All the blood that humanity has shed in wars throughout history
Succeeded only in irrigating the bloodthirsty battlefields of hate!
Demetrios Triiatis
16 September 2026
"Battlefields"
Life is a battlefield
we have no choice
in choosing our wars
they come to us
like magnets
eventually fate
plays its thorns
we wear its crown
there is no strategy
except that of surviving
or turning in
all our cards
the days we play
and like to number
the needle of that
sweet jazz record
repeats our glitches
the mother be our moon
and stars she swears
sweet revenge
each of us by name
through blood
we ferociously deny
our combat entrance
but oh hear our
sturdy arrival cry
victorious and
recalcitrant
battlefield faces
of the children
coming in fresh washed
and worn, little deaths
just before the dawn
eventually open the door
the desks all aligned
but it’s never sweet
nor neat in war
disordered we entreat
all numbered
for our lessons
silence like murder
settles in hustling
new fangs for blood
replace
the novice milk teeth
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"the moon through the trees"/ XavieRinato
https://youtu.be/86cJsFUT6Tw
7
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symbolism_of_the_number_7
I marched the roads of the Western Front
To stem the tide of the Germans brunt
And stayed in the mud and blood churned ground
Of No Man’s Land and won to our victory bound
Australia lost 60,000 daughters and sons
Until the Armistice was signed and done
On battlefields there is silence now
And I Rest In Peace unbowed.
© Paul Warren Poetry
A prison for stolen souls
Battlefields are
Trapped in the urgency of yesterday
The chosen, unseen and silent
The scarred earth they walk
Past objectives, they search
Grass now, blankets of rolling green
Cover the fallen, not the pain
Another year has marched out of my life.
A crusading warrior making his way back home,
Leaving bloody battlefields in his wake.
Trampled valleys where dreams once stood.
In the beginning, the year tiptoed in,
Softly sprinkling crystallized wishes.
Ideas, floating like a fine dusting of snow,
Forming a light covering on my bed of anticipation.
In swept the Ides of Spring laden with promises.
Storms tossing my wants in a turbulent sea of needs.
I planted my seeds with the expectancy of progression,
Hoping to find nourishment for my battered soul.
Summer scorched a path through my life
Bringing passion and potential to my fertile soil
Growing, thriving, reaching for the budding of fulfillment
Hopes alive, green and fresh, standing tall against adversity.
Autumn flew in on the winds of a changeling,
Taking the abundance and leaving a barren field.
Stripped of optimism, I wander in the fields of despair,
Wondering where my footpath led me astray.
Yes wicked winter with your freezing rains.
You beat against me, leaving blisters in your wake.
But Spring will return, of this I am certain,
Bringing with it the possibilities of contentment.
Sacred battlefields, ages old
land now silent as death itself
bodies that lie where strewn in battle
become one with the earth for all eternity.
Mighty lands once cloaked in beauty
now lie covered in the life's blood
of brave men, who with their last breath
fight to defend that which they have known
and believed since birth
that to die for ones belief(s) is true and just.
This, a warriors creed, his one constant
held within his very soul through the ages.
Deaths blackened sting knows no boundaries
all soon fall prey to its deadly siren call
his life's travels have all led to this same end.
With battle sword raised to the heavens
a warriors fierce battle cry, forged out of anger
echoes across the land for all to heed.
The battle raged on through days end
few left standing ... brave men all
with fighting strength expended
freely given to protect, for the future
the same ancient lands, borne of his ancestors
upon which he stands today.
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