, the cowardice you felt ignoring the dying not daring to watch,
This will pass time is a good healer just tell yourself you did what you could.

The thoughts of taking your own life because you cannot bare to shut your eyes,
Men bleeding dying just feet from your trench tell yourself I could do nothing,
You're a hero, you have a medal so forget these morbid thoughts they do not help,
They have a name for what you have got it's shell shock it does not sound serious.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Corner Shop 1919 The Great War

Walking into a small shop a little bell rang loudly as the door was opened wide,
In the back shop there was shuffling a cough some wheezing coming from inside,
A young man came over to the counter leaning heavily on a stout walking stick,
His eyes were so bright and sunk deep into his scull his voice slow and thick,
He tried to smile his breath rasped and rattled he stopped and turned his head,
On his bright clean waistcoat he wore the Mons medal it's lucky he is not dead,
Understanding what was wrong he'd been a victim of mustard gas in the Great War,
Pretending not to notice I asked for some snuff he turned and coughed some more,
A child ran in and bought a pennyworth of sweets she popped them into his bag,
The mans wife took the penny and put in the till, she looked so tired and sad,
Another fit of coughing seized him suddenly he waved his hand and walked away,
Back to his rear room his wife looked with tears she didn't know what to say.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Cry From Kabul

(Written During The American Attacks On Afghanistan From The Arabian Sea) 

O! The heartless callous warriors, 
The children of the crowning age, 
You do not see the havoc, 
For you stand at the distant spot, 
More than two thousand miles away, 
Planning against the weaponless; 
But your lacerating missiles and shells, 
Miss not the targets, 
They hail down on us smashing, 
Blowing up the houses, 
And thatched cottages with their contents, 
Let, allow me bury, put in the ground, 
My infant grandson that lay motionless, 
In the cradle, all shredded, torn up, 
Still gripping tight in his hand, 
A baby doll with blue eyes and rosy cheeks, 
Sprinkled with blood too.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prose Mine Prys

‘At play with words’

Cork thine eyes 
Cloaking lucent verbose halls 
Surely binding shutting tight 

Cork thine eyes 
Clutching goblet sipping falls 
Drunk seduction bending sight 

Prose mine prys 
Gather up my scrolling drawls 
Paging through the spite 

Prose mine prys 
Splitting metaphors with mauls 
Swindle word codle the blight 

This poem explained

Shut your eyes 
Shade your bright and wordy thoughts 
Absolutely shut off your mind 

Shut your eyes 
Drink from the fountain of lies of the rich 
Allow yourself to be seduced and become blind 

My ordinary words chip away 
Read what I have written 
They are memorable moments of contempt 

My ordinary words chip away 
I chop up what I write with metaphors 
The negative meanings of what I write deceives with tenderness


Details | Prose Poetry | |

testudo anima

I flew over a vastness of sand,
ancient ocean withdrawn,
dessicated desert,
neither eternal nor pathetic,
snow dusted, the foot of the Hindu Kush,
even now,
as we humans,
such knotted desperate pieces of work,
loving disorder,
our root cause of violence,
livid hatred for truth,
stare balefully at each other,
as the g-force of a turn,
presses me into red webbing,
chop chop of thick air,
shadow light patterned flitting, 
across cargo and armor,
all the knowns and unknowns,
our desperate finite time,
meaning all and yet nothing, 
when the thwap of a wheel touches down,
sharp whistl'd adrenaline,
quick glance at smudged shadows,
dwelling in the corners of our eyes,
like dark chaperones,
always at life's dance,
waiting for the music to stop...
and briefly I think on
the strangeness of it all,
a vague sadness soon fills me,
with what could be but is not,
all of us flawed sinners, 
wannabe saints,
too much nightsoil under fingernails,
as ringing and shouts,
snapping rounds like hail on tin roofs,
with a head ringing weirdly with quotes, 
from braver souls than I,
who think those fortuitous,
who endure life with courage,
while I just shiver behind,
duty and gun oil,
and wonder how someone,
can know another to their core,
and still love them, truly...
and the dust tastes of copper and time.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Running shoeless

Black cherries
Platonic hearts
Remembering moments from the past
Climbing railings
Watching cars pass
Red, white, green and blue
A picture of a world I once knew.
Loss of breath
Running shoeless
Suffocating smoke filling the air
Angered cries
Too many lives
taken in like a fishing net.
We are only people in the end.

Details | Prose Poetry | |



In 1965 I read an article in Newsweek 
a mass killing of communists, 
about a million, men, women and children. 
The writer of this article concluded with:
the communists had brought this slaughter
upon themselves.
But the aftermath of this atrocity still fester,
and the truth has to be told if this country 
is ever to find redemption.
Today Bali is a mecca for history ignorant 
tourists, who soak up the sun on a beach 
that once soaked up the blood of the innocent  

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cardinal Silence

There is a canary with no song tonight,
a poet with no sight.

A dry ink jar and some memories
guarded by a cardinal silence.

A night star shines in the night
been there for eternity.

Mighty river runs through the land
been tracing footsteps of time.

Sky is blue and sky is red embers
burnig in my head.

Earthquakes shake and bombs
incinerate war torn souls
dream in bloody nightmares.

Cardinal silence whispers of
mankinds fall.

Someone stop the silence
before it is too late.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stop it

war is a constant
has been, all ways will be
power dictates the winner
who finished last
who's next in line
who controls you
it is the victor
he who writes the past

war is an epidemic 
created by humanity
destroyer of families
how ironic
how war ties us together
how demonic, are its ways
war manipulates the pawns
this is how division equals multiplication

war is a weed
population control
the slaughter of good and evil
needs no rain
needs no sun
a means to harvest
the "lesser" men
war dies only to rise again

stop the wars 
your not gods
stop the wars
before we lose what matters most
the possibility and beauty of unity 

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Bombs know no agony, pain or joy;
     No victory nor defeat:
They simply explode.

Bullets, like starving maggots,
     Crave flesh;
Their warm hungry satisfied
     By the chill of death.

Between the banks of war,
     Peace anchors 
In the bloody waters of life:

Once more and gain, the cries of children
     Of a darker hue
Are muffled by the screams of others elsewhere.  

Details | Prose Poetry | |

If Wishes Were Horses

I say goodbye a lot—not in an “I’ll see you later” or “until next time” sort of way—but in a “goodbye for good” and “never speak to you again” sort of way. I’ve always been all right with it, accepted it, and embraced it, even. You know, people come and go; they serve their purpose and even though sometimes it’s worth it, they go away. I’m guilty of it myself. Just leave. Get out. Go. Don’t stay. I’ve said goodbye so many times to so many people in so many ways, but you posed a problem that my brain, mind, soul, body can’t escape. I just want to be back inside your arms, your bed, your life, your heart, you. Instead, I ran off, 9 thousand miles away to wake up as you go to bed, to play in a giant sandbox. I do not want to stay here; June cannot come quickly enough. March, April, May—three more months of this living in your tomorrow, you in my yesterday. I miss you. I fear you. I long for you with intensity as deep, as overwhelming, as powerful and dominating as the sky’s infinity. I love you. I want you. I yearn for you in every single way; the tears I’ve bled for you are insurmountable. I wish for Home; I wish for the West. Even greater than my desperation for friends, family, familiar faces, familiar places, is my ache to have you near; if wishes were horses, and if horses had wings, I’d have one to take me there.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fouad Abbas

He was steering us somewhere
This Fouad Abbas
Having given up the world as unreachable
Now took hold the yellow disc
and wrested what was left
into some sort of plan.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Home from Broodseinde

I can hear the shouts of celebration of joy outside my window,
people steaming the streets,
crying in happiness, holding one another,
this has been the way for hours,
since the simple message that the Great War was over,
parents, brothers and sisters lining the streets,
waving, shaking hands of neighbours,
with the news of victory and those returning home.

Trying as I may,
I am not sharing everyone’s excitement,
been laying here since I arrived home from Broodseinde,
fighting chills, fever, or infection,
never all at the same time,
that would give a day of rest,
I do not have that now.

Most of my days are spent moving from bed sores,
blisters given to my back from the sweating of fever,
not being able to move from this dirty, soiled bed,
in this warehouse called a hospital,
that has bed after bed lined one after one,
with bodies worse than mine,
the stench, at times, let us know,
when another will not be woken up,
only to be replaced the next day.

The poor nurses cannot be blamed for our conditions,
there are so many of us lined, laying here,
that losing track is common occurrence,
so we rest in our own filth,
as yelling for cleaning does not help,
many voices of high screams or low moans,
just get lost in the echoes of the high ceilings.

My leg is now gone above the knee,
because my cries were silenced by others,
tingling of gang green taking more and more,
doctors have removed these pieces twice,
I pray they find no more and the would closes.

From the outside, most would believe I am fortunate,
I am alive and not screaming towards death,
like those around me with deeper cuts and burns,
I have skin where other soldiers no longer have theirs,
they even say that one day I will be able to leave here,
not like some countrymen,
carried home from Broodseinde.

September 19, 2011
© Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When You Push You Fall

Overstepping boundaries,
clinging onto an empty marriage,
carrying the family alone.
Husband fighting war with 
General dreams, of glory, in his head.
Carrying myself alone.
Knowing alone is lonely, lonelier every day.

We are carrying bodies, buddies and homeboys home to their families.
Poor mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers,
longing for a glimpse of their boy or girl, dead to this world.
They grow lonely, lonelier day by day and night by night.
Carrying on, pushing harder and harder
to make it through with all their fight.
Smiling the smile, greeting the greetings, and saying I'm okay.

Falling apart from the very start, 
until you push too hard and the wound is now a scar,
and you say I can't go on 
and the loneliness is gone.
You are gone when you push, you fall.

Take it easy, easier everyday.
Company comes by and then they go away.
Easy, easier, easily they say it takes time and the pain will not stay,
so they say, so they say.

Please I cry to the wind and the sea I want to play, I want to play..with my love.
Too many soldiers died today, died today, died today.
When I push I fall, when we push we fall, when they push they fall.
We all fall down.
Marla Stone

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Until drippings of light cease from the days hallow hole,
A veiled moon veils spirits, love carries all our might 
Through the bleakness, for what happiness may come
From the wars beating drum in the middle of the night?
Greet death with happiness in this time we should be sleeping.
Greet the morning in death's dreams, sleeping rather than weeping.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

March to Broodseinde

Marching together, instep, one by one,
heeding our country's call of duty.
Sixteen of us following the beaten trail,
one traveled by many of our band of brothers.
Three divisions of us are already there,
feeling, seeing, the horror of the front line.
Not sure of the rest of the boys right here,
but I have never seen with my eyes,
the chaos that exists on the front line.
All being seen right now,
are the bodies being brought back,
mangled, bloodied, pieces of our countrymen.
They say two out of three of us boys,
will never make it back home.
I think, on this walk, of my parents.
I am their second boy here,
and the only one that is alive.
Thankfully the youngest is too young,
as I know I maybe another one,
who does not make it. 

Our country, Australia, has been part of this,
since the British Empire declared war,
serving the world from a relentless barrage.
After over three years, there are finally chinks,
we are hearing whispers that the front is weaker,
Have been told not to look into our enemies eyes,
so we do not see their fear,
and so they do not see ours.
This is suppose to make the mission earlier,
to take the lives of boys following orders,
to conquer and take what is ours.

Broodseinde is getting closer,
you can feel the bullets and the screams.
My body is starting to quiver,
has to stop and get ready.
The rain hitting us does not make it easier,
it is so wet and cold.
Corpses we are marching by,
are getting covered with rotten debris.
My eyes are just trying to look forward,
not pay attention to lifeless countrymen,
so I can march out of Broodseinde tomorrow. 

June 11, 2011
© Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

NUMBERED SCENT (Ohduhkellee)

A mothers gift ,

Generally at Christmas .

Easiest option which I hope she will like .

( Eau De Kelly)  Fragrance for older ladies , who do remember ...

I have just "invented "this new form of poetry . 

As you can see it is the 4~7~11 .

First line has 4 syllables , next 7 and the last has 11 .

And , if you think it stinks......... yes it probably does......

All rights are reserved ( and a few lefts).

Details | Prose Poetry | |

F51Part Two

Show me what eye must do now? Just believe in Jesus and see the miracle of 
life. Eye took Hitler in the air with me flying is not hard when made of Titanium 
steel and brass rod. There is a small town in Arkansas and eye took the Fuhrer 
there and placed him with a Family the woman and the boys. He lived there until 
1963 and was buried in the cemetery south of town near Morrilton and the five 
mile creek. The grave stone says Milton Stone upon it and Mrs. Stone was never 
home she always worked three shifts at the cotton gin to make a house into a 
home for her boys and her strang guest. Eye chose to call him Milton Stone. He 
sat most days upon the porch and rocked there back and forth like any self 
appointed guardian of boys. He was so thankful to escape the Air Patrol. The bits 
and pieces of the parts of Hitler that they found was only just a long stray dog eye 
found and let him follow me into the pit the bombers hit the android eye was 
rocked a bit and the poor stray looked up at me in wounded horror but the teeth 
looked enough like the Hitler to fool the German Officers. Jesus saves one hard 
hearted android and the Fuhrer from a early grave. Adolf Hitler is Born - April 20, 
1889 Milton Stone was buried April 20, 1965. He stared hard at me one day when 
eye rode down the highway in a car in my human form he did not wave but he 
knew that it was eye. He was full of lemonade and fish the day he died he was 

Details | Prose Poetry | |



The whole world is a war and we are its        
     Victims; you and me…us;
Fading silhouettes of life, chasing tomorrow
     In euphoric bliss…
Riding high on a giant white cloud:
     A mushroom nourishing on pregnancies
    Giving birth to new world war ghosts.
Living today has be indefinitely postponed;
     The world has declared war on peace.


In psalms of dreams, webbed in the labyrinth
     Time spins; praying to the fertility gods,
I stole a hole in space and planted a flower;
     Mourning peace amidst
The empty shadows of wars never won.


They say flowers don’t grow here anymore: 
     Earth’s womb a victim of nuclear pus;
And her tissues of civilization lay rotting
     From atomic infestation;
Military plagues mutating shells of humanity
     Freaked out on self destruction.
As peace suffocates at the conference table,
     God is denied a seat. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Author Message 

Age : 53
Joined : 25 Jun 2007
Posts : 53
Localisation : Tucson

 Subject: Sixty8Ball   Today at 16:17      



Street toughs and criminals fighters and haters drug users and drinkers and 
smokers and sniffers. The eye is 53 chronological in years but excessive use of 
beers has not been nice to my nerves and when they move near me like sharks 
in the water of a limning pool eye flinch a little move away but not fear eye never 
fear no one but namme. Eye would not want to hurt the boyz but neither will eye 
let them tower over me in size they would not make a decent meal for wolf or dog 
or coyote packing hounds of misery they play like men when wanting to deliver 
but they mistake the old homeless for a flake and a quiver when the liver is so 
pink and my spine is finally strait and eye stand in disbelief as they step up to the 
plate eye pulled my glove on then smiled they seemed to hesitate then they tried 
again to make me shake
"we told yew we will beat yew up" the eye was laughing now the jigg was up the 
die was cast no time to worry or even much to laugh eye pulled the other glove on 
my right hand and smiled not moving there just waiting time to dance had come 
they tried again even so they wanted me to think that they had heart they walked 
up to the near me as they could try then one he balked the other one stopped 
also when he realized he was alone and facing some sort of crazxy man intent 
on going home they left with tails all tucked away and nothing left on glove no 
meat no bone. Eye could not let it go eye turned and shouted after them "you 
punked". Remember that this man is already 53 years old lame in one foot and 
blind in one eye shorter than tall taller than them able to tie one hand behind my 
eye and walk away from the gangster fight. Eye win. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Please give me Courage The Grate War

Sitting and waiting for the whistle to blow again twice in just one day,
I sat and watched the various signs, the returning spring across fields,
In a copse there was a wood lark singing also in the copse a sniper waiting,
Tom tits hung off a house that stood in ruins as shells fly so will they.

A wet face of fear and rain droplets fell into my thick very wet great coat,
Dreading running across ruined fields, charred oak trees, rifles spit at me,
For now I will listen to the peace the loud harsh voice of the missel-thrush,
A man lies near me, so still I kicked him, the heap of bloody rags was silent.

Men walked along the trenches they needed to do something stamping cold feet,
Sitting in the iron depths of winter trying to have faith, hope in my iced heart,
Ears burn in the ceaseless icy east winds it blows so cold, I am so very scared,
There is only a few things we can be sure of that is rain, cold and snow storms.

There is a load bang and sound of speed in the wind a shell falls but it is short,
Bullets fired the tracers are like fireworks they glow as they flash past or over,
Snow falls heavily and the ripped fields of no mans land begins to turn mud white,
If the whistle blows for us to attack we will stand out like silhouettes on paper.

My mouth was so dry I kept on drinking water but each time I dank the thirst returned,
The clothes I wore have not been changed for nearly six months coldness killed ticks,
Noise of the shelling and rifle fire made me feel sick my stomach full of butterfly's
My hands begin to shake uncontrollably as I try to light a cigarette the match is wet.

The whistle blows in frightened confusion we are told to push on and leave the trench,
Officers with guns wait to shoot anybody that does not charge and join the slaughter,
I stand in a snow white field as a black figure on a white background this is my day,
Men wounded many crying this is so wrong a bullet hits my head I fall into blackness. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Tell me what you see
When you see
The children crying
With their bloated bodies
Withered hands
Wasted lips and faces
And eyes that never smile

Tell me what you hear
When you hear
The children weeping
With their tattered clothes
Broken bones
Shattered dreams and souls
And hearts that never mend

Tell me what you feel
When you witness
The dropping bombs
With their hearts of fire
Songs of pain
Sundering greetings and goodbyes
And hands that never feel

Someone explain to me
Explain to me
Why children’s tears
Filled with sorrow filled with longing
Go unheard
Searching eyes and curious minds
Never see the beauty in the stars

Tell me what to say
What to say
To my child when he sees
The children crying
Many dying
In the streets
And going blind, wasting away
While we are safe
While we feast and we celebrate
And we love

Details | Prose Poetry | |



What strange webs they weave
Like black widows lacing
Silk dreams of ecstasy

Wooing victims with deceit
Netted in a wicked mesh
Of woven lies

Waging war
In the name of God and Peace:

Bullets and bombs exploding
in orgasmic death.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ratings War

Ratings War
                    By Odin Roark

His trembling fingers press remote buttons
Finally pausing on…

The News Channel.

Breaking News – Many dead.
As ordered by chests of ribbons and medals,
Faces covered by executioner masks,
Crusaders of jihadist-style black gowns
Man’s all-encompassing human ant hill
Frantic with hate and holiness.

The Feel Good Channel

A stoic President speaking reprisals,
The ghost-piloted drones
The magic answer to hostilities.

The Re-Run Channel

His despondent fingers traverse his face
Where annals of imbedded scars pulsate,
Like shrapnel shards once removed,
Repressed memories refusing to die,
Reminders that combat remains forever alive.

The History Channel

So many mirrored yesterdays,
Smiling neighbors once happy like him,
Knowing all too well how history truly repeats itself,
Its legacy forever ready to lick the corners of its bloody lips,
Even when there is no blood…temporarily.

The Pay-Per-View Channel

Battling for fame and fortune,
Caged bare-fisted men and women
Pounding one another in between hungry kisses,
Ripping off each other’s clothes
As hordes of spectators scream “Get it on!
Get it on!”

The Dark Channel

His finger presses the final button.
Inviting the opaque screen of assurance,
That super natural attestation,
Where without sound,
Or Network Sweeps,
Heaven is always an offering,
That other make-believe promise of peace,
Forever vying for ratings.

He dozes off.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Hitler was running for his life he was near the depression in the road the sound 
of falling bombs was deafening He was like an animal now sure that he was 
about to be destroyed and that is what happened in our lifeline but there is a 
Watcher. He stepped out of the clouds like a JESUS. He touched Hitler on the 
sleeve and Hitler paused. His narrow eye was scanning the Watcher. WHO what 
how Hitler was monosyllabic. Eye am an alien from your Future 
CharlaxAndroidOneSeven. Eye am the Watcher sent to save you. Do you want to 
live in a different timeline Adolf? Yes the Fuhrer nodded. State & Party Leader 
Hitler Führer was the title granted by Chancellor Hitler to himself by the Enabling 
Law which gave him supreme power in the German Reichstag (Parliament), as 
part of the process of Gleichschaltung, following the death of the last 
Reichspräsident of the Weimar Republic, Paul von Hindenburg, on August 2, 
1934. The new position, fully named Führer und Reichskanzler (Leader and 
Chancellor of the (Third) Reich), unified the offices of State/Party leader 
(Germany becoming a one-party state at this point) and Chancellor, formally 
making Hitler Germany's Head of State as well as Head of Government 
respectively; and, in practice, the Dictator of the Nazi Third Reich. 
Nazi Germany cultivated the Führerprinzip (leader principle), and Hitler was 
generally known as just der Führer ("the Leader"). One of the Nazis' most-
repeated political slogans was ''Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer' - 'One People, 
One Empire, One Leader'. See Part Two now see eh???

Details | Prose Poetry | |

So Many Gone

                  So Many Gone

John and George spoke of peace in a song.
The hope still lingers, though they are gone.
Martin and J.F.K. saw ideas reach their time.
The change was too much, so, they saw the end of the line.
Now there is war, what was right now is wrong.
So much to offer, yet, so many gone………
The powers at hand don’t understand working together.
While the fate of mankind seems to drop like a feather.
Why can’t we see? Learn to trust?
Why can’t we see? The dream’s up to us?
Now we’re at war and can’t understand.
People just die, in a far away land.
They say we are winning while concealing the hand.
While people still hurt, yet, can’t make a stand.
Power corrupts as the politicians toil.
The money verses life in the quest for oil.
The cards all the same, just rearranged.
The war machine marches on without any change.
The lessons we learn seem to take too long.
History repeats that familiar sad song.
So much that was right has turned to wrong.
So many good people, so many gone………..
The sun scorches down, burns our skin from the sky.
Factories still belch their smoke, another day goes by.
Change seems too hard, so we just don’t try.
The planet is dying, while politician’s all lie.
Something is missing, the leaders are wrong.
We all lost count, so many gone….

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Modern medicine 
Quick evacuation of wounded soldiers 
On the battlefield 
Keep the death rates of warriors down
And we accept the losses.

But it also makes wars last much longer 
To the detriment 
Of civilians caught up in countries where 
Warfare happens. 
 And civilian deaths are disregarded. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last Thought of the Day= to all soupers

thanks for well wishes...I will see this thru...(like I got a choice)....always a 
joker...not so easy still up and in pain...vicodin like an M&M...I cant read 
individuals now, but that will come...Soup is where I am, and where I'm headed.  
You guys know the score...Truth and perception...light and dark...Tom and 
Rosie...some things just dont end...and she is my life saver, and my son any you much wiser than me in so many ways...dont have to say a word...there 
is a song about the sun and the moon...there is Bonnie and Clude...There is 
scotch and water...and there is rosie and Tom, though I haven't kissed her in 
eons..doesnt words needed...all the stuff I ever tried to say she knew 
from the minute we met...I have one last word tonight without sounding pompous 
and petulant---------...A fly and a fly swatter and  a hammer... A 20 cent fly swatter 
killes a fly effectively...rather easily.....a $200 hammer killes a fly as dead...but 
much harder...much more effort and focus to accomplish same thing...a dead a dead fly, but your efforts are unequal.  Morale- (buy bug spray!...opps, 
sorry....) bad word, you get what you give, and them kind word to one 
person can avoid a war.  so choose your words carefully, they live on beyond your 
wildset your actions do...easy..but Americans live in their own world, 
no more valid than another...yetmwe will die for a thing nebulous in conception.  
Poets are the lead troops...hate the analogy..but go with a sharp sword, if you 
must...God, under any  name, will handle the rest......see ya tomorrow...rose will 
post any news...she is are you...I would dread to have her as my 
enemy. I.S.Y.N.....dreams from another part of the world...Tom TTT 1-4-3 
Rose, let the poets figure that one out.  goodnight.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


For all intents and purposes man is now the number of the beast.
Is the Poet yet aware? Did he knoe that men were killing men that wars were 
being fought again whilst he dared to dream even pen love he felt inside for 
them? Words so eloquently displayed for all the students of the English 
Language to critique and study how many poems does the English teacher use? 
in classrooms long abused by drug and alcoholic use the poetic foibles of a 
systematic killing of the individual pursuits. Completed in the Identification 
system is the number of the beast the system is the thing. The use of numbers 
to Identify the people is nothing new the Military in Ancient Worlds numbered 
troops on the Identification Chalk Boards the ICB were set up in the surrounding 
rocks so that the Trolls could change the numbers during the battle they had to 
be quick whitted adding and subtracting the smarter ones soon figured out to 
count the men’s legs and divide by two. The Roman Government even instituted 
the Social Card but the elite only had them they used them to get in the better 
areas of the Roman bathes. The Poet Edgar Allen Poole was made most 
famous by his Raven died it seems after the Cival war was over. Poole, (-----), 
Mr. - PE 16 Nov 1889. Walter Whiteman was next One Time People Search 
Report for Walter Whiteman unfortunate this search wanted money to complete 
the search this Poets death remains uncertain.
Get full name and addresses for all displayed records. Perhaps he is still alive in 
Arizona and continuing his poems in another place and time. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

3Fabel7 Part two

When eye wanted to make a bicycle for the Charlaxandroidsevenone the locals 
all agreed do not try to keep it here do not lock it to our fence or we will cut the 
lock and thieve the bike away from you you there you there look away lost falcon 
the Dove is the only way to fly. Eye do not live in fear of others there but when the 
eye is not departing on the buss stopped there eye never visit the stopps 
anymore or less no need to invest in the gangers there they rest a moment's 
notice just to get the stolen goodies managed in the Tucson twilight zone. 
Now eye must be careful not to get angry and frown at my computer screen it may 
go dark again. The energy that eye direct is mostly used to hunt and peck these 
words that ewe detect when reading yours the pictures added later for effect the 
yoyo spinning down the line the top tipped up and spinning on its side the handle 
pressed on the Spinning one to make it top the gangers rule the city blocks. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Orifice of Creation – Part One

The plight of creation in the end days, posted this under war for there is a spiritual war
present in these days.
Now4ever Midi

Revelation 17:4-6

In meanderings of alcoves of
blood bathed sliming blithe,
demons of hollow sunken mindless
degenerating gruels of flesh scales
and minds filled with rape and destruction,
haunting babbles of abominations.
In the present and ancient

They will bury you in your generations
from creation to damnation the
summit of all worlds surmise.
The temptress allures you
into open graves of slither indigestion
pools of regeneration and manic
skulls of empty thoughts and

Just another collected corpse of the temptress.
Who did not heed the warning of
the current times.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Matters

Green boots slam the ground
As they adjust their hats
Praying while they run away
That the enemy isn’t too fast

Praying up to god above
That they live today
Wishing all to silently
That they go home someway

The first shot rings out clearly
And a man falls to the ground
Those soliders, many died that day
And some were never found

And as the others sit at home
Warm, not frightened and scared
Many, many people think
“Man, who really cares?”

It’s just another war to fight
Another fight to lose
Does it even really matter
They didn’t have to choose

To fight this war that saves us
To fight this war that sounds
Like a fight we’re made to lose
But they do not back down

They fight, day and night
To protect us
Many lose their lives
To save their kids, their countries, their husbands and wives

Today’s the day we remember
The ones that chose to choose
To protect us
Because, what if it were you?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Orifice of Creation- Part Three

A new World will follow in the last day one that will reign in peace.

Thank you for reading my peers and commenting this set of three parts I felt needed to be
posted all in order.

The riders of the Apostolic reign
await the broken seals.
Judgments now poured out
Upon those generations present
in the earth.

He will come the one with white hair
of wool and eyes of blazing fire.
The rider upon the white horse
With a sword of judgment for the
armies of the world.

Man shall not be ready,
Shall not have heed to those
Apostil instructions given
for thousands of years.

Mankind did not see, for their eyes were shut;
they did not hear because they were deaf.
They were Zombies with mindless form,
hollow sunken eyes and speechless,
marching into the lakes of fires.

In the end the white horseman and his
throng of angelic hosts and saints remained.
New Jerusalem dropped down from heaven above.
A new world would reign in peace.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Orifice of Creation – Part Two

Cain and Abel two brothers is the first record of them in a murder notation in the book of
Genesis and death between brothers and nations has continued throughout history.

Listen generations of the earth,
as Abel’s blood screams for justice
from the deep depths of ancient soil.
With eyes of witnesses in the heavens,
watching the hunt of evil and good.

All will be the victim of the temptress
in that day and Satan shall lead a path
of those that are in her demise.
They buried in the foulest
recess of one’s mind and just another
victim of the temptress.

Choking on the flesh of precious souls
roasted in boiling pools of flaming
waters and the march to the prophet’s
calls, as they even lay dead and robbed
of breath and sacred words as worms crawl
through there flesh as earth claims their
bodies and dust becomes their prize.

So shall be the days of the end.
As told in ancient times to witness here
in modern civilization by telecasted alerts.
The earth moans for new birth a new

Details | Prose Poetry | |


He sails to distance shores unknown,
Ready always to defend our home,
Fighting together  or charging alone,
Winning the battle for our very own..

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Sometimes a Cowboy is sitting at the bus stopped waiting there for no one 
sometimes it is the drunk who sleeps there sometimes it is the ganger who 
stops to go threw his stolen stuff on his way home there was debris all around 
him he was uncombed hair and Mexican or worse Chinese or Asian there with 
hair all unbarbered and the bicycle was being worked on standing on its seat it 
looked like to me he was trying to make it GO somehow it was not doing just 
what he wanted it to do There was also missing pieces of the clothing from a 
backpack stolen no doubt from the place where he also took the bicycle from the 
mind brings up worry and fear in place of wonder the man looked all the world 
like thunder if it had a place to stay his face devoid of a human expression eye 
once had a biker walk up to me at the bus stop and he said he would like to 
pound me and eye asked him why and he said he was on drugs and eye had to 
leave the bus stop and catch a later tater tot buss. He was so rude and wiped out 
and stupid to threaten a citizen like that who seldom threatens anyone or wants 
to even fight a poet a statesman a love a brite lite. Function in a society of a 
poetical discourser is to remove the hatred placed upon the poor and the 
worthless lifer. 
Space Aged Technology eye just saw another worthless AD on yahoo it said they 
the gangers was not drunk enough to play so they put Captain Morgan in a can 
please let him out His men are looking for the Captain of they shippe again the 
propensities for abuse will make the men go out and kill again to get the money 
for they juice.