Best Mass Grave Poems
Mauve sweetheart of mountains
your petals pulse purple twilight and scatter small stars
amongst scars, whilst wars rage on the world's dark stage
and the stage disintegrates, becomes a mass grave,
scissored by shadow and scythed by sorrow.
Yet graves are amethyst-studded with promises of tomorrow;
lifeless lilac revived by meandering kisses of mountain streams...
Sleepy sweet-scented stars dream delicate dusk,
bloom on hostile ground, birthed from rocky earth,
storm-swayed but unbroken, budding
through the longest night, awakening
violet visages unfurling from the heart of dark
to be reborn in gold-gifted dawn.
Tenacious you cling as morning sings
to the small yellow sun that rises
in each resilient heart.
The Black Hills wept for Thee
East of the Black Hills of South Dakota,
On the Pine Ridge Reservation,
Live a proud tribe of Oglala Lakota,
Part of the Great Sioux Nation.
On saddled chargers rode half the Regiment,
of the Seventh Cavalry.
A tune they played on behalf of the GarryOwen,
was such a sight to see.
While climbing through Prickly pines, they spied,
near the summit of Porcupine Butte.
Spotted Elk with Hunkpapa Lakota tribe,
the chief of the Minneconjou.
Five miles West through the cold day they walked,
the Lakota and soldiers of the Seventh,
Where Wounded Knee creek's icy waters balked,
between hell and heaven.
The Colonel ordered all of the tribe's rifles confiscated,
while the braves danced the ghost dance.
For rumor had spread of a new religion, long awaited,
that would turn the tide of chance.
Then suddenly came the report of rifles fired,
as the women and children fled to a ravine.
From the heights the thunder of cannon, now inspired,
close quarter fighting and lead, now convened.
Who knows where Providence went,
on that cold December morning.
Both guilty and innocent, now spent,
lay dead with little warning.
Bodies of the fallen now sprawled across the snowy plains,
with faces frozen in a moment of violence.
One mass grave with all, is all that remains,
of tears and laughter forever silenced.
In the days that followed medals were pinned to chests,
who proclaimed victoriously.
Though God only knows why, ignoble and divest,
life taken in vain, ingloriously.
In the shadow of the land of Sitting Bull,
was now told the tragic story.
Passed down from Mother to Daughter were recounted,
days of lost glory.
“Let us put our minds together to see what life we can make for our children.”
-Sitting Bull
In a mass grave so long ago,
They spoke to me before they died,
I saw their souls, the outward flow,
All hope buried beneath that tide.
The many starving, sent afar,
With wearied feet and hunger's burn,
Impel them on - my repertoire,
The children that fail to return.
I rose up tall against the shore,
Wood and iron to hold them fast,
Freedom vanished for evermore,
Slavery's journey to the last.
I set you fighting, tribe on tribe,
The dogs of war so fierce to roam,
Ensure no safety to describe,
What has worth if you can't go home?
They Call It Wounded Knee
I came, I saw, I cried;
To the field where they died.
They call it Wounded Knee;
My peoples' history.
Bodies lying, frozen to the ground;
No mourners to be found.
Children still clinging to their mothers;
Laying dead beside their brothers.
The smell of death in the air;
Pools of blood everywhere.
Babies with their heads bashed in;
To waste an army bullet on them would be a sin.
Soldiers surveying their wicked deeds;
Mugging for pictures with the "savage" breed.
Celebrating the slaughter of the Sioux;
Burial is for Christians, but for Indians a mass grave would do.
Sporting medals upon their chest;
Saying that they conquered the west.
Taking the lives of an entire race;
Feeling no remorse or disgrace.
I came, I saw , I cried;
I asked questions of why.
The people of Wounded Knee;
Could not have life and liberty.
The answer was simply said;
"Kill the animals until they're all dead".
"Let my God sort them out";
Land is what it's all about.
The place where the mighty Sioux fell;
Is a white man's hell.
Once was a place of pride;
The field where they died.
Darlene Doll Smith
At the cradle of my nightmares,
My future is a horror film,
I track my ghosts,
Like a junkie in withdrawal.
I am a true clandestine calamity,
A mass grave of silent suffering,
A candelabra of pain soothed by dirty money,
I hate the human race,
And I will never have a pet.
I am a loner addicted to silence.
I only write in the dark, to deathly sounds.
A mix of gloomy feelings,
I walk in the darkness of my imperfections,
My hands are no longer innocent,
Since I’ve handled weapons of war.
I am a child of the slums of the third world,
I know perfectly the orifices of misery.
Another damn sleepless night spent monologuing in the darkness of this cold room,
The devil covers his ears to the atrocities spilling from my confessions.
I’ve already used gunpowder
For a firework on the edge of legality.
I never agreed to sleep on an empty stomach,
I’ve risked my freedom since I was ten.
I’ve learned to walk among hungry beasts.
I’m already at war with my demons,
I know I’ll end up in the flames.
I know I have no right to trust a human being,
Being a slave to shine is impossible.
My enemies squat in my imperfect flesh.
I don’t smoke crack,
I don’t smoke cannabis,
I don’t snort cocaine,
I don’t drink alcohol,
I sometimes burn a few cigarettes.
I avoid psychotropics,
I’m not a poet,
Just a tormented mind,
Prisoner of infernal loops,
Where murder scenes repeat endlessly.
My tears stopped flowing down my cheeks
Since I saw my friend crushed by a logging truck.
I am an angry man with murderous impulses,
I commit suicide each time in this same nightmare that has repeated since my childhood.
I’m approaching fifty,
I’ve stopped meditating on the whims of the reaper,
I’ve stopped wandering in graveyards.
Let the universal force show mercy on my impure, tainted soul
By the poisons of lust,
I accumulate transgressions to have a throne in the furnaces of hell.
I don’t believe in paradise, but I know I’ll burn in the abyss’s celestial flames after my twilight.
A deep philosophical reflection in the ramblings of my delirium.
I hate the spotlights like those criminals on the run,
Too many regrets hidden in the closets,
A clean criminal record like the entrails of Christ’s mother.
I blaspheme to darken my divine fragment.
I noticed the uniform, and the heavy soled shinny black boots
Not the man within it, I apologized.
I remember the clean fresh smell of maleness, as they stormed into the house,
Broken glass, ripped down hangings, a slashed sofa, a pulled curtain,
A sudden maneuver to throw my brother’s bear across the yard,
Such military worries, hidden bombs in a child’s best friend.
Your broken cross I buried in our garden after they left.God, come back to my house, I am
waiting.
All I saw were figures painted the colour of grass and bark,
with gilded edges traced by some crazed church painter's brush,
faceless with pockets full of bullets and chords,
Their arms intertwined with red eyes and swollen hands of my teachers,
Stiff figures against the soft jeans, sweaters, and knitted hats below.
Standing witness in the yard above watching, I waited for her to die.
Shinny black like the dirt dug from the mass grave,
Full of crumbled human bits, decaying coloured cloth,
while the sun scorched the group sorting the cellular samples
I saw the black boots etched into the bone fragments.
Lost bones of lost loved ones from empty families,
Standing in the desert, I wait for a name.
No, I do not see you the man, just the uniform.
I see the butt of the gun, the dent of the boot, the slickness in the air,
the cruel power of the swirl jungle green print with gold trim.
As a witness God left me, and I was waiting.
Change, let me meet the man,
maybe the waiting is over.
In a beautiful land far across the ocean,
People used to celebrate Christmas all year round,
Trees along the streets adorned with flickering lights;
Down the cities were malls seethed with shoppers…
All in frantic, but no harm in their enjoyment of time.
Grandiose buildings and churches,
Stood magnificently as the music of the season played;
Lanterns were hanging on walls as church bells ring,
Announcing the season of birth of Christ the King.
A dazzling panorama of the whole place,
With the nearby sea on its serenity and calmness;
The aromatic freshness and coldness of yuletide’s zephyr,
Giving resplendent smiles- rhythm of iridescent glow in ones’ eyes.
As people enjoyed from morning to Christmas eve
Children’s laughter exuded with the gifts they received
They sang joyfully with thanksgiving on caroling
A herald on the season of love in a spirit of giving.
Time came in the beautiful land far across the ocean,
When people didn’t have any single clue of the dangers to come,
A week before the season with no ominous sign,
Trees on streets were washed out in an instant;
A gigantic catastrophe passed by engulfing everyone
Mangled and jostled into darkness where they’re hard to be found,
At snap of fingers… is there another joyful Christmas time?
Grandiose building and churches,
Turned out into a mass grave with flickering candles;
Flowers were scattered where each body laid,
Mourning of their fate…a rescue they begged
All praying for mercy of Christ our only Savior and King.
At vantage point was a horrible scene of a ghost town,
Where green trees and buildings seemed thrown in garbage cans
Marred souls were wafted in stale air…
Starvation and unseen love ones, they grieved.
Just in time came in a devastated land across the ocean,
A miracle happened in His Love Divine
Sympathy and passion reigned in the heart and mind of all men;
People around the world joined hand-in-hand and rebuilt ‘tis land,
The most perfect Christmas gift which arrived on time.
Dec. 15, 2013 9.25pm
*My first ballad poem. Hope I did it right
NOT FOR PERFECT CHRISTMAS GIFT CONTEST
First Place
Contest: Any poem goes #1
Judged: 12/27/13
Sponsor: My greatest poet PD
He feels he possesses a high tolerance.
Living side by side
with those he abhors
Tolerating the smells
and the sounds
of those lesser men.
He is of a proud race,
blonde hair blue eyes.
A future master of the world
he bides his time,
tolerating those lesser men.
Smiling, imagining the day
when he will rule.
When he will take
what should already be his.
Fortunately he is a truly tolerant man.
Tolerance of course does have its limits.
Tolerance can only last for so long.
He holds onto his glimmer of hope,
imagining those lesser men hung with rope,
one day their fat turned into soap!
When the time comes a joyous parade,
within a mass grave their bodies laid...
But for now he bides his time,
with tolerance he toasts with wine.
The visions in his head are so sublime
he wants what's theirs, he says "It's mein".
A sad chapter in human history, sadly these men still walk amongst us.
Read my other poem I wrote called "Tolerence" to know my thoughts".
For Debbie's "You say you want a revolution" Poetry Contest.
Misrule
Misappropriate
Mass-grave
There isn't a mass grave in my neighborhood
a creek has never flooded
(there is no creek, after all)
and bones have not surfaced.
A bulldozer never grinds to a halt
stayed by a smiling white skull.
The driver doesn’t jump down
doesn’t sift through the remains
kneeling there on the plot.
I once found a grey limb
jutting out from a hill.
I hoped it was a bone
maybe a femur from yore,
the last limb of a virulent Ute
protecting his home—
built by him
with his arms and legs
with the tools of the plains.
His scalp no more,
his skin long gone
but the bone remaining
still staking claim
for the living and free.
But it wasn’t a bone—
it was a tree limb
because there aren’t graves in my neighborhood.
There aren’t even real trees
or game trails;
there aren’t survivors
or failures
let alone corpses and fleas
And the only war left to fight
is against omnipresent me.
The Rich/the Super Rich/the One Percenters.
Then there’s the rest of us,
The Disappearing/Shrinking Middle Class.
Our “good paying “, American Dream financing jobs gone,
Overseas.
The Chinese/Japanese/Indian/Korean/Malaysian, etc. have them.
We are left to grovel/slave away at many PT “jobs/employment”,
We work all kind of ridiculous hours for even more ridiculous rewards,
At the same time watching the American Dream slip away, being taxed away, shipped away. The dream is taking wings,
taking majestic and dramatic flight like the Bald eagle, proud symbol of America.
And the number of the poor, that we will “always have with us”
Is steadily whispering, calling out, shouting out to us-
And in the gesture of come on down, they extend an invitation to us
Come join us, come “eat cake with us”
You can exercise the right to just lay down and die with us,
Then the Money Changer Bankers and Crooks that are continually rewarded,
Can just roll us up in a blue tarp, and into an empty ditch,
step over us in their Armani shoes, keep going and never break stride.
And their Bought-and-Paid-For US Congressional Representatives,
And State/Local ones as well will see to it,
That left behind family/loved ones will not receive,
Any so called governmental assistance that we need,
Though we paid for it with our taxed-to-death money.
And we will end up in an unmarked mass-grave ditch,
And finally be out of the way of the folks who are really in charge of
The American Dream.
September 21, 2013
CRISES IN THE DESERT
written in the effect of religious crisis in Nigeria
Our heart received the message
And tensions well-positioned themselves in the sky.
Heads sought refuge at army barracks;
A world of agony was about to loom
Who cursed that Friday noon?
When the serpent’s deceit erected citadel
Of hatred in peoples heart
The same blood in different capillaries
Rebelling against each other's idealism.
Who could whisper cross?
When star, hung on a sickled-moon dominate our faces
And a thousand songs in Arabic slang marched nearer,
Muslims commandos camouflaged by white gowns;
Armed by guns, arrows and cutlasses.
Alas! the ceremony of blood-bath began
And cry of slaughtered Christian children
Opened the ceremony
And mass-grave gave them merits.
Like sickle on harvesting rice;
Flying cutlasses upon human heads.
Dwarf daggers visited intestines
Smoke-bleeding churches, weeping altars
And smiling blood-dripping heads of ecclesiastics
Danced conga in broad-daylight.
Battered bodies, burning houses and tattered businesses
Were all in attendance..
Demons of despair, agony and hunger
Later paid their tributes.
Prophets of economics later prophesied
That more worms will lick our bellies
written in effect of religious crisis in Nigeria
PEDARIST
Why am I so flippant yet complacent?
Hypocritical Martyr
Torture chamber – secret sub-basement
Bomb shelter Pedophile aquarium
Abducted children raped half-dead
Migraines and Menstruating
Horrible highway ambiance
Static from a radio unaware
Of our new piece of world, our breath of new air
Almost caught so only kill their daughters instead
A farm for inbred rapists and prepubescence
Shattered psyche of victims to share
Till they pile into a mass grave dead.
And the blood from evil hands now to rinse.
Resent this road leading to nowhere.
Commodities.
Packed up
Wedged together
Shut out from light and air,
Little creatures indifferent to life or death
Stacked.
Branded.
Horrified
Of what comes
With the open door.
Looking for the first opportunity
To Leap
Escape
This intolerable life.
The Mass grave
Of a two-dimensional reality.
Written on the:
(Biblical Calendar) 14th Day of the 7th Month, 5775
(Gregorian Calendar) 27th of September, 2015
The archway with candles lit around it
Illuminating it's hollow beyond the mass grave
Of fallen bodies of men, women and children
Who lie peacefully in prominence.
A widow sheds a tear,
Dressed in black
With a veil shadowing her face,
She weeps until her eyes bleed
And until the ground is soaked with her sorrows.
Dusk settles
The sun deviates it's reflection from the bodies of the fallen,
And once again the darkness reigns for twelve hours
Where evil revels it's deceitful intervention.
The moon is arrayed in it's light
But the dust and smoke of buildings bombed
And houses torched, engulfs the beauty of it's resurrection,
With the smell and taste of somberness and melancholy
Stained with the absence of death and vile.