Best Battlefields Poems
Upon Battlefields Fallen True, Their Bloody Dead
Part I.
For Greek pride the courageous Greeks warriors bled
Upon battlefields fallen true, their bloody dead
Thus many, from Greek mothers loving hearts were torn
Raised to be Greek heroes from day they were born.
Those giants brave and true as Homer did so write
Marching, fighting both by weary day and dark night
Shields held firm, plunging deep-red sharp sword and long spears
As fighting machines bereft of concerns and fears!
Achilles and Ajax mighty killers born to be
Destined as heroes, of valiant Greek tree
Godlike power in limbs of Herculean might
As was told by Homer's tale of Troy's last great fight!
For Greek pride the courageous Greeks warriors bled
Upon battlefields fallen true, their bloody dead!
Part II.
Fallen, courageous souls fleeing blood soaked soils
Battles no longer fought, long dark veil coming down.
Cessation of Life its pleasures, its daily toils
Small tis the reward of fame and hero's renown.
Yet such better than oblivion's return to dust
As life's ending, oft the payment for warring deeds.
Sacrifices for others power, greed and lusts
War torn ground soaked from brave warriors that bleed.
What of Greek pride or mighty heroic defense
Were not some deeds worthy, justified?
Are we more than just raging savages with no sense
Was heroic sacrifice true of those that died?
Were not some deeds worthy, justified
Was heroic sacrifice true of those that died?
Robert J. Lindley, 6-04-2020
Sonnets, ( What my muse just demanded of me )
Presented from my new blog./ 6-04-2020.
Double sonnets...
As the Third Part of my ongoing Greek Mythology Series
Traveling life's murky waters,
Were these brave men.
My friends in dark jungles.
Dying for many who did not care.
Malaria and typhoid invisible enemies;
Still then, that occasional sniper bullet,
Snuffing out a life in an instant.
Fighting for country yet hated by some.
Freedom was all they tried to preserve,
While every night evil pounding helmets.
Unrelenting hatred killing one at a time;
Sometimes a dozen in one blizzard of shells.
Living in a hell on earth to protect liberty.
Seeing dead eyes of buddies seconds ago alive.
Oh to understand what terror really is;
Surrealistic death in drowning bloody color.
Brothers found de-bowled and castrated by enemy,
Bodies hanging from beautiful rain forest trees.
Life bodily fluids dripping to feed their roots,
That horror which still lives in their minds.
Flag red stripes brightened with bloodied courage;
I ask how many Americans truly realize this?
Flying Old Glory only on National Holidays,
Oh that mental pain it has caused so many soldiers.
Coming home to icy cold stares,
Murderers seen in the eyes of some Americans.
Heroes welcome buried in front pages of wrongful war;
Medals tarnished before seeing light of another day.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
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.
"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
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.
Form:
I have several young nephews
who will come over quite a bit,
I take them out on adventures
so they can get something of it.
Some folks would go to Disneyland,
go on rides that make them squeal,
that’s fine enough, but I instead
take those kids to battlefields.
Not active ones, I’m not mad,
but those ones etched in history,
am fortunate to have several
that are not that far from me.
Those boys have walked Saratoga,
where the tide of a war changed,
stood on Fort William Henry’s walls
were countless cannon balls rained.
They have seen Ticonderoga,
once key to the whole continent,
and walked the Massachusetts’ decks,
where sixteen-inch guns did vent.
They’ve watched soldiers wheel in a line,
recreating our distant past,
and seen the tools of Vietnam
with a veteran of that class.
Learned how their great grandfathers both
played their part in World War II,
that one nearby dies on Iwo,
but the shell had a faulty fuse…
That he was one of that mad bunch
who charged though those coal-black sands,
where Japanese would cry,”medic!”
then would coldly shoot a man…
Some would like them to forget,
want them to remain ignorant,
the past won’t fit their narratives,
they see it as impediment.
But those boys have to understand,
one bad day, we wouldn’t exist.
Our forefathers died for this land,
I owe it to them to persist.
They’ll know the cost of freedom is
sometimes so brutally high,
I take them to battlefields
so the truth of us will survive.
Today I am doing better and I have written a poem . One inspired by my reading a post a member made at another site I am a member of. In which a member posted a poem by Thoreau: , ....The Summer Rain....
I found the verses about Homer, Ajax and the Greeks so inspiring that I sat to write a very quick poem, one my muse insisted I give birth to.
Written inspired by this stanza in Thoreau's poem
The Summer Rain - Poem by Henry David Thoreau
" Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
If red or black the gods will favor most,
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
Struggling to heave some rock against the host."
**************************************
Upon Battlefields Fallen True, Their Bloody Dead
For Greek pride the courageous Greeks warriors bled
Upon battlefields fallen true, their bloody dead
Thus many, from Greek mothers loving hearts were torn
Raised to be Greek heroes from day they were born.
Those giants brave and true as Homer did so write
Marching, fighting both by weary day and dark night
Shields held firm, plunging deep-red sharp sword and long spears
As fighting machines bereft of concerns and fears!
Achilles and Ajax mighty killers born to be
Destined as heroes, of valiant Greek tree
Godlike power in limbs of Herculean might
As was told by Homer's tale of Troy's last great fight.
For Greek pride the courageous Greeks warriors bled
Upon battlefields fallen true, their bloody dead!
Robert J. Lindley, 6-26-2019
Sonnet, ( What my muse just demanded of me )
Written inspired by this stanza in Thoreau's poem
The Summer Rain - Poem by Henry David Thoreau
" Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
If red or black the gods will favor most,
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
Struggling to heave some rock against the host."
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