Best Battle Scarred Poems
It is a dazzling display of brilliance, this conglomeration of constellations from different skies above as many different seas. I look at them, and feel the spark within my being. So, like a wounded soldier from the battlefield of life, I take little tentative steps, slowly but surely getting back the hang of walking with my poetic words after having been paralyzed for years. Gentle souls warmly welcome and offer as crutch a kind note or two, and not a few offer a glass of their own wise concoction when my throat and thoughts seem dry.
a little star blinks
with millions in milky way ~
words flow from a quill
I start having fun and develop new friendships, and as my own unsure steps strengthen with each passing day I continue to soak and absorb the light from the sun and glow from the moon and stars thousands of miles away. I realize that in this artworld no less than the creator has pioneered and trailblazed by the masters of years past, there is a place for all who dares to put down thoughts, fantasies and dreams in words and puts them out there to share with everyone.
fledgling butterfly
hitched a wagon to the stars ~
words form into poems
A lesson this experience brings me is that with all the glitter emanating from each brilliant star there lies within a heart battle scarred, just like me… some maybe more than others. Those golden stardusts are but byproducts of myriad encounters common to this life’s journey. If one finds herself in the trail of a hurtling comet, one should not be dismayed, but get out of the way for it is nothing personal. Odd but true, that sometimes it is the comet’s panacea for the pain nature has ordained. However, so long as I do not set out to cause undue disruption in someone’s sky travel, I should not allow the comet, or any star for that matter, to dictate my direction. I have my own path to tread.
stars come out at night
brighter after a wild storm ~
poems take new brilliance
13 November 2015
Creative Haibun Contest
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
He's used to war, he fights real hard,
He's a soldier, he's battle scarred.
The enemy is weak, there is nothing to fear,
His compassion is gone, he has no tears.
He was taught well, was taught how to kill,
He's done it so much, it's lost it's thrill.
He no longer feels bad, when the enemy dies,
Tears don't come any more to his tired eyes.
In the beginning it was against his will,
But he soon broke down, and got used to kill.
Never thinking that his foe, was also just a man,
Like him with a family, doing the best he can.
He cannot have feelings, for anyone,
But then, for a moment, he thinks of his son.
He wants to go home, but it's not time yet,
So he goes back to a war, that he wants to forget.
Next day on the beach, on his tour of duty,
Lies a child's body, on the coast of Turkey.
He cannot believe what he sees with his own eyes,
A cute little boy, with no signs of life.
Lying face down, right there on the sand,
He picks him up, with his big strong hands.
And when he saw that there was no hope,
The soldier realized he could not cope.
He shuddered deeply...letting out a sigh,
And that's when...the soldier cried.
Now the whole world mourns that little boy,
Many children elsewhere, receive another toy.
Yes, people stand by, while these refugees die,
Some see the news and say, please...pass the pie.
John Derek Hamilton September 04,2015
He has learned to earn joy from paying sorrow's fee
He has learned to turn and fight and never to flee
He has unloosed the burden of false royalty
Cast off at low-tide to be swept out to sea
His bended back straightens to a minute degree
He walks a bit taller, a better man to be
With nothing to lose now, with no guarantee
A battle-scarred prince bows to one shaky knee
At last feeling worthy to request it of thee
To slip on your slipper, it fits, you will see
We wander through so many gardens,
doting robins, ignoring the crows.
Our personal oasis is an unfinished poem.
Plastic flowers may last longer, but their dead scent,
cannot compare to freesia and frangipani.
In fading grey sunset,
I crumble, crouching in musk air.
An arch frame with withered wood skin
and paint peeling in need of black dye,
but still Shalimar honeysuckle wraps like a quilt,
weaving around amber roses and velvet clematis.
Battle scarred thorns may stick and prick
these gangly timber legs, but each blemish
is soothed from butterflies floating from petal to petal.
In speeding winds I rock like an armchair,
helpless to save cherry blossoms falling,
creating a carpet of pink upon flakes of green.
Knotweeds sneak through a resurfaced pebble path,
but my dandelion heart seems fond of its purple tint.
Midnight raindrops sting like sake,
but I know dawn will bring bright blue skies.
Color Coquelicot
Blazing Coquelicot
paints famed Flanders Field Poppies
on battle-scarred land.
Honored too on coat lapels...
war symbol of remembrance.
Sandra M. Haight
~NA~
Premiere Contest: Kim's Color Splash
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Judged: 07/14/2017
Rules: Write a Tanka or other brief poem using an unusual color choice along with a flower, plant, or tree
Coquelicot, (coque·li·cot) originally another word for Poppy,
and is the flower's orange tinted red color.
Listen to pronunciation here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5nR1X-QT1Y
In the spring of 1915, shortly after losing a friend in Ypres, a Canadian doctor, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae was inspired by the sight of poppies growing in war-torn fields to write a now famous poem called 'In Flanders Fields'. After the First World War, the poppy was adopted as a symbol of Remembrance.
Thus I sail the sacrificial scabrous seas and touch tormented tides
Battle-scarred in the breeze and washed ashore where evil hides
The Sun regrettably retreats where malice mortals digressively dare
Walking barren saliferous streets where I live on a penniless prayer
The citadels of submission crucially crumble where they saintly stand
In their unholy cognition you are a slave to their carnivorous command
Embedded in stone my tangential tears will endure beyond the grave
Bludgeoned to the brutal bone by the unlawful carnal knowledge knave
Lost in oblivion my blood runs calamitously cold by the river's edge
Beware the Ophidian with sabotaging scales leaving you on the ledge
Deceivers of the realm punitive penetrators connivers as they clutch
They manipulate and overwhelm with their torturous tender touch.
Let's stop the abuse...and spread the real love
Aug.01.2017
Let's talk about it
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
1 original, poem on the theme of abuse, emotional, sexual or physical.
Any form is acceptable.
Fall the night upon me dark
Naked born this journey embark
Of friend or foe as yet unknown
Time will tell in deeds be shown
In shadow times when virtue fades
Within a soul love does degrade
All around in greed and pain
A girded heart with taut refrain
Fall the night upon me dark
Tend this weak eternal spark
Battle scarred and scarlet stain
Upon this hallowed ground remain
With armor pierced, I’m battle scarred
For enemies swords had struck their mark
Though weary, I, I raised my sword
To continue fighting in the dark
The battle started hours before
Fighting strong, with me, heroic men
Yet, common men with noble hearts
For mother land, they now defend
No formal training, nor fighting skills
But, armed with will and make shift swords
These men of honor fought for right
For losing homes, they can’t afford
I, their leader, their chosen one
Selected for strength and outward pride
Am honored to fight aside these men
Else, not fighting at all, I shall have died
Our homes and family are what we are
The marks of us men are lineage and land
We go into battle, each as a boy
To come from the battle, each as a man
One day, I went for a forest walk feeling sad,
there was a great heaviness in my heart;
I could not even express why I felt so bad,
but, I think my life was falling apart.
Soon, I came upon a gentle slow flowing stream
where a majestic old oak tree stood guard
I looked at the old tree like I was in a dream
oh, it seemed that a hundred birds- I heard
The ancient tree seemed to be thousands of years old
twisting gnarled branches were covered in moss
it was humbling and beautiful to behold
branches grew upwards and stretched wide across
Some branches fell into the ground then grew again
it was battle scarred from many a storm
and gave me such strength I said a prayer, amen
I lay beneath for hours and felt so warm
There was a peace within me that was uplifting
if this old oak tree can survive the years
then, why can I not send my pain and grief drifting
so, beneath this tree I let go of tears
__________________________
May 2, 2020
Poetry/Rhyme/Peace and Tranquility
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1248-208-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Submitted to Brian's Choice 1
sponsor, Brian Strand
Third Place
The once sleek lines of this defender of the nation
Now rusting and tired in a forgotten heap.
Where once it braved angry storms and gunfire
Now defeated by little more than dripping rain
This once brave warrior, fearless in the fray
Lies impotent now a forgotten shell
Rotten timbers are it’s gravestone
It’s victories little more than a distant memory
Time and again it charged the enemy
Time and again it pounded against angry shores
Caring not for itself it battled for others
On those distant shores of Normandy.
Far from home yet for itself it cared not a jot
Through thunder shot and fire it pounded ever onwards.
Battle scarred and weary it turned for home
Still fighting on through dark angry waves.
Once in safe harbour it’s burdens released
It’s job done, it’s battles all won
For Stormbreaker now it’s days were all gone
Retired to the scrapyard a pile of old junk.
©Michael Birchmore 2013
>For twenty-one years I was an Inspector in the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, although it is more easy to say the RSPCA. A love of animals has never left me and of course who am I to deny them a few poems. This one I did forward to my old headquarters. Someone read it and thought it was, 'very good.' Praise indeed.
This is a poem story, about a cat named Thomas.
Thomas was a black cat, a full tom still yet.
As his flipping owner, took him not to a vet.
Thomas was a full tom, he had fights like that.
But his flipping owner, took him not to the vet.
In time he stunk the house out, as his scent he did spray.
As his flipping owner, took him not to the vet.
Always he did wander, fighting other cats galore.
Looking for a female, with whom he hoped to score.
As his flipping owner, took him not to the vet.
Then one day he returned home, tired and battle scarred.
But his flipping owner, took him not to the vet
He was so sick one day, a man in dark did call.
Thomas tried to run away, but was caught in the hall.
As his flipping owner, took him not to the vet.
Thomas was taken away, by someone from the RSPCA.
And that was when, I can say Thomas saw the vet that day.
Thomas was examined, his wounds were dressed you know.
And he lost his manhood, they really had to go.
Thomas got a new home, now he is full of fun.
Does not need to wander, fight, then have to run.
Thomas well that's his name, don't know what it was before.
Now I must go I hear a scratch, it's Thomas at my door.
I have now adopted him, from the RSPCA.
And as he now looks at me, I've one thing left to say.
As I am now his new owner and if he does not look well.
I'll take him to the flipping vets, even if he does meow.
I realize on BBC News there was some confusion about calling a British veterinary surgeon a vet, there being confusion with a veteran from the forces. This is not the case as almost 50 years ago we were calling our veterinary surgeon's vets for short. Incidentally I was actually a veteran myself then, so young. My how time passes. (TmA)<
Happy we pals of battalions from villages born of love
And sweet tender mercies, unlike here entrenched
With the foe. Grey mists on the horizon, silhouetted hove
Of sallow composition; subdued and drenched.
Between us, in 'no man's land' a barren waste
Of limbs stacked high, orchestrating the way
Of death, foreshadowing yet even still the taste
To come, and soon; at the break of day.
Our friends, fathers, uncles and brothers
In arms; cleaving the ground of crimson red
Left on the battle scarred plains, with their mother's
Voices ringing out, as bells that toll the dead.
Then slowly faint whispers are heard amidst the grave
Of brown and grey. "Is that you John!Bill! Fred?"
"Is that you Hans!Jurgen!Emil!"? You the brave
Who fell, still living amongst the dead.
The shroud of death that covers distempered cries
Now lifting as both find their heroes of cause.
And naked transgression remains; signature of lies
And deceit; like whores showing no remorse.
The Woman Stands By The Wall
… knowing No Harm Shall Pass Thru
It is Strong … Made of Stone and Tall
A Constructed, Marvel – True …
The Woman Places By The Wall …
… a Basket of Hopes and Dreams
She knows, No Creepy Creature Can Crawl
Past This Foundation, as Deep as the Seas …
And The Wall Reaches to Destinies Un-Shown
Long Distance, Soaring Sure and Straight
So, the Woman can Lean Upon
and Rest on This Journey So Great
The Woman Stays By The Wall
The Wall Blocks Out Horrible Views
And Screams and Things Too Evil To Call…
… She Never Wants To Go Over You …
The Woman Holds Onto The Wall
Admiring Its Fortitude, Its Texture
And Tho’ Her Hands May Be Small
She Will Attempt to Respectfully Measure
… This Reliable, Wonderful-Wall
Stands Built, for Her Pretty Protection
So, This Battle-Scarred-Wall, Will Not Fall…
… from Her Supporting, Adoring, Affection
For God, Took Away Her Prayer-Shawl 1 Cor. 11: 5
as She Marched, Under Heavenly-Protocol
and Master-Builder, Chose This One Over Them All
to Be Her Outstanding, Warrior-Wall !
… The Woman and The Wall …
Humpty Dumpty, it was not his real name,
A nom de guerre that brought widespread fame.
He played a court jester, amusing the king,
To act the buffoon, and sometimes he'd sing.
But when the king's castle, became under siege,
He pledged his fealty, only unto his liege.
While masquerading as a very large egg,
He secreted inside it, a gunpowder keg.
Then he sat on the battlements, on top of the wall,
Inviting the roundheads to cause him to fall.
Avoiding all slings and the arrows,of impending fate,
He raised both arms in triumph, to celebrate.
Faking demise, played out as if wounded pride,
Head first down the buttress, he started to slide.
The egg broke on impact, but Humpty had gone,
And there on the moat, appeared as a graceful white swan.
As the enemy charged, each claiming the prize,
Humpty had left them with a great big surprise.
An empty egg shell that was all battle scarred.
And a gunpowder keg, his secret petard.
With a flash it exploded, in a cloud of blue smoke,
When the dust settled down, the castle siege had been broke.
They searched for their hero, without one single trace,
But in truth , the king and his jester had big smiles on their face.
7/ 5/ 2018.
On These Plains I Lay
White fire and heat, blinding light, blinding bright.
Shot down on these plains,
My soldiers, My warriors,
Fading from my sight.
Battle lost? Battle won?
Battered men, moaning in the morning sun.
I believe I am dying,
Not too old, definitely too young.
Fading. Now floating.
Moving forward to the light.
A pull on my cloak.
My eyes closed, but open to this sight,
of a man in kilt,
Arm outstretched to mine.
I reach for his hand, battle scarred
for all time.
My eyes closed and still,
but I see his face clear.
I know this man. I fought this man.
Still he calls me near.
"James" he beckons.
"Its Charles of Culloden, the man you spared."
"In the moor,
on the field in Scotland".
Indeed I did,
this Jacobite I spared,
This wounded Fraser,
laid down in despair.
Cumberland's' order gave no dignity,
Gave no honour,
to this brave Scot.
He was not my fodder.
Why are you here,
my mind speaks in silence.
This "Fraser" replies,
Men of honour have earned this quietness.
Walk with me, to our God, to our Saviour.
Pay no heed to this battle.
You have fought. You have died,
with honour and with favour.
Come to heaven and stand with pride.
Your life distinguished, and now time to rest,
beside our saviour.
By His side.
I reach out to grasp,
this Jacobite Fraser.
He holds me, and comforts me,
on our way to heaven,
on our way to our Saviour.
And now I rest.
Graham Alexander Devenish