Best Shellfire Poems
In you the Dogs of War unleashed again
an Expeditionary Force by sea,
and in the ground in years fourscore and ten
lie bones of Empire and Admiralty.
How in muddy trench riflemen joining
charged the lines on Ottoman ancient land,
and loud shellfire through dead night and dawning
fell in great battle Anzac’s finest stand!
Upon Lone Pine, Dead Man’s Ridge, Chunuk Bair,
the battlefield told a colony’s tale
till ceasefire hold and armistice declare,
and still to come, Fromelles and Passchendaele.
The battle was lost, the Great War won, yet
your peace is ours to live Lest We Forget!
Written: April 2005
I think sometimes of the life there once was:
Of a time when birds sang throughout the woods
And insects flitted between the flowers.
But when greedy hands infected the land,
The beauty was ruined; life lost its home—
And the gentle calls of sparrows and swifts
Were quickly replaced with thundering guns
Foxes found their homes within dead bodies,
And owls on the hunt flew above shellfire;
Butterflies drank from the growing poppies,
Tainted by the blood of the innocent,
That grew like a plague sent to cleanse the land.
In some places, only the dead remained,
Strewn about randomly and carelessly—
Lying like dolls on a child’s playroom floor;
Never even given a proper grave.
With patience, they wait to be discovered—
To be welcomed home by beloved arms;
But, within all their rosy dreams of home,
Hides the truth they have known for far too long:
They remained forgotten; their names are dead.
Out of anguish for all those who were killed,
Nature returned to reclaim its power.
A mother walks through bullets for bread
A child through shellfire for a sip of grain
Young girls bleed in corners quietly
Toddlers die in mothers' arm from thirst.
This is the plot, world is writing on,
Poets, presidents, painters even parrots
all scribbling words on rubbles and ruins.
An aid truck hums like ice cream van
drawing children to their deaths.
Graves are homes, morgues have IV drips
beeping machines mourn louder than mothers.
This is the setting, leaders are banking on.
Protestors, professors, publishers even pilgrims
all parading pain for policies and propaganda.
Camera's click as children chase compassion
Aid drops flutter like dying doves
every countable rib is a bestseller,
Prime time feeds on man-made famine.
This is the climax, audience is locked on
Photographers, producers, preachers even podcasters
all packaging pain for premieres and praise.
This is the modern-day Macbeth where power demands
we slit our conscience to wear crowns.
Guilt is a graveyard and every prophecy is screaming
from scorched soil to sear our souls.