Best Prisoner Of War Poems
Don’t even try to woo me
I can resist you
My mind is fortified
Reason screams reasons to be careful
Caution goes off in flares
My mind is alert
Aware
I can resist you
Oh, but my body
My body plays traitor...
My eyes adore you….
they take in every detail
of your face
your body
every contour and muscle
every masculine trait of virility
Your lips…my eyes linger on your lips
And make love to them……
My eyes speak surrender
My hands tremble
and give me away
I clasp them together…tight
knuckles white
For in another minute
they would escape and seek sanctuary on your body
Caressing your cheeks, your chin
they would travel down your neck
feeling the protruding strength as you swallow
they would take ecstatic trips across the expanse of your chest
Finally moving around your waist to pull you in
My teeth bite my lips
in an effort to keep my tongue imprisoned
for it longs to be unleashed
to run along the lines of your face
to slide on your lips...wetting them with want
making them part
so that it can dip inside your mouth and play
to lose its way
all over your body
I can resist you
My mind is fighting valiantly
to keep my body in check
Oh, but I feel damp desire spread
in the heat of your presence
As you move closer
Looking down into my eyes
I exhale the pent up emotions
brought on by the ripples of anticipation
longing for a touch
that I want so much
and my body's ablaze
this passion craze
Floods my face
rosy red
I can’t look away
and you smile
a warm slow smile
You smile
knowing the battle of mind over body
is about to end
my body will yield
submit in surrender
because your fierce made me tender
And so with the confidence and grace
of a seasoned soldier
you move in for the kill
agile with thrill
you hand tilts my chin up
and your mouth covers mine
smothering the words of protest
the mind has sent as last minute backup
you hold me up
crushed against your enveloping body
as I collapse into your arms
My mind?
prisoner of war
gagged and bound
empty of thought
ravaged by sensations
As you work your way
to your final victory claim
Knowing as you do
That you
Are
irresistible
to
ME
Eileen Manassian
Under The Cover.
.
You can never ever
Tell a book by it’s cover
As I was later to discover
The Lady in the Nursing home
The old man across the way
All have a story to tell
Hidden away
.
Some people I’ve known for years
Have suddenly touched my heart
And left me in tears
When they reviled their past
And nightmares and fears
.
Like my own dear Father
Shot and wounded
A prisoner of war
With only a tiny piece of bread to eat
And nothing more
.
The sweet old Lady I talked to
In Worksop in a store
Who told me she was the last surviving victim
Of Dachau in the war
.
The old man down our street
A nicer man you could ever meet
A rear Lancaster tail gunner
Or the hardship of a devoted Mother
Her husband left her for another
Someone who lost their family
And had no other
.
Those who suffered in the blitz
Those who lost a loved one
Aboard a ship
Never found always missed
The nurse who gave her all and put others
Before herself
To help the sick
.
The Pals sent to die in another far off land
The luckier who returned
Minus a leg or no hand
The coal miner unground
Who kept the home fires burning
The Steelworkers who gave their all
To keep England’s wheel turning
.
The bomb disposal and mine clearer's
The lifeguard on the bay
The emergency services and law enforcers
Who put their life in danger for us every day
.
The one who gives
But doesn’t seek recognition or reward
The one who fights for justice and war to cease
And silently prays for peace
.
A million stories left untold
Of unsung heroes young and old
No one should judge anyone
Like a book by their cover
For we all have a story
And who knows what we might discover.
.
Peter Dome©2020.
From my younger days as a prisoner of war,
to my last days on the planet Tralfamadore,
with my traveling through time, I have no control.
Both good and bad episodes have taken their toll.
I am passing through time as easily as air.
In one moment, I’m here, and another, I’m there.
Please tell me, why am I being tortured like this?
My capture, plane crash, and wife’s death I reminisce.
I live through the bombing of a German city.
My wife dies while she is on her way to meet me.
On another world, I’m in a menagerie.
A beautiful, but dumb, woman is matched with me.
We live and love together. She has my baby.
I’m killed by my adversary, Paul Lazzaro.
The cause of my problem is what I want to know.
The dilemma I’m in has been causing me strife.
I would give anything to live a normal life.
Based on the novel "Slaughterhouse Five" by the late Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
My mother’s brother lies in a grave in Normandy
If he had lived I would have known him as Uncle Stanley
I recall his oval framed picture hanging on Grandma’s wall
Uncle Stanley so youthfully dressed in army attire proud and tall
Stanley’s eyes seem the same as my Uncle Jimmy’s to me
I always imagined Stanley’s voice whenever Uncle Jimmy was with me you see
Most all the men of my mother’s family
Served in their country’s greatest hour of need proudly
My Uncle Jack became a prisoner of war while fighting in Europe
All through my life only once did I ever hear him tell the others of it
Uncle Leonard flew across the English Channel in a flying fortress
I remember him crying when he told my father about this
Uncle J.T. was wounded somewhere in the country of France
I recall him using a cane and joking about never being able to dance
Uncle Ted entered the Great War two years late
He worked in supply – far from the front lines of deadly hate
Uncle Lloyd who is the only brother left alive to this day
Will serve his country yet again on this Memorial Day
As always he will proudly adorn his Marine dress blue on Monday
To lead the city’s festive military parade
I will hoist my country’s flag in my front yard
Sing our National Anthem loudly and hard
I have been so blessed by my mother’s brothers who did so give sacrifice
That I this day am afforded such a rich and wonderful life
"I regret to inform you" the dreaded telegram began,
"That your son is missing in action" and on it sadly ran.
It was in the spring of '43 when it was delivered to her door.
Her son Charles was a flight engineer on a "B" Twenty Four.
"Your brave son and his crew were last seen over Berlin."
Mother read the unwelcome news with a trembling chin.
Her faith gave her hope that she would see him once again,
Though chances of such a glorious reunion were growing rather thin.
"We will advise you if we learn of any further information."
She knelt to her knees and offered this earnest supplication:
"Father, you are the only One I can turn to in my desperation.
Lord, if he survived the crash, protect him is my expectation!"
Weeks later another telegram arrived and she opened it with dread.
"We are pleased to inform you that your son is a prisoner of war!" it read!
"Sources advise us that his crew survived and all are doing well!"
She praised God and asked Him to comfort him in his lonely cell!
The war ended and Charles was liberated to live another day!
The years sped on inexorably as they will and his Mother passed away.
Going through her things he discovered the telegrams wrinkled with age.
Tears welled in his eyes as he saw tear stains on each yellowed page.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
His name was Lattie McGee.
I never met him, and he never met me,
but he touched my life in a profound way
when I saw his face on the news one day.
His little body was bruised and battered,
every bone in this child was broken or shattered.
He was tortured to death at the age of four,
on the south side of Chicago, like a prisoner of war.
He was beaten, he was gagged, then hung upside down.
He was burned, he was starved, and then he was bound
inside a dark closet to hang there and die,
for no one heard the little boy cry, no one heard the little boy cry.
Thirty years to life, Johnny Campbell received.
He showed no remorse, he never even grieved
for the tiny boy named Lattie McGee
who died so young and so tragically.
If the time ever comes for Johnny to be free,
I pray the parole board will look at him and see
that no man who tortured a child that way,
should ever again see the light of day.
Let him suffer alone, let him rot in his cell!
For what he did to Lattie, may he burn in hell!
Before he takes his last breath, before he can state his case,
I hope that he sees Lattie’s innocent face.
May he look terror in the eyes, may he feel Lattie’s pain.
May he struggle to survive, but let it be in vain.
When the last light goes out before Johnny Campbell dies,
may he forever and ever, hear Lattie’s cries…
forever and ever, hear Lattie’s cries…
We ride the cattle rail Not knowing exactly what lay ahead. For weeks there's
been no heat, No bathrooms and we've barely been fed. We arrive at our
destined location. Sobibor...Sobibor...Sobibor, Is the death camp for Jews.
Opening widely, the gate to Hell With train whistle loud and prolonged, News of
our arrival they tell. Orders given, the boxcar doors open. The air so fresh, the
pines are livid. Decisions to make.....What to do? What to do? Tailors,
seamstress', blacksmith, carpenters Are there any?
Volunteers?...Yes...No ...Good decision, bad decision? Shouted at, screaming,
people being beat Kept others orderly on their march. Houses with names,
gardens with flowers, and Signs pointing to canteen and showers. Sobibor
seemed peaceful, not a place of murder. To the Ukraine to work you will go.
Because of lice, Women need their hair to go. There are epidemics, You must
be disinfected. Naked and unaware of the lies, They each take the walk Through
the tube-"Road to Heaven". The screaming strong at first, Weakens gradually
until it dies. Why?...Why?...Why?...You say. Why don't you fight back? Pick up
that gun, shoot that guard! That would lead to your death plus as Many others
they could hack. Why don't you escape? Where would I go? Here I have no
home, no family. ..It is cold. I have no warm clothes or shoes...I am on the verge
of starving. What will I eat? How do I get through the mine fields? How do I get
through the armed Poles in the forest? We do revolt... the camp as a whole.
Sasha, the Soviet prisoner of war... A new leader... good for our soul. He gave us
some hope. We were working class people, Everything was taken from us. We
were cold. We were hungry. We were beaten. We were killed. We lost all hope.
Oppression lets genocide happen. Genocide has happened in the past.
Genocide is happening now. Genocide will happen in the future. Greed and
power can and does lead to genocide. Only policy makers worldwide...God
willing, Can help stop the killing.
POW – MIA
Grandma, when Grandpa went to Vietnam
And left you at home alone
Did you ever think he wouldn't return
And be forever gone
No, dear I thought he'd be back
And never leave again
But that crazy war in Vietnam
Was one we couldn't win
Well, Grandma, where is he now
Is he still fighting the war
Will he ever come home to be with us
Why did he go so far
My child your Grandpa had to go
And fight for freedom's sake
But he won't be coming home again
And that's so hard to take
But Grandma, if he's not coming home
Why did he have to stay
I'd like to see Grandpa again
So he and I could play
Well, son I'm sorry to tell you this
There is no other way
Your Grandpa may be a prisoner of war
Or what the Army calls MIA
Well, why is he in prison
Did he commit a crime
I don't understand, Grandma
It's been a long, long time
Yes, dear, you're right, it's been so very long
Since Grandpa went away
But all the love he gave to us
Is with us every day
You're right Grandma
He really did love us all
He had to go to Vietnam
To answer his country's call
My child you are so very wise
And one day you'll understand
Your Grandpa had to go and fight
For the freedom of our land
Grandma, I love you so
And I'll never go away
I won't leave you home alone
Home is where I'll stay
Thank you dear, that's very kind
But Grandma will be alright
I love you too
God is my guiding light
He's my light too, just like Grandpa said
He's always by our side
He helps us every day
And dries the tears we've cried
Curtis Moorman
June 17, 2011
Once Jessica Lynch of states army division
The sweet young soldier girl of twenty one
Served in Iraq invasion
Never fired her weapon
Honored first prisoner of war woman.
Wounded with bullets and in tension
The doctors paid her full attention
Knife wounds bullet none
Only some bones broken
Fake “rescue” shown on television.
It was nothing but fake history fabrication
Baking jingoistic cake for nation
Bogus syndication
War myth definition
Jessica, a puppet propagation.
=============================
Inspired by Reports on the net - in Monorhymed Limerick
Dr. Ram Mehta
Honorable mention
Contest: Burlesque Boutique sponsored by Miranda Lambert
Winston
Politician, Leader, Orator, Prisoner of War
Son of Lord Randolph and Jennie, husband of Clementine, father of five
Lover of cuban cigars, trenchcoats, and hats
Who feels love, compassion and righteous anger
Who fears defeat, failure, and Adolf Hitler's victory
Who would love to see the end of WWII, Hitler's downfall, and World Peace
Resident of Chartwell in Kent, South East London, England
Churchill
Writing Challenge 2 - Bio Form- January 2019 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart aka "Broken Wings" (Winner: 2nd Place)
Date written and posted: 01/28/2019
When i was a little kid,my grandmother ate sardines
out of a can and my grandfather drank his beer slowly
shaking a little salt in each glass.
These were my "good ole days".
I often sit and i wonder why a memory so small
has stayed with me for so long.
I think its the memories that surround those.
A focal point?A foundation?
It makes me think of when he would play
his harmonica and say this is "Danny boy"
Listen and stop kicking the chair.
And so i would listen and look through his box car Willie albums.
And to his war stories.When he was a prisoner of war.
When he would go from home to home looking for morning eggs
from the houses and farms along the french country side.
The chap stick he would eat off of the ground.
Because he was so hungry.
Shaking a little salt in his beer!
I still try to fry my potatoes the same way she did.
My grandmother would never let you answer the phone.
So as a teen you just had to sit back and watch her
hang up on your friends.
Because she didn't know who it was and she couldn't hear to well.
The way she always had a way to make sure i had shoes on my feet.
Even if they were from the second hand store.(value village)
Every now and then i eat toast with my cold cereal.
it remind me and i feel like im sitting at her kitchen table
at ten o`clock on a Saturday morning.
We, I never got to go to the park.
or to the movies.
or to McDonalds.
Or to a theme park.
Or a mall.
We never needed these things.
We had stories with salted beer.
And toast with our cereal.
And onions with our fried potatoes.
He died when i was 15,her when i was around 24.
We really miss them.
The foundations of our family tree.
I hope my grand daughter has the same memories of me.
PTSD
Here we go again, reality is setting in, or is it?What is it?
It sometimes feels more like a dream, not the pleasant fairytale kind, but of the nightmare genre.
Gotta go back to ga-ga land, back to where Alice lives.
My way to cope, there's no hope there, but it's tolerable.
Stuporville, is better than that other world, the place that war dropped me off and deserted me.
I no longer have identity. I've been labeled shellshocked and crazy. Missing in action, left behind, a prisoner of war.
Another casualty, wounded, carrying a hidden, nasty scar forever.
Got DNA that says yep, that's him, but my friends don't recognize me, heck, I don't recognize me.
Has anyone here seen my old friend John, I just turned around and he was gone.
They say I'm getting better, time heals all, increase the zombie pills, make him fall, back to the future, but not the past, my world is spinning so so fast. What year is it anyway. Put him into therapy, with others like him, misery loves company you know. Maybe I should go back, find myself, or the part I left there. Does anybody care?Well I know my mother still does. I can tell by hugs that don't want to let me go, and tears that say" I know, I know". I hate to see her cry. Sometimes I wish I would just die. Spin the wheel, a one in six chance, this could be your very last dance. You got to pay to play though. Goodbye MIA, so long POW, tag me KIA. "Click", Uh-oh, here we go again, chased by madness and guilt, blood spilt, war is hell, do tell.
Reality is setting in, or is it?
A woman who lost everything she owns stands there
by the waterfront where the waves beat upon the shore.
The woman-transformed-***** is a prisoner of war
being carried to the foreign land of an enemy general
across the sea; she cries ceaselessly tears in her eyes
for the unbearable sorrow, she barks fiercely in intolerable anger.
In the eyes of the woman who gazes up
the top of heaven from the bottom of the deepest sea.
She sees the last images of her blood-stained husband,
her dear sons and daughters, died in agony.
For her husband, she shared everything she owned;
for her children, she cradled and lulled them in her bosom to raise—
except for one son who was abandoned in the field at the time of his infancy because of an oracular ill omen.
All these sorrows are unwanted bitter memories to recall, crueler than
the cruelest fate for a woman to undergo.
Now, she climbs higher up the mast
to appeal to her deep inner heart’s mortification;
to let others see her transmuted figure, an ugly *****,
her annoying bark reaches to the furthest point of the sea.
Is Amphitrite heard her heartrending cry?
For the ship lists by the billow Poseidon rises,
alas, but then, she loses her balance and falls
to the deck vomiting blood, she ends her pathetic life;
this *****’s resentment tossed by the raging waves,
at the end, was thrown upon the shore and became a standing rock.
The rock beckons the ships that pass the straits to tell her grudge,
but to the heedless seafarers’ ears it sounds like the mere surges
that come and hit the rock. However, at times, it sounds
in their ears, like a ***** barking feebly from her bleeding heart
because of all her puppies are taken away;
that’s why, legend says,
the sailors called this rock “the poor *****’s rock.”
Freed By His Spirit
As a child I remember playing games
like tag and tying each other up
but even a few moments in the confines of those ropes
would cause the anger in us to erupt.
Remember the man Houdini who
went to great lengths to endanger his own life
all for the applause or a fickle worldly crowd
who had come hoping that he would actually die.
We play such foolish and careless games
with our eternal spirit that He has placed so tenderly within
after all He gave His life on the old rugged cross
purposely He did this to free us totally from our sins.
Why then would we play war games with the enemy of our soul
for games oh no he truly does not want to play
but instead he seeks us out to kill and destroy
and with all intentions toward us to mortally slay.
Most of us have seen how Hollywood glamorizes war
with a poignant and heart rendering touch
but we did not smell the stench of death and filth from the prisoner of war camps
and this deceit pleases the devil of this world so very much.
A final plea I will put before you
to bring to mind that dreadful price
Christ Jesus gave His all for us to be free by His Spirit and
I pray that you choose to serve Him then you will find freedom liberty and life.
Written by: Marilyn S. Jennings
July 2001
World Bleeders
Casualty enter-fear soldier worn ear,
caught and cooked way out of town.
Prisoner of War a country ignores,
Mega Powers made up rodeo clowns.
War not cold, espionage is sold,
sworn secrecy Mr. Agent Both Sides.
Difference solved, one country dissolved,
chemical candy stocked 10 miles wide.
Gripped in terror, so Holy Scared,
nations join in search of The Man.
In the midst of it all another must fall,
the ignorant tactics of Mr. Uncle Sam...
bmdavey@
02/28/2016