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Quatrain Holocaust Poems | Quatrain Poems About Holocaust

These Quatrain Holocaust poems are examples of Quatrain poems about Holocaust. These are the best examples of Quatrain Holocaust poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Quatrain |

A Poet's Apocolypse

After that moment a gray dust covers all Invading the senses, casting a veil of despair The prince of darkness will have his due Oh cry ye fools, of this hell be you aware.... And what of the poets with blood on their pens Huddled in dark corners, trying to understand Making rhymes for only the night wind to read In the end a homage of heart to a beloved land.....

Copyright © Barbara Gorelick | Year Posted 2013

Details | Quatrain |

Who Knows Where The Time Goes

The stars may wink their last goodbyes, 
the sun may disappear, 
the moon may shrink and come to naught 
and I will shed a tear. 

The universe may turn to dust 
all flora, fauna waste away, 
we may spend our time in darkness 
hoping for a brand new day. 

Will you still be here to comfort me 
to fill my eyes with pride, 
and swell my heart with tenderness, 
my love, my blushing bride? 

Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2013

Details | Quatrain |



As willows weep along the walls
And fall mums start to bloom
The wind still echoes hallowed 
From Nanking's souls of doom

With little food and daily raids
There was no safety zone
From genocide of men and 
For none were left alone

Their butchered bodies 
Lay piled in ponds and roads
In bloody streets a river there
Flowed heavy 'neath the loads

This holocaust was filmed that 
Priest John Magee did plod
Now as his son he too could say
He "touched the face of God".

©deborah burch

Copyright © Deborah Burch | Year Posted 2013

Details | Quatrain |

Never Forget

Never Forget 

Oh thou of wretched heart and deed
Inferior our seeds?
When thus thou felt the need to rule
Annihilate deemed weeds

Thou casteth out your wicked net
Of guns and war bent twine
No bulwark for the Jews was found   
Declaring heads decline

Compliant soldiers marched the streets
For ducats hedged your bet
With waving flags and Hail Hitler’s
Obliging hands were met

Whilst cyanide was gassings Jews
Obedience decreed  
In bunkers hid you reigned your realm
Coward of plotted deeds

When one man tries to rid the world
Of an imagined foe
Mankind will raise its voice as one
He’ll reap what he did sow

Completed on 2/4/12
All rights reserved by Debra Squyres @ 2013

My fist attempt with a Quatrain…..this a modified quatrain as per specified by the rules of the members contest: Historical Modified Quatrain
1st and 3rd lines eight iambic syllables
2nd and 4th lines 6 iambic syllables

Copyright © Debra Squyres | Year Posted 2013

Details | Quatrain |


When innocent got killed, others left,
Beyond the hills to unknown lands,
Escaping death that chased foot prints,
With nothing, just the empty hands.

Helpless *Pandits, became homeless,
Feet on ground and sky over head,
Horror and fear gripped their minds,
Their heart was alive but soul so dead.

Loaded guns, kept looking for them,
The torment they couldn't withstand,
And even in sleep, they would weep,
As they dreamt of their native land.

Empty tents, to call their new home,
At times blew away in wind and cold, 
Years went on, in absolute darkness,
Many shattering stories never got told.

Nothing has changed culprits are free,
Tears have dried in twenty-six years,
With no return, life in exile goes on, 
Still the bitter past, haunts and scares.

March 18, 2016.
Political Ordeal - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: C T 

*Pandits are the aboriginal minority of Kashmir (India). 
Kashmir, God's own land on earth, is the motherland of Kashmiri Pandits. The year 1990, saw a mass exodus of Kashmiri Pandits from their own soil due to threat to their life and, brutal and barbaric killings by the separatists. 
More than 400,000 Kashmiri Pandits were forced to abandon their homeland.
Even today after twenty-six years of their mass exodus, their ordeal continues. The new Modi Government in India has made many promises to them, but so far nothing has been done for their resettlement . Their life in exile continues........

Copyright © Meenakshi Raina | Year Posted 2016

Details | Quatrain |

Most Evil Of Men

Adolf Hitler was the most evil of men As evil as a human could be Should've been hung by his you know whats Before his killing spree They say he was actually a human being I certainly have my doubts Wreaking havoc on a whole race of people What was all that about Perhaps he was the devil reincarnated Or maybe Genghis Khan Shouldn't make light of his murderous exploits Purely just an evil man Can't imagine it will ever happen again The world's a lot saner now Ya right! Guess I'm sounding a bit delusional A lunatic out on the prowl <3 <3 <3 © Jack Ellison 2014

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014

Details | Quatrain |

Melting Into Dreams

An atomic sun ignites
in a flash of virgin light.
And day’s incinerated
as ash turns it into night.

As a burning sky blazes
plastic toys melt into dreams.
And reality resounds
with echoes of children's screams.

As heaven morphs into hell
thunder responds with a roar.
And people huddle in graves
blind to what death has in store.

St. Elmo's fire lights tombs
in the city of the dead.
And muffled moans can be heard
amidst the anguish and dread.

A kaleidoscope of hopes
still spin rainbows at their fringe.
And yet misery enshrouds
the heart where the living cringe.

Nuclear fallout rains down
irradiating mankind.
And winter is here to stay
leaving summer far behind.

Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015

Details | Quatrain |

Come To Their Rescue

Still streaking down their lonely cheeks,
so many tears are shed.
With cries throughout the longest nights,
those nightmares are widespread.

I've maybe heard them once or twice,
but please bear this in mind -
there's so much shopping I must do
and outfits I must find.
The birthday parties I attend,
the weddings, funerals too -
and holidays are coming soon.
Oh, what am I to do?

Or maybe I am all wrapped up
inside my fav'rite teams -
the one that's in the playoffs now
fulfilling this fan's dreams.
For those who live outside my world,
how can I really care?
What can I do while I am here -
and they are over there?

To rescue someone?  Tell me how.
They don't live next to me.
How can I hear their cries for help
when they, I cannot see?
Once unaware of torture, my
snug ignorance was bliss.
But why should I now waste any time
here telling you all this?

The raping, loss of self-respect
and murdering of girls,
can't push important things aside
like shopping now for pearls.
Do I hurt anybody?  No!
It's Jesus I exalt.
So do not tug at my heart strings.
Their pain is not my fault!

And don't think I'm not thankful here
in warm and toasty bed -
between my clean, soft cotton sheets
as pillow hugs my head.
 But muffled screams - I hear them now.
They, in my mem-ries, stay.
They linger through the cold, dark nights
and pester me all day.

Oh, who can hear those victims scream
through distant, starry nights?
And who can hear survivors cries
from cruel and futile fights?
Though innocent, survivors moved.
They had no other choice.
They lost their homes and furniture
and with it all, their voice.

I cannot see those makeshift tents
or taste what they call food.
I cannot stop those terrorists
or change my attitude.
I'm done with sports and shopping now
and buying myself stuff.
Their screams have fin'lly reach my ears.
I've failed them long enough.

I do not buy new outfits now.
And football's not my game.
I'm focused on the "least of these".
My life is not the same.
I once thought it important here.
I now no longer do.
I'll start by giving all I can
to come to their rescue.

It's serious, the plight they're in.
Please understand their worth.
As sin runs rampant over weak
around this evil earth.
Our Congressmen must focus too
while evil men connive.
Please vote to stop the terrorists
to save those still alive.

Still streaking down their lonely cheeks,
so many tears are shed.
With cries throughout the longest nights,
those nightmares are widespread.

©2016 lg ganderpoems.org

Copyright © louis gander | Year Posted 2016

Details | Quatrain |

Favorite Recurring Nightmares Part 1

Don't you think that this title is darkly divine?
But, of course, there will have to be weirdness that’s funny,
Though my nightmares are many and have complex arcs
There’s some risk here I might have to work for my money!

Nightmare 1. To Wake Up Black

Can there be a fate worse than the skin of a black?
Can you show me a white man who seeks this advantage?
“Well, my guess is they wash their hands?” sycophants say,
For the “Mark of Cain” (1) stains them as racists teach adage.

Is it possible Donald is jealous of blacks?
Can’t you feel Donald’s pain as white Pillsbury “Dough” Boy?(2)
His clear “victim” persona when “tough guy” is sought?
The abused (3) cannot love when not losing is soul’s joy.

Poet’s Notes on Nightmare 1.
(1) White racists who call themselves Christians have long taught their children that since Cain killed his brother, all blacks are the children of mankind’s first murderer. Blacks have been cursed by God and are therefore to be considered subhuman. 

Christ says that if you even think about murdering someone, you are already guilty of the crime in God’s eyes. Might the Mark of Cain, perhaps, be that you were born on this planet? God knows the “blackness” of your heart and still sent Christ to die for your sins.

(2) A reference to a monster in the movie "Ghost Busters."

(3) It’s said Donald Trump’s father had to rescue him several times from total bankruptcy, poor dad! Given Donald’s apparent contempt for the poor and needy, it is easy to imagine that his father also held him in contempt, poor kid! The lesson he learned: “If I don’t need anyone I have nothing to lose! (No one can hurt me!)” The reality seems to be, however, that there are few people in the world more thin skinned than Donald Trump!
Nightmare 2. To Wake Up Poor

The idea the wealthy wake up destitute
Seems improbable nightmare. Why should the rich worry?
The “real” wealth more in habits and friendship than gold,
Who can steal worth of practice or force trust to hurry?

But the ones never taught keys to wealth haunt my dreams,
For all poverty tends to endanger soul’s passage,
To delay satisfaction and set aside gain
That might bridge future need, is prosperity’s message.

Nightmare 3. To Wake Up a Woman

After three wives, my sister and mom, (I feel faint),
There is so much about me that nobody knows yet,
With no kids of my own, my best insights suspect...
Though I fear inner voice, something less is no sonnet.

I would have to turn off burning need to be right,
And perhaps open heart to adopting a daughter,
There’s no way that I think I would want to give birth,
Why give birth to a child, men and Trump will just slaughter.

Nightmare 4. To Wake Up a Republican

OMG! Can it be I’m home safe in my bed?
This bad boy was “togetherness” way past my limit!
Always game, Donald Trump staked his claim! (“It’s my fame!”)
But he wisely picked hall with a “locker room” climate!

Young and old, tall and short, no dissent to report,
Queers (NOT GAY!), making hay, toes lined up, how they play! While
Trumps homogenized, GMO geese took the stage...
“Heil!” “Big Boy!” razzmatazz, “Yes!” “Big Hands!” razzmatazz, “Heil!”
Nightmare 5. To Wake Up Tone Deaf

You may laugh but to me this one’s scary as Hell!
It’s a dark deprivation, akin to not seeing!
You can hear, but the rainbows of color in sound 
Are all missing, all tones are just grey shades of being.

As a child I could hear “Middle C” in my head
(Some name notes the way you call Rose red, pink, or yellow),
All men gifted with “Relative Pitch” carry tunes,
As can “Absolute Pitch” man, incredible fellow.

How could music be treasured if all tones were grey,
Could the beauty that’s poetry dance with flame absent?
Lord, I weep for the folk who can’t see with their ears,
Let me die if You must, but please spare me that torment.

To my heart each new note has the face of a child,
And these kids make the world quite enormously brighter,
Please you Lord, let me be, always your “Middle C!”
Never lost in a crowd, may I always be fighter.

Nightmare 6. To Wake Up With a “Big Head!”

Not much worse in the world than a man with “big head,”
To be one that’s so dumb he thinks his poop’s important,
No slight ever so small his foot can’t find his mouth,
Get too close and you’ll feel like you need disinfectant.

Late night comedy writers can lay down their pens,
Here’s a man who thinks he makes the sun rise each morning,
Feckless bully who can’t keep his pants or lips zipped,
Even Statue of Liberty bows head in mourning.

Nightmare 7. To Not Be A Christian

It’s not even your choice when the rubber meets road,
Many claim to be Christian while secretly seething,
They confuse “faith” with saying that “Christ is my Lord.”
Although words can be empty, changed hearts show re-birthing.

Rather let me be “Queer” one the “pious” reject!
It is Grace and not choice that leads all to the Father
The flock’s weeping is useless unless they repent,
Any vote cast for Trump just mob living in anger.

Help me lift up my brother and hate just his sin,
Won’t You free me to doubt Lord but teach me to question,
“Living faith” simply dead in those certain they know,
And let Grace and not judgement feed my reinvention.

Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2017

Details | Quatrain |

Sociocultural Evolution - by Bob Atkinson

- by Bob Atkinson

here in the here and
well beyond that
date in time
beyond beginnings so
far back
as to look like
stones defined

by their
layers of that dust
of life
which settles into a
black void
and shoves us out of

here with a fond
we see what we've
our narrow minded
of satisfied results

but satisfaction
from norms we can
to send our children
to the future
an establishment

take a minute to
into something more
don't see your
brother as the enemy
to be pierced
through with your

Copyright © Bob Atkinson | Year Posted 2014

Details | Quatrain |

Future Shock

Future Shock
Scheming together years ago, before the weekly executions,
dreaming of days we'd lift the fog of ignorance from the masses
and paradigms of stagnation shifted with cerebral solutions.
To no avail our heady course in theory only passes.

We knew the day, the hour, the minute how texts would be rewritten.
The generation of our spawn in classes they would read it.
History so enthralling, with learning would they be smitten.
Instead the propaganda beast so ravenous and we must feed it.

The old men while away their time with tales of a foiled coupe,
and students smile and avert their stare, it's better to be a number.
The One he loathes such minions who wish to think or do,
so all the day of arduous labor leads to fitful slumber.

Yes you and I, my loyal friend, matyrs in the making,
outwitting cowards that march us to the death of liberty.
But threats and greed lead to your word finally forsaken.
In brutal death at least my soul will wonder this world free.

Copyright © James Nichols | Year Posted 2012

Details | Quatrain |

From Platform To Smoke

I stand ’tween the rails looking back at the gate
With lips pursed I swallow and choke,
And I thank God that I’m still standing alive
Not going from platform to smoke.

Not going from platform to smoke in a blink
Or just in an hour and a half,
“We really have got this machine running smoothly.”
The camp commandant would laugh.

The camp commandant would laugh in his house
Which was white and just behind the hedge.
He and his family could just see the chimneys
And smoke past their window ledge.

I can just see the ledge of the window	
With our hands wrapped for Tifillin prayer,
An act of worship never allowed
To those who were previously there.

Those who were previously there came by train,
In a transport they came every day,
Crammed in goods vans that slowed to a halt,
Confused and afraid in dismay.

Confused and afraid and in dismay
They got down and formed sorting lines,
Those who went right were sentenced to death,
To the left for some other designs.

And the stench of the smoke was appalling
It wafted and hung in the air,
Indicting all who worked in that place
Of the wickedness that they all share.

I stand ’tween the rails looking back at the gate
With lips pursed I swallow and choke,
And I thank God that I’m still standing alive,
Not going from platform to smoke.

Copyright © Neil McLeod | Year Posted 2014

Details | Quatrain |


The Schutzstaffel 

Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
and stack them on a train,
rip them from their sleepy beds
and march them through the rain.

Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
and stow them in third class
gather them from heaven
and toss them in some gas.

Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
pluck every one in sight
feed them to the furnace flame
let smoke plumes fill the night.

Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
'til naught but ash remains
we’ll change the sky forever
Earth will never be the same.

Written for contest: My Take On The Holocast
Hosted by: The Seeker

Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2016

Details | Quatrain |

I Want The Dark Gift From Your Veins

There's a very good reason to bring me across;
It's because no one else would e'er suffer the loss
Of a worthless old vagrant and rounder as I
Who has been so long ready and eager to die.

Now, you needn't attempt to pretend such surprise
As I see there in those predatory keen eyes.
I have kept your dark secret for many long years
Which ought instantly quell nearly all of your fears.

This poor Earth has grown fat with too much human flesh;
It is now past the time that it be purged afresh.
I am sick unto death of my own fellow man
And I just cannot wait to destroy all I can.

We mere mortals are prone to assume we're so great
While ignoring this planet's unfortunate state.
Take a look at the carnage we've wreaked in this place,
Such a tiny blue pearl in the vastness of Space.

So please tarry no more in deciding my fate;
Father Time is the Thief I most savagely hate. 
We shall clear this world clean of all warm, weak detritus
And we'll never allow the foul vermin to smite us.

Copyright © Roderick Molasar | Year Posted 2015

Details | Quatrain |

Liberating a Camp - My Memorial Day Offering

                                  I came upon a morbid scene,
                                  too dark to pawn off quickly.
                                  A landscape that was once serene,
                                  was barbed with wire prickly.

                                  Piled high, within the compound fenced,
                                  were bodies bare, and broken.
                                  Starved, as food was not dispensed.
                                  I stared, with words unspoken.

                                  The man, who made this all come true,
                                  had shot himself, a coward.
                                  The racist killer, of the Jew,
                                  was now himself devoured.

                                  Not by bodies, that stood gaunt,
                                  in lice infested tatters.
                                  But by hatred, and by want.
                                  In Hell, that's all that matters.

                                  These crimes, will never be wiped clean,
                                  to Hitler's "Final Solution."
                                  His motives, simply too obscene,
                                  for godly absolution.

                                            Written:  5/29/17

Copyright © Richard Olson | Year Posted 2017

Details | Quatrain |

I'm Just a Fallen Angel

Just recently my father told me it's time Hey Son, amend such destruction abound Surface fuelled antenna your mind will become Out of the black into the blue will be you Please admire the surrounds your now in Beggaring belief that it was their sanctuary be Chances, they've had chances, look now Is this what's left, please tell thee! Indeed father, all I'm seeing is destructive spread Selected twisted torn amidst lifeless strewn No care for around or even family born Iconic, their iconic having lost their groomed Tell me, what shall I do for it's always your blamed Firing salvo's South and yet your cast aside It matters no more Son, for I'll ever be shamed I'm just a fallen Angel, of which they can't abide

Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2017