Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.

Sonnet War Poems | Sonnet Poems About War

These Sonnet War poems are examples of Sonnet poems about War. These are the best examples of Sonnet War poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Sonnet |

Courage of Youth, Battle of Ypres, Flanders Field

Courage of Youth, Battle of Ypres, Flanders Field
(A Tribute)

Tough as nails young man with a red right hand
red-fire and whiskey ran in his blood.
Courageous seed of vast and cold hard land
quick temper, power of a surging flood.
Seeker of life, its promised mysteries
rash gambler with all he would ever own.
Born on ship in high wind swept, roaring seas
toughest warrior his town had ever grown.

Met his fate by volley of red-hot lead
buried on ground scared and battle blasted.
Aye boys, fodder that machine guns were fed
fools marching to death, long as it lasted.

Now flowers cover up and Time denies
scenes of battle torn soil and blood-red skies.

R.J. Lindley
April 23rd, 1975

Tribute to Courage of Youth-- Second Battle of Ypres, April 22nd 1915 .

Note- added - 8-26-2017

The name Flanders Fields is particularly associated with battles that took place in the Ypres Salient, including the Second Battle of Ypres and the Battle of Passchendaele. For most of the war, the front line ran continuously from south of Zeebrugge on the Belgian coast, across Flanders Fields into the centre of Northern France before moving eastwards — and it was known as the Western Front.

The phrase originates from a poem titled In Flanders Fields by Canadian Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, inspired by his service during the Second Battle of Ypres. The fields were not maintained for years before they were made into a memorial. Today Flanders Fields is home to thousands of poppies.


Found this while rummaging through some of my old poems. Decided not to edit it. Leave it as it was composed over 42 years ago..
Added the note for those not familiar with that battle and its horrific carnage, primarily from the insanity of large bodies of troops marching into direct machine gun fire.

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sonnet |

The Queen on Emerging From Her Refuge

She’d dwelt within a palace, and outside it, geese and brilliant peacocks used to strut inside a fragrant garden. As a bride, she’d said her vows beside the roses, but today no scent of blooms perfumes the air. The terrace sculptures, rubble now, are strewn across the floor. She gazes eastward where the mangos’ branches danced beneath the moon when zephyrs softly blew. Like poison, now a vapor comes, beginning to enwreathe her husband’s realm. There is a smell so foul her heart wells up with dread; she cannot breathe. As ashes drift around, she hangs her head with certainty her one beloved is dead. Written by Andrea Dietrich Oct. 11, 2014 for the Top Gun Poetry - Structured forms - Iambic verse III of Giorgio A. V. Form: Iambic Pentameter in an English Sonnet

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

Under Moldy Soil, Red Moon Overhead

Under Moldy Soil, Red Moon Overhead

Under moldy soil, red moon overhead
lay millions of corpses, wars wasted dead
No bands playing, no sweet angels singing
only ghostly echoes, slowly ringing.

Cools winds blowing across such resting grounds
on dark nights, ghost-whispers its only sounds
Low moans, raging regrets of battle cries
rebukes of those that sold such deadly lies.

Sixth of June, sands give up soft wailing pleas
from beach desert devoid of any trees
Earth laced with spent cartridges , red blood and lead
painful memories, of that war's lost dead.

Under moldy soil, red moon overhead
how we may wish that peace had ruled instead.

R.J. Lindley
June 7th, 1976

Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 	140
Total # Lines: 	17  (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: 	 
Total # Words: 	102

Old Note- War is a necessary evil because mankind needs blood letting to soothe its savage soul.
And thus, is far too often a necessary reaction that insures the survival for the party that is first attacked.

New Notes- 
2. Mankind can not give up making war until it can purge ALL evil from its mortal soul!
Only one way to do that exists..
3. I want to thank the poet that suggested that I go ahead and share this poem from my private writes. 
As it deserves to be read, I now agree with you my good friend..

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

Theory of devolution

I am a pacifist I despise war.
It’s the only thing I actually hate.
I’m never able to brace myself for
Diplomacy that deteriorates:
Recriminating dialogue amuck
That results in irrationality.
Adults become intellectual schmucks
Whose mentality in reality
Is equivalent to a chimpanzee
In spite of our advances in science.
Our mentality still swings from the trees
Where once apish self’s had claimed provenance.
We haven’t evolved from our ancient source
Thus war is likely a matter of course.

Copyright © Albert Ahearn | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sonnet |

Give me a break I am PMS ing

I may slap you, curse you, smack you
Don’t get too serious honey, its monthly fun
I am PMS ing and my trauma is true
Be my gentleman and Pass My Shotgun

I may hate your friends and knock them down
Be any handsome man or cute chick
Don’t get them here when I am around
I am PMS ing, People Make me Sick

I may laugh out loud at your silly jokes
And the very next moment won’t find them funny
That catastrophic emotional trauma pokes
I am PMS ing, its Psychotic Mood Shift honey

Every month, within me I sense this ruinous storm
It’s not me honey, this phantom is Premenstrual Syndrome

Copyright © Neha Godambe | Year Posted 2012

Details | Sonnet |

Peace Not War

Peace Not War

We dream of peace on Earth…what is this peace
We yearn and pray for in our life?  We think
Of days when wars no longer threaten, cease
Our actions to enjoy our freedom’s link
To all God-given rights of man of Earth.
To live unburdened, free as it should be,
Each person has an equal chance from birth;
Survive without the fear of 'fight or flee'.

Though many live their days in harmony
With peace and love the center of their goal,
World leaders bear the cross of keeping free
All nations from disastrous wars and toll.

We wonder will this miracle ensue… 
And pray that peace on Earth someday be true.

Sandra M. Haight

Contest: Promote Peace Not War
Sponsor: Silent One
Judged: 10/27/2015

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |

Still Here

I've seen trebuchets thrust rocks into crowds.
I've heard the weeping of the wounded pray.
I've walked through blood clad fields and screamed aloud.
Not a sound or even a whisper came.
I've felt the bite of water and of flame,
The warmth of friendship, the breaking of bones.
And I've heard the drafters call out my name,
Said goodbye to everything I have known.
Marched on crimson ground as the sunlight shone,
Held our flag in victory and disgrace.
Celebrated as the bodies lay prone;
The memories I wish I could erase.
Still those faces haunt; those faces of fear!
Long gone they are and yet I am still here.

NOTE: This poem has caused some confusion, so I'm just clearing the air. This poem is fictional and not based on any personal experience.

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sonnet |

At Gettysburg

Unyielding stone, the furniture
au naturel, no dress lace tablecloth
concealing ants scavenging our picnic lunch. Loathe
are we to flick them while they steal our cheese and crackers.

Siblings ensconced, diffused canopy of oak
umbrellas, searing sun bewitches charming shadows;
clover, petals three and sometimes four, meadows
pleasant carpets cradling this resolute rock.

These stones echo cries reverberating past
more than a century's memorializing years
when other siblings set swords upon this grave frontier
in armies blue and gray amassed.

Immortal the crashing clash, bone against bone,
at Gettysburg to keep this nation one.

Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, June 5, 2014

Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014

Details | Italian Sonnet |

War of the Spirit

They live in mortal sin and shame
Between the lines of old and new
As us the righteous good and few
See infidels who aren't the same
How dare they question our belief
Eternal fire is prepared for
The devil and his angel scores
Who claim their brand of truth as chief

Our war is waged victorious
In time our vision shall prevail
Our purest essence, glorious
Barbarians are weak and frail
And we the meritorious
Will fight the battle tooth and nail

Copyright © Yoni Dvorkis | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sonnet |


Rows of black with vivid splash of red,
heads bow down at the tolling of the bell
lined up like granite stones that mark the dead,
a silent testament to those who fell.
Thoughts and hearts together march in time,
back to those muddy trenches filled with rain,
one's soul lashed by the whip of every chime,
one's freedom doing penance for their pain.
With faces set, inside we give a cry
as bugle cuts the silence for the lost,
for answer to the simple question why
peace always comes at such a dreadful cost.

The war to end all wars, no lesson learned
as through the Middle East the fires burn

Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

Art - Picasso

Shadows of Guernica
     April 26, 1937

The Spanish Spring could not in fairness share
her season's gift of hope as Spring's will do.
Those shadows cast on all below to bear
were clouds of war in paint of pallid hue.

With faith displaced by terror on this day
the hopes of Spanish Spring were doomed to die.
Once springtime rains had painted flowers gay;
now hellish steel came pouring from the sky.

This canvas township veiled in sullen shade
was wielded high for all the world to know.
It brought to light this massacre conveyed
through master strokes of war expressed in woe.

In shades of somber gray and charcoal night
  he brushed the art of war in brilliant light.


Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sonnet |

Sunday Best

SUNDAY BEST: Sonnet in 100 words

Always smartest one in his brigade
He took painstaking pride in his appearance
Though beach at Dunkirk was no church parade 
Upheld standards with dogged perseverance 
In  stony desert - Tobruk and  Alamein
Those baggy shorts and boots held little glamour
Heat  sweat and  dust became his bane
He endured fear, blood and  guns' deafening clamour
Then tide of battle turned, Britain stirred its might
Breaching Normandy coast, footslogging across France
Reached Germany's border, victory in sight
When one sniper bullet halted his advance
Then at last he'd time to spruce and rest
At peace, laid out in his Sunday best

Copyright © Geoffrey Brewer | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sonnet |

The Passion Of The Oil

I wrote this poem back in 2004, as the U.S. could not find any weapon of mass destruction in Iraq.

The Oil The Call
The Oil The Thirst
Blood Runs First
Oil For Goal

The Oil The Gush
The Oil The Light
Blood Runs Bright
Oil For Us

The Oily Church Claims
In Juice we Trust
And Oil Is Our New Mantra

Bring Grief To Them
Iraq we'll Crush
And Oil Bless America

Rating to be advised
Coming soon at a gas station near you

Copyright © Alain Boucher | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sonnet |

September's Grace

  Noble August is a stately lion,
  He sighs, children of summer stop their play.
  Cheddar-orange school buses come this morn,
  Your five year old daughter anxiously waits.
  Her first day of school as you hold back tears,
  September's grace, as the summer wine wanes.
  And apple cider she puts to your lips,
  Whispers softly, "Come and see the gold leaves".
  The dogwood turned first, swaying in the mist,
  Suddenly, you remember your first date.
  He, the man you loved, he died in a war,
  September's grace, to soothe your bereavement.

  You have your own strength and your children here,
  With a best friend, a great friend you hold dear.

Copyright © Regina Elliott | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sonnet |


        February 13, 1945
Pathfinders lit the night to show the way
for bombardiers too hungry for the word;
as Dresden's dark was made as light as day,
all hearts were stopped before the blasts were heard;

and as the din was heard by all their ears
the sound it made was not reality
but far removed from all the hopes and fears
and what they thought would never come to be.

They loved the Fuhrer--sin enough for all
to die the fiery death of sweet revenge
brought on by those who had enough of gall
to drop their loads in wartimes heated binge!

       And when the fire consumed all that it could
        the winter of their lives was understood.

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2012

Details | Sonnet |

Soldier of Ages

Dedicated to  Lt. Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. (November 11, 1885 – December 21, 1945) 

I'd fought a hundred battles 
       through the ages past and new 
I'd been a lowly foot soldier 
       But at times commanded too. 
I was a witness of Arab mothers 
       Fleeing cities under-siege ; 
A new age liberator, 
       The commander of the third. 
I had served with Ceasar's legion; 
       The Carthaginians; and the Greeks. 
When Arthur was in his Kingship, 
I was a captain of the knights 
A horseman tough and skillful 
       Of medieval cavalier; 
But ages had transformed me 
       to dash with iron wheels 
The only time I meet MacArthur 
       Was in the salient of St. Mehiel 
We both stood erect, calm, and unmindful 
       To the guns and bursting shell. 
Oh well take a look at Monty 
       Too slow for his advance 
He didn't expect me to take Palermo 
       or Mesina to my plan 
 I was reproved of my harshness, 
       They knew not that I was somber too 
I cared not of my language 
       As long as my point would get through 
I'd mixed my words with profanities 
       That my orders surely stick 
My men would always remember every word 
       While they're in the battle field 
Oh my, I hate those yellow bastards 
       They have no place on this earth 
I sent them to the frontlines 
       That no more they would breed 
 Those swivel chair commanders 
       Discounted my two days time 
But brave soldier deserved to be rescued 
       Before his dog tag stops to chime. 
So my men made it to Dunkirk 
       To the delight of McAuliffe 
"Surrender!" yelled the Nazis 
       but "nutz" was all he said. 
I was cut off of supplies and fuel 
       For Market Garden's sake 
But after pissing the flowing River 
       I held the Fuhrer's nest 
So soon another war was ended 
       Mine enemies had lost 
The iron carver claimed the glory 
       And relieved me from my post.   

Copyright © Jecon B. Nadela | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sonnet |

A warm jungle

Through the warm jungle you can hear every cry.
Crackling gunfire trickles in the echoes; 
Why this place fell and crumbled, no one knows why.
There they all fall in place like a domino.

Welcome to the jungle, filled with death and ill. 
A jungle of fear, a few dare to challenge. 
A smoke, a radio, anything to kill;
At times, there were fires that went unchallenged. 

The smell of sulfur roams through this jungle air.
A surplus supply of shell rounds in the jeep. 
Bugs, trash, dirty clothes, all I see everywhere.
The monumental hill is too big and steep. 

Men were lost, but never forgotten prayers.
Some make it home; some make there way up the stairs.

Copyright © Trent Turney | Year Posted 2015

Details | Curtal Sonnet |

Dreams and Reality

Dreams and Reality

I met her in the Book-Fair, three days the fair lasted
And she was spotted on all days, browsing and buying my books
Eyeing me without talking; I could read her mind in her looks
As the tip of her lip touched my book cover image. The posted

Message on the wall of my heart conveyed her dreams and fixed
Them across my mind. So, I took the first step and blasted her diffidence
With a gentle smile, getting a charming smile with a girlish confidence.
That’s it; with ignited throbs we spent days; she then asked, ”What next?”

“A Long Poem in the pipeline and a pulp fiction in printing,”
She seemed bewildered. And we finished the day without talking more.
The next day, she was more silent, and then asked in haste, “What more?”
“A Mock Epic for my taste and a Romantic fiction to make it trending.”

I talked about books and more books as she talked with her looks; mere looks!
And we parted there, like crooks; realizing- life is more than books and looks!

Copyright © Swamidhason Francis | Year Posted 2015

Details | Italian Sonnet |

How Not to Start a War

War is a sickness that kills one by one,
you never know it's coming until - BAM!
It will sneak up on you like a hit man,
and it makes sure to take your only son.
When I think about what they could have done
to stop this madness before it began,
my thoughts are of preaching's from a wise Man
named Jesus Christ, only begotten Son.

He talks of forgiveness and being meek,
to always show kindness to thy neighbor.
Even if they aren't worthy of your time,
still, you must love and turn the other cheek.
Don't be too weary of all your labor,
that you are willing to commit a crime.

Copyright © Veronica Andemariam | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

South Africa xenophobic insanity

South Africa  xenophobic insanity 

I have a shame to say I am South African now,
Look how barbaric is our fellow citizen are,
What a damage they have caused to our country’s image,
Image that one man spent 24 years in prison to create it,
They call it democracy, how it came they forget,
Dozens of our freedom fighters spent their life in exile,
What is exile we don’t even asked ourselves,
They spent their lives in outside countries illegally,
Fighting for this freedom,
They were treated with respect,
Treated with dignity,
And received any assistance in their endeavor ,
Endeavor to fight for this called SA,
Assisted by them we now call foreigners,

It takes foreign country for us to deliver the export,
It takes the foreign country for us to receive the import,
It takes the foreign country to boost our economy,
Whoever is a refuge must be treated with respect and dignity,
If you know how it feels like to starve, sleeping in cold, killed, suffrage and etc
For once put yourself in their stand,
They are people regardless of their status, legal or illegal,
Help them and love them the way you can,
If you are a human being in right mind,
Listen to their story how they landed in South Africa, their trip,
We are not sure if this democracy will last forever,
What if we starve in future and forced to become foreigners in their countries,
Or we need their assistance, financially or materially,
What about our businesses in their countries?

I believe anyone who is xenophobic is insane and need urgent mental evaluation.
Love your country and other countries as well, 
Love foreigners, help foreigners like you will like to help your neighbor or relative,
I repeat the above lines a million times. Human must feel for human.

Copyright © Mulaudzi Ndifelani Eric | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |


A trail of smoke fades to an autumn dawn,
as sounds of morning break unearthly still,
arising to the day, some life goes on,
while others have the fear it never will.

Some ashes drift about the morning air,
appearing as do snowflakes in a stall,
to restless breezes they drift everywhere
and they are spread about before they fall.

Each life that was, is slow in pure descent,
and longing for the earth turning below,
the mother of all life, where time is spent,
until time's all run out--it's time to go.

Down in the valley echoes from a train,
awhistling, here come the dead again.
© ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

A Letter Too Late



When your there amongst others yet behind standing alone
No sign for directions only footprints across the snow,
Sometimes it’s difficult to turn a warm heart that of stone
Then to linger in memories of one’s bountiful glow.

Look to your hands need me feel me wanting to hold you tight
Remember this as you sense the urge to let your tears dwell,
I promise I won’t let go no matter how long the night
My shoulders for you to lean upon while your fears I’ll quell.

I will be with you when you think that I am gone
In that place you write about there where life’s gone wrong,
The depth of your anguish grows since the sun last shone
Yet from beyond the darkness you tell of a song,
A truce you say to end this war for men like you
To shake another’s hand like yours a hand that slew.

© Harry J Horsman 2015
© Amanda M Tams 2015

Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |

Kim Jong-un leader of the starving

I wonder what your thinking, in your country far away
And what on earth possesses you to threaten mine today
You allow your people to starve, munitions they are first
While daily people starve to death and many die of thirst

Your father and grandfather should have taught you how to care
Instead they shared their legacy of treating people unfair
Many live in work camps with three generations or more
Simply because they disagreed, so now all must chore

You live in style above the rest, have people who adore
But deep down, I believe that each person longs for more
You teach hatred and despise my country each and every day
For freedom and free choice would take yours away

Your people follow in fear, like robots in a line
I wonder how long they will conform or will it be your time
More and more try to escape, or die instead of live
In a country such as yours that takes much more than it gives

Each building,statue, memorial you have to tell a tale
Of twisted truths and travesties instead they often fail
For freedom is what's needed in the country you call home
Grow food instead of opium,and leave the people alone

You have the power in your hands to change what was past
Hurry please before it's too late you must do it fast
Do not start a war in which more people will die
Because your father and grandfather started it with a lie. 

Copyright © Jennifer Marie Oliver | Year Posted 2013

Details | Italian Sonnet |

Loving The Fight

Taming a warrior no end in sight
Enticing lockspiel enters the mind
Clashing wings the battle intertwined
Night music and rhymes did ignite
Flames are never consuming bright
Sparking forge winning losing combined
Climax never intends but is climbed
But this dance is all about the flight
Catching a falling star may be harder
For a conscript may bleed losing heart
The seasoned at home it is his right
To only capture midst all the ardor
Victory so sweet but losing so tart

Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |



The art of such intention is fatigue
At living lies outside the scope of death,

To wear in the last blitzkrieg
A shroud meaning artist, a wreath

Of columbine in the hair, but the kitchen eyes,
Carbuncled knees betray the giver’s art.

Down on the doorstep,  she’ll scrub your lies:
To her gift of total self she’ll add a part - 

Your own tongue sliced and severed on her plate
Of 20th century design –  taste

The dust of pointillism, the cubist fate
Of newspaper and cello here embraced –

The emptiness filched from the master’s past:
Mankind’s death wishes, home to roost at last.

published IN MEMORY OF HER, Dublin, 2008

Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

Smokestacks of Auschwitz

A trail of smoke fades to an autumn dawn
as sounds of morning break unearthly still
arising to the day, some life goes on
while others have the fear it never will.

Some ashes drift about the morning air
appearing as do snowflakes in a stall,
to restless breezes they drift everywhere
and they are spread about before they fall.

Each life that was is slow in pure descent
and longing for the earth that pounds below
the mother of all life, where time is spent,
until time's all run out--it's time to go.

Down in the valley echoes from a train
awhistling here come the dead again.
© Ron Arbuthnot aka ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |

History Repeats

Society! A sad state of affairs.
Corporate, owned. The stores pushing their wares.
Politics, ambiguous. No truth found.
Majority vote. Yet, the loser, crowned.
Divided we stand. The land is not free.
Upward you rise if you have the money.
Our brightest kids, dreams never realized.
Educations cost just too super sized.
Classism, racism drives caste system.
Open your eyes. Should be "us" against "them".
Social media, engendering strife.
Corrupt media, divides like a knife.
Another empire comes to a close.
You're warning. Revolution ended those.

-Angel Fatale-
-ode to the Sons of Liberty

Copyright © Ryan Tyler | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |

Lancaster Bomber

You were standing on a museum floor
Calm and peaceful to fly no more
Lancaster bomber once you spread your wings
Your bomb bay doors open your pay load to fling

You helped us to win in world war two
As part of the Dam Buster's you proudly flew
Barnes Wallace's bouncing bombs you threw
Brave English airmen were your crew

So many were lost of your unique kind
As we look back through history that's what we find
Yet to save so many you were literally few
Yet we a thankful for what you did do

Risking all so that we could be be
Free to live in a world which you helped rid of tyranny

Copyright © Owen Yeates | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sonnet |

A lonely evening

In many dreams of you, I wish
If I could get my hands on the wings
If only I could come over to you now, 
It would be the best moment in my life.
Alone in a cool evening
With the light of a candle and the breeze from afar
And then the moment would draw close
And the night would become our friend

And nature would support our breathe
And our dream would seem simple
And nightmare be far from us
For the moment would be the beginning of a new era
And the dawn would bring joy
Happiness and love 

Copyright © Philip Odiete | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet |

Brave Conquerors Of Weakened Tribes

Brave Conquerors Of Weakened Tribes

They could never in any great haste
their false glory dare to forsake.
Why abandon that gleam in their eyes
for truth in those sad tomorrows?

Dwell not in that bitter splendor
A victor with a yellow wreath.
In pride hide being a lying pretender
never giving up what fate bequeath!

Restless spirits from vanquished foes
can not invade that haughty parade.
Brave conquerors of weakened tribes
living out a false, arrogant charade.

History now reveals the dishonor disguised.
And tales of false victories cleverly contrived!

Robert J. Lindley, 10-14-2015

Note- http://www.iearn.org/hgp/aeti/aeti-1...americans.html

In the past, the main thrust of the Holocaust/Genocide Project's magazine, An End To Intolerance, has been the genocides that occurred in history and outside of the United States. Still, what we mustn't forget is that mass killing of Native Americans occurred in our own country. As a result, bigotry and racial discrimination still exist.

"In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue" . . . and made the first contact with the "Indians." For Native Americans, the world after 1492 would never be the same. This date marked the beginning of the long road of persecution and genocide of Native Americans, our indigenous people. Genocide was an important cause of the decline for many tribes.

"By conservative estimates, the population of the United states prior to European contact was greater than 12 million. Four centuries later, the count was reduced by 95% to 237 thousand.

In 1493, when Columbus returned to the Hispaniola, he quickly implemented policies of slavery and mass extermination of the Taino population of the Caribbean. Within three years, five million were dead. Las Casas, the primary historian of the Columbian era, writes of many accounts of the horrors that the Spanish colonists inflicted upon the indigenous population: hanging them en mass, hacking their children into pieces to be used as dog feed, and other horrid cruelties. The works of Las Casas are often omitted from popular American history books and courses because Columbus is considered a hero by many, even today.

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015