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
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.
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
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
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.
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
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.
A place where peace should reign yet terror grows.
A paradise where blood and children lie.
A beach where young boys played and now men die,
With liquid crimson waves that evil sows.
The cliffs now bow and weep and look below,
Where from their shoulders cast a deadly tide.
A peaceful nighttime vista now belied
By daylight's deadly battle of the foes.
As dreams replace the din that's all around
And life drips slowly there into the sand,
It's faith and God and love that now surrounds
These ever grateful souls that have been found.
Brave comrades in this fate so proudly stand
To be delivered now where they are bound
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.
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