Die Scherben des Lebens lassen sich nicht kitten. (German)
The shards of the life cannot be cemented. (English)
Los fragmentos de la vida no se puede enmasillar. (Spanish)
Les éclats de vie ne peu pas être à nouveau ensemble. (French)
I frammenti di vita non può essere di nuovo insieme . (Italian)
Die skerwe van die lewe kan nie weer saam wees. (Afrikaans)
Ang mga tipak ng buhay ay hindi maaaring simentuhin. (Tagalog)
Cioburile vietii nu pot fi cimentat. (Romanian)
Copyright © Gert W. Knop | Year Posted 2010
I can clearly sense your utter despair of Der Matratzengruft*
As you valiantly carried on your poetic works to the very end.
This did not change your literary accomplishments well-known,
And your courage through the misery and morphine* is undeniable.
Your lyrical poetry speaks volumes among all of German literature,
And it was most marvelously set to music by the likes of Schumann,
Schubert, Silcher, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Strauss—to name a few.
Their melodic tones as applied to your verses then, now live on forever!
Your role in and principal contributions to Romanticism fall in line
With the highest quality of your poetic language and its intention.
Your role in battling early nineteenth-century censorship in Prussia set
You out front of many of your contemporaries who resisted much less.
It’s so tragic Herr Heine that your literary resistance so prominent in
Challenging Prussian censorship would make you ever so more noted,
And besmirched as the Nazis in 1933 burned your books and those of
Other German scholars as a reflection of their insane and twisted beliefs!
It’s with great irony indeed that the banning and burning of your works by
The Nazis was parodied further by them as they ignobly quoted and used
Your famous line from “Almansor,”* when you likened that “where books
Are burned, in the end people will be burned too.” We know what they did!
And so, with both honor and sadness I do understand the very cry of lament
From the confines of your mattress-grave about your final exquisite poetry,
Written through writhing pain and tears as you faced the end of your life.
It took great courage to face your end like this while staying true to your Muse!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 15, 2014)
(Narrative Quatrain poetic format)
*Der Matratzengruft from the German means “The Mattress-Grave.”
(Heinrich Heine was confined to his bed, his “mattress-grave,” in 1848
with various illnesses until his eventual death eight years later in 1856.)
*Heine poetically referred to his pain predicament in the poem “Morphine,”
written near the end of his life, when he noted in two famous verses:
“Gut is der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser—freilich / Das beste waere, nie
Geboren sein.” (In English: “Sleep is good, Death is better—of course, /
Best of all would be never to have been born.”)
*Almansor was a play written by Heine in 1821 that had a most famous
line in German: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Buecher verbrennt,
verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.” (Rendered in English: “That was
but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as
well.”) The significance here is that as the Nazis burned the books of Heine
and other German artists on the Opernplatz in Berlin in 1933, they actually
celebrated this event by “engraving” Heine’s famous words from “Almansor”
in the ground at the Opernplatz site. The obvious depravity of this terrible
event reflects the innate cruelty, stupidity and evil of the Nazis as they
burned the books and defiled the names and reputations of Heine and other
famous German writers. Their actions were monstrous and shameful, and
were indicative of mankind’s base instincts at their very worst. Moreover,
despite converting to Protestantism from Judaism in 1825, Heine’s Jewish
origins played a continuing presence in his life and were one of the major
factors for his being scapegoated by the Nazis later in 1933. And besides,
the Nazis were always more interested in burning books, rather than
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014
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
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.
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
My heart shrivels dry, blackened rose in bitter anguish, ...
Do you feel my pain?
Why must the flame of day dwindle dim?
O' fortune, like the moon, changeable, waxing and waning
Oppressing me, first with power's soothing stroke
To take it all away!
Poverty of my spirit lies in love's immortal wake
Why fate of fortune, cruel regard, forsaken me?
Vain, and shadowed, I waver between the balance
Such agony is mine!
Day and night, everything defies me?
Great is my grief!
One cure, escape me from the throes of my misery !!
I beg, the Gods... hear my wail, hear my plea
Would fate be cured by kiss, one look, one sign, devotion? !
This wretchedness is black, I taste bitter ash!
Keep dark night hidden in the depth of your heart, o' moon !!
I am like a leaf, played with by the wind
I am like a light hovering bird, chains cannot bind me !!
Salvation comes with desire, one touch
Do not turn the eyes away...!
I cannot be shamed!
Torment me not, o' heartless moon!!
Wheel of fortune spins my heart...I beg to win love's prize !!
Without it, I will bemoan the wounds of fortune with weeping eyes
.... and I am cursed as I fall from the peak of glory....
into the depths of the valley of despair !!
protogothic entry: for Amy's Contest:
Inspired by the classical music, "Carmina Burana"
A cantata, written between l935-36 by German composer Carl Orff.
This passionate work was based on ancient poems hand-scribed in Latin...these parchment
manuscripts discovered in a Bavarian monastery in l803. They were believed to have been
written by students of the clergy (monks) sometime during the 11-13th century.
This familiar music has been used in numerous film scores..quite dramatic and powerful
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009
Krummes Holz gibt auch gerades Feuer
Crooked logs make straight fires [Work with what you have.]
Downcast eyes scan; the larger fear’s in deeds.
Germany thrives on the allied dollar
having culled the herd; they bank euro collared.
I, remnant of the tribe of David, take heed.
Full, again, of pride, the German strides
bold as brass across the pristine Alpine
scene, offering migrant shelter in line
with its own future needs as need coincides.
Who will be the tinder, the next confined
and the fly to the spider’s gruesome tale.
Prominence ignites dominance, the grail
binds with the golden eagle enshrined; it blinds,
yet, how few the choices, the wretched wail;
the tempted homeless yearn within the gale.
Published by Page & Spine 2016
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2017
I sat beneath a Veteran-oak,
In awe of His strength—
Here was a solid spirit!
Sympathy you get from Willow,
But stiff upper-lip from old soldiers,
With forged bark —
His limbs flexed, cut, rippled against the wind…
No chinks in this warrior-wood…
“Divide and Conquer!”
Then I thought of my Father—
A cook at the end of the war—The Big One!
You know the One I mean, as if there are small ones—
When the commanders were through eating
He was instructed to toss the leftovers
From the belch of plates—
Trashcans were in the alley,
The steel that seems intrinsic to battles
In one form or another—
The hungry German children
Would sneak pass the guards
My father would sneak pass his superiors
And his honor
To dispense carefully wrapped scraps…
Well, soon the line was out into the street
As my father was compelled to seek food
From wherever he could steal, beg or barter
To procure—This brought attention—the cat-out-of-the-bag,
And all hell down on my father,
As the captain screamed: Gus, these are the enemy (the children in the alley),
What in God’s Name are you doing?
He was forced to stop—no Court Marshal though…
I looked up again at the old oak,
Through the snarled branches
Deep into the staunch soldier,
Where I spied a nest
In a small, compact fork—
Having a canopy of extra leaves
For shade and shelter from the wind—
His bark reddened, but like my father, no apology from this weathered soldier…
Copyright © Joe DiMino | Year Posted 2016
A people persecuted beyond imagination;
To help them he felt, was his obligation.
He joined the army in World War II;
Not knowing his hell would be Eyes of Blue.
When he reached Normandy, the beaches were red.
Crawling over his brothers who lay already dead.
To give this tyrant, this devil his due;
Not knowing his own demons, would be Eyes of Blue.
He rounded a building securing a town;
A young German soldier was just coming round.
He plunged his bayonet, the quicker of the two;
Killing the young soldier, with Eyes of Blue.
He knelt down beside him with tears in his eyes;
How long this moment would last, he did not realize.
He closed the eyes as he thought he should do;
Thinking never again to see those Eyes of Blue.
The victor over many in Germany and Japan;
It was always difficult taking life from a man.
None would haunt him, this he now knew;
As long as the soldier, with Eyes of Blue.
He died an old man, to heaven he went;
For this honorable soldier, mercy was sent.
First time since the war, so sad but true;
A peaceful sleep, not seeing Eyes of Blue.
Copyright © Arlene Smith | Year Posted 2014
Ah the lovely seasdie
Ah the lovely seaside
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
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
Erik and Jacques both developed a passion for wines and vineyards and became the best of friends
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
I had an IPod problem!
I fixed it, this is how!
I named the thing "Titanic",
by God, it's "syncing" now!
I was wondering where the sun goes?
I stayed up all night to see!
Sure enough, next morning,
it finally "dawned" on me!
I'm an avid reader.
I read anything around.
I read an "anti-gravity" book,
and I couldn't put it "down"!
I know some real bad food jokes,
but let me tell you first!
The one about German sausage,
brother, that's the "wurst"!
There are several types of illness,
that leave you sore and weak!
But, when your bladder is infected,
"urine" trouble, so to speak!
I was sorta down and out!
Times were hard, you know?
So, I got a job in a bakery,
because I "kneaded" dough!
NOTE; I apologize if you wasted your
time reading this! I need to get
a life! Sorry folks.
Copyright © RALPH TAYLOR | Year Posted 2012
King Vlad Redux – Second Cold War
Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s grimy fingerprints on current history
are for him nothing to gloat about—au contraire I say emphatically:
His actions bespeak one who’s not an architect for peace—not at all,
rather a quite deceitful dictator and a harbinger of a Second Cold War.
King Vlad’s old Soviet-style actions are clear for all who care to see,
and make no mistake about it—he’s without remorse and a soul to boot.
A Master of Malarkey and an International Bamboozler Supreme, he
certainly is, with a menacing image and not one iota of conscience.
King Vlad risks a Second Cold War with his violation of international
law concerning the blatant, illegal annexation of the Crimean peninsula.
With his brand of new style Soviet adventurism on the march, the Old
Soviet Bear has been resurrected anew—and it’s hot on the prowl again!
King Vlad’s new spirit of nationalism for Russia is not at all progressive
as evidenced by his current war on certain ethnic minorities: Jews, Tartars,
Armenians, Gypsies—to include anyone who chooses to resist and protest
against his new age fanaticism rebranded anew in the twenty-first century.
King Vlad’s lineage to and proclivity for the old Soviet Union and its star
cast of past gangster luminaries: Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev,
and Andropov—to name a few, are quite telling since they reflect the real
nature of his psyche and the tragedy he brings now to the world stage.
And lest we forget, the innocent souls of the murdered passengers from flight
MH17 in eastern Ukraine who cry out, as do their families, for justice from
the criminal thuggery and hooliganism perpetrated by King Vlad in support
of proxy groups that do his evil biddings soaked in lies, treachery, and deceit.
King Vlad takes pleasure in fulfilling a fanciful role today of the old Soviet
Bolshoi Nachalnik (Big Boss), whose historical antecedents from Soviet Big
Bosses of past fame, doesn’t augur well for future democracy in New Russia,
and doesn’t align with the precepts of good governance and human rights.
King Vlad’s treachery and deception are certainly open for everyone to see
as he executes his plan of disrupting the balance of the current world order.
We all should be forewarned of the clouds of tyranny and aggression that
could be unleashed one day on the European continent and the world today.
King Vlad, despite very strong objections and economic sanctions imposed
by Western leaders and diplomats, understands only one word rendered so
poignantly in the German language: die Macht (or Power), which lurks ever
behind his public mask and psychological makeup as a former KGB officer.
King Vlad’s actions reflect his virtues of lying, denying, accusing, rejecting,
and criticizing—all poison arrows in his quiver as a Master of Prevarication.
His real mask is that of a Monster who had the very best Soviet teachers and
wishes to tilt the axis of his New Russia on a collision course with the West.
And so Generalissimo Stalin . . . how do you like your nasty little boy now???
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 30, 2014)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014
I always had this fascination with the English language.
Ever since I learned to read and write,
it captivated my interest, beside my own native tongue;
Opening for me a whole new world different from my own -
A world of kingdoms, of princesses and princes, of queens and kings,
of knights in shining armor, of noblemen and the common man,
of many innumerable things.
A child who found such joy in a second language or third
would feel like a traitor to her own when deep nationalism
is rooted in her bones. It was not easy.
And yet the fascination remained – despite being inculcated
with heavy ideas on love for motherland and in the words of Rizal –
“Ang hindi magmahal sa sariling wika,
Ay higit pa ang amoy sa malansang isda”.*
To a child who secretly preferred reading in the foreign tongue,
These words were damning. So much so that in my mind
there was always an ongoing war while growing up
with the king’s language and Rizal.
Looking back, mastering both languages would have been a lot easier
had somebody told me: “Go ahead, do what makes you happy,
as long as you do not forget your identity.
Be proud of the color of your skin.
You can be unique and world class at the same time,
there is no need to feel guilt, find your own rhyme.”
And so today, I tell the youth who have their own native tongue:
Enjoy the journey, but do not forget you are a child of your land
while you discover many things, using the language of kings.
Dr. Jose Rizal – Philippine National Hero, who ironically have mastered different languages including Greek, Latin, Hebrew ,Sanskrit, German, French, Italian among others, aside from Spanish and the now commonly used English language
* "Anyone who does not love his own language
is worse than the smell of a rotting fish."
26 July 2015
The Doesn't Fit Contest
Sponsor: Carol Eastman
Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2015
It’s cold here in Central Texas
Winter has laid its hand upon us
The night is clean and pure
With just a whisper of oak and mesquite fires
Burning on the hilltops
And villages of old German hopes
The coyotes are calling
Packs move in the night
Instinctive without knowing the reason
They find their way into town
Old men with rifles sit on porches waiting
But nearly always miss
For winter is the friend of the coyote
And the bones of men
Are appendages meant for warmer climates
Civilized cravings or hunger drives them here
Or maybe it’s just an Comanche tear
That fell in this place
And stained the ground forever
What ever it is I welcome them here
For they are clean and pure
Of what burdens men
Copyright © Stephen Kilmer | Year Posted 2013
Helga Deen (1925-1943) (Sentanka)
Mit achtzehn ermordet
Helga Deen im KZ Sobibór
Nur Tagebuch und Briefe
War alles was von ihr blieb
Ihr Andenken aber bleibt
Murdered at eighteen
Helga Deen at Sobibór
Only letters and diary
Was all that remained of her
But her memory remains
Helga Deen en Sobibor
Asesinado a dieciocho años
Sólo cartas y un diario
Fue todo lo que quedaba
Pero su memoria sigue siendo
Note: Helga Deen, born in 1925 in Stettin moved with her parents in 1933 to Tilburg in the
Netherlands. She was a talented young woman not only in writing but also in drawing. Her
mother was a German Jewish doctor and her father-Willy Deen- a Dutch chemist. Helga Denn
had a brother -Klaus- and both visited school in Tilburg. The family had to move from
their house and Helga an her brother had to leave school together with other ten Jewish
pupils. In July 1943 all were deported to the Vugh concentration camp. From there they
were transpoted to Westerbork concentration camp and from there on July 13th to Sobibór
(Poland) concentration camp. She died from gas there on July 16th 1943.
Copyright © Gert W. Knop | Year Posted 2011
Thousands living in fear
For they knew Hitler was growing near
In Poland her career would soon to be
As she helped scared persecuted to flee
Gas chambers were yet to come
For not all heeded the warnings of this young one
Compassion and determination
Made her the first in reporting the War of all Nations
A thousand horses and a thousand horsemen
A thousand tanks, her story found both ink and pen
Hollering of the invasion to be
Her worth all would soon well see
As German troops invaded Poland
Her report the first of World War number 2
The first female War correspondent so new
Setting the stage for all the brave lasses who followed through
Days long ago when a woman’s job just wasn’t so
She led the way, helping thousands begin a new pathway
She was the model for those who came after
She never quit, until death's battle
Her beauty had faded at the age of one hundred and five
Her moxy and determination they stayed vibrant and alive
She sipped champagne to the very end, one oh five
A tear for the lady, whose bravery defeated an evil campaign
Clare au Lune
For all tiss worth
You were and angel
Brave on the front lines of truth
Rest in peace, divine, for all time
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
I find it boring all the time.
It wasn't good in Shakespeare's hands,
No rhyming poet understands,
No Keats or Shelly, Byron, Pope,
Could find the poetry to cope
With wonders of the universe,
For that they should have tried Free Verse!
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
It seems so foolish all the time.
From Petrach through to here and now,
All rhyming works I'll disavow.
I want to drown inside the sound
of ee cummings, Ezra Pound,
Please keep me from those dreadful swines
Who choose to worship Gilbert's lines.
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
It's bell like ring should be a crime.
It's bad in English, German, French,
It leaves a horrid musty stench
And as for meter I'll just say,
That all blank verse is SO passé.
Unless your work's unrhymed and free
Your soul contains no poetry.
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
I will not hear it any time.
No Limericks shall pass my ears,
I've kept them out for years and years.
I've never heard a single word
Of Mother Goose, it's all absurd.
I only read free verse and prose
For all the rest, I hold my nose.
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
A sort of ancient worthless slime.
You cannot write constrained by rules,
The last resort of worthless fools.
Please stand by me on hallowed soil,
Where all the greatest writers toil --
Freeversing poets to a man,
Let's issue form a formal ban!
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
I can't believe it is sublime.
Now damnit! What is that you say?
Your words and meanings start to play -
I feel the meter in my bones,
Like music by the Rolling Stones!
It's not free verse it's so much more,
Your verse is like a Mozart score!
Ah YES, I LOVE your perfect rhyme!
I want to hear it all the time,
Bring Shakespeare, Shelley, Byron, Keats
With all their forms and special treats;
And after them I think I'll cope,
With Hilaire Belloc, Nash and Pope.
I've been so blind I did not see
That rhyme and flow are poetry!
Copyright © Jeff Green | Year Posted 2010
Deep in the Canadian wilderness she gave birth to four pups,
It was a large dug out hole at the base of a tangled tree;
Her mate for life was out hunting with the pack for deer or elk,
Some wolves remained to protect and guard her.
She was a mottled grey and resembled a domestic dog,
Perhaps a german shepherd or a sled dog but much bigger;
Her paws were huge and she had thick fur to protect her in the cold
But she was so gentle with the pups snuggling them.
As dusk fell she heard her mate's mournful howls in the distance,
She knew his howls, growls and barks from all others;
They were mated for life and this was their first litter of pups,
The pups were blind and defenceless without her.
The pack had been more than thirty-eight wolves until recently,
But farmers had trapped, shot and poisoned many in fear;
And trappers had killed others for their beautiful thick fur,
So these pups were so important to the packs future.
And then he was there in the den with her and nuzzled her neck,
He was taller than she and stronger a truly majestic creature;
Crouching with his ears straightened his facial expression was love,
She moved over so he could join them and all was peace.
In the forest den . . .
April 1, 2015
Submitted to the contest, 100 In A Row - 5
Written for the contest, Canis Lupus the Wolf,
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015
The Silence of War
Behind the Curtains of a church window
Men in Prayer, orchestrated by sweat and Lice
Find relief from snipers gaze
Beside the cross sits the last candle
Flickering precariously, searching for sanctuary from the wind
But the wick is near the end
And so are these men
The Harvest of War is almost in
For this is November 1918.
The German guns call like the song of the Siren
Irresistible, for only the dead will hear
New orders to cross the Sambre-Oise Canal
Another postcard for Historians to write.
Machine gunners scythe the ranks
Gone the Irish regiment, clover for the beast
I take shelter behind a splintered Oak Tree
Once magnificent, A survivor of Natures glory
Now a hideous spectre to man’s intervention.
I wait here with Wilf my captain
Waiting for death to find me
The mud beckoning for blood,
The Canal red like the River Sticks
A feed for tomorrows Newspaper.
A groan from wilf, his eyes start to dim
Fear brings the Lord’s Prayer to my lips
A last haven for my soul to cling
I watch his spirit fly away,
As the words fade from my voice
Like so many others on this day of carnage
Wilf, my friend, died November 4th 1918
Yet another contribution to this dark harvest,
Another soul for god to tender.
A statistic, a casualty of war,
To be remembered generically
A wreath to share with a multitude of lost darlings,
Another photograph to fade on the mantel piece
A piece of History for a grieving widow to dust
In the ranks of the dead
Angels count our losses
What dreams did we lose?
What voices were made silent?
What books were never written?
And how many tomorrows gone,
Lost in the darkness of death?
Under this oak tree, fading from memory
A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken too
Unspoken truth in unspoken poems
Silent to mortal’s ear
Another casualty of war
A feast of wisdom for angels to keep?
For His words were far too much,
for the hogs of war to stomach.
His poetry made silent by country’s shame,
Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean said the generals
Only now, through peace can we learn
The voice of one soldier,
How I pity humanity
For silence is a killer
Democracy, and justice its victim,
And the inevitable Silence of war will kill us all.
On this day November 4th 1918, Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal, 7 days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
Copyright © steven cooke | Year Posted 2011
Roses are red,
Violets are blue
Violets are really more purple
that's why they're called "Violet",
And come to think of it Roses are pink
and sometimes white and yellow
I thought Violets are purple!
My mother's maiden name is
but with two Ts at the end.
I think it's French,
but we're Scottish and Irish and
and what about the German Violet.
It sometimes blooms white and lavender,
but isn't it better known as the
Then there's the African Violet
and the New Guinea Violet,
that's an Impatiens,
scratch that last one.
I'm getting a headache.
Roses are red white yellow peach purple,
Violets are blue white lavender and spelled with two Ts
It doesn't sound quite right anymore.
you get the idea.
Have a wonderful loving Valenttine's Day!! (with two TTs)
Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2016
Necessarily to Samora
On the stream, a cork was thrown
She sank in
She tripped on
She was picked up
A beach, a wave and a sailing ship don’t matter.
You will arrive at the time of coming back.
-Faceless towards passion-
When the dawn was agonized, morning came
I’d be dreaming my dream
The delusion of paddling the sea of love without safety
That passing by valley slits the front of my house
Brings and takes water -don’t you mind giving me a cup!-
Domesticated with pain
Your loyalty is vital and you are well-worn
Laying nearby in others snaky arms
The arms that shot my heart
---it shaded lights on more beats
Instead of the distance
Gone astray is not at ease. With the wind and with the wind
Time struggle against time
As you smoulder my mind's eye into a fantasy
Days are nights and the same line of attack, sub- stories
Why reddish rose in my hand as you are all roses
I obey the truth; I’m only irritating other’s plant
I gain the fragrant of my tiredness –walking on by-
Up above where air outdoes
The reverie is stubbornly standing
I still jump onto the floor preparing a glider for love
Uncut ropes and a silky seat for two birds
Poetess is my bird on shoulder, in veins and between bones
Underneath the last sparkling star thinking and gazing
Into things that have been my own
That will never be my own.
Getting back to the memories
Swimming in an endless pool of images and words
Quenching the desire of missing, just somehow
My senses flounce your absence
Your silent acquires me the language battles
---God! A German flight pierced the atmosphere
Shelled many wild birds there as I was only watching the scenes
The valley’s slit leaves a border line
Face on the pane; I steal glimpses
Wiping away tears by sunny bar entity
Hanging on someone to bring me gathered drops
“No more than one” I say to heaven-
Copyright © Kanour Med | Year Posted 2013
Rommel of the Blitzkrieg
had Europe overcome
With the Stukas and dive bombing
And the Tanks that overrun
North Africka would see his tanks
il Duce’s troops were beat
Aussies took 20,000 Italians
At Tobruk in stinking heat
In Europe when his tanks arrived
The captured did surrender
The Poms escaped at Dunkirk
The English well remember
Morsehead an Aussie General
He baited the trap
Strategic mines, artillery, cooks
manned Italian guns , and ack ack.
Tobruk the Panzer tanks came in
The rats went down their holes (Desert Rats Aussie Diggers said Lord Haw Haw)
They rose behind the tanks
Wehrmact soldiers bullet holed
25 pounders fired at just point blank
with cooks and Pommy Armour
Were thinning German ranks
true blue these little charmers
So they blew the turrets off
16 of the best
Unbeaten until this point
A trace of fallen crest
8 long months they dished it out
Though Rommel tried again ……….(lost just as many tanks again)
He had to wait till the Aussies left
To take Tobruk from them
70 years ago, the Afrika Korp would attack the 14,000 Aussies and Tommy Tank men, Also known as Rats.
The Tanks rolled into the perimeter, Aussies sprang from their holes and fought the German Soldiers behind the tanks, “We shut the gate behind them” the Aussies said.
This thorn in the side in Rommel ‘s mind allowed time for the massive replacement of
armour destroyed by Rommel, with American tanks. The siege held for 240 days in
what is now today’s , Gaddafi’s Lybria. These Aussies were used to living rough
sleeping on the ground
walking from town to town in the great depression, they were brought up on roo or pig shooting and the occasional rabbit.
Copyright © DON JOHNSON | Year Posted 2011
I SHUDDER TO THINK
I shudder to think about the way
Some vegetables are abused every day -
With physical and psychological slights
In gross violation of their vegetable rights.
Handicapped vegetables have no chance to fight back
Like eyeless potatoes - poor blind mites,
And baby carrots , aaw! Or peas-in-a-pod,
Eaten before they’re even born and take a breath.
Imagine those frantic runnerbeans
Desperately trying to escape.
No surprise that peas are strained.
My over-tired mum used to say, “Oh, I’m shredded.”
So I understand how tired shredded-cabbage must feel.
What about the potatoes who diced with death and lost?
Jerusalem Artichokes - “chokes” is horrible!
Why not “Jerusalem Passes Aways” ?
And ”Squash” ! - Please speak more politely:
What a way to go - we should say “Press Lightly”.
No wonder some clean-living veg are angry :
Parsnip - an angry snip from parson or clergy;
Swede resembling a tall blond person, Stockholm based;
With horrid ethnic humour ( bad taste)
Like sauerkraut (also bad taste)
(So-called humour about a surly German).
Look at insults basd on vegetables for a human -
“The IQ of a cabbage.” What ethnicity insults !
I’m sorry for tomatoes - all this veg talk results
In them being called a vegetable dish
It’s like calling Scots people English.
Sheer vegetable racism is the worst. Mixed potato and carrot salad?
Not in apartheid South Africa – their salad had to be pallid.
Oh yes some veg are spoiled like children :
Coddled cauliflower warmed in milk ; then
Brazed egg-plants (please call snobby ones aubergines)
Suntanned slowly at their leisure;
And butter (not margarine) beans cooked with pleasure.
It’s too horrible entirely, the abuse is complete
I’ll stop being vegetarian, and start eating meat.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2010
Oh, Manchester, you are such a majestic city
bathed in your bright blazing lights in the night.
Everyone has been to your cityscape,
if they work there or go to see such honoured shops
like Vinyl Exchange to get their favourite record.
Such calamities in the past have struck so suddenly
like German bombers of the blitz to the IRA only recently,
you survive all this like a Phoenix rising out of the ashes.
So many different people are there on a Saturday afternoon
all coming and going, it amazes you
just to see them all become one with the city.
Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Year Posted 2014
"Poetry Souper Heroes: The Sequel"
by: Eric L. Boddie
As we last saw, Anita Sharma was coming in
What's that Melody Thomas, I had to ask my friend
It's called Falling Raindrops, Kim Patrice Nunez is the singer
By German composer Kim van Breda, rumor has it she's a swinger
She lives on Lin Lane in the house where there is a Mystic Rose
Tom was a country boy, but Laura? Urbaniak I suppose
Becca Teagan walked by as we heard the sound of a gun
She then fell to the ground, oh my, what has Cherl Dunn
Soon after, officers Ian Guyler and Connie Marcum Wong pull up as the scene diminishes
All we could tell them was these are simply the Remnants Of Some Silly Experiences
She lost her job as a teacher because she told the kids, on every Paige, Reed for yourself
But when the principal fired her, who would have thought she would have taken her last breath
This was all too disturbing, Andrea Dietrich said let's go to the dance
But when we got inside all it said was Charmaine Chircop vs Casarah Nance
I said where is the dance, she said welcome to the mud fight
There's a family tag team handicap main event, Terry and Chante Reeves vs Sophiya Kamil tonight
I said will this degradation of women ever cease
And that's when Robert Stoner Jr. told Stella, "Fullard is slang for obese"
That's when Kelly Deschler came in, armed to the t, and said the violence is about to increase....
to be continued....
Copyright © eric boddie | Year Posted 2015
A mermaid who was German
Made out with her boyfriend Herman
When they got past kissing
She found something missing
No wonder : he was a merman
Copyright © Alan Draeger | Year Posted 2015
Toro was waiting anxiously at the local
dog shelter, with sad lonely eyes. He paced
back and forth, as the days passed him by.
If I wasn't a little Chihuahua, maybe they
would choose me then. I rather be a strong
German Shepherd, because they always get
picked, and my loneliness, would end.
Oh, oh some people are looking to adopt!
They are walking by my cage, oh no please,
notice me, please stop!
They walked by Toros cage, as he wept and
let out a mournful sigh. His little heart was
broken, as he was not chosen, way deep,
deep, deep inside.
He would start to tremble, from all the
rejection he felt, when he was looked upon.
No one wanted a puppy trembling, thinking he
had something wrong.
The expression, "Every dog has his day."
came into play, on this special day. My wife
Judy and I saw him shaking in his cage.
My wife said. "What's the matter honey are
you feeling cold?" She raised him up and held
him, what a happy boy!
Toro's eyes lit up like the brightest sun. His
tail was wagging, as his heartfelt pain, was
healed and gone.
My wife said, "Michael this one, I have to
have." "A wonderful choice honey." I said.
He wouldn't sit still, as he was full of
excitement, as we were taking him home. His
little heart was pounding so fast as his
anticipation had grown.
He ran out of the car like he had been here
before, and waited for us, to open the front door.
Once inside he met Saranac our cat, and
ran over to meet Lily May our terrier, my wife's
He spends his time given us his loving doggy
licks and impresses us daily with his fancy doggy
My Toro now runs around like he owns the
place. Every once in a while, he gives the
paperboy, a couple of barks and a little chase.
He follows me now wherever I go, and bites
at the flies, that fly around his nose.
Toro brings us so much joy, each and everyday.
" This is your special home, my little friend, where,
you will always stay."
Michael Tor 9/14/2015 My pet, Contest. Sponsored by Broken Wings.
Copyright © michael tor | Year Posted 2015