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Long Soldier Poems | Long Soldier Poetry

Long Soldier Poems. These are the most popular long Soldier by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Soldier poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Dylan Irvin | Details |

Phantom Journals

Phantom Journal Entry 1
 Wednesday 8:03 A.M.
I found Jesus at a bus stop this morning. He recommended that I comb my hair. I told him if I had any nails I would hand them over.  Monty  found a shoe full of vomit by a dumpster. Someone had an interesting night. This apartment smells like stale french fries. Frank is still sleeping on the counter next to Mr. Coffee. There is a stray cat clawing at the windowpane. The town is gradually waking up. The park across the street is filled with shirkers. My mind is still living in last night’s conversation. But I don’t remember it very well.  Shit, I’m going to be late for 

Phantom Journal Entry 2

Wednesday 11:13 P.M.

Work sucked. I think the bartender is an alcoholic. She hides a flask in her bra. It fell out when we were in the stall together. Frank is sprawled across the kitchen floor. Monty steps over him to grab a beer. The stray cat is now sleeping on the windowpane. Nothing ever changes from morning to night. Except Monty is drinking coffee and not beer. 

Phantom Journal Entry 3

Good Friday 9:47 P.M.

The ocean left the brine. The girls here are all made of smoke, and their dreams are living in my beer. The worms are drunk on the stove. Frank passed out hugging the toilet. Monty takes a piss right next to his face. Some girl just asked me what I was writing. I told her that I was rewriting the Bible. She seemed confused. Her hair wasn’t combed either. The guy at the bus stop would be ashamed. I can’t remember his name though. The television can’t stop spewing poorly scripted ‘reality’ shows. This Friday isn’t very Good. 

Phantom Journal Entry 4

Monday 3:12 A.M.

My eyes are broken garage doors off the tracks. I’ve drank too much Red Bull. She keeps waking up and asking me for water. Apparently her mouth is in a drought. A dead soldier lays between her breasts. Frank keeps drooling on the carpet. My favorite ash tray is tipped over next to Mr. Coffee. This desk keeps hiding words from me. Monty wonders how much a plane ticket to Hell costs. He never sleeps.

Phantom Journal Entry 5

Thursday 12:31 A.M.

It smells of raw fish and bleach in here.  My palms are sore. Monty told me to stab myself with pencils to make sure I could still bleed. So I did.  That girl ordered me a pizza. But I forgot it under the couch.  The medicine chest is nearly empty. When Frank wakes up he is taking a trip to 5th Street to get more. I wonder if they sell bandages there? Will Mr. Coffee brew marijuana for us? My brain is starting to throw up. 

Phantom Journal Entry 6

Thursday 12:38 A.M.

This desk keeps mocking me. I offered it to the guy at the bus stop, but he said he didn’t want anymore wood. The dishes are now a chemistry project. But Mr. Coffee is always clean. I can’t get this girl to stop showing me her tattoos. I miss the bartender at work. She got fired tomorrow. So I bought her a new bra. The medicine chest is empty now. Frank is never awake when I write.

Phantom Journal Entry 7

Thursday 4:30 P.M.

I finally got the garage doors fixed. I guess they weren’t closed enough.  There is a ghost that keeps haunting the hallway in my dreams. She is pretty hot. Except she keeps tilting the pictures on the wall.
The thirsty girl still won’t leave. Neither will the cat. We may have found the cure for cancer in our dishes. But probably not.  Frank is talking in his sleep about stepping on rats. Monty is listening to Beethoven while he attempts to write poetry. He is an awful writer. 

Phantom Journal Entry 8

Monday 1:49 A.M.

The guy at the bus stop asked me if I wanted to drink his blood. I told him I wasn’t thirsty. The water was running from the shower. Frank was dreaming in the tub. Monty ate chicken wings with the tattooed girl. I can’t remember her name. I think that cat is hungry too. Mr. Coffee wants to go to sleep. There is broken glass sticking out of my feet. The sky is bleeding white. My mind begins to masturbate.

Phantom Journal Entry 9

Sunday 3:33 A.M.

The brine is looking for the ocean. The girls here are all made of smoke, and their realities are dead on the floor. This desk is growing a face. The medicine chest is full. Monty picks up a filthy habit from the black lake. I haven’t seen Frank for a few days. He must be under the couch. I robbed the guy at the bus stop. Turns out he didn’t really save much. The thirsty tattooed girl shattered Mr. Coffee last night. I will miss him dearly. Now my shot glass is spawning worms. 

Phantom Journal Entry 10

Tuesday and I don’t know what time it is

It’s been 369 days since I last wrote an entry. I’ve simply had nothing to say. Monty is living in the streets somewhere. I think of him every time I buy a loaf of bread. I wonder if he found out how much tickets cost? That cat finally starved a few weeks ago. I married that thirsty tattooed girl. I still don’t remember her name though. Frank went to sleep in someone elses apartment. Never did talk to him much. The worms are all marching in a line. Someone stole my medicine chest. I think it was Monty.  The guy at the bus stop was thrown into an asylum. But somehow vanished one day. The garage doors are now closed on a regular basis. That ghost finally straightened out the tilted pictures. I think I’ve been combing my hair a lot better lately. I am still a phantom to society. But that’s okay. Nobody knows my name.








Long poem by gianni pansensoy | Details |

Stitches and Dreams

t was half past five before sunrise, 
when darkness faded into the misty Saturday's dawn, 
just an hour after a bloody confrontation, 
but a brave woman descended into a blood-bathed
street of Lustre, 
with hungry cats and mice on that battleground, 
walking while her purple robe turned pale
with agony, pain and pity, 
completely depressed by the horrible aftermath of war, 
where bullet-ridden houses pounded by an insane belief of
terrorism as a means towards a divine end, 
and victims died as tools for selfish political propaganda, 
while thousands evacuated from the satanic bangsamoro reality
that enriched the few, 
and too many had died under the brutality of corruption, 
some were murdered by extreme poverty, 
where social justice was just an unreachable dream, 
she bled for such an elusive dream.

Yet she strolled in between ruined homes and
broken aspirations, 
through the portal where blood drifted into nothingness
and souls decapitated by a turbulent past, 
while her veil of blue moistened by tears of sorrow, 
with eyes saddened by relentless conflict, 
when the status of civilization was measured 
by the degree of human barbaric atrocities, 
and she knelt down before the walls collapsing, 
torn into pieces by an extreme hate, 
razed to the ground by religious fanaticism, 
When would they realize to co-exist in harmony? 
she asked her thoughts, 
while tears tasted like bitter almonds, 
flowing between her sweet scented cheeks.

The reason behind this violence she could not grasp, 
but to shed tears of blood, 
within her confusion was a lightning, 
where palm leaves fell without solution, 
yet she appeared with an angelic face, 
with eyes shining brighter than diamonds, 
while the moonsoon wind blew her veil, 
floating over the decomposing corpse of a soldier
entangled between electric wires, 
and the dead was brought to life like Lazarus.

He knelt down from death, 
with his camouflage uniform torn by bullets, 
but the wounds recuperated, 
he recognized the blue veiled woman in front of him, 
the divine blessed mother of Jesus, 
he wept like a child, 
and when his eyes opened, 
the  woman went back into
the holy Fort Del Pilar, 
he forgot not the message from her, 

'Son! When humans learn to depart from hatred
then there is no reason to pull a trigger against someone.'
It was half past five before sunrise, 
when darkness faded into the misty Saturday's dawn, 
just an hour after a bloody confrontation, 
but a brave woman descended into a blood-bathed
street of Lustre, 
with hungry cats and mice on that battleground, 
walking while her purple robe turned pale
with agony, pain and pity, 
completely depressed by the horrible aftermath of war, 
where bullet-ridden houses pounded by an insane belief of
terrorism as a means towards a divine end, 
and victims died as tools for selfish political propaganda, 
while thousands evacuated from the satanic bangsamoro reality
that enriched the few, 
and too many had died under the brutality of corruption, 
some were murdered by extreme poverty, 
where social justice was just an unreachable dream, 
she bled for such an elusive dream.

Yet she strolled in between ruined homes and
broken aspirations, 
through the portal where blood drifted into nothingness
and souls decapitated by a turbulent past, 
while her veil of blue moistened by tears of sorrow, 
with eyes saddened by relentless conflict, 
when the status of civilization was measured 
by the degree of human barbaric atrocities, 
and she knelt down before the walls collapsing, 
torn into pieces by an extreme hate, 
razed to the ground by religious fanaticism, 
When would they realize to co-exist in harmony? 
she Asked her thoughts, 
while tears tasted like bitter almonds, 
flowing between her sweet scented cheeks.

The reason behind this violence she could not grasp, 
but to shed tears of blood, 
within her confusion was a lightning, 
where palm leaves fell without solution, 
yet she appeared with an angelic face, 
with eyes shining brighter than diamonds, 
while the moonsoon wind blew her veil, 
floating over the decomposing corpse of a soldier
entangled between electric wires, 
and the dead was brought to life like Lazarus.

He knelt down from death, 
with his camouflage uniform torn by bullets, 
but the wounds recuperated, 
he recognized the blue veiled woman in front of him, 
the divine blessed mother of Jesus, 
he wept like a child, 
and when his eyes opened, 
the miraculous woman went back into
the holy Fort Del Pilar, 
he forgot not the message from her, 

'Son! When humans learn to depart from hatred
then there is no reason to pull a trigger against someone.'


Long poem by Gerald Kithinji | Details |

Purge Our Consciences

From my lowly bachelor’s house
Proudly christened ‘Embassy Fair’
I woke up to the chirping of birds
On the trees above and across the vale
And the riverine bushes in-between
I woke up to the crowing of cocks
And the mooing of cows
I woke up to the leaping of calves
And the bleating of anxious goats;
To the braying of the donkey
The barking of my brother’s dog
And to the mumbling of the sheep.

There was no time to brood
Or think negative thoughts
Or linger on yesterday’s deeds.
I opened up all my senses
And voluptuously drank of the new day.
As my feet stroked the dew
On my way to the reserve fields
My eyes fathomed Mt. Ithangune
The eastern fortress of Mt. Kenya
Itself a mere one thousand feet higher.
Then we were mountain warriors
And our locale elevated us accordingly 
Leaving no room for flippancy
Even when it was flipping cold.

Times were when our men grazed there
On the slopes of Kirima kia Ng’ombe
Times were when Omo elders made rain there
Little did we know then (as now?)
That the God of Rain had slumbered
And demanded pure white fattened rams
Delivered by pure white-haired men
Whose penance upon the mountain
Would atone the sins of the Meru clans
And make our mountain God weep
And let his tears soften our rich soils
To ward off barrenness once more
And banish famine from our midst;
And as our fast-flowing rivers swelled
So, too, our cattle and our granaries.

For although our God lived at the apex
Yet he allowed us to get this close
And so to commune with him
Without touching his garment
Craftily spread over the three peaks.
Krapf and Rebmann never knew this
They were mere trekkers, mere explorers
Of a continent pregnant with mystery
That their kinsmen sought to make a home,
A distant home away from home.

One time I HEARD THEM TEACH THAT Krapf
Was the first man to see Mt Kenya
To which I responded, ‘Really? Aren’t you kidding?’
So what kind of men were the mountain warriors-
Blind men? The Meru, the Kikuyu, the Embu,
The Wakamba, the Masai, the Samburu, the Borana-
Were they all blind men then? Stone blind-
All those Africans that had known it before Krapf?

Desecration followed desecration
As alien men sought to climb Mt Kenya
And alien men sought to expropriate
Not just a field but all our land.
From a handful of missionaries and clerks
To shiploads of coolies and soldiers
To throngs of settlers and administrators
To segregation, imposition and subjugation
Till the people- wary, weary and desperate
Rose from the caves, valleys and forests
From every blessed nook and cranny
Chanting MAU, MAU, MAU, MAU
(Mwingereza Aende Ulaya
Mwafrica Apate Uhuru- 
White Man Return to Europe
African man Attain Independence!)

Though a youngster and much afraid
I sang that, too, in my youthful heart
Forbidden, I still sang it, in my heart
For I had seen the sword on my mum’s throat
As they sought to extract a confession
I had seen the village burn down
And I had seen the limp body of a fighter
Paraded through the village paths
But that was over half a century ago
And although I had seen the aftermath
Of Kaya Bombo and Kaya Tiwi in Kwale
On my way here (but thought it a dream)
And the agony of the 1998 Al Qaeda attacks
I had not seen much else; nor will I ever see
The likes of Eldoret, Nakuru, or Naivasha
After the 2007 election- I ardently pray not
For this is not the white man in Africa
That we are up against, surely not here
Not this long after regaining our independence
No! Not here in my beloved, bounteous Kenya.

It is commercial and political greed
A vicious, ugly cross-breed beast perhaps
That is all there is, that is all there can be
And these we must banish from our hearts
For who can bear to see Kenyan blood
Flowing down River Tana or Athi or Nzoia
Or swelling the banks of Lake Victoria, Nakuru or Turkana?
Who can plead such a case before God
And come away with his soul intact?
Have the Kenyan people not chosen
Through a brand new constitution
Their route to freedom, justice and progress?
Have they not decreed their own destiny?
Let me hear it from you and you and you
Whose hand or sword or bullet or arrow
Was stained by the blood of woman, man or child
Let me hear it from you who schemed or aided
And you who lent your tongue or thought
Or simply sought refuge in silence and waited
For something, anything to happen to ‘them.’
Let me hear you say, ‘Enough, enough!
Purge our consciences O Mighty One!’


Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

THE STAND

The eyes of Sarlissia were as large as the seventh moon of her parent's planet. Not yet five, she stood before one of the bloodied walls of the Commons, her shimmering skin almost translucent after a year of near-starvation.  Hope was gone. She'd been caught. 

Until now, she'd managed to survive the culling of her people, the Atramillons. Quickly, so quickly, she'd become apt at hiding from the League of Cleansing and their vicious hounds, laying low in rodent tunnels or remaining still for days in the tight, mud caves of a nearby bog. 

Six times this season, she'd travel North to the city of her birth, risking execution. Praise the Maker-Being, there were those who did not hate her species, those who endangered themselves and their families by being merciful.. Many of the Others offered her small amounts of food and water, a pair of shoes, one had even provided her with a knife. Sarlissia realized what would happen to those who had helped her, and though she now faced her death, she refused to call out, choosing to protect her protectors.   

Most windows of the nearby homes were dark, but she could still see several curtains lift.  The Others who had cared enough to give her scraps were a mere forty feet away. But she took small, shallow breaths and accepted that she was soon to become light and join all those who had been culled before her.

"Rot, where are your parents?" one of the soldiers asked. 

Sarlissia bit her lips, tried to still the quiver that had begun in her knees. 

"Clip her. Then we won't be able to shut her up."

Four heads turned as a door opened. 

It was Marion, kind Marion who'd given her more than any Other. Sarlissia shook her head, beseeched the kind lady with her eyes to turn and leave. 

Instead, Marian dashed towards her, wailing. One soldier lifted his assault rifle, but his Sergeant pushed the weapon down. "Wait!"

"Please, don't!" Sarlissia cried. "I am ready to die."

Marian reached the child, stroked her softly glowing cheek. "We have been silent too long. And I will no longer stand by to see the slaughter of the innocents. May your kind forgive us, one day."

"Stand aside,"The Sergeant called.  "They must be eradicated."

"I will not move." Marion lifted her chin. "You will have to cull me, too. Son."

The Sergeant shifted."Mother, they are not human, they are worse than vermin, capable of destroying the logic of nature, capable of-"

"What? Changing shape, healing, traveling through time? Yes. I know."Marion sighed. "What have you done, Thomas? My God, what have we all done? Can't you see that she means no harm? Her species deserved a chance. It was a mistake, one mistake-"

"One mistake that changed the course of history. Mankind cannot chance that kind of power in the hands of those we do not know and are unable to trust. Order must be restored, no matter by what means. No matter the cost. It is for the good of the many."

"Are you hearing yourself? We are the monsters, can't you see that? Marion shielded Sarlissia, her voice gruff. "Do what you must do and I will do what I should have done, long, long ago."

Sarlissia tried to move, but Marion held her fast.

Suddenly, several doors opened. Sarlissia began to weep, unable to control her fear for her beloved Others as more and more began to run towards her. Shame of jeopardizing these kind strangers consumed her.  She should have stayed away. 

Soon, there were dozens of Others around her, united in their want to save her.  The crowd grew to be hundreds.

The soldiers stood frozen, uncertain of what to do. Before them stood their friends and family, people they had known their entire lives. 

It seemed like a century until the Sergeant lowered his rifle. One by one the other soldier did the same. Weapons fell to the ground. There was a moment of silence, of stunned disbelief that Law would be broken.

Then Sarlissia looked up, smiled at Marion and nodded. The Others parted and the glowing girl walked towards the soldiers. 

She reached out and light traveled between her and the Sergeant, seemed to sing in the air around them. He dropped to his knees and began to weep. 

Sarlissia leaned forward, pressed her forehead against his and whispered, "Hush, I forgive you. After all, you're only human"



---- the---?----beginning------


Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details |

THE SERB DOG

            The Serb Dog by Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
     There was a bunch of soldiers standing around watching
a house burn and somebody said "Was that somebody screaming,
did you hear somebody scream?" 
     "Shut up idiot," said the lieutenant. "You don't want
the Serbs to have anything when they get here do you?" He
was from Dodge City and some of the other guys called him
Cowboy. Most of them had joined the unit in Naples and this
was their first assignment in what used to be Yugoslavia.
Now it was Hell.
     They could hear faint gunshots coming from over the
hill and everyone knew time was running out. Around the
corner a bunch of people was being herded out of town but
not everyone wanted to leave. They could hear some of the
older peoples voices pleading not to be put on a bus, but
nobody knew what else to do. The children only cried and
some of the soldiers tried not to think about the children
crying. Finally they heard the bus door slam shut and the
sound of the engine as it roared into movement then
gradually the sound disappeared behind the distant gunfire.
     "I heard they signed today," said one of the soldiers.
"Did you hear,
lieutenant, about them signing a ceasefire?"
     "Let them sign," replied the lieutenant "I will sign,
too. Torch that house over there. Who cares about another
cease fire?"
     "Why didn't you join the Croats, Cowboy? What ever made
a nicefellow like you sign on with us cut throats?" Everybody
snickered but Cowboy got over being irritated by their
remarks the first week. 
     "They didn't offer enough money," he snapped.
     Suddenly a dog came running down the road and one of the
soldiers said "Get that damned dog!" Everybody started
shooting at the same time and the dog started running and
jumping and yapping all at the same time then disappeared
behind a house. 
     "That's one lucky dog!" somebody said. 
     A captain came running up and said "Why were you guys
shooting at that dog?" 
     One of the soldeirs said "It was a Serb dog." Somebody
else said "It was in heat!" 
     "Well don't shoot no more dogs," said the captain.
Then the dog stuck its head out and a shot came from across
the road, shattering the stone building right next to the
dogs head. The dog let out a yelp and started running down
the road, away from the soldiers. 
      "Look at that dog run!" shouted the captain. "Don't
anybody shoot! I like that dog! Run Dog! Run Dog! Don't
let them shoot you!"
      Just then a volley of gunfire echoed from behind
the buldings and bullets could be seen hitting the ground
all around the running dog, then some bullets struck the
dog and it fell over without a sound. Some other soldiers
came around from behind the buildings across the street
from where the dog had been and they were laughing.
     "That was my dog!" yelled the captain to the other
soldiers.
     "That was your dog?" asked one of the men.
     "Yes, I said so!" repled the captain. "Didn't I just
tell you it was my dog?"
     "You just killed our dog!" snapped the lieutenant. 
     "We thought it was a Serb dog," the soldier said. "How
could we tell it was your dog?"
      "Well, you be careful about shooting dogs from now
on!" snapped the lieutenant. "Good dogs are hard to find
around here."
      "That dog was rabid!" laughed one of the soldiers
who shot the dog.
      "That dog was in heat!" laughed a soldier in the
first group.
      "That dog is dead!" said another guy. Everybody
started laughing.
      "Get back to torching those houses," said the
captain. 
      Suddenly they heard the dog yelping and when they
looked down the road they saw it running again. Everybody
started screaming and shooting at once and the dog
disappeared into a bunch of bushes just as some bullets hit
the dirt all around it.
      "That's the luckiest damned dog I ever saw!" said
the captain.
      "Guess it wasn't a Serb dog after all," laughed
the lieutenant.
      "Guess not," said a soldier. "No Serb dog could be
that lucky."
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet


Long poem by Cat Way | Details |

Goodbye to home

  Sand in my lungs and in every nook and cranny possible, nothing out here not even a simple bush or tree. Everything is dead and dry as a bone. My own skin holds no life, rough and leathery like jerky. Desperate need of lotion, even more of a need for a place called home. This heavy helmet keeps the cooling breeze from touching me and this scratchy, too small for me uniform is thick and full of sweat.They never told you that you would come to a point where you wanted to die, they never said how many people you would see die, they didn’t heed you no warnings all they told you was that your army strong and a brave soul. The jeep’s engine dies and we come to a sudden halt, Sam gets out of the drivers seat and calls break. Break from what? There aint no break here, but we smile and take our helmets off and rest our stressed shoulders on the bars of the open rear vehicle. James hops out and pops open the button on his pants, struggles with the zipper and takes a piss, back to the wind but not back on us. Nick hands me his canteen and I nod with a thanks and take it quickly, my mouth is drier than a cotton field. Syrupy saliva the color of old tobacco form little bridges from the mouth of the bottle to my chapped scaly lips. What I would give for a ice cold beer, sitting on my porch with my woman by my side. I gaze out in the desert and imagine what life will be like when I get home. They will have a huge party waiting for me at the front gate and wash me with hugs and tears. Balloons tied to the fence, all blues and reds with dots of white. Food piled high on tables for hungry soldiers, smeared make up on all the womens faces. My 4 year old daughter running up to me in her favorite pink flower dress. I drop my stare from the clear sky and look at the man in front of me, his face caked with grease and dirt, his clothes dusted by sand and clay, sweat stains on the chest and even bigger ones that formed under his arms. He looks like the devil himself dragged him to hell and back, a shame to look how he looks, but we all look the same. He hunches over, helmet covering his eyes, hands together and elbows on knees, a stance for a dead man. I put my hand out to give him his water back and it takes him a moment to look up and retrieve it. He looks me in the eye for the first time, the green is brighter than any I have ever seen on a man. He gets a old beat up photo out of his chest pocket and hands it to me, a tall beautiful woman is smiling back at me with big brown eyes, almost like burned honey. Hair that falls over her shoulders like waves of oil. A small bundle in her arms, you can see the tiny hands poking out of the snow white teddy bear covered blanket. I look back up and find him staring at me with tears coming from his eyes like a busted pipe, he picks up his pistol from his inner jacket pocket, puts it to his temple and screams like a lost child and pulls the trigger. The sound of his skull shattering, if I ever dream again this is what it would be, it was a crunch like noise with a splatter to compliment it. Blood and brains paint the back of the jeep like frosting. I will never forget this man. Killing for peace is like ****ing for virginity, you can never win. I pick up his gun and look back up at the sky, I was never meant to see my family again. You can hear the bullets flying through the air from a short distance, grenades explode and bombard your ears. The enemy is running toward us, rising on top of the sand dunes with their arabian hunting knives above their heads and guns on their sides like a infant to its mother's breast, thats what they are doing they are hunting us like deer. Clutching the photo to my heart I raise the gun to my head, take one last breath and hold it, squeezed the trigger, the last death I will ever see is my own.


Long poem by Dylan Manassian | Details |

the battles the world has seen

the bombs 
the guns 
the blood shed
no humanity done
all is lost
under the strick and pain
of all the bombs 
every day 
WW1 WW2 
the Cold War 
nothing is new
death for nothing
revolution you say 
killing hundred of lives
all for ones pay
for one to step down
or die in vein
why should we kill hundreds
for just ones gain
WW2 
histories view
just blood in the book
too much for me
how about you?
more lives lost there then any time in history
D Day was the grave
for many people who fought away
we didint learn
we continue this mistake
we kill for our country
and then we go pray
thinking God will bless me
with bullets and steel
while God told me to love all
not put shells in you
not all injuries are deep 
some are mental week
PTSD and many things
my presentation is explaining
how the war isn't for those who died
and how it affect the kids and other wise
families are devastated
kids with no dads
imagine a life 
were you go home
only find the mom
and sometimes go to your dads tomb stone
all for the sack of the country
who is well of living on its supplies  and many thing 
or imagine going home
here your mom cry
wondering why 
until you read the letter
that your dad died
or gone missing under the wind
were your supposed to know the troops
but some just vanish again
thousand were never found
in the past few years
ofcorse they are dead
but some keep praying still
look at the war and look at the fight 
not every is killed on sight
some come back home
trying to live there lifes
but then the drugs kick in
and many other lies
the lies they said out there
" dont worry you will be fine"
the man who said that died a few seconds later
sniper shot him in the eye
you think war is a joke
or something to laugh about
imagine this
think aloud
if you come home
your dads on morphine 
trying to hide from the noise
you think it is nothing
but to him it reminds him of his past
the battles he faces 
the friends he made
and the one vanished with out a trace 
or the once who died in his face
the once he had to carry away
the funeral he had to pray 
and the people who tried helping him escape 
the war is more then a game
it more of a death sentences
once you go
it is hard to get back
really hard 
more then you think
with PTSD and bipolar disease 
and many other injuries
once you go to war
you wont be the same
you will see things
that are inhuman
bodies all over
blood is spilled
and the many people missing
the ones even you knew 
you dont understand me 
let me explain
the people who are fighting out there
wont come back the same
they will be changed
mental and physically
they will see true people
who will go insane
the people at war see many things
some not even for my age
code orange, Stalingrad , D Day
Cold War , war in the north and other out of my reach
what they did was horrible 
what both sides did to their men
 the russians killed their own troops
if they are trying to run back
germans slaughter the jews
the americans just nuked 
japanies and their kamikazes 
now lets come today 
to now a day war
the technology is so unreal
it isnt worth righting for 
what they did now a days was worse then before
code orange is one good example
there are many more 
the death of many for the few
it isn't only the soldiers it is the kids to
the families being hit
the parents that die
and the kids have to run for their lives 
PTSD is one symptom that never dies
it stays in the hearts and in the mind
it hurt the people
when the war isnt even alive
it kills them slowly
mentality is going
PTSD has a history
let me explain it to thee
 it is when your traumatized
cause by war, airplane crash rape and bombing in the state
they fear the sounds of loud 
they sometimes fear the sight of death
they fear the sound of pain
and they fear guns and other stuff
it started back in the day 


Long poem by Christina McCullouch | Details |

Devil's Wine

 I see your tears,and it breaks me apart~I wanna reach across the moon to get inside your heart

 I see the scar's he's left and it tears my soul up inside It makes me want to spew ice and throw fire

 Down for just him to enjoy in his own forever never~ending~torturing Abyss! It's all fun & games

 to him were all his little toys, God reaches one of us there's a million more for him to torture~Torment

 and infest. We never learn our lesson's just keep doing each other harm~ Have you ever heard the

 term were you raised in a Barn?

 

Close the Door, wer'e such silly kid's everyone of us~We get hurt keep it in then move on~ push communication

plum to the side.It's like a soda that's been shaken once the lid's off it explodes. If we don't deal with our feelings,

Where the Heck do you think they go?? A gentle hand is what our God really want's us to extend Don't Let the

Devil invade your Soul till you have nowhere else to go. We wonder why our children show up in school toting guns

It's because they're afraid~They are scared Theyre ALONE!

 

I'm looking into you and I see myself so deep within~Your a Beautiful~Shining~Spirit~Don't let the Devil get his

Muse. He's see's the flicker of a shine and it makes his heart quake and shiver deep inside. He know's his Doom and his Throne is only in place for a short time He want's to taste Now the Best & finest of the Wines. Don't worry sweet child Our

God's promises will eventually come true. We just have to guide, Love ,Teach,Retrain what it means to Truly be Kind.

Love each other Look beyond just.Me~Me~Me! We get so caught up in this world sometimes we just don't know what

to Do!

 

Love~Love~Love~ That's the Motto I Like to Live by. There for a time I got so lost and confused Then My wonderful god

Gently~Reached out and touched my hand~Said child You've known there's alway's been I that would understand. Now Let me Show you True Love and Let me Gently guide,softly~yet~firmly,reteach,and show you your misguided ways if you'd open your eyes you'd really see there's so much work you could do. Stop rotting your Brain and coming up with

all this Bad~Self tallk and more suffered abuse. Open your eyes Be Authintic~Be Real~Don't be a Pushover~ Remove The bitterness and anger inside your Soul its not yours to keep child I told you to let that GO! But forgive and Know how to Love VERY Well. Walk in the ways you think Jesus would do~Remember all the Torture~ The pain~ Mistrust~and abuse he went through for You.

 

God has given us Life so Precious and Rare, So many Beautiful things that we just can't explain~Its time that we open up

and try and save this world~That's now my mission in life~I won't stop till I reach my Goal I will be part of God's Soldiers

I have nothing to hide I'm all about Truth So Devil Let's lay it on the line.This girl will be Turning your wines into Fire~The ones that I reach you'll no longer Drink from. So if you see me you better turn the corner & Run! It's Red against Red Let's Fight~Fire with Fire~ God's got many soldiers who'll stand right along beside me if I need them to!With my God no longer am I afraid of YOU!

 

BY:Christina McCullouch


Long poem by steven cooke | Details |

The Soldier WW1

World War 1 

The Sergeant

The rose cannot compete
with the sweet smell of death,
only her image can forgive.
 Laid upon the silence
of another boys coffin,
which hides this journey in life.

Your shame will not bring him back.
So win your war on kitchen table
for old men know best,
glory is for you who drink to them.
Your lads are entrusted
to fight an old man’s dream, 
that age has altered with lies.

Inspire them with your bravado,
“the machine gun you can take”.
But bullets give no warning,
shells care not for heroes
and pain will not spare them.

 I who should have died long ago
will take your lads over the top.
To meet this vision of glory
and perhaps some of them
 will share with me the victory
 of living for one more day.

For victory is the crows feast,
defeat will always find another battle.
Life is to obey another order,
and time is the torment of mind
Which counts the heart beats
to the next ordeal.

This war is in my veins
pouring blood over my soul,
death will be a blessing to me.
To forget what I have seen
to forget this madness in life.

 I who greet the trains of hope.
Greet the innocent,
to take its place upon this cross,
and I will give them a lonely smile
for that is all that is left of me.



These faces of oblivion 
who come with laughter,
soon cower before the sounds of war.
Their throats now choked 
with the dry mouth of fear.

And I shall not dare too close
to this bloom of spring,
for my memory is full of ghosts.

We shall share a cigarette 
politely sanitize our existence 
with stories from home.
Quietly taking some comfort
from the guns now gorging on German blood.

 For I wish not to see them alive
and “ laddie” always remembers,
do not let them see your fear.

The cold dew of dawn is growing anxious 
It beading anoints my head
for it is the only thing that is pure 
in my life.

The first rays of light eat into my eyes
revealing the man.
A gaunt child locked out of God’s grace,
for fear belongs to us all.

The mark of death dances one more time
In the steam of morning breathe
hoping for that final kiss,
and I shiver before its presence.

Though these boys that I take 
can never know.
That just beyond their gaze
lies the guns that have taken 
the voices before them.

The sound of the whistle
Calls once again
tomorrow the faces will change
and their passing will be
a journey into my memory.

A generation cut down in sacrifice,
a rose for every victim.
But the cold white marble 
cannot hide the stories
for every family has one.

Church bells ring your victory
of widows who lost their men
and of this flower of summer,
cut down from mother’s lap.

Leave the silent streets to the swallows
to carry their voices back
to a time of peace.

For time has left us a faded photograph
Of Granddads journey done
Who went to sleep long ago.

Time in her mercy took his memory,
to join the untold stories 
Of the boys we never knew.

All lost in Flanders field 
but still guarded jealously
by the swallows who fly free 
over the peace that you
 gave to me.

.

 








Long poem by Scott Bronner | Details |

Christ Child

In eternity past, the Father asks the Son to go down.
Having equal Love for humans the "Yes" comes fast.
When Creation leads to time, the world waits for 4 BC
Marking the start of the end of Satan's long rule at last.

Did Satan laugh at the poor setting for Jesus' birth here?
A cry in a cave for animals pierces the night, changing all.
Shepherds worship; later wise kings give precious gifts.
Mary and Joseph marvel, yet Herod's rage soon gives a call.

A call to leave quickly to Egypt where they'll live as refugees.
Sparing the Christ child a merciless death of those under three.
When Herod finally dies, Jesus' parents head back to Israel.
Still not fully safe from mad rule, Nazareth is their destiny.

Here the child will grow to be a man, following His parents rule.
Surprising the Pharisees with His wisdom at 12, at 30 riling them.
Preaching with authority, healing the incurable, loving the humble.
Women weep repenting at his feet; one's healed by touching his hem.

Zacchaeus risks going into a tree and finds Jesus' salvation so free.
Nicodemus comes at night to ask and ends amazed he's met God's Son
The Woman at the Well gets far more vital water than the usual kind.
And many healed can't but tell others of the miracle God has done.

The babe in the manger now stills the storm and his disciples believe
Even seeing the dead arise, like Lazarus in the tomb for four days.
Foretelling a greater rising coming but not before immense suffering.
The sword Mary was told would pierce her heart is soon on its way.

For most religious leaders cannot tolerate Jesus' lack of respect for them.
Calling them whitewashed tombs and pointing pride out to Pharisees.
Not endearing Himself with the establishment, but following God's way.
Knowing soon He'd be betrayed, arrested, tried and tortured brutally.

Still, he calmly feeds them body bread and blood wine in a final feast.
Tells them the Spirit comes, and prays they'd be one like Father and Son.
Heads to the Garden, prays to His Father for another way if possible.
Your will be done ends and the soldiers come and with Judas kiss it's done.

The most pure, innocent Man who's ever lived is now in hostile hands.
A trial by dark without witness or any rights – and off to Pontius Pilate.
Then Herod then back to Pilate whose wife dreamed Jesus was innocent.
But the people's cries to crucify win over – Jesus caught in intrigue's net.

The child of Bethlehem now hung on a Cross between two criminals.
The Light of the World by darkness and our sins is being slowly slain.
Feeling forsaken by God, but then "Into Your hands I commit my spirit."
Reunited and soon to show the world that this Child was no ordinary one.

Risen as Jesus predicted, for how can death conquer everlasting, perfect life?
From childhood to adult not one sin, not once yielding to Satan's temptations.
Proving we can have life eternal if we confess and believe in Jesus as our Savior.
Calling His followers in risen form to await the Spirit and share Christ to the nations


Long Poems