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Sonnet Holocaust Poems | Sonnet Poems About Holocaust

These Sonnet Holocaust poems are examples of Sonnet poems about Holocaust. These are the best examples of Sonnet Holocaust poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Sonnet | |

SMOKESTACKS OF AUSCHWITZ

     THE SMOKESTACKS OF AUSCHWITZ
A trail of smoke fades to an autumn dawn,
as sounds of morning break unearthly still,
arising to the day, some life goes on,
while others have the fear it never will.

Some ashes drift about the morning air,
appearing as do snowflakes in a stall,
to restless breezes they drift everywhere
and they are spread about before they fall.

Each life that was, is slow in pure descent,
and longing for the earth turning below,
the mother of all life, where time is spent,
until time's all run out--it's time to go.

Down in the valley echoes from a train,
awhistling, here come the dead again.
© ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet


Details | Sonnet | |

The damage is done

There no use in trying to mend these broken and shattered pieces.
Its done for. Your saying that I'm great, that I'm strong. That I'll find someone else. 
It's cut a deep void in my life. And left me completely sleepless.
Only vulgarity comes to mind, I dug deep who knew that so easily, your feelings would melt.

It disappeared overnight. Oh! The unfairness I'm faced with.
Maybe I deserve the pain. From all angles it sprouts.
I'm filled with hate. Length and width.
I tried! I tried! Did you expect me to shout?!

How I miss waking up in love! All smiles, no regrets at all.
It's become a feeling I definitely don't want again, never ever again.
Its a lesson learned, behind happiness, despair crawls!
Don't fall too hard, once you fall, it happens over and over, it never ends.

I hate to say this again, but what's done is done.
There no turning back once the damage is done.


Details | Sonnet | |

Smokestacks of Auschwitz

     THE SMOKESTACKS OF AUSCHWITZ
A trail of smoke fades to an autumn dawn
as sounds of morning break unearthly still
arising to the day, some life goes on
while others have the fear it never will.

Some ashes drift about the morning air
appearing as do snowflakes in a stall,
to restless breezes they drift everywhere
and they are spread about before they fall.

Each life that was is slow in pure descent
and longing for the earth that pounds below
the mother of all life, where time is spent,
until time's all run out--it's time to go.

Down in the valley echoes from a train
awhistling here come the dead again.
© Ron Arbuthnot aka ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa


Details | Sonnet | |

Die Granate

A relief from stress, such a sweet paradise
A deafening crash then a blinding light
Poor boy, your fate is sealed like loaded dice.
Due to beastly luck this child I must smite.

Perhaps he'll go where I have yet to behold;
This kind, bereaved, extinguished progeny.
Ill-fated boy, please reach those gates of gold.
Oh, child! Why walk the streets of Germany?

Fully at rest for all eternity,
All I can do is hope forever that
Maybe the last thing you saw wasn't me.
My last image? Your torn figure laid flat.


Details | Sonnet | |

SECOND HOLOCAUST

            SECOND HOLOCAUST
We hear them now, the beating bass of drum,
the marchers, though loose-knit, from Wall Street's rolls,
too soon will turn to cadence; those who come,
all have no memory of Hitler's goals.

Their good intentions caved in, to survive,
to placing blame to where it shouldn't go!
And all too soon, the buzzing of the hive
lays every blame to things we shouldn't know.

Though mournful is the tune that plays along
to every drumbeat, calling for return
of nights of death--the old recall the song,
but much too late recall how bodies burn.

And Stars of David are replaced on every wall,
by Swastikas demanding rights for all.
Scary.


Details | Italian Sonnet | |

THE AMERICAN HOLOCAUST

How many died fighting not to get caught?
How many died on those ships, in their chains?
Or, died in those fields with nothing to gain,
Overworked after they all had been bought.
Who died, trying to flee where he was brought?
How many died from the whip and the pain;
At the end of a nuse, where they remain.
Is there a number that you have been taught?
You allowed us to go without a count,
Washing your hands clean of the blood splatter.
Blood was spilled, but we can not count an ounce,
To quiet your "questionable" chatter.
So, if we could come up with an amount,
Then you "might" understand that it matters.