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Best Poems Written by Ian Horton

Below are the all-time best Ian Horton poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Ian Horton Poem

A Game With Death

Deep within the confines of my mind, I play a game with Death itself
The pieces set, black against white, the game played a thousand times before
I move the pawns to block the enemy line, and I feel a tinge of empathy
The pawn and I, so alike, both pieces in someone else’s game, expendable
The greater pieces, knights and rooks, bishops, and queens protect the king
The King, the representation of my mind, if defeated so shall I fall
The pawns charge and clear the way against the line of Death’s allies
Reaching to the sky for their chance at glory, but stricken down before
Death’s cold and brilliant moves seduce me, like a forbidden dance
Haunting and frightening, but tempting all the same, I allow the moves
The pieces fall like leaves from an autumn tree, a piece of me dies with them
For this is no mere game I realize, but the struggle against the embrace of oblivion
And I’m losing, the king backed into a corner, no way out with foes in pursuit
The king in hopeless retreat moves further into defeat, and I tremble
My hand reaches for something, could it be that I’ve succumbed to failure?
I take the king in hand and it falls to its side, the match is forfeit to Death
But as I offer my hand to him, embracing my fate, the phantom simply smiles
A chill smile not seen, but felt in the heart, a stinging pain that told me his intent
He would not take me to the afterlife, but abandon me to a life of pain and hardship
Just like so many times before, the game played over the course of a lifetime
And Death cheats every time, every loss becomes another chance for misery

Details | Ian Horton Poem

Marketplace Massacre

Flowers lie upon a grave, innocence dead in a foreign land
The peace shattered like ice when bombs burst in burning sand
Children taken in the prime of life, gone with just a passing glance
As planes fly overhead, circling their targets in a macabre dance
Bombs drop and explode, tearing through a market and a child
The mother drops to her knees, and the crowd becomes wild
As the child shudders, frozen with fear and anguish as he lies
His mother shouts for help, through broken sobs and cries
Cries heard in the hearts of millions, but disregarded by most
As thousands of miles away sits this war’s malevolent host
He speaks of happier times ahead, freedom is on the march
Tell it to the children, whose parents he killed, or is that too harsh?
A criminal speaks to the nation, of dire threats and genocide
Invoking the names of the dead to bring the living to his side
To take up arms against one’s fellow man, to commit atrocities in his name
And with thousands buried in simple graves, with him lies the blame			
As good men and women fall in his name for his bloody endeavor
People at home and around the world raise their voices and shout “Freedom! Forever!”

Details | Ian Horton Poem

War Archaic

On scribbled parchment, sanguine letters writ in blood
Of hidden tales, broken pages smeared with mud
An unknown soldier, his blood he lie
With glint of sword, his death is nigh
A scar on the body, an ache in the heart
Blades in the dark, cut his chest apart
In his sorrow, with his dying breath
He called to his dearest Elizabeth
For never again would he see her face
‘Twould be here he died, this abysmal place
The war had begun, some fifty years hence
This soldier unknown fought for a sixpence
His gentle soul ripped by the horrible conflict
That artists of the gilded age could never quite depict
On the field of valor, were armies a’massing
‘Twas nought but bodies as sign of their passing
The head of the line led a cavalry charge
As arrows shot past, betwixt shield and targe
With iron-forged pikes upwardly thrust
To satisfy the wicked Gods’ bloodlust
Cries in anguish rang out cold as steel
Sheering flesh from bone, with fanatic zeal
With each death, came a tear fell from Heaven
The forgotten soldier, unidentified number eleven
Which side won the battle could not be told
Such death and carnage, history alone could be so cold
Through passage of time and the set of the sun
Came the dawn of a new age, the era of the gun
A weapon of such power that no armor can shield
That strikes such fear that the courageous yield
Could the forgotten soldier have known this to pass
How could he foresee land mines and poison gas
This is what we make of the cause he died for
To repeat the same mistakes, to continue his war
With a whimper or a scream, how does Humanity end
An unjust war on the horizon, on you it will depend...

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Tormented

Only so much suffering can one man take, when stretched to the breaking point like a taut
violin string
When the pain is so severe that one's body goes numb, when he can no longer feel the stab
in the back
Save for the pain within himself, the cruel longing for something more, the sting of
bitter defeat once again
Like recurring nightmares haunting his every step, he is struck in his heart with a
profound sense of despair
That comes from a long and arduous life, marked at each turn with sorrow and balanced on
the edge of a knife
What folly comes from the lie of hope, for the man has lived his life through the
dichotomy of failure and victory
Upon straying too close to the light, he is torn from it by his own sense of loss and the
cruelty of his soul
And at the brink of death, when came a thought of final peace, he was brought back by
frail and incomplete dreams
The dual cycle never ends, for one fated and born into this world for the purpose of
suffering others pain
Forever reborn to continue on the path of dread, to know happiness only for it to be torn
from his throbbing heart
The never ending wheel of birth and rebirth, the fulcrum built upon this man's existence,
his blood and sinew
But no one will ever know this man's name, nor share in his pain, for his is a burden he
must bear alone
His tortured soul and tormented mind assure it, for burdened as such, none shall ever bond
with him
And his cries will go unheard in the grand scheme of the universe, forgotten in the flow
of time, never spoken
'Til the end...

Details | Ian Horton Poem

Whispered On a Breeze

Whispered on the ashen breeze, in tongues not understood
Came the call of broken words, the scent of burning wood
Flames danced in unison, in step like a haunting ballet
As broken limbs fell on the ground, weeping where they lay
Once full of hopes and dreams of summer, bright and green
The trees call a sad siren song, a deepened mournful scream
And leaves hum a desperate tune of despair, and disappear
Lost in a sea of flames and destruction of that we hold most dear
The great world tree has fallen, and the forest is dying all around
All that can be heard in the chill night air is Yggdrassil's simple sound
The words it spoke, never more than a fool, forever more another's tool

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Field of Nightmares

The weight of the world lies heavy on my shoulders
Like the burden of a boulder, as the world grows colder
Never seen but always felt, an imagined force weakens the heart
Rending the soul like sharpened blades, ripping flesh apart
Taking no pleasure in life, no solace promised in death
Life becomes more difficult with each passing breath
With love like a barren field, replete with vines and cracked earth
A wicked despair entangled in thorns, lingering since birth
Travelers traverse these weary plains, strangers all and never seen
Blinded with sorrow and fear, this life is like it’s always been
Sadness sewn reaps further misery, harvested with broken tools
A choked waste of loathsome pity, what sad tormented fools
No rituals can cleanse the land and purge the darkened Fates
When given to my destiny, the stars aligned in purest hate
To suffer the pain of dejection, living through cold rejection
A simple passage etched in stone with wisdom that we seek
Love... is but... an illusion... created... to sustain... the weak...

Details | Ian Horton Poem

Blood Red Rain

If blood rained red over the White House, what would the president do?
In the shower of blood of fallen soldiers and innocent women and children
Would Bush fall to his knees and beg forgiveness, or dance a macabre twirl
Like a shower on his wedding day, or a haunting nightmare of past misdeeds
The blood tide of all those that have died stains the pristine green lawn 
In the face of the consequence of his actions, would he still proclaim freedom? 
Seeing the blood of the fallen, raining, staining the White House a sanguine red
Victims of the unholy marriage of war and peace, like two sides of a trick coin
Tossed into the air without care for however it lands, the result is still war
Thousands dead in unmarked graves, or flag draped coffins, all will turn to ash
If the ashes blew in a torrent of blood and storm, would Bush apologize
For all the lies he's told to kill these innocent souls, or would he just turn away?
And return to the heart of his empire, the oval office, as cold and dead as his soul
Through the cries of the fallen lies a chance for redemption, will he choose it
Atone for the crimes and apologize to those shattered hearts who loved and lost?
Time alone will tell, with the tolling of the bell...

Details | Ian Horton Poem

Eyes Are An Instrument

Such a story can be told from a glimpse into one’s eyes
From unrequited sadness to joy that the sweetest words defy
Blue to green and in-between, the colors dance in patterns so serene
A beauty immeasurable in mere words, only expressed in poetic verse
The soul’s light shines bright in complex orbs that give us sight
But such belies the tales told within of experiences both wonderful and sad
Of tears cried in happiness, seamless bliss, or sorrow kissed, through good and bad
Eyes can grant a vision of present, future, or past, as fast as a seductive spell cast
So take part in a glance at one’s heart, let ring a song in harmonious part
For eyes are an instrument, calm and pure, the soul the conductor, the heart the lure