Best Battlegrounds Poems
I THINK THEREFORE I AM
"An ounce of hypocrisy is worth
a pound of ambition" --Michael Korda
Liberty...
This everyone's want--
stretching an autonomy to unbuckle self-discovery
I got mites and bugs living in my head--
infesting my mind. They... daring a chance
to worm my guts and electrify my peace.
They adulterate seeking ways to emerge
from claws of doubts to grains of trust.
My veil of grace they bite and bite
devouring me 'til I set to pursue my act.
Should I repulse...
then spread my wings to fly?
or should I be a little puppet--
controlled, slave to strings attached to me?
or I'd rather choose a mask--
my gamble to earn sympathy or popularity;
my weapon sheltering my luck;
my fall or my win?
Cogito ergo sum.
I think, therefore I am.
The mites and bugs in my skull blown
from shocks infused by my firing drive.
My cavalry of Modesty, brave to rise
face the furnace of battlegrounds.
Insincerity. Malingering. Pretension
are artillaries luring hypocrisy
but love, honesty and bravery:
the bombs I defy to conquer the trades.
If God is with me, who can be against me?
Standing like a Molave
rooted evergreen, ever strong.
My face bulletproof
to those who I believe wrong.
A standing soldier ready to offer her life
to fraud and tyranny.
I refuse to be fed on standing lies.
The harpoons of verity, I battling dart,
raining towards the barbaric boxes as they...
They are my lioness roar, my freedom and my soar
piercing the pumping heart of those who eat innocence,
I... dauntless!
_________________________________________________
** I think therefore I am is said by Rene Descartes
Romans 8:31-- If God is with us, who can be against us?
O. E. Guillermo
10:43 pm, April 18, 2015
Categories:
battlegrounds, character, how i feel,
Form:
Free verse
Death and Forlorn Time in the Shadows of True Evil
Death and Time holdeth onto eerie and most frightening shadows
Whilst pervading deeply within that infernal region where the dark
Evil and uncanny mists occlude the terrifying presence of a great
Dark Doomsday cult of vicious and horrifying beasts that are now
Perpetuated from a putrid Hellspawn by Lucifer’s own command!
Corrupted with the presence of sacrilegious beasts of true violence
Who hate all aspects of humankind with their spirit of maleficence,
And wince not whilst decapitating the heads of those who disagree
With them, and creating a mindless havoc of unparalleled tragedy
That’s become an expected, sad occurrence of Mankind writ large!
Brandishing a razor-sharp, coal-black-blade is their evil incarnation,
Of a time, that’s totally indicative of their chaotic rampage of bloody
Burning attacks as battlegrounds are drawn into an eternal darkness,
From whence there may be no return since there’s a dark, blood-red
Poison, from the dark afterlife, in which every drop of blood is toxic!
Every drop of this spilt blood-red poison has a deadly demonic aroma,
That produces nasty swarms of ravenous locusts to torment all innocent
Victims caught between the machinations of Almighty God and Lucifer.
In this reality, these evil spirits cast their malevolent spells without any
Scruple, wishing for Mankind’s swift destruction by Lucifer himself!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – November 24, 2017
(Quintain)
Categories:
battlegrounds, dark, evil, fantasy, horror,
Form:
Quintain (English)
Daybreak and I've managed
it again, putting myself
together from all the parts
left strewn across my sleep.
I seem to fit into myself
so well, a glance in the mirror
confirms the features and shape
look right. Some days I may
get the sequence a little wrong,
a trait or attribute placed
out of order, noticed when
I appear a trifle vague
or far away, a touch eccentric.
Then there are times when
I cannot clear my head of dream
and feel as though I'm counterfeit,
a clever glaze concealing
what is really there.
Strip everything away and I am
no bigger than an atom, too small
to be noticed, much less heard.
So I play my role with all
the usual artistry, keep appointments,
be polite, do the chores and listen.
The rest is too hard to explain.
I've learnt that at such times
it's easier to just stay silent.
Finally I go to bed exhausted
wondering whether you
invented me or I invented you,
drifting off to be scattered again
across the battlegrounds of sleep.
I would like to think I am
not alone but rather unaware,
a precious part of something
infinitely bigger, looking at itself
mirrored in creation and finding
how everything, including me,
fits so well together.
Categories:
battlegrounds, creation, identity, self,
Form:
Free verse
How long are eight minutes
it's centuries-old
rusted chains
clamped to throats
whips burn-in flesh
criss-cross scars
Bodies tossed overboard
spoiled cargo
sold commodities
left hanging on trees
fresh scents
for the dogs to chase
Bones of the dead
buried beneath slave walls
after crows
have plucked out their eyes
The death of eight hundred thousand
the price of the word freedom
whispered in the North
never spoken in the South
left to vanish
in blood-soaked battlegrounds
Spit on, beaten, go away
no votes allowed
not this water fountain
not this restaurant
not this seat
How long are eight minutes
long enough to end injustice
long enough to break the racial divide
long enough for a brave heart to have acted
long enough a cruel heart grew in its cruelty
long enough not to breathe
long enough to murder, unconcerned
long enough for understanding to be born
long enough to finally be heard
6/7/20
inspired by Richard's contest
not for contest
Categories:
battlegrounds, america, change, cry, discrimination,
Form:
Free verse
The Ancient Odyssey of clubs to bombs
from red ochre handprints on cave walls
to the destroyer of worlds
is a long-traveled road with the wormy flesh of war
and blood-soaked fields
where wailing tears of Mothers fall endlessly upon the Earth
as footprints vanish from battlegrounds over and over
and barriers are built to hide behind
leaving silent confusion standing as sentinels
guarding the internal workings of the soul
that clamor in times of plenty
and hide in times of hate
locked in the mortal human shell
pacing back and forth in prisons of their fears
finding man has not changed
trapped by bridled thinking from the past
frightened by new worlds, new faces
whose dreams become nightmares
trampled on by those who've become mummified flesh
dressed in cloth ranting in unison
believing in things that exist only in their minds
like ghostly shadowed imagined images
as they travel through the portal of time
creating new battlefields, where flies and crows feast
on the dead
before their names are etched in stone
covered over a thousand times by new fields, new stones
in a continuous thread
from red ochre hands to the destroyer of worlds
Categories:
battlegrounds, perspective,
Form:
Free verse
The haunting strains of "Ashokan Farewell" keep racing thro' my brain.
'Tis a fitting requiem for those who bore the agonizing pain,
Of bidding a sad farewell at many a humble cabin door,
As young men were called to serve in the American Civil War.
Its poignant theme wafts as a gentle zephyr o'er the countless graves,
Of gallant men who faced Death's Scythe in unfaltering waves.
Men who wore either blue or gray and unselfishly gave their all,
Lie sleeping 'neath hallowed soil awaiting Gabriel's triumphant call.
Each time I hear those mournful chords played on the violin,
Tho' 'tis decades later, I feel melancholy for grieving next-of-kin,
And for their heroes left upon the field of strife, lonely, bereft, forlorn;
"Ashokan Farewell" is a sad lament for those who were left behind to mourn.
Every time I hear that tune, I'm reminded and left to wonder,
Why brothers tore this nation, this beacon of hope, asunder.
Thanks to one man's vision and unshakeable resolve,
A united and stronger nation would once again evolve.
Antietam, Bull Run, Manassas, Spotsylvania, Gettysburg,
Fort Sumpter, Shiloh and the formidable bluffs of Vicksburg;
O'er these now peaceful battlegrounds, once ravaged by shot and shell,
At eventide can be faintly heard, the solemn dirge of "Ashokan Farewell."
Categories:
battlegrounds, poetry, sad, time,
Form:
Rhyme
Crisp…Crisp the night!
‘Pon cheeks as white as snow
Crazy quilt of rimed patterns
Limned upon the window
Soft…soft the lacy flakes!
Each one unique and new
Blanket o’er land and lakes
Winter’s take on dew
Games…games of Fox and Hound!
Pristine drifts of frosting
Turned into frigid battlegrounds with
Brief truces for time defrosting
Steam…cottony steam!
Wool mittens too near the flame
Cold stiff fingers, white as cream
Toes frozen from the game
Quiet…Winter quiet! (shhhh)
Sounds muffled by the fluff
Of snow so deep not e’en a peep
Can struggle up through the stuff
Smoke…writhing smoke!
Reaching for the sky
Chimneys breathing, tendrils weaving
Rising with a sigh
Winter…cold, cold hard winter!
Makes Summer wishes come to light
Til icicles fall, shatter and splinter
…Tis crisp…crisp the night!!!…
Categories:
battlegrounds, snow, winter,
Form:
Ode
Dear Poetic War
I'm here to inform you to change your name to (War Shoe.)
Warlock doesn't even fit you!
I have many ways to insult you.
I have to play nice, can't you see all them evil eyes!
Poetic Warshoe the only talent you poses is the word LOCK!
No need to try and crush what you can not see
All you are is another loser who can't let me be.
You silly jail bird, you sound more like a game of Monopoly
Its my turn and I hold your ticket to get out of jail for free.
Don't worry Warlock, Board Walk is owned by me.
Washing your couplets down with a cup of tea.
I laughed so hard your words almost made me pee.
Warshoe, why are you jumping on me like a little flea?
The only stinger you have belongs to a bumble bee.
Poetic thug you are messing with the wrong killer bee
Sorry I told you I share my fate with Nate!
Go grab some more help from your psychotic mate.
Raid I will spray on your strategies you poetic bug.
You have no class to be a Warlock.
The only thing you master is being a poetic thug.
Go back to playing dominoes, cards, and chess.
Your poetry smells like potpourri.
My demons will hit you with an epic battle of success.
Hunting me is the way you want to waste commissary.
I will enslave you to worship the grounds my feet caress
Challenging me will be the best thing you've had in 5 years.
First I will send you this letter with a small request.
Look down first before you think you pushed me over the cliff.
I own the crown causing massive damage to your quest.
You will never dominate my battlegrounds, I will end you in a swiff.
Your sword will be conquered in my arena, bringing you down to a rest.
I will make you suffer begging for mercy and forgiveness.
For trying to step up to the best.
Warshoe you already failed my test.
In this game you will never beat me at my own contest.
Your heart I won't eat I will feed that to my guest.
Warshoe its time to rip you out of the shadows where you hide.
I will LOCK you in my WAR of hell.
Shackling you in a fetal position as we collide.
Your fear will spread for everyone to smell.
I will end your poetry with no pride.
I will post venom in your abyss through out your cell.
A poison so rough now bend over and open wide.
Warshoe by the time this is over you will bail.
And I P.D. will still have you under my spell......
by;P.D.
Categories:
battlegrounds, slamme, me, poetry, time,
Form:
Epic
Traveling the roads of destiny
many surprises to be found
each leading to some new beauty
Some journeys taken most blithely
for exotic places we are bound
traveling the roads of destiny
Fabulous sights from balcony
of spires and ancient battlegrounds
each leading to some new beauty
Journeys some take with ceremony
for new places we are now bound
traveling the roads of destiny
Paths reach out in disharmony
the right one has to be now found
each leading to some new beauty
Some of them full of tyranny
the awful silence of no sound
traveling the roads of destiny
each leading to some new beauty
Categories:
battlegrounds, journey,
Form:
Villanelle
Just finger play above his head,
three little brothers in a bed;
light shafts beam, shadows command,
of airplane flight on ceiling spanned.
So great a love, this brother bond,
the brand of love that goes beyond
what mortal man asks of others,
answered only in a brother.
The sun will turn incessant rounds,
to rise one day on battlegrounds
that cover earth and sky and sea . . .
where little boys should never be.
That tiny one, the baby son,
who crowed with glee at childish fun
is caught in flash of light between
the crosshairs of an M16,
and those two older boys would give
their own sweet lives if he could live.
November 18, 2017
Categories:
battlegrounds, brother, childhood, war,
Form:
Couplet
Battle of Arras April – May 1917
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
& A Poetry Soup honourably mentioned poet
I was not there. I have to say.
I was not born. I meant to say.
Had I been of age, you know.
None these words would surely show.
World War I was finally won.
Many battles were fought in that one.
Each one was fought until the death.
Rolls of honour reveal what I’ve just said.
The Suffolk Regiments did us proud.
On that Arras bloody battleground.
Many souls were lost, I do implore.
Seek elsewhere, their battles scores.
The Battle of Arras was our men’s one.
The 2nd 7th 11th later 4th Suffolk regiments one.
From April to May 1917; so much carnage was then seen!
So many souls rose they say.
158,000 from both sides in that battle heydays.
Many more were no doubt lost.
For ground, that was won at such a cost.
It matters not what I say.
Many Suffolk folk mourned and prayed.
For that Battle soon did end.
Other battles went before.
The Somme, Passchendaele to name just two more.
But of all of them, you must agree.
Arras was the greatest for, ‘The Suffolk’s,’ you see.
May, ‘The Suffolk’s’, with their Canadian allies.
Rest now their weary battle cries.
As through those chalk tunnels they did go.
Named Wellington, Nelson, they did so.
Then finally, once under no man’s land.
Took battle, to their enemy Germans.
On Arras bloody battlegrounds.
(N.B. No man’s land is the name given to the space between two enemy positions; it is an area of land covered by weapons of both sides, so whoever enters it is sure of being fired upon. There was usually little or no shelter; apart from crater holes, caused by either sides artillery shells. On this particular battleground tunnels were constructed by the British/Allied forces through the chalk soil, they were named Wellington and Nelson. Thus bypassing this particular killing ground, allowing more close quarter fighting. The tunnels were named by those that constructed them, New Zealanders, need I say more. Apart from thank you.)
Categories:
battlegrounds, analogy, anniversary, thank you,
Form:
Epitaph
Strobe lightning flashes
when midnight strikes home
Blades of grass whistling
signals the brutal winter wind
that follows harshly
Shady shallow creatures
crawl out of their shells of unfinished business
Growls of hunger rising to wails of one banshee cry
She calls out death warnings
so loved ones --"Be aware!"
A lost soul roams the land of the living
In shadows
She sees through her red misted eyes
The worldly vices
devouring darkness
the heart burns wrenching
In your haunting shrieks
Distant drumming war
looming inside battlegrounds
Memories fall back in time dungeons
opening gates to past nightmares
Overflowing with treacheries and calculating minds
Justice only works on one side of the coin
Flipping the truth --"Freedom is gone!"
In a fleeting moment
a thought howls in revelation
Love could stall an action
deeply pains the heart that has gone cold
Governing rule sheds teary clouds
knots start twisting inside
Embroidering a story within a story
paints a transparent veil
Damaging a system where lies corrupt and poison brews
To occupy someone's space falsely
Death must surely follow
Buys them a future right without destinies spark
Spawn of emptiness drains good fuels fire
You’re every dark entity that hates
The Light of who you are shines faceless true and true
So envy crowns nothing in the end
Unrhymed Ballad style in 8-line stanzas
a co written piece with myself and Angeline Lim
Categories:
battlegrounds, cry, dark, death, halloween,
Form:
Ballad
My baseball cap is my helmet and my Nike's are my boots,
My country is my hood and my colors on my flag are niether red white or blue,
My weapon of choice is my two hands,
sometimes it can be whatever when I am threatened with a great fall from my stand,
I have no general or soldiers but I have family and above all I got heart.
My battlegrounds remain in my own home and sometimes even in the local Wal-Mart.
Every inch of my hood is up for friendly fire,
Violence remains apart of life around here searching for peace is far from desire,
Everyday remains but another day someone will die,
but more importantly is that another mother, brother, sister or father will cry.
But I am a street soldier so I am prepared for anothers or worse yet my own demise,
And as a street soldier I must keep the battle in check, no not with what I see with my two eyes, but what war is really going on inside the mind,
My battles dont come from without but from within......I am a street soldier fighting through time.....
Categories:
battlegrounds, adventure, imagination, inspirational, life,
Form:
ABC
Confused
Unusually perplexed like an origami
Why is life constantly so hard for me
Turn off the sun I’ll still shine
But I can’t seem to get that in my mind
Not even with you eyes open wide
Could you see my pain inside
I am that son who hasn’t won
Im the one who gets the job done
Impatient but truly God fearing
Trustworthy but had of hearing
I’m like a fly caught in a web
I’m like a teacher who can’t spell
I’m like a hiker who doesn’t hike
I’m like a pedal without a bike
I am that tree with good roots
I am durable like brand new boots
I am likeable and intriguing
I am honest and believing
When one door slams another will open
I answered the knock it went to be unspoken
I have used and be misused
I love her and he loves her and she loves him
Oh now I am really
Confused
Like a twig on the shoulders of a might stream
The world around me is not as it seems
Cluttered thoughts like a bag of fog
Stripped of faith like a slaughtered hog
My agony hurts like salt to an open wound
My mind wanders like a fly in a crowded room
I am that dream as well as that nightmare
The one to hate but also the one to care
I am handsome and yet ugly inside
I can be that calm river or that rushing tide
Like a stone tossed i9nto a smooth lake
Don’t want to try because I might lose
Don’t’ know which way to choose
That’s why I am so confused
All my inner motives have no depth at all
Was on my feet at times but back down to a crawl
What does it take to start anew
To rid myself of these wordly blues
Am I me or am I blind and can’t see
Are you really there or is it a fantasy
These things often enter into my thoughts
By our minds being battlegrounds for struggles fought
We wish we may and we wish we might
What really is day and really is night
I stand on top of the world
I am rubbish like a tarnished pearl
I have paid all my dues
Maybe I didn’t though that’s why I continue to be confused.
Categories:
battlegrounds, confusion, world, me,
Form:
Italian Sonnet
Whatever stirs the tips of copper and urges buds to swell
comes with the suns expanding heat, a welcome spring induce,
for the urge is now returning from survivors of the winter
to prepare accomplishment in nature’s drive to reproduce.
Proboscis touching nectar in the reds and gold’s and blues,
plus other hues; a jewel that flits and dies on it’s third day,
aware its progeny exists where wattlebird and wrens keen-eyed
scan through the boughs and foliage seeking out their prey.
In the multitude of leaves upon our garden shrubs and trees,
where leaves of chlorophyll become necessities for being,
but contentment with our vibrant garden (which is not a natural home)
turn to sadistic battlegrounds with two parties disagreeing.
For unseen there in this greenery with a natural camouflage
of needed stripes, spots and shapes, for the grazer to survive -
out comes a dust and spray or powder; quite offensive to the land
to obliterate one single insect, but leave nothing there alive.
Lying curled and twisted on the ground; unthinking in this victory,
that death of beauty in it's early stage be destroyed without detection.
Guilty of two months destruction, pruning trees a little ragged
in our world of perfect angles with no time for imperfection.
When beak and claw complete their cull, move on and kill no more,
and genocide is over - thank God - a miss has just let one slip by
to transform and look so harmless in its chrysalises form …
preparing now for metamorphosis - to become a butterfly.
Categories:
battlegrounds, nature,
Form:
Rhyme