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Sonnet War Poems | Sonnet Poems About War

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

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The Queen on Emerging From Her Refuge

She’d dwelt within a palace, and outside it, geese and brilliant peacocks used to strut inside a fragrant garden. As a bride, she’d said her vows beside the roses, but today no scent of blooms perfumes the air. The terrace sculptures, rubble now, are strewn across the floor. She gazes eastward where the mangos’ branches danced beneath the moon when zephyrs softly blew. Like poison, now a vapor comes, beginning to enwreathe her husband’s realm. There is a smell so foul her heart wells up with dread; she cannot breathe. As ashes drift around, she hangs her head with certainty her one beloved is dead. Written by Andrea Dietrich Oct. 11, 2014 for the Top Gun Poetry - Structured forms - Iambic verse III of Giorgio A. V. Form: Iambic Pentameter in an English Sonnet


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Too Late

TOO LATE
(Cornish sonnet)

There is no remedy, there is no cure.			
As mortars rip through the bloodied trenches,
on the forest fringes, follow the spoor,	
there, two fledging enemy soldiers lay		
dying, on thriving grass, breathing stenches,
praying to survive for another day.

For once yellow skin lay bare next to white.
With death now pushing against their locked teeth,
in pain, they begged each other for a light.
Too late, prejudice now lays defeated.
Too late, to put hatred back in its sheath.
Too late, these two young lives have been cheated.

There is no remedy, there is no cure,			
for once yellow skin lay bare next to white.		


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Give me a break I am PMS ing

I may slap you, curse you, smack you
Don’t get too serious honey, its monthly fun
I am PMS ing and my trauma is true
Be my gentleman and Pass My Shotgun

I may hate your friends and knock them down
Be any handsome man or cute chick
Don’t get them here when I am around
I am PMS ing, People Make me Sick

I may laugh out loud at your silly jokes
And the very next moment won’t find them funny
That catastrophic emotional trauma pokes
I am PMS ing, its Psychotic Mood Shift honey

Every month, within me I sense this ruinous storm
It’s not me honey, this phantom is Premenstrual Syndrome


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In The Meadow

The sun in morning haze diffused
A bright soft blanket o'er the meadow
To float and cloak what was misused, 
The dead and dying in the shadows.

This meadow in God's placid gaze
Where yesterday there laid two lovers,
Before the devil set ablaze
What this mourning blanket covers.

We are the children of all time
We are the parents of tomorrow;
The bells in distant steeples chime
And wring with tears and drip with sorrow.

Yet still with hatred in our hearts,
Within, a future battle starts.


April 19, 2013 Unfortunately our fields and meadows and cities are battlefields


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Still Here

I've seen trebuchets thrust rocks into crowds.
I've heard the weeping of the wounded pray.
I've walked through blood clad fields and screamed aloud.
Not a sound or even a whisper came.
I've felt the bite of water and of flame,
The warmth of friendship, the breaking of bones.
And I've heard the drafters call out my name,
Said goodbye to everything I have known.
Marched on crimson ground as the sunlight shone,
Held our flag in victory and disgrace.
Celebrated as the bodies lay prone;
The memories I wish I could erase.
Still those faces haunt; those faces of fear!
Long gone they are and yet I am still here.


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At Gettysburg - Garden Party

Unyielding stone, the furniture
Au naturel, no dress lace tablecloth
Concealing ants scavenging our picnic lunch. Loathe
Are we to flick them while they steal our cheese and crackers.

Siblings ensconced, diffused canopy of oak
Umbrellas, searing sun bewitches charming shadows;
Clover, petals three and sometimes four, meadows
Pleasant carpets cradling this resolute rock.

These stones echo cries reverberating past
More than a century's memorializing years
When other siblings set swords upon this grave frontier
In armies blue and gray amassed.

Immortal the crashing clash, bone against bone,
At Gettysburg to keep this nation one.


June 5, 2014
Garden Party Contest
Sponsor:  Cyndi MacMillan


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Soldier of Ages

Dedicated to  Lt. Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. (November 11, 1885 – December 21, 1945) 


I'd fought a hundred battles 
       through the ages past and new 
I'd been a lowly foot soldier 
       But at times commanded too. 
  
I was a witness of Arab mothers 
       Fleeing cities under-siege ; 
A new age liberator, 
       The commander of the third. 
  
I had served with Ceasar's legion; 
       The Carthaginians; and the Greeks. 
When Arthur was in his Kingship, 
I was a captain of the knights 
  
A horseman tough and skillful 
       Of medieval cavalier; 
But ages had transformed me 
       to dash with iron wheels 
  
The only time I meet MacArthur 
       Was in the salient of St. Mehiel 
We both stood erect, calm, and unmindful 
       To the guns and bursting shell. 
           
Oh well take a look at Monty 
       Too slow for his advance 
He didn't expect me to take Palermo 
       or Mesina to my plan 
  
 I was reproved of my harshness, 
       They knew not that I was somber too 
I cared not of my language 
       As long as my point would get through 
  
I'd mixed my words with profanities 
       That my orders surely stick 
My men would always remember every word 
       While they're in the battle field 
  
Oh my, I hate those yellow bastards 
       They have no place on this earth 
I sent them to the frontlines 
       That no more they would breed 
  
 Those swivel chair commanders 
       Discounted my two days time 
But brave soldier deserved to be rescued 
       Before his dog tag stops to chime. 
  
So my men made it to Dunkirk 
       To the delight of McAuliffe 
"Surrender!" yelled the Nazis 
       but "nutz" was all he said. 
  
I was cut off of supplies and fuel 
       For Market Garden's sake 
But after pissing the flowing River 
       I held the Fuhrer's nest 
  
So soon another war was ended 
       Mine enemies had lost 
The iron carver claimed the glory 
       And relieved me from my post.   


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THE BOMBING OF DRESDEN

      THE BOMBING OF DRESDEN     
        February 13, 1945
Pathfinders lit the night to show the way
for bombardiers too hungry for the word;
as Dresden's dark was made as light as day,
all hearts were stopped before the blasts were heard;

and as the din was heard by all their ears
the sound it made was not reality
but far removed from all the hopes and fears
and what they thought would never come to be.

They loved the Fuhrer--sin enough for all
to die the fiery death of sweet revenge
brought on by those who had enough of gall
to drop their loads in wartimes heated binge!

       And when the fire consumed all that it could
        the winter of their lives was understood.


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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


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BATTLECRY

          BattleCry
So stirs the hearts of all, in great delight,
   to raise a banner high, the march of fate;
to lead the way, where only dark of night,
   might find a way to quench the thirst for hate;   
   
Determined, each is blest to heed the call,
   of self appointed leaders of the day, 
the good, the bad, the dead, but butchers all,   
   one crowned in light, the others in decay!

To follow is the way, if wrong or right,
    determined by the one who stands at last,
we glow in judgement as if Heaven might
    just comprehend the end that binds us fast.

      and when we see it come around once more,
      all wonder is what leads us on to war?
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet


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Kim Jong-un leader of the starving

I wonder what your thinking, in your country far away
And what on earth possesses you to threaten mine today
You allow your people to starve, munitions they are first
While daily people starve to death and many die of thirst

Your father and grandfather should have taught you how to care
Instead they shared their legacy of treating people unfair
Many live in work camps with three generations or more
Simply because they disagreed, so now all must chore

You live in style above the rest, have people who adore
But deep down, I believe that each person longs for more
You teach hatred and despise my country each and every day
For freedom and free choice would take yours away

Your people follow in fear, like robots in a line
I wonder how long they will conform or will it be your time
More and more try to escape, or die instead of live
In a country such as yours that takes much more than it gives

Each building,statue, memorial you have to tell a tale
Of twisted truths and travesties instead they often fail
For freedom is what's needed in the country you call home
Grow food instead of opium,and leave the people alone

You have the power in your hands to change what was past
Hurry please before it's too late you must do it fast
Do not start a war in which more people will die
Because your father and grandfather started it with a lie. 




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Sunken Tears

                                   He stood bravely before me 
                           with a medal of honor in his right hand
                        and a bandage of agony around his left knee
                           It seemed like he had struggled to stand,
                             his crutches lay useless on the ground
                                 I found it hard to understand why,
                                 a soldier in pain didn't even frown
                                      With a voice firm but dry
                                 his words shook me like thunder
                                "You're now the man of this house"
                                 he uttered like a worn-out hunter
                            quivering up my legs like a terrified mouse
                                 Drowning my mind through cold ears
                        he passed his sincere respect and sunken tears


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A lonely evening

In many dreams of you, I wish
If I could get my hands on the wings
If only I could come over to you now, 
It would be the best moment in my life.
Alone in a cool evening
With the light of a candle and the breeze from afar
And then the moment would draw close
And the night would become our friend

And nature would support our breathe
And our dream would seem simple
And nightmare be far from us
For the moment would be the beginning of a new era
And the dawn would bring joy
Happiness and love 


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An Expression of Gratitude

Dear Jake, I know you have never met me
I life in your homeland across the sea
Our priest gave us a list of men at war
He asked us to write; I couldn’t ignore

I can but dream of the horrors you see
Applauding the way you fight so bravely
You put your life on the line every day
And my gratitude I want to convey

Your days are filled with incredible strife
Do you have children at home and a wife?
You know that your family prays for you
I want you to know that I’m praying too

If you write back, I’ll return each letter
But when you’re home safely, I’ll feel better




Written July 28, 2012
*Entry for Gail’s “Write a Heartfelt Poem to a Soldier” contest


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A Soldier's Cross to Bear

Out of foxhole field and bunkered platoon
  A patriot leads the clarion's blare:
Answers his country's call to arms but soon
  Duty and honour rise a toll I fear!
Let not councils of God and men restore
  The fallen soldier lest he fall again,
Or lest he conceal the alarms of war
  And live in knowing he himself has slain.
That the foot of pride no battle increase
  When he in fear his mighty weapon wields -
For it is only the dead who find peace
  Among the batteries in the killing fields.
Where the Dove flies the Hawk becomes a snare,
Whose profit in death is your Cross to Bear.

November 1992


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Mans Dreams of Peace

Mans Dreams of Peace
     ~     ~    ~     ~
War hell no! It is not name of the game,
No bodies laying over the battlefields
There is no way I am today the same.
Women and children all dying in wet fields
All torn apart by war ugliness and warriors;
Must try hide in our nightmares to get sleep.
Helicopters seems to sounds like aviators,
Torn bodies of the war in it’s own attire 
Trying keep alive a dream that weeps.
Dreams of the dead must have ways to-conspire
Keep us from going back to peaceful sleep again.
Now we men dream of world peace within an dome,
Any major change in my sleep, is just spin,
For peace, not war! nor death! Just a home!
~
Steve L. Siegel
January 22, 2013


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ANOTHER PETRARCHAN SONNET, PICTURE PERFECT

softly swift, along in threes,
battalions fierce, would grind the wind.
the grandeur of glory great,
could savour each victory's fate.
arrayed in lines, for wars cut,
soldiers set in uniforms.
adorned and armed to their teeth,
with gloved up hands, booted feet.

Marching Seasons, the war times,
a great army, with more behind.
trembling earth, meek fields of war,
nature humbled, nature blurred
by armies great, who rivers dry,
and wield emblems; glorified.

Another Petrarchan Sonnet
Picture Perfect


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The Yellow Bastard

I got this confusion, 
  I simply cannot sleep 
My heart is aching badly, 
  but I found no reason to weep 
  
A news from the men in the front line 
  That the war is near to ending, 
Yet nobody can ascertain 
  which side is going to win 
  
I pray for the brave men 
  To be home soon alive and safe 
A sound sleep for their children 
  They left home before bed 
  
I feed them with the hopes 
  That their daddies will win the fight 
They'll be back if not the morrow 
  Maybe after the next three nights. 
  
I am a yellow bastard 
  Who refused to join the rest 
Of their effort to gain freedom 
  While their own lives are at risk. 
  
I can see the shame on my face 
  I can taste my own disgrace 
My way of self-redemption 
  Is to wish our men all safe. 

             
Date & Time of Writing 
August 11, 2007 
1:11am - 1:53am 


A bit of history: 

Lt. Gen. George S. Patton, at that time the commander of the Seventh 
U.S. Army (but he was more popular as the commander of the Third U.S. 
Army towards the war's end), visited a military hospital in Sicily on 
Aug. 3, 1943. He walked past the beds of wounded soldiers, asking them 
about their injuries. Coming to the bed of a soldier who lacked visible 
signs of injury, Patton inquired about his health. 

The soldier, 18-year-old Pvt. Charles H. Kuhl, had been initially 
diagnosed as having a case of psychoneurosis. He told the General that 
he couldn't mentally handle the battle lines. "It's my nerves," he said. 
"I can hear the shells come over but I can't hear them burst." 

Patton, so enraged, slapped Kuhl across the face and called him a "Yellow Bastard".


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Where the nation is mine

Where is the nation which speaks love ,
where are the spirits which kept us above ,
where can we find the solution for grime ,
like a tiny mosquito committing a crime ,  
where the air around lives in a coal miners lung - ,
serving all mankind , till the singers sung ,
darkness our future – remains in our fate , 
hard striking sweats – prove together very late . 

Love is far found under the graves ,
humanity is flown in the melodious waves ,
lacking all words – but we act very brave .

Sum up the words – saving bloody lives ,
bawl , cheer , and glamour – forging against the knives ,
clutch on the oldie – seeking truth till you dive .    


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Sonnet of War

Sonnet of War

There be  a single cold fact, which no man can deny:

It be the ancient motif of war, engraved in human history.

Mankind seeks to justify war, thus he tells a soothing lie,
 
and to turn war into peace remains his greatest mystery.

Man's blood; be the ink in which he writes his story:

The pen which he prefers to use; is known as a knife.

With pride he kills, for power, greed  and  glory,

so blatantly he refuses to share the great gift of life.

But hope yet remains, despite blood  already spilled:

For the love in the present, can smite the hate of the past,

And so, with light can the dark void that is mankind, be filled.

This truth; has been true, since time and life began,

Alas it seems war, still remains the master of man.


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from slopes to brines


She waited on the skyline, bloom and thorn
accordment of their oaths and thoughts at night
annealed recited entity - vows sworn
- the brave ascended to the Halls of light.

War-bullet traveled through the frozen air
companion loved - his stare embraced the ferns
- the laurel and the sage ascribed his fair
the stalwart chose the path of moon and ernes.

Dim lantern's flame her thought - on peaks beseech
ornate the winds surpass the granite plate
denounced the corteges and oaths to breach,
her highness steps, adorned demise, third fate.

And in the mists when winds bemoan in pines
their solemn words will fly from slopes to brines.

© G.V. 06-05-2013


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The Hunter

          the Hunter
God gives not peace, tis only dreamt by man,
in all the world brought from catastrophe,
all things are made, since time has first began
by things upheaved so that new life can be;

the weak must fail, be eaten by the strong,
and losers die the death along the way,
so life it grows, even if life is wrong,
there is no time the poor will have to play;

the lion who will lay down with the lamb
will have a feast before the day is done,
and all the world will never give a damn
nor care about the giants and their fun;

        the hunter takes his aim and fells the dove
         all of the weak in life are dreaming of.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet


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4 Star General

          FOUR STAR GENERAL
What reasoning is there to study war
and then not turn them loose, in violent rage,
to bring catastrophe forevermore
to near-life who should be put in a cage?

the book of truth from histories remiss,
they laboured with, at West Point every night!
Napoleanic in their sacred bliss
could we deny what is a warriors right?

The stars upon their shoulders, bear with me,
they'll bury every dove in their own waste,
and those not dead will raise the flag and plea,
for Generals to save them in great haste!

       You'll not have any part of them until
         your only choice, is turn them loose to kill.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet


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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.


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Paradise Lost

Though wide awake she dreams of yesterday
when in the grove they said their last goodbyes
and fought the tears and hopes that he could stay,
then shared a futile prayer that questioned why.

Now torn from mother's arms and lover's lips
the best of youth is sacrificed to war
in field and sea and sky where life is stripped
when it is love and peace that we implore.

The pages of his poems are all that's left
and yesterday seems ... oh so far away,
he picked an orange blossom that she kept
still sweet within the orchard its bouquet.

Like Eden is this lovely Paradise
and where he said her cheeks caught all the hues.
Like dew upon the orange in the night,
her tears dripped softly weaving through her rouge.

Then Paradise was blurred now all around -
his last words of "adieu" the only sound.

Craig Cornish, Posted July 19, 2014
This is the only 18 line sonnet form, a Heroic Sonnet


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Lancaster Bomber

You were standing on a museum floor
Calm and peaceful to fly no more
Lancaster bomber once you spread your wings
Your bomb bay doors open your pay load to fling

You helped us to win in world war two
As part of the Dam Buster's you proudly flew
Barnes Wallace's bouncing bombs you threw
Brave English airmen were your crew

So many were lost of your unique kind
As we look back through history that's what we find
Yet to save so many you were literally few
Yet we a thankful for what you did do

Risking all so that we could be be
Free to live in a world which you helped rid of tyranny



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Membranophones of Death


Through omens they received the sign,
defenders' skull bones did appear,
bare-white to burn upon the shrine,
death nested in their souls and fear.

Above the skulls were lit tall flames,
brigades of demons came to border,
they knew that Hell's dark legions' fame,
precedes the advent of manslaughter.

Thus brave the knights defend the castle,
behind the lines lords' horses snort,
the steel blades blood-clot in battle,
while women and children depart.

Membranophones of death hassle,
The demons' force invades the castle.

© G. V. 12-15-2012, All Rights Reserved


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Letter to a Soldier

Filled with festivities, here we adorn our houses with light, Lonely, in a bunker at the border, for our safety, you fight. We sleep peacefully here each day, believing it to be our right You stand rock solid, guarding us tirelessly each night. We see-off to school, our kids, with a kiss of good-bye You see yours growing in pictures only, as the years roll by, Can't stand the separation, closeness with loved ones we ever try Seeing your family on web-cam, brave warrior, you don't even cry. We are too full of ourselves as we go about our day Selflessly devote your sweat and blood, even your life you lay For His blessings to you, O Soldier, we heartily pray May you be hale and hearty, safe wherever you stay. If only we could live harmoniously, if not love, let tolerance be Then a peaceful world without war and violence, would our children see. 2/7/2012


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The Bombing Of Dresden - Monsieur L'Vampyre

    MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE - THE BOMBING OF DRESDEN
There was a night, I still recall it now,
as winters cold had turned to soft and mild,
and gave us hope, that time would still allow
the passing by--of death--as death was filed.

What manner of a beast, or tyrant king,
would set the path to bring destructions' fall
from out the darkened sky, who dare would bring
such catastrophic death to one and all?

Was not my Dresden safe from what was heard
of cities to the north--they fed the flame;
these questions yet remain, who gave the word
that made the good and bad turn out the same?

    All evil justified and made in haste
    is evil just the same as any waste.

I'd only just returned, in my own way,
within the dark from Paris, where I be
caught up with joy of liberation day,
when love was made alive and running free.

But lo! My thirst was filled, before too long,
my heart grew weary to be with mine own,
so in the dark my flight was swift and strong
and ended at an inn that few have known.

Perched on a hillside looking down the plain
from off the balcony, the Dresden lights
gave glimmer to a cold and drizzle rain
a beauty unsurpassed by any rights.

   Invited for a night of talk and wine,
   I settled in with a new friend of mine.

And so we wined and danced--into the night
not thoughtful of the war, though raging on,
and Gretchen, lovely Gretchen, felt my bite
upon her neck until her soul was gone

and part of all the loves I ever knew
so thus she came to be one of my own;
and shaken, we both did as lovers do,
and stared into the night for things unknown.

Quite suddenly the groan of engines' roar
though distant, filled the night, and deafening
and over Dresden, telling what's in store,
the fallings lights lit up just ev'rything.

   And lighted by Pathfinders, Dresden knew
   what ending all their world was coming to.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet


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DARFUR


She never truly sleeps for small ghosts keep

pulling their stars into the plastic bag tent,

and the raw wounds left by the Janjaweed*

creep into dreams like the lies she invents

for her three living children. Her father

whispers genocide from a place of peace,

as though his ashes had never smothered

a daughter’s screams, as though the unceasing

cries of the hungry had become silent.

Tomorrow, she will gather fire wood,

water and scraps, swallow a relentless

weight. Rape hollowed her, yet left her pregnant. 

Strange, this life inside, feels like her others,

a frail light kept in the darkness of Darfur. 



* The Janjaweed are gunmen who have systematically 
annihilated the African Muslims of an area of Sudan 
known as Darfur. Entire villages were wiped out. 

Gang rapes by the Janjaweed are done, 
in the hopes the 'ruined' woman will bear a pale coloured child; 
their goal is to wipe away every trace of a people, their culture. 
This is madness. This is genocide.  

The bones of children litter open graves. 
Nearly half a million people have been killed. 
Camps of makeshift huts provide little shelter 
for 2 million displaced people. 


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Armageddon's end

Ballistic nukes departed Sayda Bay,
A CIA sitrep affirms French Intel,
A fleet of Russian ships was under way,
Their course at flank arrival point Mariel.

Kennedy and Khrushchev both have calloused skin,
The weeks at DEFCON2, really clipped our wings,
Aboard the sub our nerves were frazzled thin,
A war of nukes was chess without the kings.

The Captain's voice is Armageddon’s end,
ComSubPac orders are to stand us down,
The Cuban blockade ends amidst amen’s,
The Soviets have turned their fleet around.

A year of shaky peace; deceptions bed;
To arms again, our hero JFK is dead.


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Click Clack

Tiny morning star shining against gray
Just above the eastern horizon's dawn
A dawn of dull lavender not party gay
And constant click-clack of sprinkler on the lawn

Cool, dry air penetrates every muscle
Chilling thoughts within my brain's deepest ruts
No animal stirs with a faint rustle
Quiet from the haute zone and lowest hut

War rages on in distant foreign lands
Young men and women die once again
Children blasted while rich eat haute meals grand
And men speak of what they want to gain

Click-clack around the sprinkler goes and goes
Where all will end no on really knows

Finis'
Wednesday, July 30, 2014


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Verses to the protector of man

To be one among the brave To walk and live among the blood Is to be, in your own right, as free as a slave To each stranger's glance, you give a bold nod! Yet, your own heart is sick and lonely You wish for your loved one's company Even if your eyes try to remain empty As your mission remains your sole duty! With an empty soul, you use your gun While forgetting God, your enemy you stun Such was your chosen call The one known as Fate decided it all! Ode to you brave soldier, in my own way Be strong and may Mother Courage lead you on her alley!
28th June 2012


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The Scent of Water

He was a large soldier, standing well over six feet.
In World War II; imprisoned in the Philippines.
Thousands perished on the Bataan Death March.
They were brutally beaten; starved and parched.

Wanting to give up, during this sixty five miles.
Thoughts of his wife, Helen; her beautiful smile.
They had vowed to be each others help mate.
He would press on, with a slow, painful gait.

Knowing she was praying for him gave him strength.
Tho thousands of miles apart, their hearts still linked.
Their marriage, like the oak tree; its' roots were very strong.
He was a skeletal seventy-eight pounds when he returned home.

When he was certain he could simply go no farther.
His lovely wife Helen became his scent of water.



*This is a true story about one of my husbands cousins, Helen and her 
husband. She has dedicated her life to helping find POWS or their remains. She 
works tirelessly and has helped numerous families. I am honored to know her. I never knew him. He had gone to heaven before I met my husband. 


July 16, 2014
Contest: Scent of Water
Sponsor: Faye Gibson


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The Dream Guard

I'm the one you here scream deep in your dream you thought it was you and you thought it was true I'm the Dream Guard and my job is very hard because if I'm victorious then your dream will be glorious But if I fail unleashed is Hell and he who frightens and scares will give you nightmares But worry you shouldn't because give up i wouldn't i'll fight 'till I die so you won't have to cry My sword stays sharp with my shield staying hard your dreams i'm defending for i'm the Dream Guard


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Vrbanja - Bridge of Death - Sarajevo 1995

 VRBANJA - BRIDGE OF DEATH - SARAJEVO 1995
You steal the light when there is none to see
when there is nothing left, you take it all,
For Sarajevo. just the shell of we
stands mesmerized; and backed against the wall. 

Our Balken moon's behind some branches bare
We watch it move so slow and lovingly
until it leaves the trees behind, and there,
is just the shadow of its smile to see.

No one may loose the power of ones dreams
to bathe in sunlight of a brighter day,
we stay to die where love's not what it seems,
you speak to us in words you never say.

Our sniper waits, across the Bridge of Death
in air so cold, we only see his breath.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa


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Only The Strong Will Survive

       ONLY THE STRONG WILL SURVIVE
God gives not peace, it's only dreamt by man,
in all the world ,brought from catastrophe,
all things are made, since time was first began
by things upheaved so new life comes to be.

The weak must fail, be eaten by the strong,
and losers die the death along the way,
so new life grows, even if it is wrong,
there is no time the poor will have to play.

The lion who will lay down with the lamb,
will have a feast before the day is done,
and all the world will never give a damn,
nor care about the giants and their fun.

        The hunter takes his aim and fells the dove
          the weak in life are only dreaming of.


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Letter to a soldier

I stand where we once stood on those lucky dusking nights
Looking for the silhouette of you with hope you’ll soon return from the far away land of combat
I hear the echo of your voice resounding through gun shots and bomb blasts
To carry me the words you spoke in pledge to battle a world to keep our child and love safe
And emptiness grips me where your embrace once filled
But the heart is warm with promise that you are fighting for state calm and right
The only reason our child and love strays on the sacrificial altars of war;
Now I write, with spirit to your valor and supremacy
To call you home in decorum, to love and family; to safety
Every time we sit without you under this starry sky
I almost see you straying across frontlines in shear devotion to state calm and right
And I am calling you home; I am calling you to safety
Calling you to fight for our child and our love as you have for the State
This is our family letter to a state soldier.


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Tears, Blood, War

**Author's note: this poem is in honor of the soldiers 
that died overseas. Enjoy! :D**

Tears; they spill over eyes 
they cloud the vision of the 
cryptic and wise, 
voices cry out through the dense 
air, 
it's easy to tell that death is 
there, 
spring has arrived and the dahlia's 
in the field begin to bloom, 
the sunset lines the bloomed trees
in a line of gold and red, 
darkening the lifeless frames of 
the soldiers that have been 
shot dead,
like tears, blood was spilled
innocent men and women; killed,
sons and husbands and cousins 
whose lives were stolen from them, 
whose souls swim through the air 
filled with blood-lust, 
they died with honor; that's great! 
but war, it means nothing, but what 
it conceals; 
which is blacker and darker than 
it's own bitterness and hate. 

**2nd authors note: i have a cousin that died in Iraq and 
on the news i used to hear about all these people (u.s.a. 
and Europe and the u.k.) who were killed and this poem was born, 
i haven't written down till now. **


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Requiem for the Masses - Miltonic Sonnet

Through ages of death and the past deeds done,
into the hells of history blood still flows
Then march bands out, so the cheering crowd grows,
while yesterday's deaths lay under the sun
Within righteous veins, are mankind's sorrows,
crawling as a vine while embracing peace
Same vultures will land, on the dead they feast,
while wars sell death, shading tomorrows
Mankind's time is fragile,will be no more,
because of his sickness, a hatred heart
He will cry out, with prayers for his fate,
a blemish of Nature, an open sore
To be cast into hell and torn apart,
appeals are never heard, for it's to late


4/19/14


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The memories of war

I knew that the war had come to an end at last
Cheers rise from the army
Oceans of tears come from the past.

It was time to go home
To families and friends
And back to Rome

We celebrated the feast
Until we heard a “PAROSA!”
From underwater came a giant beast

We knew we were in danger
At the mercy of the monster
But suddenly there appeared a mysterious stranger

He was glowing with light
Shinier than silver
And far too bright

We tried to hide
Any place we could
But the light was by our side
A voice said “God will help us win”
You have nothing to fear
Help will come to you from within

The words came true
We were set free
We won and triumphed in the war, you see .


(Benedict 8 years)


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Friends in a cursed war

The Laughter on their faces
and banter by the carts,
is just another way of hiding
the hatred in their hearts.

The ground around here swallows
our footsteps as we tread,
now the water gently wallows
where our friends once lay dead.

One day this place is hell,
on others, simply worse.
I'm one of many stuck here,
one of many with a curse.


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Foreign War

I know my son was inside with their dogs
And women dressed in uniforms who held
Their sharpened knives and made my son undress.
This is the way Americans fight war.

Confusing thoughts enter my mind
Combined with anger, sadness. ****.
The Lord, is my child to die?
If it is your will, please end him.

How could the Lord let this happen?
My sweet poor boy and his humility
He is nothing but a toy to women.
This is the way Americans fight war.

My family weeps for my son.
My country prays for their own sons.

-Caroline Youngless


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Right or Wrong

Can waves of living hatred ever calm
as man persists in causing mankind harm
and wars all fought to seek desire for peace
in order to ensure that all wars cease.
Cannot all see that no war can be won
and serve the needs of all with its outcome
for right and wrong are joined in history
depending on which side one tends to be.

No answer either in diplomacy
for right is only where you choose to be.

Ivor G Davies


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Seasoned

We boomers, as our generation’s called,
have lived through two seasons, considered great,
during which our values were overhauled --
The Summer of Love and Autumn of Hate.
Both brought us together and gave us hope.
In the face of injustice, both were staged --
the first, a celebration with free dope,
the other a tragedy that enraged.
We were innocent in ‘Sixty-Seven;
we saw world violence and were appalled.
Our attitudes changed by Nine-Eleven;
we sought revenge, though we were shocked and galled.
While Winter of War passes, may we find
The Spring of Renewal and peace of mind.


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Valentines Wishes On Dresden

    Valentines Wishes On Dresden
Awakened before sleep had settled in
she peered out to the night of Dresden's way
and though her hero had no war to win
she blew a kiss to him, as if to say

"mein Fuhrer, this, your Fraulein dreams of you
and vishes you could feel this love of mine
I've done most everything a girl could do
but foolish, hope to be your valentine."

And then the bombs fell from a troubled sky
as if mere kisses from the Butcher's lips
before she'd even ask her Heaven why
her world was blown apart by groaning ships;

    the understanding of it all is rare
     in part because the world just doesn't care.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet


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Living Legacies

He's one of the ones that went and came back.
a wounded warrior, father, brother, son,
Self-made men all, part and parcel of
the American Dream; one of the ones.

One of the ones who barely came back,
our saviors, soldiers, seamen, sons,
Quiet men, full of untold tales;
a bold and lucky man, one of the ones.

One of the ones, relics, scared, but fearless;
part and parcel of the Big Ones,
with their purple hearts in hidden chests,
they've lived the nightmare, one of the ones.

A legacy left to wives, daughters and sons,
A living legacy, one of the best ones.


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KOSOVO the war that never was THE SNIPER

How can we forget this war, when no one knows anything about it?
      KOSOVO - the sniper
He hides behind the dirty window pane
with eyes all cold and void of any care 
in blinding heat or through a drizzle rain
his thoughts are only what has brought him there

his mind's not thinking that's a special friend
nor is that girl in love; he doesn't care;
the choice comes on with no thought of the end
and made, perhaps, because she's standing there.

His sight is set, and all she'll ever be
gives way to things her life will never know
and when she falls and lays there helplessly
his only thought, is she was quick to go.

     All in a breath, he's layed her to the street;
     and ended life to make his day complete.


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BOSNA RIVER - sARAJEVO 1995

        BOSNA RIVER - Sarajevo 1995
I love you death, and welcome all you're not;
no love, no hate, no failing and no gain,
no fighting for the things we haven't got
nor wondering about our latest pain.

Your mercy is a thing I surely bless
anticipating you, my only friend,
who brings conclusion to life's wretchedness
the only one who knows us in the end.

So come you now as I help you along
the Bosna's tried to drown me in my past,
but now I know your timing is not wrong
and so I live and breath for you at last.

Your nothingness is what I hunger for
and in your end, I pray there's nothing more.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet


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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.


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CONDEMNED DISCIPLES

We strive to live as though we’re in heaven –
a state of continuous joy and bliss –
complaining about news at eleven
that tells us about things that are amiss.
We don’t concern ourselves with others’ plights,
except through seasonal contribution.
We don’t want to be troubled by their fights;
we’ll wring our hands only in ablution.
And even the causes that we support
We back by giving our voice to a blog
or following, like a favorite sport,
convictions of our chosen demagogue.
Nothing on Earth can change the opinions
we hold onto like contented minions.


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I am Man


When those words are spoken, written, to be a man or not,
Buzz says the bee, to discover what is he?
When the vortex of brains come calling all to reveal plots,
On dripping lips with open mouths that are caves of echoes, opened with skeleton 
keys,
The makeup of a man with gray and white matter speaking to him,
Seats of consciousness much more grandeur than the largest auditorium,
Fleshy pods of minds, bodies, and souls, that are glass snakes with broken penis 
limbs,
Regeneration of anger, hate, sorrow, despair, and love trapped in the hearts 
sunless atrium,
Driving on streets with war bonnets making exchanges with Julius Cesear in the 
passenger seat,
Boxing wrongs reminding us that we are men, and men we are,
Love letters from Sappho, slapping vulnerability, and veneered with eroticized heat,
Ermine men with life lessons spitting out the memories of nightmares,
Graveyards of bones with worm infested skulls, and dreams at rest,
 To be a man in life, to be a man in death, here, and there, he must live or die the 
noblest. 


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we are responsible

We Are Responsible 
Sandy Hook, so many children murdered,
I saw Obama cry. Gaza today hundred of 
children murdered blown into the air like 
ragdolls, broken limbs empty eyes; does  
Obama cry today? Brothers can you spare 
a tear so easily spilt when watching a film
on TV, for the children of Gaza?  Or are you 
sinking into apathy, blaming the victims?

This ghetto revolt, this time we cannot say
“We didn´t know,” wringing our damp hands
finding excuses, deflecting the cause of this 
slaughter, but to no avail, we are responsible!
What happens in Gaza now will toll far into
the future and demand its exact retribution.


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Three tragic convoys of unidentified people


leaving at last one by one their final plane
not yet having back their own name
on Netherland's caring and respectful shoulders
brought a bit closer by soul stirring soldiers

forty(*) shiny black hearses crawl at a footpace
lining up on a for the occasion reserved airbase
driving on cleared Dutch  highways and roads
forty unidentified victims their heaviest loads

finally heading home after such  horrible days
nation's crowds gather along endless highways
showing and sharing silent grief and paying respect
after that deadly sky high rocket impact

the Dutch population is applauding with heartwarming faces 
whilst strongest most impressive comforting tranquility embraces

(c) Elly Wouterse 
07/23/2014

(*)This morning (07/24/2014) announced that today's convoy will be twice 
as long - 74 hearses will be on the - for them - cleared highways and roads 
.... and tomorrow... another motorcade of at least 70..............  


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Valiantly Their Souls March on Home

Fight to the death 
From sword to fiery ash, from honor to tale engraved stone 
That they did until their final breath 
Oh, the places that they'd roam 
From soul to eternity in the abyss, from the crack of every bone to the life they had always known 
And the tasks they'd undergo 
To finally find that place called home 
Listen, to the tale that their loss would bestow 
From glory to the shadows, from the bash of every shield 
To the meaning that they yield 
From victory to loss, from their deaths to the banner waving in the breeze 
To their burning corpses consecrating this bloody battlefield 
Still to this day if you listen to the wind you can hear them cry in agony as the drum roll beats echoing beyond the trees. 


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My Last Tour

My last tour of duty is finally near
To never see again this barren frontier
My heart beats wildly to be with my wife
To live tomorrow and beyond and get on with our lives

I dream of the airport as my plane touches down
To run into her arms in kissing drown 
Rushing of home to continue our bliss
Thoughts of our love drives me to wish after wish

Our romantic want starts since many a night
Rose petals, candles and champagne delight
Silk sheets and oils to well into the morn
The delight of our union, in nine months our first born

To love and to cherish my wife forever
Our hearts as one, and never to sever



My entry into Laura's " A Romantic Longing " contest 




http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/poetry-soup-4.php






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Sarajevo - Stolen Waters Sweet

      Sarajevo - STOLEN WATERS SWEET
Forgotten by a world in need of sin,
They reason not one thing no one could know
Nor question what has come from now and then,
the burden they must bear, and never show.

How much indebted all the world should be
for stolen waters, sweet, unto its taste
and looking not, when there's so much to see.
before their very eyes, in total waste.

And though in Harry's Bar, so Florentine,
All Mercinarie's lovers egged them on,
To be the dogs of war, they've always been,
Not caring even if they're dead and gone.

Their stolen waters, sweet, from Holy Word
Can never quench their thirst, if never heard.
© Ron Wilson


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War Within

This war within, I have filled in most of the cracks
But one awaits without repair, always to come back
In a black, dank basement lie weapons in the dust 
The guns in metal boxes are covered now with rust

A war within me rages, the sun is going down
For all the great wars, never peace I found
To protect me from the violence, I hold a gun so dear
But now there is no enemy to drive me from my fears.

This war within me rages, never leaving me alone.
With only prayers in my pocket I walk the nights alone
A shadow I did see and called out “Halt” to no avail
I shot him! as I heard him cry out, “Daddy,” I went pale. 

          A war within me rages so foolish and so dark
          There is nothing left to save me, for vacant is my heart


Julie Heckman
Me Against Myself
6/28/2011


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Reunited At Paradise Gate

Reunited At Paradise Gate


Hands of leather hold crying child
gentle touch, soothing , O' so mild
Widowed mother , hard life going past
food and water gone, can not last

War and famine take a heavy toll
on frail mother and very young soul
Flown past are the blasts of guns
fields rot with so many dead sons 

Hands of leather losing tender grip
another soul sent on heavenly trip
Crying child sleeps in peaceful calm
no more murders, bullets and bombs

Two hearts reunite at Paradise gate
early demise , victims of wartime fate!

Robert J. Lindley, 08-11-2014


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Pounding

As the knights march, further they go
they pound on the ground miles around
the other army balancing the flow
makes tremendous, horrific sounds

 

As swords did swing, guns were shot
they sent all lands into a shock
a hero schemed, while a villain did plot
neither knew that both would rot

 

The hero swung his sword
Whilst evil shot his gun
both settled their score
for at that moment two became none

 

The pounding stopped and all was silent
Why must peace come only after violence?


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Night Time Air Raids

-
We waited quietly as the sirens calmed and quenched their searing drone.
The air raid shelter hushed in baited breath. One second more. Maybe the end is nigh.
All a quiet beneath an unseen sky. Maybe her child wont cry.
Maybe I wont every see those shower room white tiles staring back at me again.
Tiles arched over us. Over our laments and muffled cries. 

Our house our street. Will it be there.
Or will it be there but emptied by scounderels a plenty.
Stay close child and use my heat. This ticket office door pushes drafts beneath it.
Drafts into my ears her ears. Woolen socks pulled up as high as they can allow. 
One second more again the droning and I cover her ears my child don't listen.

Screaming Shrills and thuds again.Move away you bombs elsewhere.
To East ham or anywhere. And you you acursaid man. I do not know you. 
I fear your motives.If only my fire tending husband could defend me now.
Go down the platform now sir.We are bedded here and intend to stay till bombs end. 
This is our platform. Huddle close child the night is long and the platform grey and cold. 

Later it ends.Too soon to move.The parrafin stove simmers a kindly brew.
God above tea at last.Tea has saved the night and brought the dawn raids end.
For I know this that a war will be won and won with tea and no credit shall tea be given.
The moving masses alight from their drab and coated stage. Queitly and slowly maybe
reluctantly ascending to the London sky.Delaying the vacant and unknown future.  

 
London Tube station shelter in 1940-          Ian Foley


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Ares

Our valor you reward with scars and dread.
The honors you bestow leave good men maimed.
Though back from battle, lauded with loud cheer,
the din of combat rings on in the head
of each who’s seen things better left unnamed
that slaughtered friends and comrades they held dear.
 
Your vultures spread their wings in sun to dry
the stench of carrion from bloody death
picked over, after ravaged by your dogs,
while armies, trained to never ask you why,
rush on until they huff-in Hades’ breath
to join him in his misty world of fogs.
 
Heroic soldiers, these who are now gone,
will never know whose side you’re really on.


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HORSEMEN ON THE JORDAN

          HORSEMEN ON THE JORDAN
Deep in the dark, hid from all prying eyes
the horsemen rein their steeds to steady gait
waiting for time, they know how time it flies,
from peace to war, from times in love to hate.

Sure feet tread on, and in a steady trot,
no fear of night--their eyes can always see
as swift as eagles, giving all they've got
they'll fall upon the world most certainly.

Do gooders cry the foul, but they have failed
for man grows weary singing loves old song,
and Jesus was the man whom doubt has nailed
not caring if the truth is right or wrong.

       Down by the Jordan they know what's in store
        and beat their plowshears to all things of war.
© ron wilson akaveebdosa the doylestown poet


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NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES 2

   NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES 2
To your mind's eye, I lay what I may choose
to be the only way you'll ever find,
you'll never have the choice to win or lose,
but go the way I put into your mind.

What evil lurks? You'll never feel the grip
of what I only say between each line.
To lead you on, the vagrant of a ship
of soul, but destined to the will of mine.

Forgotten Swastikas still fly at night,
protected by all time and Horsemen Four, 
they'll soon be loosed again, in all their might
and feed upon man's need for time of war.

And I will put these things into your head,
to change it all, from life, to living dead.

Democracy is what God's given you,
and you have loved each minute in your haste,
you'd have it all, yes everything I do,
your treasure chest is overflowed with waste.

And you've forgotten how the world is burned,
night of the long knives never comes to mind,
forgotten in the past you never learned,
the history is there, not hard to find.

I am the master of what is your fate,
in social dominance, I claim it all,
and you will never see until too late,
Intimidation's made the way you'll fall.

And I have changed all things there in your head,
to bring about the life you'll live to dread.
© Ron Wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet


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I Thank You

I thank you for being willing to serve,
And give the bad guys what they deserve.
I thank you for being available day or night,
To go where needed and continue the fight.

I thank you for bearing discomfort and pain,
So liberty and freedom our country may gain.
I thank you for your willingness to leave children, husband or wife,
And for being willing, if needed, to lay down your life.

I thank you for standing with silent strength,
While the ungrateful ridicule you at length.
For being willing to continue in spite of their hate,
For not visiting upon them their much deserved fate.

You are a soldier, an American, brave and true.
You are my hero, and I thank you.


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NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES -- Masters Of Intimidation

   NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES
To your mind's eye, I lay what I may choose
to be the only way you'll ever find,
you'll never have the choice to win or lose,
but go the way I put into your mind.

What evil lurks? You'll never feel the grip
of what I only say between each line.
To lead you on, the vagrant of a ship
of soul, but destined to the will of mine.

Forgotten Swastikas still fly at night,
protected by all time and Horsemen Four, 
they'll soon be loosed again, in all their might
and feed upon man's need for time of war.

And I will put these things into your head,
to change it all, from life, to living dead.

Democracy is what God's given you,
and you have loved each minute in your haste,
you'd have it all, yes everything I do,
your treasure chest is overflowed with waste.

And you've forgotten how the world is burned,
night of the long knives never comes to mind,
forgotten in the past you never learned,
though history is there, not hard to find.

I am the master of what is your fate,
in Social Dominance, I claim it all,
and you will never see until too late,
Intimidation's made the way you'll fall.

And I have changed all things there in your head,
to bring about the life you'll live to dread.


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Lest We Forget

In you the Dogs of War unleashed again
  An Expeditionary Force by sea:
And in the ground in years fourscore and ten
  The bones of Empire and Admiralty!
How in muddy trench Lighthorsemen joining
  Charged the lines on Ottoman ancient land:
And loud shellfire through dead night and morning
  Fell in great battle Anzac's finest stand.
Upon Lone Pine, Dead Man's Ridge, Chunuk Bair,
  The battlefield told a colony's tale:
Lo, not ceasefire, not armistice declare,
  And still to come...The Somme and Passchendaele.
Owed by king and country is a grave debt -
One unshared and unpaid Lest We Forget.


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

Dedicated to all the Anzac soldiers who fought
At Gallipoli, Turkey in 1915.
Written on the 90th anniversary of the battle.

April 2005


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Be with you for ever

I walk threw a war and back to be with you
I jump over river to live with you
I fight the battle of war world I
Then to be with out you
I will run crime race
Then to be with out you
I jump over a boat and jump to a plan
Then to be with out you
I walk threw fire 
And I stand beside you
I swim in the river with shark
Just to be with you
I take four plans 
And wait to be with you
You’re the man for me and I am the women for you
I will fight mike Tyson 
Just to be with you
I lift up a SUV if you was under it
Just to be with you
I go rock climing and fishing 
Just because you love sports
And if I have to take on 100 women to be with you
Know problem because your heart will tell you the true
And you always come back to me.
So tone you light skin brother you’re my best friend and
I want let you go for nothing in this world.
I will still be with you.


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The Hour Glass Image

Eye's gazed deep inside as the hour-glass stood still passing it's time through the sleek passage. Where we've been rememberd in honor I've chosen to walk in bravery for those who have died, suffered, went M.I.A. through war and proverty.
I promise to stand once more for these soldiers who still fight for our freedom to protect us from the dangers of our land, May we hope that they return to loved ones back home....


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WARRIORS AND WIMPS

    THE WARRIORS AND THE WIMPS
The heat of battle's what manhood is for
when struggle for the right comes to a head
erupting to a world in need of war
and needing change to how we've made our bed!

We cannot sleep in this, it's much too soft,
mistakes brought on by politicians greed,
and so the winds of war come from aloft
aloosening the horsemen and their steed!

The preachers of dead faith wail at the wall
protesting ev'ry battle cry and truth,
though freezing in the night, they heed the call
of cardless, nameless cowards lost in youth.

      But when the battle comes they'll take their leave
       not caring who is left to ever grieve.

Too late, there's not a one to even pray,
there at the wall, submission is the rule,
they give too much, and play no keep-away,
not holding out, lest they are thought a fool.

while Netanyahu, leader of his quest,
the first so born in bounderies of their State
and made prime minister, whom God has blest,
and given all the keys to seal their fate.

But still the blind stand wailing to the wall,
and ready to lie down, pretending dead,
unwilling to be part of this, the call,
to arm, but give up everything, instead.

From Benjamin their fate is all too clear,
And losing is the only thing to fear.


Details | Sonnet | |

I Am Haunted With '''PTSD'''

UnWanted Feelings,
UnExpected Bodys
That Lye In Battle. 
To Crash N' Burn
I Am Haunted By 
The Nightmare, Open
Minded. 

"Quivering Boy" I Say 
Stand Up Face Your Inner
-Beast Fight A War; Throw
It To The Closet And
Be Done With It.......
No I Can't A Scare Can 
Never Be Washed It Still
Haunts Me Even At Home.

No Excapes: No Exceptions
The Guilt That Lyes On A Blanket
Of Ash Is My Shame..... No Question!
I Am "Haunted". With PTSD!!!


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Swaddled In Loss

The night was silent through the winter freeze,
Though time was but a memory's regret.
While swaddled there within the cold night breeze,
Was everything her heart could not forget.
The life which she once held within her hand,
Lay on the ground of mortal wounds to die.
Then she was left to reminisce and stand
Beside the grave as children asked her, "Why?"
There is no celebration now of war,
As she bemoans the empty childless womb.
The rocking of her chair is never far
From what was taken...lying in the tomb.

As shots ring out to herald each today,
She bows beneath her loss and its decay.


Details | Sonnet | |

Tin Soldiers

Sickening smell of gasoline and gore
I can't take much more of this Goddamn war.
My third tour of duty, I'm all worn-out.
The folk's back home lost hope, beyond a doubt.
Our clueless leaders lead the battle cry
my battling buddies gave both their lives.
All expendable soldiers, unknown names.
Little tin men in some general's war game.
We're here for the sake of Democracy
but I know better, it's hypocrisy.
We're  the victims of this unworthy war
The fallen brave and the esprit de corps.
I pray each night this war will someday close
but I know which way the winds of war blows.


Details | Sonnet | |

Shattered

Incessantly the drums beat in my head,
Smouldering reminders of memories long shed,
Unconvincingly I enact a farce of contentment,
Forever fearsome of dredging futile moments,
Repressed void snakes into wanton chapters,
Vicious cycles of torment and torture enters,
Slander and subordination rule yonder,
Creating havoc,shame and plunder,
Virile strengths crave empowering,
Troubled minds ache for aiding,
Smear campaigns disgrace innocence,
Hurtful lies bred pure malevolence,
Encumbered by atrocities I retire defeated,
Disdained by faith I withdraw beated!

!!!Beated is my poetic license - not an existing word at all