He appear to be a ladd of maybe 9 yrs. old. It's Friday, as our troop's prepared to move
out unto enemy territory, and then KABOOM!!...he becomes a suicide bomber. WOW! face-
less at such a young age. Now as I gather my comrade's body parts (as well as my thou-
ght's) to myself I say, "these people's belong in a cage". Pain in Irag, will it ever end, here
children's are taught too kill again & again. Our Boy'zz in misery, misery all around us, the
stinch of death is everywhere. Their fearless leader leads no more. Soon he's capture, "one
would think, finally!! and now answer's of life can be restore, but sadly there's only more
bloodshed here in Irag. And a salacious cloud still hoovers above our heads as the dead
bodie's continue's to rise, another soldier get sent home and familie's shall not be able to
stop the flow of tear's pouring from their eye's. (faceless at such a young age)
Our Boy's and Gal's in misery - here in a country, were there is no love, "A faceless enemy",
we continue to fight. Our Congressmen and Senator's vote to keep this sinceles war going,
"for our freedom", lying to themselve's and to the American people's. "For our Freedom",
"I don't understand-how can freedom be justified with a bullet and a gun". How can Freedom
be (?) when every Saturday you'll be burying your daughter or your son. Someday soon
we do get to go home, from here to a faceless nation. As the dead bodie's continue to rise,
and before the break of dawn starts another day. Your lil 9 year old goes outside to play.
In this land of confusion lil boy's also goes outside, freedom for him is to suicidily kill the
enemy-each and every morning in the name of Allah his mother tells him. So 10 U.S. sold-
ier's live's are gone, more are on the way. Remember their President is dead and gone
while our wants a "Celebration".
P.S.... This particular poem came to me in a dream, as in a dream I was there (in Irag)
holding this soldier who had been shot, and he relate's this particular
poem for me to write:
Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2010
To you of broken minds and broken souls,
For whom do you bow?
Is it the sky’s fyre, who rises west of the east and sleeps beyond your grasp,
Or have you found a blacksmith to call your master?
Intrude not upon me with your sad tears
Trailing clean paths upon your muddy boots
I will crack my breast open underneath your weight,
And swallow you in darkness until your bones return to my ribs
Who are you to defy me?
Calling forth for blood; iron ore more valuable than mine
Am I nothing to you? Do my sands not churn themselves
To blind you, to scratch at your throat
Like the blades you hold close to your heart
Heavy footfalls dissuade hard rock,
Veins of molten pitch pour themselves over your eyes
And yet you continue to ask more of me.
For every one of your footprints,
There is a mile of my warm earth beneath
I allow you to stand just as easily as I can wrap around your ankles
Pull down and break your flesh into rotten brimstone
Tear you away, bit by bit,
Until even the tree roots cannot recognise you
When that day comes, remember:
Your bloodied hands will join mine just as the peacekeeper’s does
And your sword wrapped in vines will be your headstone
- From the Earth, with love
Copyright © Hannah Javens | Year Posted 2017
War is suffocating.
You see them run through a line of fire.
You wonder will they survive and then, you see others die before your eyes.
You stand and shout to someone familiar but no response came.
Therefore, vehemently you ran to not bleed again.
Would you make it out of this alive or would you die trying?
You would not remember either, when the life is taken from your eyes.
Stay positive! Stay alive…
User Name: Verlena
Pseudonym: Oblivion Dark Sunshine
Motif: War (Epic)
Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014
For generations I slept.
My violent ever churning home I could accept.
Then the churning itself ceased.
The home went dark.
The home went cold.
Then the clanging began.
Louder the noise grew.
A foreign brightness leaked into my view.
And I knew.
It was an invasion.
They came with picks and shovels.
They took us from our protective embraces.
Tortured I was in heat and fire.
My form resembled nothing familiar to me.
What I once was, I was no more.
Still I would not be released.
I heard the drums.
Drums from a distant source,
As I was carried elsewhere,
Allowed was I, for now,
To travel with my old friends,
also tortured and mutilated.
Their forms exactly like mine.
Suddenly our travels ceased.
The drums became louder.
The talking of foreign mouths suffocated my ears.
I was taken away from my comrades.
I would likely never see them again.
The drums continued.
Only now I was not so callously thrown aside.
Cared for was I, by my new master.
I felt my wits sharpened.
My skin shined.
The drums stopped.
I do not know for how long.
Still, in the possession of my new master;
I was sharp.
I felt proud despite my torment.
Then the drums started again.
My master charged with anger.
His hatred became mine.
With my help he slew his own kind.
No longer did my skin shine.
It was covered in a sickly crimson hue.
With every blow I landed I felt my sharpness fade.
Then suddenly my master released me.
I tumbled to the dirt.
The drums were distant.
The screams were fading.
I faded out of mind.
Dirt overtook me.
I found myself in a new shelter.
Dark as the first home, before the invasion,
My old master was beside me,
But even he too succumbed to the time that barely aged me.
I was taken from my old home.
Forced to fight another man’s war,
Only to be left alone once more.
Copyright © Michael Walker | Year Posted 2013
Copyright © James Horn | Year Posted 2015
You are the reason now for everything I do,
Because You are the reason I choose to see life through.
All the hopes and dreams I have are hinged upon my Faith,
That You will keep Your promises through Your abounding Grace.
I know you are real, and great and true,
I am answering Your call.
I know of Your great love for me, what I don't know is
For I never sought to please You God; I didn't even try.
Those days are gone, You have changed my heart, and now
So now I won't waste this life no more, I place it in Your
No matter what You call me for, Your words I will obey,
With confidence You will smile upon this Soldier that,
YOU HAVE MADE...
Copyright © Kimberly Hunter-McNiel | Year Posted 2007
stares with pride
at his newly wrought
the device of death
his means for bread
Hung on the wall
in its scabbard
lined with gold
beauty its name
fear its fame
sharp and brutal
red with stains
Rotten red juice
dust and decay
death and dismay
end of a battle
her sisters rattle
Journey to home
long and dry
the iron bride
won't see the sky
a long night
till another fight
Copyright © Onaiza Khan | Year Posted 2017