Best Battle Lines Poems
We read about the slaughter in a place far overseas,
where the multicultural blending has been there for centuries.
Where church of all denominations have been standing side by side.
Where neighbours have been neighbourly; respect seemed to abide.
Seems that politics and power can infiltrate a settled mind;
dig up and open wounds of what is yours and what is mine,
take citizens back into time and drag out all their roots …
be wary of your ogre neighbour, they have a gun that shoots.
Begin to see those simple folk who lived their simple lives,
follow restlessly and blindly as belief or race revives,
those that helped them yesterday really had a cunning plan,
all they really wanted was, to find a way to cut you down.
Throw them all out on the streets; run them out of town.
Ethnic cleanse the country to make it pure and sound.
If they refuse to leave our home and opt to make a stand -
build a force of vigilantes, to roam and cut them down.
What started as a trickle soon turns into a flood.
The cup that fills with honey can also be filled with blood.
The taste that once was bitter now is the taste that's lusted for,
when seeking out the enclaves to go killing more and more.
A house, once a home of peace stands a shattered monument,
to let the remnants hanging on know what to expect.
Heads displayed on pikes are cheered; graves hold hundreds more.
Babes are sport for bayonets; forgot is what we're fighting for.
Can't live side by side now; there's too much terror going on.
Battle lines are clearer; the sane have taken leave and gone.
Cannons roaring day and night; lines must stand holding fast.
For anyone that's over-run, that day becomes their last.
When the dust has settled and the criminals are hung,
Hate subsides back to the memory; the clean-up has begun.
Do we realize as bloodstains fade; we have a deep rooted call …
needing one spark to set us off - there could be murder in us all.
Walk does he not the specter of death,
His saith raised high, even he himself has had
Enough killing, on the battlefield of Gettysburg,
Satan screams, stop sons of men, truly war
Is hell on earth.
Time's spiritual voices cry out, as the wind
Blows through the tall over grow grasses,
Of this Pennsylvanian State park.
Injured spirits, roam as phantom soldiers,
Seeking salvation's reprieves preservation,
From their damnation.
On the Devil's Den reddened rock, centuries
Still stand guard, knelling sharp shooters,
Fire at will, as the drummers beat, at rhythm’s
Death march.
Gun powers burnt smell fills the air,
As the loud canons echo in the distance,
Mayhem's discord has left destruction's
Bloodshed, these numbers estimation
Of flesh and bone, are guessed yet it's
Resolution unknown.
Blown are the horns of Calvary’s call,
Reinforcement’s sacred hesitating for aid,
But none come to it's deadening's sounding.
Mourn do the orphan's of war, in their fathers
Name, so they do weep in sorrow remembrance.
A war-ravaged companion, lead by freedom
Seekers, the end to release bondage’s salves,
Stain our great country with it's own blood.
Brother against brother, two flags of belief
Striking each other, north vs the south,
Behold it was the American Civil War.
A revolutionary uprising of idealism,
That all man have the right to be free,
And live without the chains of oppression.
It is in this haunted place, at cemetery ridge,
That the final battle lines are marked in
Bloods deadliest charge ahead.
Many souls still serve here, never shall
They know the light of peace.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Since we can't even reason to reach a logical conclusion
For this is not that season but the one filled with delusion
With the battle lines so worn and each side well dug in
All of this just to be born, I just think it is all such a sin
So in trying another way I simply call out to your heart
As for which I now pray that this will be just the start
To see things through your heart in not using the mind
Emotions from a different part that you rarely ever find
For what if it was you, and tomorrow was your last day
What could you possibly do if you had absolutely no say
All of the time you were given all of the days you have seen
Days that you wouldn't have been living if you know what I mean
But tomorrow will be your last, and you'll be missed nonetheless
Taken by the very vote you cast as now it all seems such a mess
Tonight I will be praying for you as I will also be doing tomorrow
We both know it's true that's why in our hear,t we feel such sorrow
God and The Devil sat counter
over whiskey at the boardroom table,
to negotiate the terms of her surrender;
no real surrender materialised,
but the battle-lines were re-drawn,
albeit imperceptibly so.
The value of the chattel
will not be agreed,
the meaning of defeat
almost as meaningless as winning,
but for the stroking of the battered ego,
chattel’s value unknown.
I sat with God and The Devil
at the blood-stained boardroom table,
they specified the terms of my surrender
and erased the day of my resistance;
the surrender was real and assured,
I haven’t heard from them since.
23rd January 2019
she reaches behind the smokescreen
of her sunken eyed curtain veils
films of tears void of translucence
stoke reminiscent ashes that trace
another blinding thick-skinned defeat
hidden by camouflage and smears
touched up campaigns of bravery
her retinas a web of hallucinations
illusion delusion cataracts and dreams
stirred but not entirely shaken as
she reaches for another glass to empty
while numbness mixes with mirages
of victory over hits and misses
on battle lines of reconstruction
a palisade and shield from truth
her sentience slips into severance
from memories epiphanies and falls
from grace as she applauds the circus clown
and crazy court jester she became to be
in sadness badness insanity while
holding on to fragmented shards
screeching on the palette of many
a brush with fate curses and agony
she is a survivor of abuse and violence
exploitation and deliberate transgressions
and reaches deeply into her resolve
to allocate anger to where it belongs
instead of blaming her own kindness
she lifts the olive branch closer
to her tumbler spits out the hemlock
and trusts that tears will dry
once excoriations have dried up
until then she is not the drunkard
she is made out to be by sycophants
and hypocrites who spiked her
drink of life but merely coping
for the moment and longing for solutions
29th July 2021
"Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts keep my drooping eyelids open wide."
~ Shakespeare's Sonnet 27
Often, when my body craves nothing more than sleep
my mind wanders in gardens where thoughts take root.
I ponder why the fervor of poetic ideas flicker and seep
into my psyche as if I must follow the Pied Piper's flute.
I cannot stifle the waterfall's cascading inspirations
for the palpitations of my pulse cannot staunch the flow.
A chorus of whispered voices begs me to take notations,
not to be forgotten before dawn's pink skies begin to glow.
I've failed to silence the visitors with burgeoning verses.
Their Sonnet seeds are planted with end rhymes in a row.
There's no ignoring their demands with my abusive curses.
I wonder how I might convince them to be quiet and go.
Once, I tried counting sheep, but I heard fairytale lines
drifting over a fence in my head, and meowing of a cat.
I tried to drown them out with music but in the confines
of my sleepy mind, lyrics came flying at me like a bat!
I'm not amused when my muse tells me I'm being lazy.
On reflection, I must speculate that she's the instigator.
I tell her to go away. I can't write when my mind is hazy.
She mumbles words I cannot hear. Why do I tolerate her?
I've given this bane, this insane lack of sleep some thought
Usually, I refuse to give in to ponderings and stay in bed.
Battle lines were drawn, and though vigilantly I have fought,
if I'm to sleep, I will surrender and write what's in my head.
Sunlit porch dimmed by the sensation
Your alluring gloom, my fascination
Stark battle lines within me divided
The siren call of self-degradation
Serpent and preacher wrestling inside
Moving feet kill the negotiation
Ah, to circle your star’s periphery
Feel your dying light irradiate me
Drawn ever down by fell gravity
It chains me deep within my core
Snuffing out cool light of purity
A decaying orbit evermore
Light consumed by the fascination
Dank air, charred fragrance of damnation
Our baleful destiny is quickening
Eyes lock, ineluctable fixation
Within my throat, it rises, sickening
Yearning for ebony immolation
Entangled by the melodrama
Of this dying star’s miasma
In its final desperate brilliance
Inexorably rendering my heart
Falling, falling, for the killing
As the black hole pulls it apart
Deep in me swells her dark radiance
Cry desperate plea to other luminance
Every atom screaming temptation
Sweet agony of impending corruption
Yet it cracks with frosty hesitation
My supernova of self-destruction
Roaring deafness to echoing silence
Cold, vacant throne of inner tyrant
Flame of wayward desire’s treachery
Quenched by inscrutable mystery
Deepest soul plea answered, leaving me
Just cold embers of pitch black memory
6/1/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
Great strength lies in emotions that bind
even in those we'd rather leave behind.
We cannot break free from what we feel
yoked by sentiments that once were real.
By fate, destiny, or through circumstance,
there is no release from love's eternal dance.
By stepping on toes, battle lines are drawn
verbal weapons used in a marital marathon.
No cries for mercy will ever set us free
tethered by chains in arrested custody.
A steep price we pay for falling in love
the blood spilled from a wounded dove.
Memory ropes tied in knots hold fast
for millenniums of time they will last
salted cheeks from rivers of tears wept
fallen leaves in hearts cannot be swept.
We can hold a key that opens a lock,
stop the hands from moving on a clock,
but try as we might, we will never find
freedom from emotional ties that bind.
Along the many battle lines, lie bodies scattered so
For war had raged, taking men, and boys that had to go
As officers and leaders stayed behind, to make for them a choice
The men who loyally followed them, all screamed with bloody voice
“Through the mud, dodging the fire, explosions now surround
We fight for you oh country, through loyalty we’re bound
We’ll never pull any punches; we’ll fight with all our might
Rest assured, for you, dear country, we will die or live to fight”
But, to the very many, that suffer injury and pain
Those that come back to us, some will never walk again
The loyalty they demonstrated, through battle on the field
Is the very type of loyalty we Americans should wield
Too many of our fighting men, suffer gravely, suffering loss
They truly are our heroes, they’ve paid their vital cost
So we shouldn’t turn upon them or away from them this day
We owe them more, so very much and we should now repay
Tug and pull
Spit and spat.
The battle lines
Have been drawn.
This war will be over.
Before the next dawn.
“Stop!”, She shrieks
Loud and eerie
Her eyes full of tears
And very bleary.
How can I choose a side.
How can I fight in a war,
I did not start.
Each side
A worthy cause.
The narration of each story.
Make you swing from side to side.
Stop! This battle can’t be won.
I declare each side wins.
All be it by half.
Invisible figures moving in the mists of time,
Hidden female phantoms, masters of the wilderness
Wild, blending in as chameleons, they are the unseen.
Legend's cryptic tribe.
Maidens veiled beneath mysteries coverlet’s of beauty,
Vanishing, as if a vapors mystic dream, created by ancient
Historic mythology.
But nay the Amazons, were fierce fighting warriors,
Battle hardened women, whom lived by the basic instincts.
Of survival and honor.
Unbridled by the whims of society, no chains bondage,
Could restrain their desire to be free from mans law.
Liberation's winds moistened their lips, and inflated
The lungs of these warrior women.
Nomads raised on the theology, that man are inferior creatures,
To be used as beasts of burden, or at leisure’s pleasure,
Nothing more.
Skilled in the art of war, renowned for courage’s
Unyielding voracity, armored maidens of legend,
And for raw endurance’s strength of will.
Blow the golden horn of victory's challenge,
As the ancient archer thus thread's her bow,
In anticipation of the battle to begin.
Drawn swords at the ready, do you not
Hear their ancestral cry to arms, take
No prisoners alive.
Shield maidens whom answer to know man,
But only the Gods themselves,
Behold they are the Amazons.
Shoulder to shoulder, and back to back,
Shields raised glistening in the sun.
The battle lines are drawn in history,
A fierce fighting force by all accounts
Renowned, to legacy's ancient passage,
For all women to be proud of generations
Forward to come, remember their battle hymn.
Freedom sisters, can you not taste it's
Flavor of liberation, carried on destiny's
Four winds, I'll raise my cup in tributes
Honor unto them, known as the Amazons.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
That day the army came to our village
And ravaged every part of it with terror
I held my baby sister, blood soaked,as she took her last breath
Dad died in the battle lines trying to protect our family
Mother and my two brothers managed to escape
I was recruited into the army with many other boys my age
Eventually I got up the ranks of a captain
I still fight the war that I don't understand, I still fight the war that's me
August 20 2015
I found an old, worn box
Inside my antique dining hutch
It was filled with yellowed paper
Greeting cards and such
The envelopes were dated back
To nineteen thirty-nine
From far and wide in that December
On the eve of Christmas time
The tattered pages, worn so thin
That I could scarcely read
Were filled with warmest wishes
Not a hint of modern greed
Although ornate with pressed gold-leaf
The simple cards were dear
And time rolled back as they revealed
The climate of that year
When thunder over Europe
Hinted of what was in store
I do not speak of weather
But the coming of the War
The letter sent from Scotland
Was the most remarkable
It spoke how fear of Hitler
Even then was palpable
The longhand note from Glasgow
Spoke of bombings in the night
And prayers that their loved ones
In the field would be alright
Holidays away from home
Soldiers going off to serve
Hoping when it mattered
They could summon up the nerve
How far have we come since then…
Has it been so very long?
Is the cause more “right” than it was then
Or is it still just as "wrong"?
Whichever side you stand today
On the battle lines of war
Remember that you’re free to say
Just what you stand up for
*Note:
I found these notes and letters while I was cleaning out clutter last Saturday. I don't know
how they got in my house, but I am thankful for the precious perspective that they offer. I
will keep the letters in a safe place until I know with whom I should leave them. Thanks for
reading! Donna
It was on a cloudy morning
The sun restrained from bursting forth
The hordes of hell were let loosed
And the battle lines eventually drawn
The lamb that was slain
Before the foundation of the earth appeared
Being led to be slaughtered
Thirty nine cruel lashes was he given
With deep wounds and blood all over Him
A thorn of sin on His head like a crown
All for my gain
There was nothing majestic about Him
Nothing to really attract us to Him
Yet it was this pain that liberated us
From bondage to bondship with Christ
Hell to co- heirs with Christ
It was indeed your pain my gain
© Adeola Abimbola
I got this confusion,
I simply cannot sleep
My heart is aching badly,
but I found no reason to weep
A news from the men in the front line
That the war is near to ending,
Yet nobody can ascertain
which side is going to win
I pray for the brave men
To be home soon alive and safe
A sound sleep for their children
They left home before bed
I feed them with the hopes
That their daddies will win the fight
They'll be back if not the morrow
Maybe after the next three nights.
I am a yellow bastard
Who refused to join the rest
Of their effort to gain freedom
While their own lives are at risk.
I can see the shame on my face
I can taste my own disgrace
My way of self-redemption
Is to wish our men all safe.
Date & Time of Writing
August 11, 2007
1:11am - 1:53am
A bit of history:
Lt. Gen. George S. Patton, at that time the commander of the Seventh
U.S. Army (but he was more popular as the commander of the Third U.S.
Army towards the war's end), visited a military hospital in Sicily on
Aug. 3, 1943. He walked past the beds of wounded soldiers, asking them
about their injuries. Coming to the bed of a soldier who lacked visible
signs of injury, Patton inquired about his health.
The soldier, 18-year-old Pvt. Charles H. Kuhl, had been initially
diagnosed as having a case of psychoneurosis. He told the General that
he couldn't mentally handle the battle lines. "It's my nerves," he said.
"I can hear the shells come over but I can't hear them burst."
Patton, so enraged, slapped Kuhl across the face and called him a "Yellow Bastard".