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War Prose Poetry Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About War

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |

EXERPTS FROM HITLER'S DIARY 1941

EXERPTS   FROM   HITLER’S   DIARY   1941

"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 |

WHAT`S NUCLEAR WAR - WAEL MOREICHEH

WHAT`S NUCLEAR WAR 

OUT SOULS OF GODDES

LIKE VENUS AND APHRODITE 


AND THE POOR HUMANE LIKE RICH AGAMEMNON 
IN BLCK COMEDY

WARS LIKE SATANIC HELL TO HUMANITY ALL


YES BUT I NEED THIS WARS ??????????

WAEL MOREICHEH


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.                                                                        
                                              5/1/13
                                           Therese Bacha



Details | Prose Poetry |

Soldiers

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 |

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

She 
is 
a 
fine 
damsel,
Fluent 
in 
Swahili,
Walking 
barefoot 
on 
the 
dusty 
streets 
of 
Mali,
Cracks 
under 
her 
feet 
incured 
from 
decades 
of 
strife,
Caves 
of 
filth 
and 
so 
they 
mock 
her 
when 
she 
passes 
by,
As 
the 
darkness 
thickens 
the 
silence 
becomes 
more 
terrifying,
She 
searches 
for 
a 
hiding 
place 
deep 
inside 
the 
jungle,
But 
fortunes 
deserts 
her 
when 
she 
comes 
across 
a 
rebel 
army,
The 
rest 
of 
her 
tale 
is 
yours 
to 
imagine.
Enjoy 
the 
benefits 
of 
the 
these 
bloody 
diamonds 
in 
the 
morning,
They 
may 
be 
swept 
away 
in 
the 
evening,
Enjoy 
the 
freedom 
before 
the 
speech,
They 
may 
be 
none 
after 
it,
When 
violence 
is 
sown 
in 
a 
home,
The 
roots 
may 
uproot 
the 
neighbour's 
house,
When 
a 
friend's 
cornfield 
catches 
fire,
The 
flame 
is 
at 
your 
doorstep.
Make 
a 
noise 
for 
the 
oppressed 
Somalian,
Shed 
a 
tear 
for 
the 
slain 
Malian,
Beat 
a 
drum 
for 
the 
hungry 
Sudanese,
Get 
on 
your 
knees 
and 
pray
For 
the 
African 
inferno 
to 
cease.


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