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Prose Poetry War Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About War

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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 heart......no 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 swells....my 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



__________________________________________________
 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.

Copyright © Carrie Richards

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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

Copyright © Sidney Beck

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War Against The Flesh - Part 3

Roaming the Streets Like a Wildcard With a vendetta,
I Ignored the Ache that was Thumping Against My Brain.

                              - Like Some Sort of Haunting Medicine -

It'd been Months Since Daylight. It All Started with  
The Darkening of the Sky. Then After, Came The Visions.

                              - Street Preachers with a Cause -

Those Religious People I Befriended But Never Took
The Time To Listen to, Vanished by The Church Load.

                              - Then Came The Slaughtering -

Those With Souls as Black as The Richest Tar. Found
In Disturbing Circumstances, Nailed to Wood.

                              - All The Blood Rushing to Their Heads. -

Now All That's Left on This Limbo of a World is us.
The People Who Never Embraced nor Rejected Him.

                              - Ragdolls For The Devil -

Following The Light Brought Me To a Small Camp, A Fire 
Blazed in the Middle, and my Arrival Attracted No Attention.

                              - I'll Hide From The Fire -
                                  They Burn out Fast

If The Smoke Attracted my Attention, Then
They'll Receive More Uninvited Visitors.

                             - For Now I'll Sleep Near The Camp Not in It -
                               - Sleeping Near Company Eased The Mind -
                                               - Made it Possible - 

Random Scuffling and Gasps Followed By The Screeches
and Noises Caused by Tearing Flesh. It Woke Me From Security.

                             - Raping Murdering Creatures -
                                   Upholding Their Design 

The Noise Died Down and Uneven Footsteps Trailed into
The Distance Behind a Deranged Doppler Effect. 

                             - ....Tend to The Wounded -

You Can Talk to Them Minutes Before Their Bulb Blows,
But How Do You Console The Damned? 

                            - Life is Terminal -

A Cancer Created to Spread, and Spread We Did. 

                           - God Added Restrictions -

Every Pregnancy Miscarried by Involuntary Abortion.

                           - Humans, Following In League With Dinosaurs. -

...  If God Wants You Dead,
                                          Where Can You Hide ? ....

Copyright © Conor Jordan

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War Against The Flesh - Part 1

- 2012 - Winter -                                


                                - They Fought Wars Against Their Shadows -


The Road Was Dark and Paved into The Black.

He Stood at The Foot of A Narrow Lane, His

Eyes Like Burning Embers of a Dying Fire.

They Left Trails of Light as He Walked


                                - Satan, Beckoning Me To Follow -


They Took Everything, They Took My Sanity,

When They Butchered My Family. They Even

Took The Light From The Sky. The Eyes Adjusted

But The Skin Did Not, it Became Dull and Leathery.


                                 - The Lane Lead to a House -


The Fire was Lit, and Thick Ash Bellowed From The Stone 

Chimney. This War Was Over, But Every Encounter 

Left Me More and More Exhausted. I Just Wanted To

Sleep, But I Dare Not Force it Upon Myself.


                                   - Or I'll End Up in Their World -


The Ancient Societies Predicted This, After The Two 

Giants Fell, The World Would Became Unstable, And The

Days Of Reckoning Would Fall Upon The Flesh of Man.

Those With The Blackest of Souls, Became Unrecognizable.


                                     - Decorative Mutilations of Blood and Skin -


The Small Wooden Door Swung Open, The Smell of

Worn and Decaying Matter Was All Too Familiar With

My Senses, But This Smell, This Smell Phased Me.

Its Putrid Acidity Stung My Eyes.


                                      - Without His Lips Mobility -
                              - He Offered Me a Seat Opposite him -


The Devil Wants To Make a Deal With You....

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                   A painting by my friend, inspired by this piece.    

http://fc07.deviantart.com/fs47/i/2009/221/0/d/War_Against_The_Flesh_Pt1_by_ZackMcBride
.jpg

Copyright © Conor Jordan

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War Against The Flesh - Part 2

The Stench of Rotting, Festering Human,

Melted The Air, and Turned Every Breath

Into Decay. I Used To Keep a Pack of 

Toothpicks in My Jeans...But Now.

 
                - Just a Box of Charity Shop Rosary Beads -


Each Individual Bead Clenched So Tightly 

In My Fist, I Could Feel The Skin About To

Break Around Them. He Stared Me Out,

I Could Hear Him in My Head, Chanting.


                 - His Incantations Burnt Holes in The Soul -


They Festered Within, You Cant Reply and

You Can't Leave, A Stalemate of Will. A

Man Pursued By Hell, and an Angel, Rejected

By Grace...What Do You Want From Me?


                   - A Word Masked By His Breath -

                                    ...You...

When The Big Guy In School Grips You

By The Throat, You Cant Breathe, But You

Don't Cry. When The Devil Grips You. You

Don't Breathe and You Can't Cry.


                     - His Fingers Scarred My Neck -


Hell is Cold, There's Fire, But Not The Comforting

Heat, Just The Scarring Painful Qualities of The

Flicker. But This is Just a Taste, He Can't Take

Me, I'm Not Dead, and He isn't allowed to Kill Me.



                       - I'm Untouchable, Lest I Desecrate God -


...Communication With The Devil is a Sure Way to Start.


The Dust Rose in an Imprint Round Me as I Hit The Floor.

Just as He Appeared, He Disappeared, Leaving Behind Him

A Stream of Ash Which Followed Behind Him Into The Night.

I'll Just Keep Walking, Following The Light From Distant Fires.


                         - Hoping it's People -
               - And Not their Smoking Carcasses -

Copyright © Conor Jordan

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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.

Copyright © Gert W. Knop

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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.

Copyright © Melody Coster

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A Fire In The Heart Of Our Darknes

we sat, my brother and I
leaning against the old wood pannels of the room
the smoke engulfed us like breath
as the threat of violence loomed

his voice was quiet still
passion and regret burned in his eyes
when he finally opened his mouth
words failed him for the first time

he'd been our uncle for ages
a part of our lives since we were kids
my mother used to say he was funny once
but that the war had changed him

finally he spoke in slow motion
we waited on tenterhooks for every word
our breath bound by more than smoke
as he let his story unfurl

leaning back in his chair
the words crawled from his lips
a voice beat to a pulp
by his whiskey and cigarettes

he talked of the sceneary
the forrests thicker than amber
the "nats" as he called them
clung to your skin like a cancer

He was only 19 then
fresh off the farm he'd always worked on
fired his first gun at basic training
his drill sargeant told him that they were now one

his words formed snakes
that coiled around my brother and i
and when his words got soft and slow
he simply took a drag and closed his eyes

he described in details
much more than any kids should know
details about basic training
and the washouts that walked skid row

he turned twenty the day before
he hopped on his first airplane
while he and others got sick
the music on the stereo played

he skipped some parts
the walking, the girls, the mundane acts
instead he talked about his friend
how they were like brothers, just like me and Jack

His boots destroyed his feet
his clothes permanently soaked to bone
he laughed with gravel in his voice
as he talked about missing home

Dean was the name
of his friend, his brother in arms
he was from Alabama
with a southern accent, rich and strong

They would talk about girls
who they had waiting in bed
nights spent on watch
guns, "nats" and hushed conversation between them

My uncle talked in clicks
spoke of companies and Charlies
his hands shook with a violence
that was only matched by his memory

Jack and I sat stone still
hanging on to every word and deep breath
knees tucked up to our chins
shaking from the excitement of what would come next

we were so young then
and knew nothing of battle, war, or loss
the term post tramatic stress disorder
was foreign to all and did nothing to help us

he leaned close so to whisper
because his natural, deep voice failed him
sweat clung to his shirt now
as his fingers held a cigarette that bounced from the trembling

The sun had made it's decent
the room was now filled with shadows
our uncle clutched his crucifix
his hand turned white from the hallow

he slowly set the scene
tilting his head back as he exhaled deeply
the Binh Duong Province, October 17th
Innocence was lost entirely on that morning

The television and papers screamed
calling it the battle of Ong Thahn 
my uncle called it a waste of lives
the army called them the 2nd battalion

64 died in 2 hours
Dean, my uncles rock among them
as he spoke those words he sobbed
some of his best friends were now dead

he told us about the war
his two tours he barely lived through
talked to us about mortars, and friendly fire
and of how the scenery was so beautiful

He cussed lowly in his whispers
dried tears covered his face
He told us he never felt truly alive
after he left that god forsaken place

in the end it was the war
the war that tore him apart
dirt poor and a drunk
with a empty and violent heart

our uncle, the fun one once
divorced of our aunt and his innocence
might've as well died over there,
but life doesn't offer forgiveness

he ended up a cliche
the guy who was "really there man"
he came home fully intact
but was half the man he'd been

Copyright © K.M North

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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'}



Copyright © deb radke

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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


Copyright © Therese Bacha

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Soldiers

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



By : Maithem Al-Atabi
Translated by :Laith Seher

Copyright © Laith Seher

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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

Copyright © WAEL MOREICHEH

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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
gratitude...
and the hope that she will share her throne
beside yous
should you find her efforts and her heart
worthy.
 
 
 
(c)  Katherine Wyatt 2013

Copyright © James Kelley

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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.

Copyright © Funom Makama

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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.

Copyright © Kinda Klassy

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

Copyright © Suzanne Delaney

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.

Today,
He only wanted his mother.

Today,
Time was running slow,
Slower,
Stopping,
Begging.

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.

Today…

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…
Anything…
Is listening. 

Copyright © Odin Roark

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Peaceful Illusions

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

Copyright © Anthony Slausen

Details | Prose Poetry | |

CRY THE BELOVED CONTENENT


     CRY THE BELOVED CONTINENT…
     (Apropos The Ripping Veil of Pan-Africanism)

In all her blackness
her soils run red
with the blood of her children

Whose bloated bellies
mock the pregnancy
of liberty

And her breasts
sag in union
with faces 
of hopeless hopefulness;

While hollowed eyes 
of mourners
gaze into the wholeness
of nothing---

Smiling death stalks
the narrowing corridors of
life---echoing souring laughs
to virgin wombs
screaming from the shadows
of the valley of death:

But believe brethren---
mock not the gods---
keep plodding;
for in the theism 
of this imposed dystopia, 
a wretched mother
tenaciously clings to time
and history.

Copyright © millard lowe

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.

Copyright © Ugochukwu Okafor

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

Copyright © Mark Goodson

Details | Prose Poetry | |

His Forever Plastic Flower

His Forever Plastic Flower
                by Odin Roark

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

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

“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.

Copyright © Odin Roark

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
 Endlessly

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
USA
* 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.
 ___________________________________

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Machiavelli's Own Son or Thespian

You re-house Machiavelli’s soul in your foul frame
That soul great guides your head and heart;
Not what you learnt from the kitabs
Beacon to you is Lucifer’s own light.

With verisimilitude unseen,
With finesse unthought of,
You pose as a Judhishtir.
But Dharmaputra, I know you 
Engineer mischief meanest.
You are the mid-husband of
Old rustic plot,
Vile stinking villain
You know not- unhiegynically you rot.

Copyright © Sarwar Morshed

Details | Prose Poetry | |

O! America Reverse

My opinions are changed, 
My heart lacks fervour, 
For you lunched the war, 
Purposeless, 
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.  

Copyright © Muhammad Shanazar

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,
Picture,
Or Network Sweeps,
Heaven is always an offering,
That other make-believe promise of peace,
Forever vying for ratings.

He dozes off.

Copyright © Odin Roark

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trains

=============================
Trains 
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

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi

Details | Prose Poetry | |

War experience


I walked many days
Looking for a place of safety
My mattress on my head
No food and money
My feet rise like yeast
And my strength is fainting

Rebels shooting everywhere
Bullets on target
Bullet missing targets
My heart fills with pain
My eyes fill with tears

The road is crowded
Everybody moving to nowhere
Freight gave me his garment
No strength to move further
I gather dry leaves to sleep
And cold blanket me

Rebels patrolling every street
Ready to eliminate anyone
I hid in a tree
Watching every action
And ants visited me

Worried about my situation
Less rebels look up the tree
The ministry of angels I remembered
All the rebels went into deep sleep
And I walk freely into safety







Copyright © Olivia Nimley

Details | Prose Poetry | |

War dance

	

The war dance is about to start
The country devil is getting dress
The dancers are warming up
The sasa is sounding
And the kola is prepared

Farmers rushing to the town
The cutlasses sound on the rock
The men are moving forward
Leaves in their mouth
Fire coal on their body

Every village is participating
The whole town in action
People moving forward and backward
Gazing at the dancing arena

The country devil appeared
The hunting dogs put their tales in
The country devil face cannot be seen
His legs are long like the tallest tree in the world
His height is a plane in the sky
Oh! What a seen

All the women move a distance
The men have taken charge
The dancers are shaking the ground
Dust is every where
The drummers are giving real sound
Du-ka   du du ka- ka ka du du du
The country devil shakes his body
Brings out fire from his mouth
The town chief smiles
And all the villagers unite

Copyright © Olivia Nimley

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Static

Static......

Radioactive man is cool.
His brain is fried
but he still wears chinos.

It is sixteen days
since the bomb dropped,
not many people lived
but radioactive man did.

He is dazed and confused
but alive.
He staggers about,
not knowing
he is glowing.

The radio static
claims lots
of things.

Like....

The Russians
are like sour grapes.
A bad bunch.

No need to be that bad
though.
Claims static.

Radioactive man
shouts words.

"Let them lead what
I can"t have
down
the
path
of
righteousness."

Sigh, he must
have been
a church goer.

He will be dead
in two hours.

But the radio
wont know.

Nobody will.

Well, maybe God.

Oh and the Russians.

Copyright © ned flanders