Best Guernica Poems
April 26th, 1937,
There came a day, when some would see Heaven.
The light shine above the heads,
To resemble the sparks of the bombs threads.
Mothers with their children,
Running out of the burning building.
German and Irish planes,
Flying above the open flames.
It was during the Spanish Civil War,
That lit the devils door.
Running through the ashes,
As the corps of the giving cattle crashes.
All you could do was watch,
If you weren't smart enough to launch.
Families refusing to leave their home,
Their love deepened as shown.
April 26, 1937,
Was when God got most up in heaven.
Art Work: Guernica
Artist: Pablo Picasso
Poem by: Cali Mitchell
exploding in the dark
flames in the peaceful
souls.. terror
spreads like cholera
war is crime
no justifications
we are brain washed
methodically
wailing lady fleeing
aborted foetus of peace
solitary child flaccid neck
contorted body dead or alive
we dont know anything
we just pretend
cubistic head of a peaceful
bull calm and contrasting
killed matador out stretched
maybe a soldier for peace
hand broken sword clutched
rigor mortis
fingers in deathly grip
bulls walk past
ferocious horses writhing
in the agony of death
half eaten sun merging into
power of the cruel men
lamp of past lighting
the legs claws and limbs
we are weeping howling
screaming at the growing teeth
of the disastrous war
war is a crime
we dont need stupid wars
let us join together
now here
Children of Guernica
Children of Guernica .
In deserts of no mans land
children play among the dead
killer themes from killer kings
what is the song they sing
comes raining down in
shrews of blood
Bombs burst though silent
air beyond the red glare
where mothers and children lie bare
In scripted carcasses of crumbling bricks
amidst the city streets
broken bodies limbs screaming
wombs of agonizing cries of despair
dropping down death from above
in the safety of the night
rivers of blood and angels of death
circle from high above
Sleep of sleepless dreams lie amidst the decaying corpses
children dressed in delicate dressings
starch white linen in ghostly silence
the lambs laid out to rest
Once so shocking citizen casualties
now so common collateral damage
distill the horrors of war
deadly games on computer screens
without touch or smell
Rage distorting the outline of shadow
horse’s teeth open wide to the sun
and necrophilia battle cries of death
stand still like ghosts amongst the dying flames
Wounded Pegasus gaping
requiems for generations yet to come
hypnotized to drum beats of war
where monsters of the id come alive
in the cradles of scorched earth lit destruction
Children born to such things
wander through the deserted streets
where there is no home to rest
sleep the dream of children
Lower at dawn their veils
through broken clocks time stands still
And tides rise over setting moons
amidst the lambs spheres of love vanishes
in landscapes of pain
Minotauromachy rises amidst the dead
monatours of death die slow
when swords turn to plowshares
iron bombs to gates that open
the hearts of wounded men
hush a by don’t you cry
go to sleep my little babies
In the meadows lie the little lambs
friends of the western winds
leave tortures on the bleeding grass
in lust for blood and shadows of fears
Moons of serpents awake before the dawn
crucible of blood cast bare amidst
the trembling wheat
street symphonies of stripped flesh
hanging from the poplar trees
Instruct us of our internal natures
inner conflicts and battlegrounds of distress
death instincts and dark knights of the soul
of tragedies and waste doorways through hell
and roots of indignant screams
war in black and white
canvassed stretched pigmentation
a thing of beauty
***
Tie my hands,
so I may not touch others
with potent realities
Bind me from
what transpires about
Shackle my passions
of indignation’s
Muzzle my voice
meant to bellow and not lilt
Blindfold me not see
with a painter’s eye I rely
The art you’ll recognize,
warscapes that captivate
Hinder me from
perceiving what to navigate
Shield me from
poet’s stories begging to be told,
like the Buddha confined,
b’fore escaping his privileged environs
Shroud what are already
squinting eyes kept from comprehension
Gagged and kept in ignorance
and with festering hypertensions
Cover my mouth for
I shall not speak what is called truth
Crush my spirit in defeat,
trampled since my youth
What is left for me on this earth?
Taken a fin d’une époque,
an end of mine mirth
with a madcap army closing in,
and a harsh prison penance
a desperate gaiety leaves its efflorescence,
crimson wall art stains
no more shall be a poets words
and nothing beautiful remains
ergo focusing on the vanguard
this rendered impotent,
when the rearguard deserts
Lavender lovers are fine
they share a rapt audience,
tho we need to discuss
harsher matters with more gravitas
For this is chattel slavery, is it not?
Man enslaved like cattle,
let me speak out for my heart is worn
My tears run dry, free me
for life has taught me that when
there are many coincidences, they are not
Excessive serendipity harbors
an urgent message
speak softly at me be aware
I scream loud from the top of my lungs
ask questions not to be in the dark,
my spirit cast a monochromatic
stark palette of black, white, and gray
keep my spirit free respect me!
Jail me in the dept of dungeons
like the poets of yore,
Tho stone walls do not a prison
make, nor iron bars a cage
War is this fellow poets,
if you want to see a man
returned from the dead
if you wish to confirm
with your own eyes
that someone escaped the claws of death,
then I’m sorry to disappoint
Visions of eternity swirl before me
drunken kings, beheaded queens, horses flying
Visions dance, sing, piercing bells ring, insects dying
O, grandfather warned me not to do that…
I lie suspended between worlds, neither parallel
nor parallax – which my geometry teacher could never
explain, anyway – so be it, Amen