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

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Details | Sonnet | |

Too Late

(Cornish sonnet)

There is no remedy, there is no cure.			
As mortars rip through the bloodied trenches,
on the forest fringes, follow the spoor,	
there, two fledging enemy soldiers lay		
dying, on thriving grass, breathing stenches,
praying to survive for another day.

For once yellow skin lay bare next to white.
With death now pushing against their locked teeth,
in pain, they begged each other for a light.
Too late, prejudice now lays defeated.
Too late, to put hatred back in its sheath.
Too late, these two young lives have been cheated.

There is no remedy, there is no cure,			
for once yellow skin lay bare next to white.		

Copyright © Ronald Zammit | Year Posted 2014

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

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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 | |

Tug of War

This tug of war we're playing is no game
Especially when my love is the rope
The back and forth is causing such a strain
That all I'm holding on to now is hope

It seems that's all of you that's left to hold
When once I had you in these loving arms
But love gets slippery when it gets cold
Your chill has even frozen all my charm

To think that you could love someone like me
Whose only treasure is a broken heart
I was a fool when I dared to believe
And should have known it from the very start

Though it is broken. my heart is still gold
If you can't see it's value, let it go

   an original poem by Daniel Turner

Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016

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

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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

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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 | |


She never truly sleeps for small ghosts keep

pulling their stars into the plastic bag tent,

and the raw wounds left by the Janjaweed*

creep into dreams like the lies she invents

for her three living children. Her father

whispers genocide from a place of peace,

as though his ashes had never smothered

a daughter’s screams, as though the unceasing

cries of the hungry had become silent.

Tomorrow, she will gather fire wood,

water and scraps, swallow a relentless

weight. Rape hollowed her, yet left her pregnant. 

Strange, this life inside, feels like her others,

a frail light kept in the darkness of Darfur. 

* The Janjaweed are gunmen who have systematically 
annihilated the African Muslims of an area of Sudan 
known as Darfur. Entire villages were wiped out. 

Gang rapes by the Janjaweed are done, 
in the hopes the 'ruined' woman will bear a pale coloured child; 
their goal is to wipe away every trace of a people, their culture. 
This is madness. This is genocide.  

The bones of children litter open graves. 
Nearly half a million people have been killed. 
Camps of makeshift huts provide little shelter 
for 2 million displaced people. 

Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2012

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 | |

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 | |

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 | 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

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The Going Insane

     SARAJEVO the going insane
Could anyone explain the going mad
of someone whom your life's depended on,
or how, the sanity, all they have had
grows weaker until all they've had is gone?

You know their love's been such a part of you
but life had reason, it just couldn't stay,
and in your heart you know the love was true,
it did not end, it only slipped away.

To watch, as those you've loved, grow weak in mind
is watching death--in all your eyes can see,
and helpless, all your hope is but to find
their death is not as fast as death should be.

   It takes a long time knowing all is gone
   and longer finding reason to go on.
© Ron Arbuthnot aka Ron wilson

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet | |



In cavalcades of bulletproof cocoons
all aspects of our lives they can control
they own all that you have except your soul
the sharply suited pipers call the tunes.
Exchanging every privilege and boon,
in freedom's name to dominate, their goal,
unleash fierce ordinance to take it's toll
fruits of their machinations now lie strewn.
Far off, survivors of their bombs and guns
crouch , huddled in a maze of shattered walls,
tarpaulin shades family from the sun,
parents can't quiet hungry baby's call.
A world away, when all is said and done
the price of one gold watch could feed them all.

27th October 2015
Basic Italian ( I think)- 
octave, abba abba
sestet- cdcdcd

Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2015

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 | |

Lone Survivor

"Lone Survivor" By M. Taha Effendi (Sonnet) He wandered through each ravaged street, death lurked wherever strayed his feet, His ears resounded with frantic, dying calls, of those whose blood stained the city's walls, With tears he gazed at the darkened sky, cursed what bombed his city till it would die, Before him lay the rubbled graves, of his mother and siblings it now saves, He stood there transfixed, confused, His life's last few hours misused, abused, He stood there numb as time moved on, In the blink of an eye his haven was gone, Is there ever a fate so worse, than a corpse deprived the funeral hearse?

Copyright © Mohammad Taha Effendi | Year Posted 2010

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


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

Details | Sonnet | |

The Bombing Of Dresden - Monsieur L'Vampyre

There was a night, I still recall it now,
as winters cold had turned to soft and mild,
and gave us hope, that time would still allow
the passing by--of death--as death was filed.

What manner of a beast, or tyrant king,
would set the path to bring destructions' fall
from out the darkened sky, who dare would bring
such catastrophic death to one and all?

Was not my Dresden safe from what was heard
of cities to the north--they fed the flame;
these questions yet remain, who gave the word
that made the good and bad turn out the same?

    All evil justified and made in haste
    is evil just the same as any waste.

I'd only just returned, in my own way,
within the dark from Paris, where I be
caught up with joy of liberation day,
when love was made alive and running free.

But lo! My thirst was filled, before too long,
my heart grew weary to be with mine own,
so in the dark my flight was swift and strong
and ended at an inn that few have known.

Perched on a hillside looking down the plain
from off the balcony, the Dresden lights
gave glimmer to a cold and drizzle rain
a beauty unsurpassed by any rights.

   Invited for a night of talk and wine,
   I settled in with a new friend of mine.

And so we wined and danced--into the night
not thoughtful of the war, though raging on,
and Gretchen, lovely Gretchen, felt my bite
upon her neck until her soul was gone

and part of all the loves I ever knew
so thus she came to be one of my own;
and shaken, we both did as lovers do,
and stared into the night for things unknown.

Quite suddenly the groan of engines' roar
though distant, filled the night, and deafening
and over Dresden, telling what's in store,
the fallings lights lit up just ev'rything.

   And lighted by Pathfinders, Dresden knew
   what ending all their world was coming to.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sonnet | |

Bridges of Sarajevo

So stirs the heart of man, the great delight,
   to raise a banner high, the march of fate;
to lead the way, where only dark of night,
   might find a way to quench the thirst for hate;   
and lessor men will follow any call,
   of self appointed leaders of the day, 
the good, the bad, the dead, but butchers all,   
   some crowned in light, the others in decay!

To follow is the way, if wrong or right,
    determined by the ones who stand at last,
we hold this  judgement as if heaven might
    just comprehend the end that binds us fast.

Our bridges to be crossed, are Hate and Death
Protected by our foul and Balkan breath.
© Ron Arbuthnot aka Ron Wilson

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015