Poetry War Poems

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Details | Light Poetry |
My Dear Enemy
Here I am
In full armor
My quill is full of arrows
My bow is taunt and ready fro battle
My horse is pristine and shiny black
I am your enemy
As you are mine to the death
I shall take my bow and arrow
Pierce you through the heart
My king shall praise and honor me
For many battles so well fought
I know I have to shoot my arrows
To save my own pitiful soul

My dear enemy
I just long for you to know
Every arrow, every drop of blood
Every soul that must depart
Due to my fine skills and sharp arrow darts
I die along with you
I know not who you are
Yet a weep for your lost soul
I imagine other times
Maybe we would sit for tea and cookies
Laughing over words of glee
You and I so battle ready
I am sorry for all the battle scars
The blood that flows so deep
Every arrow that leaves my bow
I am sure it too, also weeps

My Dear Enemy
I prey today that before the dusk
One of you will have a finer bow
My heart no longer has the will
To fill my quill with arrows so
Today, I let one of you end my day
No longer can I live on this way
All my fine arrows fired
Have finally been on target
My Dear Enemy
I love you as any man
I have only love for humanity
I pray one day
Our Kings and Queens shall feel this way
As off the battle field, I am carried away

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015




Details | Prose Poetry |
I can show you where the brimstone sun has no remorse,
and where devils on horseback, have burned our homes, have pillaged our farms.
A killing spree,   the drum of guns, some tried to flee, but died,... each one.
The screams, I dream! Oh, the cries........the cries....... 
I try to mute the sound of them
For...,  I was there, I hid in fear,  was somehow spared, but now I look for 
something, ...something, ...something, here, ...someone to care.
A bit of food, a bit of shade, such bitter taste is in my mouth
A world of hate. To have no shoes,...a walking ghost.....
a blistered soul, I have no hope....  but nothing, nothing left. 
My eyes are blurred, and fires burn, a heavy world, shouts out despair.

Where are the flowers that used to bloom, where are voices, that once I knew?
There are no flowers here...just flies, in waist-deep dust, and a hot orange sun,
that coughs up sounds of fear and guns, and swords and words against my ears, I 
live in fear with no one here. 
I'm just a girl,  or at least I was....    for just a while.

I was defiled, when found by one
He spared my life, but did not see, I'd rather die than be this girl, who feels the 
shame in being free.
I once had a mother, I once had a father, I once had a brother who made me smile
Where did spirits, lift and go, when the devils on horseback came to kill? Spilling 
blood as if for fun?  For thrill? For what? 
Where were the Gods? Where are the ones who turn their heads?
In desert's dust with blood red crust.  They poisoned our wells, burned out our land, 
ravished and raped, and relished their brand......, 
nomads came, leaving shame, evil and horror came like rain.
 
Janjaweed, the name, I cannot say... I live with shame, a world, insane
I try to sleep, but I cannot........I can't forget and I am lost, the cost too much,
a swollen tongue and calloused feet,  across a land of bleached white bones
Alone, alone,....lost and done...a vanished heart......no one sees me  
There are no flowers, there are no trees, 
Famine as my lone companion, a pool of mud a home to stay,
Life drains out more every day, my belly swells....my eyes are parched,
and I can't tell
if I'm alive, or if I'm dead, dried up tears are what I shed....
Where are the flowers for my head? I've been scorned, 
all I have, and all I see is wind and rain, sorrow and pain
thorns, and dust, and a grave, that waits for me



__________________________________________________
 8/28/2014
Devils on Horseback – The Darfur genocide (ongoing) The Janjaweed (translated, 
devils on horseback) slaughter and rape the women, men and children of Darfur. As 
of today, 480,000 people have been “exterminated” and 2.8 million displaced.

Let's not turn our heads away from this, or from other atrocities being committed 
throughout the world.

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
VietGodnam

The red white and blue
Not always right, but always true
Men of valor
Men of the draft
Men of the poor
Men who spilled their blood for country

Those who died
Those who lived
Those who live inside their nightmares
I humbly thank you

It is I who must walk in shame
That we did not play our role
Supporting our nations heroes
Supporting those who deserve the most

Now years later wisdoms become the truth
As Vietcong and War Vets, hold hands
Drinking tea and sharing peace
Ask any soldier, for what value he would fight the most
He will tell you very clearly
I will fight, to end all wars

He who has fought
Knows that the battlefield leaves no winner
Only orphans to roam the streets

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015




Details | Prose Poetry |
EXERPTS   FROM   HITLER’S   DIARY   1941

"I never travel without my diary, one should always have something sensational to read . .
 . " Oscar Wilde, 1891 

Tues    May  9:   
Just when I was busy with plans for Russia, Rudolf Hess dropped by with  crazy notion of
flying to UK for peace.   Said he bought  some new boots yesterday   for the trip  - 
dead   shiny .  I’d like a  pair like that.    I told him  -  forget the trip   and tell
me where you got the boots. 

Wed     June 22:     
Invaded Russia.   Eggs for lunch  -  hard boiled again -  I hate that. Must speak to Eva
about it.

Thurs    June 23:      
11:00  am - heard Chamberlain on radio again – that dreary voice!  that paper-waving 
droopy-moustached  old gopher!   My small black moustache  is much neater.     
12:30 pm -   inspected new bunker in East Prussia  with smoother concrete walls .   Eva
wants  to wallpaper  them    (nice little red flowers) and why  not?    
8:00pm -  after dinner,  practised  arm-gestures for  big Nuremburg speech  on Saturday. 
 Rehearsed a few ad libs. . . .  Eva liked them.

Fri    June24:      
Rained all day.   Slow day  (almost invaded Egypt) - stayed in and read.      Eva dyed her
hair  creamy-yellow.    ( I’m gonna start calling her Blondy.)           That new german
shepherd Bormann   gave me  -  I took her out for walk. . . . she's called Blondi  too  
 (Joke there  - the guys will like it) .   After dinner we all  listened to Franz Lehar’s
“Merry Widow” again.  I love it.   Eva fell asleep;    so did the dog.

Sat   June 25:   
Nuremburg speech went ok. Got all the ad libs in except one.    Rommel was on the phone
talking about Africa and Libya, and some place called Tobruk. Must make a note – where is
Tobruk? P.S. Must find out where Libya is.

Sat    Dec    6:  
Just read the latest in the newspapers....almost four million Russian prisoners  now.
 
Sun   Dec  7:  
Those crazy Japanese have  gone and done it. . . . oh  boy, they’re gonna be in trouble! 
               
Thurs   Dec 11:   
Oh, what the hell. . .  in for a dime in for a dollar :  this Russian war is too  easy,  I
need a bit of a challenge. Think I’ll whiz down  to the  Reichstag tonight  and tell ‘em
we’re declaring  war on the USA.    Might  get a pair of those shiny boots there too.  

……………………………………
Written by Sydney Peck  
for Constance La France ( A Rambling Poet )  -  Contest Name:  The Diary

Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011

Details | Light Poetry |
The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier - Canada

We all know you now
You have fallen at our feet
You have guarded them all with life and limb
Noble and brave
Only to fall at a cowards last call
You have stirred the souls of the unknown heroes
Their appall shall seek the just dues of our defamers and saboteurs
Young lads who now welcome you in the hereafter
Shall haunt our enemies from near or afar
The drum rolls sound, as the rifles salute
The Unknown Soldier
You are unknown no more


Notes: In memory of Nathan Cirillo and Patrice Vincent both killed in cold blood on the week of Oct 26, 2014 by cowards in the name of Islam. Nathin Cirillo was standing guard at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Also in memory to the 1000’s of unknown soldiers, young men, who fought so that we may be free.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Ah the lovely seasdie
Ah the lovely seaside

Childhood scents
Salt air, Salty bitter memories

Jacques had turned just seven
He dreamed to walk along the seashore
He dreamed to see the seagulls sore overhead
He most of all dreamed to leave his basement

All the windows were covered with curtains
The days, nights no matter
His life was the darkness
His momma and papa, gave away their smiles

There were many days, the lightening was eternal
Well into the night
His mother held him tight
They both absorbed the fear of the other

Many mornings, Momma, can I walk to the beach?
No Jacques my little one, you must stay here
Help is needed in the kitchen
He wondered what help. We have no food to cook?

Many a day when no one was watching him
He would peek out the window, longing
The beach was simply down the street and to the left
Oh how he dreamed to run and play and splash in the waves

Summer was warming up his heart
He knew his momma and papa loved him
He knew these were bad times
Even so, he decided, tomorrow, yes tomorrow

So on the night of June the 5th
He planned well, hiding his boots out back
Made a small backpack for snacks and his jacket
He fell into a deep sleep, so very pleased

Up early he snuck out of the house
Past the bakers and in between soldiers patrolling
Quite easily he found the path down to the beach
Little did poor Jacques know he was to become a part of history

He ran from a little inlet out onto the beach
Jumping and dancing and gleefully singing to the seagulls
As he observed boats of all shapes and sizes and sailing to shore
His spine tingled, with a foreboding

The seaside
Became hell
Darkness clouded Jacques world
Bombs and gunfire rained down from all sides

Jacques tried to run, but his feet became heavy
He stumbles and fell to the sand
Thousands of solders emerged from the sea
Racing towards him, some running, some falling

A young Canadian man, Victor was his name
Firing his rifle, and racing for the shore saw the young boy
He had a new born baby back home, named him jack
Well he ran and fell atop the young boy, yelling above the fray

Stay quiet young man, don’t move
I will protect you, fear not
Even fear was the meal of the day
As the seaside became Dante’s eternal hell

The Germans above, fired all they had towards the beach
Machine gunners fired, mortars rained and snipers took aim
A young German man with a rifle was shooting anyone
Whom by miracle was still moving

His sites were set on that particular Canadian soldier
He took aim then saw a boy underneath the soldier
Well at the end of the battle, that young German soldier
Had one bullet left in his rifle

He could not fire
In the heat of battle
He pulled out a photo of his young boy Erik
He kissed the photo, and wept

It was the Germans last thought
As a bullet ripped of his head
The Canadian soldier was staring at this exact moment
Pain ripped his heart, as if he too was dead

Miraculously Jacques survived that day
When he made his way back home
His momma and papa hugged him so tight
They almost strangled him

For the rest his life
Jacques never went by the seaside, not once
For him he tasted the bitter smell of cordite death 
He lived his life in the vineyards, far from the sea

One may wonder now
How do I know all of this?
Well I work at an old folk’s home as an orderly
I take care of poor old Jacques

I remind him daily
No Jacques we will not be going to the seaside
Somehow, I feel obligated to this old man
As did my grandfather those many years ago

Who saved the life of a little boy named Jacques
June 6, 1944

Sidenote

Erik and Jacques both developed a passion for wines and vineyards and became the best of friends

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
 My Tears falling


I
Have lost
My
Mind

Why?
Why?
Why?
		Am I blind?
Are the Generals blind?


Gandhi can save the world
						or try
		Buddha may offer you zen words

I
Am falling
			of what use am I???

Monsoons 

			Flooding heart ache

Lyrical angels I demand you show me the way


			Humbly I beg of you all


I
Who has lost my mind
				Can I not

Save those two

			For my heart but weeps

	For all the little ones

When?
When?
When?

Will we save the children?

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | I do not know? |
It was the summer - August 4
When England joined the First World War
1914 the very year
Before wives and children shed their bitter tears

‘The war to end wars’ was the battle cry
Before there had been one widow’s sigh
The men lined up by the score
To enlist, sacrifice themselves to this bitter war

Friends and families made their mark
Pals regiments were formed in town and park
From factories, clubs, offices and farms 
They became privates, sergeants, men at arms

And off they went through the streets
Not knowing that they were cannon meat
Cheered and applauded as they marched
Toward war’s verdant fields not yet parched

“It’ll be over by Christmas” came the call
“Get over there one and all”
No one of them, home or abroad
Had ever heard of “Total War”

Posters beckoned from every wall
Poets wrote of war’s enthrall
Songs and stories came thick and fast
Glorifying war and our heroic past

But very soon came the acrid truth
Millions dead - “Anthem of Doomed Youth”
Trial by ordeal and fire and zeal
A generation gone through war’s sharp steel

The sombre, bitter, vile death-calls
Quickly killed the tunes of the music halls
Wounded, dead, disfigured men
Many mutilated beyond any ken

At the end it was all for naught
That carnage in each battle fought
Kings deposed and Empires lost
But the worst thing was the human cost

One hundred years to this very day
Like then we shake our heads and say
Still in wars our sons and daughters die
To all that is holy, why? oh why?

Copyright © Thomas Mansfield | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |
Ana
She writes her songs and her poems,
not one person know 'em.
She listens to the sound of her music,
she's stuck to it like a tick.

If someone took the time to listen,
her true colors would glisten.
She's put on a mask,
and hid everything when someone asked.

She was the type of girl who would always laugh,
making you wish it would last.
She was the type of girl who would smile the day away,
too bad it is no longer that way.

She is now the girl who is depressed,
I bet you're impressed.
Since no one could tell
that she was going through hell.

Everyone thought she was happy, 
when really, she felt crappy.
Everyone thought she was having the time of her life,
who would have guess her best friend was a knife?

She spent her days alone,
she seemed to do everything on her own.
Never once wanted help.
Thought she could do everything herself.

Then the day came,
when she lost the game.
She fell apart,
and everyone saw her broken heart.

They saw the way she overreacted.
Oh, if only you saw the way she acted.
She bruised herself, scratched herself, and made herself bleed,
no one knew what it was that she needed.

They saw her tears,
and that was what she feared.
They found out she wasn't okay,
oh, she hated that day.

Everyone found out about her secret,
and she wish they'd just forget,
but she knew they couldn't,
and that they wouldn't.

She left that town and started over,
no one knew she went undercover.
She said she got better,
when really... something else occurred. 

She secretly hurt herself,
and walked away from help.
Everyone thought she recovered,
when really, she was undercover.

She secretly wanted to get worse,
no one knew of course.
No one cared to ask,
if she was wearing her mask.

Now it's too late,
she locked the gate.
Killed herself,
everyone had forgotten she needed help.

Goodbye cold world,
this was a story of a girl
who once loved everyone
then feared who it was who won.

Copyright © Ana Jusino | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
Deep in the earth, a crypt of rock
slumber guarded by casket locked
Lips grope silence ‘ever more
 rasping thought, remembers whispered lore
Outstretched palms the roots do clench
tranquility stilled by festered stench
And eyes, sleep caked, are propped ajar
ignites no life, but collapsed star

Burned blades sigh, Winds’ dying gasp
bones brittle snap within her clasp
A lonesome howl the moon does draw
vigil broken, it twists its maw 
Upon an arena of endless stone
the granite gates they’ve passed alone
And entered a world of burning eyes
eluded the judge of smoldering cries

A faultless gait, no stumbled draw
a reaping brought  by scythe and claw
Opal edge which shrouds a cause
aberrant blade shapes nature’s laws
Dictate a script, the stars can share
an open secret, a language bare
Steps continue, feet are drawn
across gray grass, undying pawn

Copyright © Avery Swarthout | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
The 100 Year War

I rise
Mighty and strong
Armor plated and ready for battle
I shall behead the infidel
I shall conquer the evil doers
I am a warrior
Both great and bad

I am a warrior, and
I am sad
Tears fall upon my sword 
I know not why
This great warrior why do I cry?

I can battle an army and rise the victor
Yet I can not rise out of me bed
I am sad and lethargic
I am weak in the knee
I am depressed
To much sadness in me

Lovers a plenty
Conquered lands and treasures
I have it all
Yet the sadness invades
The depths of me soul

I give my heart to all that I love
I feed the poor
From the spoils of my wars
Yet here I am, I think a kind soul
Burdened in darkness
Depression is my hole

My love I know this seems bizarre
You have all you wish, a rising star
A Black Knight with honors flying high
To you I say forgive me please
For battles you never shall see

I lie down
In our garden of roses
Thorns to make me feel more than I do
For the darkness robs us both
For me to feel you

Good by my love

Notes: Anyone for has suffered depression, knows that a 100 year war is nothing  compared to battling depression.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Verse |
Financiers feel superior to farmers
and pundits have it over poets.
All to the good because if you think America's
doing just fine, don't skip to the poetry reviews.
Our enemies are barbarous, our allies duplicitous
but our smart bombs are smart - that's how they found you.

Dad said all wars are resource wars. Follow
the money. The world needs more order, nothing
less than Nazis, never may the anarchic man's thoughts
be my thoughts, each shove sends a ping,
shields urge on shields, helmets helmets, we can be
the reigning kings between the last empire and the next

or implement a vision of collective deliberation
and binding agreements. Can China's navy
be harnessed to ensure free passage through
the South China Sea? We'll see how
things work out in the next generation.
In the meantime should I read Henry Kissinger's meditations?

He who thinks poetry's effete
probably considers Darwin a geek and Einstein
a postal clerk. Containment means leaving space
for the passionate and zealous to face themselves
and giving them missiles that don't work.
Slowing everyone down until one thing's done well -

governance or sustenance or brotherhood.
When violence comes to the neighborhood
the hierarchy will hold or fold, it is then the peace work proves relevant.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching outer space
for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.

By that what is meant. Sitting still and thinking deeply
on the relation of anger to coercion,
systems for correcting the decisions of earlier presidents.
We're required to report incidents of depression
to a doctor because you're a valued member of of our community,
or so insignificant no one notices or cares.

How necessary the interface of war and poetry!





Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |
They're getting old now.
They congregate only a few blocks south of where I live.
40 to 50 years ago they were in Vietnam.
Among the homeless they usually move slower,
The weariness of age and of other things,
of drug use and alcohol,
lost loves and families,
bent and broken paths.

You hear about the "thousand yard stare,"
where blank verse and silence show they're not actively seeing,
though now most of the immediate trauma is gone,
they are just lives forever changed,
eyes both hardened and softened,
former aspects compromised,
the hand of war still upon them.

My family had a big house in Youngstown, Ohio,
with a room rented to a nice young guy named Dale.
It was cool because he would throw the football
with me and my brothers, and talk to us.
He had short hair and a little bit of acne.
In 1967 he went to Vietnam, killed within a week.

They tell stories of night patrols, moving through water,
streams rivers rain, mud and sodden clothes,
100 degrees in the shade, bugs, infection, panic,
running through the jungle firing their M-16 behind them,
of the Vietnamese people suffering, the dead lying along the road.

Arriving in-country, the heat blasting you
when you get off the plane, you are told
look left, look right, and then that one of the two men
you just saw will not return.

Our country was then conflicted, and it was harder coming home,
even though the orange fires and the smoke were far away,
you lost a limb and they didn't appreciate it.

There were a lot of booby-traps set,
by the enemy, by the bureaucracy, by the times.

I wasn't old enough to go and I'm not sorry.

Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
He stands proud and strong, this kilted warrior
head held high against the unending pain
of a heart born out of sadness
for the loss of those who came before him
and thoughts of those who would
continue on when he himself was no more.
Proud men one and all
vows made, till surrendered in death
to defend that which
was their birthright, the very land
upon which he now stood.
The call to battle though long since silenced
came from within his very heart and soul
blood of the ancient ones raged in his veins
his sword by his side...shield upon his back
he stood ready to charge into battle
to do what was expected of him since birth
to fight as those before him fought
without fear, but with a strength
only a battle hardened warrior
knew and understood.

Copyright © Melody Coster | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |
Estaba lleno el verano,
Estaba lleno el verano
de flores, de deseos
como un espejo de cristáles azules,
reflejando los sueños 
y el suave color del cielo,
estaba lleno el verano
con nuestro amor.

El color de las casas 
antiguas de Oxford,
limpias como después
de una lluvia de leche,
blancas y maravillosas.

Estaba lleno el verano,
lleno de nuestro amor
y de canciones.
Estaba lleno el verano
de calles angustas y cerradas.

Estaba lleno el verano
de espuma, de murallas antiguas,
de música abandonada y olvida.

Estaba lleno el verano
y nuestro amor hize brillar
los sitios como la nieve
hace blanquear las estrellas
en noches de invierno.

Estaba lleno el verano,
lleno de nuestros deseos,
lleno de flores frescas 
de un paraiso extraño.

Estaba lleno éste verano,
lleno de abrazos y besos de nuestros corazónes.

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

Der Sommer war voll,
der Sommer war voll
mit Blumen, mit Wünschen
wie ein Spiegel aus blauen Kristallen,
der Wünsche wiederspiegelt,
der Sommer war voll mit unserer Liebe.

Die Farben der alten
Häuser Oxfords,
sauber, wie nach einem Regen
aus Milch,
weiß und herrlich.

Der Sommer war voll,
voll von unserer Liebe
und von Gesang.
Der Sommer war voll
von engen, verschlossenen Gassen.

Der Sommer war voll
von Schaum, altem Gemäuer,
von vergessener, verlorener Musik.

Der Sommer war voll
und unsere Liebe ließ die Plätze erstrahlen
wie der Schnee 
die Sterne erstrahlen lässt
in Winternächten.

Der Sommer war voll,
voll von unseren Sehnsüchten,
von frischen Blumen 
eines fremden Paradieses,
voller Umarmungen und voll der Küsse unserer Herzen.

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

The summer was full with
flowers and dreams
like a mirror of  blue crystals,
reflecting dreams
and the soft colour of  the sky.
The summer was full with our love.
The colour of the ancient houses of Oxford,
neat as after a rain of milk,
white and wonderful.
The summer was full 
With our love and songs.
The summer was full with 
narrow, crowded streets.
The summer was full with
the foam of old walls,
full of forgotten and old tunes.
Our love threw light over the sites,
like snow let shine the stars 
in winter nights.
The summer was full with our desires
and fresh flowers 
of an unknown paradise.
The summer was full 
with our kisses
and with our hearts.

Copyright © Gert W. Knop | Year Posted 2010

Details | Rhyme |
Songs Of Power 

(Lost As Blackness Invades)

Where the agony invades life seems in blurs,
And the long nights eat the fruited trees,
And later, night dreams stalk barking curs
Where blue-red tides overcome futile pleas.

Across infinite space--thoughts dreaded
And blood-lust seeking new infesting homes,
Deeper into darkness the Soul is headed
against its will- the mind wickedly roams.

Bright roses once bloomed in this castle dark,
Violets arose to soon die in vanished splendor
Where shadow raced to eat resting meadowlark,
Bound and chained heart goes with its sender.

Sorrow alights- in its ebony spreading cloak,
as storms slash across the turbulent seas,
Speared in the chest and rotting shaft broke
cried for and nothing found to appease.

No relief! Falling stars batter forsaken mind,
fiery reds cover vanishing jungles greens
Life in its mysteries, finds room to be unkind
as purple hearts- grace such melancholy scenes!

Death of innocence, once dark strain all too real
jungles evergreen, turn to exploding red,
Where death invades, soldiers always ready to kill,
war and its eternal darkness, await the dead.

While man thus cursed, seeks illusionary gains!
Darkness cast forth from Souls feeling no pains!

11-08-2015

For contest- Songs Of Power
Song chosen- 
Paint It Black - Rolling Stones:

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |
we sat, my brother and I
leaning against the old wood pannels of the room
the smoke engulfed us like breath
as the threat of violence loomed

his voice was quiet still
passion and regret burned in his eyes
when he finally opened his mouth
words failed him for the first time

he'd been our uncle for ages
a part of our lives since we were kids
my mother used to say he was funny once
but that the war had changed him

finally he spoke in slow motion
we waited on tenterhooks for every word
our breath bound by more than smoke
as he let his story unfurl

leaning back in his chair
the words crawled from his lips
a voice beat to a pulp
by his whiskey and cigarettes

he talked of the sceneary
the forrests thicker than amber
the "nats" as he called them
clung to your skin like a cancer

He was only 19 then
fresh off the farm he'd always worked on
fired his first gun at basic training
his drill sargeant told him that they were now one

his words formed snakes
that coiled around my brother and i
and when his words got soft and slow
he simply took a drag and closed his eyes

he described in details
much more than any kids should know
details about basic training
and the washouts that walked skid row

he turned twenty the day before
he hopped on his first airplane
while he and others got sick
the music on the stereo played

he skipped some parts
the walking, the girls, the mundane acts
instead he talked about his friend
how they were like brothers, just like me and Jack

His boots destroyed his feet
his clothes permanently soaked to bone
he laughed with gravel in his voice
as he talked about missing home

Dean was the name
of his friend, his brother in arms
he was from Alabama
with a southern accent, rich and strong

They would talk about girls
who they had waiting in bed
nights spent on watch
guns, "nats" and hushed conversation between them

My uncle talked in clicks
spoke of companies and Charlies
his hands shook with a violence
that was only matched by his memory

Jack and I sat stone still
hanging on to every word and deep breath
knees tucked up to our chins
shaking from the excitement of what would come next

we were so young then
and knew nothing of battle, war, or loss
the term post tramatic stress disorder
was foreign to all and did nothing to help us

he leaned close so to whisper
because his natural, deep voice failed him
sweat clung to his shirt now
as his fingers held a cigarette that bounced from the trembling

The sun had made it's decent
the room was now filled with shadows
our uncle clutched his crucifix
his hand turned white from the hallow

he slowly set the scene
tilting his head back as he exhaled deeply
the Binh Duong Province, October 17th
Innocence was lost entirely on that morning

The television and papers screamed
calling it the battle of Ong Thahn 
my uncle called it a waste of lives
the army called them the 2nd battalion

64 died in 2 hours
Dean, my uncles rock among them
as he spoke those words he sobbed
some of his best friends were now dead

he told us about the war
his two tours he barely lived through
talked to us about mortars, and friendly fire
and of how the scenery was so beautiful

He cussed lowly in his whispers
dried tears covered his face
He told us he never felt truly alive
after he left that god forsaken place

in the end it was the war
the war that tore him apart
dirt poor and a drunk
with a empty and violent heart

our uncle, the fun one once
divorced of our aunt and his innocence
might've as well died over there,
but life doesn't offer forgiveness

he ended up a cliche
the guy who was "really there man"
he came home fully intact
but was half the man he'd been

Copyright © K.M North | Year Posted 2015

Details | Political Verse |
I often find myself reminiscent of 
a time I've never known.
immersed in memories that 
i've never lived.
my mind won't stop 
plaguing me. 
 
I dream of wars, bullets, bombs and shells 
I can smell the crisp, innocent blood from the ongoing massacre 
I can hear the Aleppians cry 
I can imagine the centuries of history on the crease of their hands 
I don't know their names, but their eyes once glistened-  
 
Ah, the beauty of Khalpe  
 
I can't stop crying 
I have forgotten how to breathe 
 
I wonder if the people of Aleppo  
have accepted what is happening. 
What is the difference between  
revolution and war? 
and why won't it end? 
 
I don't know what the Middle East looks like but I  
imagine it smells of blood and prolonged terror 
 
Cities that once smelled of jasmine  
now reek of 
fear and famine 
 
I am sorry for the horrors. 
I am sorry for turning your pain into poetry. 

Copyright © Anais Sarah Aiache | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |
When I reached at 4,
My father brought, 
A packet of gift;
Held me to heart,
Kissed my cheeks,
Then handed to me, 
Saying "happy birthday my son,"
Opened and showed,
The Sten gun and pistol toy"
Saying "this is a perfect gift for boys";
Taught me how to use, 
Saying "Perfect machine 
for your 'war and peace' game";
Paused for some time,
Then gaze in my eyes,
He pulled the plastic trigger,
Displayed usage of toy,
Saying "world is violent, 
May need one day";

World spends more on weapons,
Than feeding needy poor;
Impels the innocent poor,
By provoking slogans,
of religion and race;
Stimulate virgin minds,
"To hold the gun in hand,
And ask for peace, parity";
Weapon deals are 
So profitable business,
All benefit whosoever involved;
Reaches to Hungry and poor,
Where Food and medicines,
Can't reach;
Weapon sale gets momentum, 
In the name of peace;
They know how to split,
Divide and rule;
In the name of world in peace;
Fly dove of peace in the sky,
Then give weapon to shoot;

© sadashivan nair

Copyright © sadashivan nair | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
somewhere
red poppies
                   grow
fertilised
              by blood
              sun
and
       winter snow
lost 
      freedoms
                      seed
on widow's
                   weeds
       sadness flows
to that
    no-mans land
    where
    there
           are
                but crows

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2017

Details | Rhyme |
Lets all cook a Sheppard pie, Sheppard pie, Sheppard pie.
First we make a Sheppard die, Sheppard die I'll make a Kaden die!

You wouldn't believe it from the way the pie tastes,
but there's nothing behind that butt ugly face!
Who needs a brain when you've got copy and paste?
Who needs talent when you steal without grace?

Now you really are up against someone who knows the down and doubting game,
I was clever enough to write it Kaden, but I'm also insane. 
I will make you remember my name, so you wont steal my rhymes ever again!!

I have a thirst for the turf,
first things first thicko, you're about to get served!!
My verse you stole was clever, 
don't try and work it out dumbass it'll take you forever!!

If you were clever you'd know why..... did you steal your brain too?
Maybe from a pig sty.
I hope you get in the top 100 and go straight to number one,
so everyone looks at you as I point out what you've done,
if you have more success then i'll have more fun. 

It's the depth of my Not Afraid Part 1 that makes it better,
two separate metaphors that come together,
and the double entendre that begins halfway through making me become a fighter.
I actually reflect on the logic leaking out of me and how i am a good writer,
that's why i need to shake the habit you faggot!!
I guess your constipated pig brain didn't calculate that,
you cleary went of track and played a little words spat,
and i bet you stole that from another poets hat.

Kaden Sheppard stole my rhyme and made it simple,
so i'm a write a poem when i like to point it out to people.
Shall we call it Selfish Ambition, Kaden, is that okay?
I'll steal your two words cus you stole my whole verse,
delete your stolen bu****it and be on your way.......

I can do this all day, while i..........

cook a Sheppard pie, Sheppard pie, Sheppard pie.
Lets all cook a Sheppard pie, Sheppard pie, Sheppard pie.
First we make a Sheppard die, Sheppard die, I'll make a Kaden die!





Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018

Details | Light Poetry |
When on Remembrance Day
There is no one at the parade
The war is lost
Dead heroes’ died in vain

This shall be a countries shame


Note: Written for Remembrance Day Nov 11

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
Children lie dying
Punished for waking up one more day
In unbearable heat, in a dirty war
They have no Generals
To defend them
From the evils of men
They have no advocates for peace
All the gods seem to be sleeping
As so many infants weep, into deathly silence
They exist no more
Good men take no action
As evil men fight for more blood
We must stand up to the horrors
And give breath to those too weak to stand
We must march on in honor and face the faceless
Who wish harm to all with good will
Sadness created by Assad
For many a year
Infants give only love
Can we not promise them?
Shoofakboukra?
Marhaba



Shoofakboukra = We will see you tomorrow
Marhaba = God is Love

Inspired not only by recent events, but by interviews with people who at the time were children playing with unexploded phosphorus bombs dropped by the Syrian regime in Lebanon.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ballad |
There is something that I can't understand
Something blinds me when I look in your eyes
It makes my heart tremble 
Can't help it I'm sweating
Wanna run away but my body seems frozen
Oh don’t you know?
Love is a deadly virus
Once colonize your veins
You become addicted
And if you wanna give up
You have a contract to sign up
Leave your heart and go
Or take it with you broken.
If I have to choose between life or death I'd rather die in your depth
At least you won't forget about me until your last breath
You might say I'm cruel
Oh baby I don't wanna play the fool
Love is a war I can destroy the world to get ya
And even if the sky explodes over my top
And the ground is shaking under my foot and the waves swallow my bone
My heart will never stop beating for you
Yeah love is a war that I don't wish to lose
Love is a fray between fear and valor
Either take the risk till the end or forget about it and move on
But since I've fell for you your love is nourishing my blood
And there’s nothing else I'd care about
Cause baby I love you and I will never stop fighting for you
Here in my valley there's no white flag above my door
And in my head it's now and ever or let’s die together

Copyright © PYG's Whisper | Year Posted 2016

Details | Epitaph |
John F. Kennedy 1917-1963 The great 35th president of US It wasn't really a success He tried to stop the missile bases There were lot of angry faces When there was about to be a war Peace was what he asked for Texas was the place he was shot Later, the criminal was caught He didn't survive the pain His people cried like the rain

Copyright © Heeju Kim | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
Men march forth
Like fodder falling in shallow graves
No one wins a war
No one counts graves
Lift your sword high and mighty
If you are not the undergrowth of the lost
Your victory is to return home
Your Duty however has drastically changed
Teach us, both young and old
Both rich and poor
The value of those lost souls
Buried in shallow graves



Inspired by a friend and his grandmother on Memorial Day
I hope the Grandmother gets to read this and see how small deeds make us all remember!
Thank you

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
 

     A empty face, dirty and dried tears on his cheeks 
     Eyes that have already experienced too much 
     A boy of 5 years folds his hands so small 
     and hope his prayer to heaven will reach 
     Life is so cruel and he need a friend -
     My mother and my father ... I do not know where 
     My home in ruins ... bombs have destroyed it 
     So heavenly father ... can you hold my hand 
     Hold around my little body ... 
                   Comfort me 
                            Love me 
     I'm only 5 years old and so scared  

     Amen





       Contest Name :Bible
       Sponsor:Regina Riddle
       

       - Thank you for my 6 space in the contest -



       16.08.2014
       A-L Andresen :)
       Copyright © All Rights Reserved 

Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
I hate the essence of you
Killing I shall not do
I will have babies a many
Teaching them my hate
Tutor them to swing the sword

You shall be beheaded
Bloody and red
Better of dead
Soon to be
I will stare into your begging eyes

As you gasp a last breath
I shall spit upon your fears
Whispering see me? I see you die
Feel my hate, the hotness of hell upon you

Your deadness I shall kick into the desert sand
There, people shall see your suffering and loss
As we dance in joy, hate is our fiesta, our raison d’etre
We love, we love to hate, if feeds us like black cancer

Now maybe your tribe shall return
You shall seek justice
Punishment
You wish to prevent my hate, the bloodshed abate
Go ahead try

Kill my babies
All of them
I shall make more, many more
My lust for hate shall create more human venom

I will fill them with the wine of my bitterness
Eternity shall be the circle... bête noir
Killing and suffering
Let all the babies die
Mine and yours
I must win, and taunt you
Hatred shall burn open the gates of hell


One day.my dream was shattered
You tossed a bouquet of flowers
At my Child's feet
He looked me in the eye
The sword passed through my soul
In shock and disbelief
As blood fed my grave 
My hate faded
My life faded
My dreams died
Nothing mattered any more


My child lifted his sword
With his tongue he licked my blood
Tears became a monsoon, drowning his heart
He fell to my breast, and murmured
Dear parent
The hate must stop
I one day will dream of a child
Whom I promise you dear parent


I shall love him far more
Than I hate my enemy
I love you

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse |
Freedom's Destination

Some foreign country
Some funny name

After awhile
They all sound the same

Grandpa went first
Back then World War I

And didn't come home
'Til the job was all done

My Dad was then ripe
When it came time for II

Returning as hero's
Only missing quite a few

A Brother was the next in line
To risk his life and limbs

But Korea kind of fizzled out
Especially for him

Then came more strife in Asia
And I was 18 "when" . . .

They poked 'n had me turn 'n cough
Then sent me off to win

I thought when in those combat zones
If ever I go down

My folks will know that I was here
Not hiding out of town

We all served for freedom's sake
Representing our hometowns

To be damn sure our kids had homes
Still setting on free grounds

The countless before
And the too many since

Whose young life's were cut short
I am sure would echo this . . . 

I fought 'til the end
Now I've given my all

But if nobody minds
Let me make one last call

When you get 'round to my marker
And you're wondering that day

Which words to scribe upon it 
 What is there left to say

Just keep it nice and simple
And I'll rest forever proud . . . 

PLEASE LORD
PLEASE HEAR ME
NO MORE WAR
ALLOWED

JWC/Whysman @ 2001
(Edit 5/2013)

Copyright © Jerry Cox | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |
When I was young, I would mock the raven,
Never dreaming her harsh call was a cry
Across the water to the castle of her brother
King Bram, the Raven, ruler of the British Isles.
Never did I dream of the destruction 
That would follow this desperate plea
Sent upon the wings of a blackened crow.

When I was young, I thought childhood
Would last forever; secure in my father's care,
Content in the loving arms of my mother,
Never did I dream of the devastating war
That would follow this messenger of our doom
Carried across the seas to inflict upon our land
A war of vengeful purpose and contempt.

When I was young, peace prevailed in our land;
Our King was just and beloved by his people.
Then came a marriage, an alliance between
Ireland and England.  Queen Branwen;
Discontent, lonely, hungry for power,
Hated by her court for the intrigue
And bloody sanctions imposed upon all
Who did not obey her sanctimonious whim;
Queen Branwen, beautiful daughter of England.

When I was young, I stood beneath
The blasted pine, looking up at the black bird
As she screamed out her litany of wrongs,
Watching as she lifted her wings to soar across the water.
My father, general of Ireland, fell upon the shores
Fighting to repel Bran's vengeful warriors;
My mother, condemned by her beauty
Fell among the vanquished women.

When I was young, I did not fear the raven;
Now I live in the court of the Raven King,
He, who conquered my people for naught as his sister
Queen Branwen, the White Raven, took her life
And walks now, shriven and pale, among the graves
Of the fallen warriors; forever singing her lament
Of sorrow and regret; far too late, far too late.

When I was young, I believed in the goodness of men.
Now I am old; my raven hair is streaked with silver.
The voice of Bran echoes through this palace
As he cries out exhortations to his conquering soldiers;
As he cries for peace and fellowship in his land.
When I was young, I would mock the raven;
Now I am old and have harnessed the power
Of the raven's call.  I cry to my people for vengeance;
I wait for their rescue, as I haunt the halls of the Raven King.



[Loosely based on the legend of Bran, the Raven King of England 
and Branwen, his sister, who was married to the king of Ireland.  
It is said that King Bran speaks still in England through the cries of the raven.]


{by Deb Radke -- written for the contest 'Among the Dead'}



Copyright © deb radke | Year Posted 2011