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Best War Poems

Below are the all-time best War poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of war poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for War poems, articles about War poems, poetry blogs, or anything else War poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

Poems are below...


New War Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best War poems are below this new poems list.

A Civil War: The Battlefield of Love by Frank, Mark
The Great War Facts by Warren, Paul
Hollow War by Scythe, Vermillion
War In The Trenches by Cunningham , tom
the digital war by Tan, Haoxi
A War Veteran by CHOLT, W.A.
Surface Tension-A Dream Of War by French, Jonathan
War Torn Blues by D., Nathan
No More War by Ellison, Jack
Mother War by MOONE, KAELIN

View all new War Poems

The Best War Poems

 
Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Indian Ink

Listen to poem:
“Indian Accent”

Hear the whispers inside

Chanting from long ago
Echoes come and go
Losing time in a soft eternal glow

A beautiful and delicate autumn mountain scene
Dry blue eyes enchanting melodies!
Voices fall from the sky;    -Rising hymns release 
-ancient demons that   CLING to the soul

Darkness dwells under - gentle moonlight
Ancestors of the Spirit World!
Weaving Native smoke into the barren air
Indian spirits haunt the muddy Earth---
Moccasin makers rise from underneath;    While
  guardians of dream catchers - print the Universe
Smooth thread from the outer world; 
Arrowheads,   Ivory gems,   feathers, and illusions
I stumble upon a florid kiss.......   My veins;
Run Cold, like ice through a desert night.

Winds of enchanted drums - cry out for rain
Hollow chimes mesmerize,  my ties,  my eyes
An ancient rage begins to flare --- MADNESS! 
- takes place among the sanity of  who   I am
The spear of the perfumed buffalo scrapes my skin
I remove the veil that covers my eyes
The hands that cover my ears
Drying the scalp that bleeds on my face

KINDRED IN EVERY WAY!

Raven silk braids and feathers on my hair
Dancing in a horrid hallucination of Peyote,
*
Waking up from the “American Dream.”
Holding out my arms, I am free, I can fly.

I AM A BIRD!

By; PD


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Disposable Wisdom

Each day Annie Lesley opened a can
Her eighty-six-year-old hands trembling
As she sat with her cat and ate pet food
What is wrong with this elder’s rendering?

Pride swallowed to remain independent
Large, sunken eyes peered from her weathered face
Her late spouse a decorated hero
Annie’s lifestyle a national disgrace

More enlightened cultures all over the world
Have revered their seniors throughout history
Asians and Native Americans
Are just two who honor their ancestry

Polynesians, other Pacific tribes
Respect the wisdom that comes with age
Seniors are welcome in family homes
But here in the states they’re placed in a cage

Bone-thin Annie Lesley chose to be free
Amazing neighbors with her endurance
When social services tried to intervene
She fought with remarkable resilience

Old photos on walls told many great tales
But only purring Tibby was listening
Each morning she rose to care for her cat
Until the day that Tibby went missing

In tears she claimed he must have been poisoned
Though in cat years he was older than she
Each day she sat by the window, staring
Awaiting the homecoming of Tibby

She’d been abandoned by society
Lost in the world’s most “progressive” nation
For sacrificing her spouse in World War II	
Annie received little compensation

This widowed war bride never had children
Her mate had met his fate in Normandy
Posthumous awards she dusted each day
Annie’s life was defined by loyalty

To a man and a cat who never came home
And the vigil she kept all alone
Ended quietly one warm summer night
When an angel came to take Annie home

With a can of cat food in hand when found
Annie had nothing else to eat in her house
This is the way a veteran’s wife died
And tear stains had blemished her faded blouse

Although seniors’ wisdom is heeded
In societies that grow from history
Too many like Annie lead lonely lives
Wisdom untapped, they die in poverty


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009



Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Courage of Youth, Battle of Ypres, Flanders Field

Courage of Youth, Battle of Ypres, Flanders Field
(A Tribute)

Tough as nails young man with a red right hand
red-fire and whiskey ran in his blood.
Courageous seed of vast and cold hard land
quick temper, power of a surging flood.
Seeker of life, its promised mysteries
rash gambler with all he would ever own.
Born on ship in high wind swept, roaring seas
toughest warrior his town had ever grown.

Met his fate by volley of red-hot lead
buried on ground scared and battle blasted.
Aye boys, fodder that machine guns were fed
fools marching to death, long as it lasted.

Now flowers cover up and Time denies
scenes of battle torn soil and blood-red skies.

R.J. Lindley
April 23rd, 1975

SONNET-(DEATH AND WAR'S FUTILITY)
Tribute to Courage of Youth-- Second Battle of Ypres, April 22nd 1915 .

Note- added - 8-26-2017

Wiki-
The name Flanders Fields is particularly associated with battles that took place in the Ypres Salient, including the Second Battle of Ypres and the Battle of Passchendaele. For most of the war, the front line ran continuously from south of Zeebrugge on the Belgian coast, across Flanders Fields into the centre of Northern France before moving eastwards — and it was known as the Western Front.

The phrase originates from a poem titled In Flanders Fields by Canadian Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, inspired by his service during the Second Battle of Ypres. The fields were not maintained for years before they were made into a memorial. Today Flanders Fields is home to thousands of poppies.

--------------------------------------

Found this while rummaging through some of my old poems. Decided not to edit it. Leave it as it was composed over 42 years ago..
Added the note for those not familiar with that battle and its horrific carnage, primarily from the insanity of large bodies of troops marching into direct machine gun fire.


Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Texian Macabre Arena

The First Texian Macabre Arena Ballad (The extended free-fallen edition)
 
In another life, is where I first saw your face!
One summer afternoon, lying wounded next to the dead
Unopened gun powder, mass destruction, a land of disgrace
A blood thirst battlefield is where I first saw your face
The sound of war, hidden behind bleeding hands
Crawlers, render their lives giving grace
 
Jaws of steel, broken, embracing, warm feelings
Summer rain, lungs filled with blood, one last post
Glorious by numbers, screaming blades
Gemstone in touch with the Holy Ghost  
Soldiers come in a little close 
Crawling, missing limbs, 
Twisted nightmare with no ending

Macabre reminder, retracing the aroma of eternal life
Secrets buried like a treasure under walls of sudden death
Revolutionary tears found on a rusted Bowie knife
Lanterns, crackling against the dying wind
Dirt piles of crushed windpipes -- sudden death
Rummage like garbage, the dead Texian
A Falling Alamo Star, taking one last twinkle upon the sky

Forgotten Patriots, I can't remember the names
Written on walls, I can't remember the names
A folktale arena is where I first saw your face
Fairness of stuttered surrender slicing through iron brace
Crawling, with the hunger to live, a clean finish with grace
Exposing, scars needing mother's hands, mothers face

Across infested meadows, the aroma of burning skin
Distant, before Texas and her annexation, 
Gruesome, before I lived, Texas and her mortal sin
I pledge, my love, the honor, a legion, I'm a full blown Texian
To Every Forgotten Texian Patriot----- We Win!

By: PD


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Streets of blood


Streets of blood

She stood upon the terrace high
streets of blood below
The gate left open in the night,
a dark sky threatens snow

With swine and pearls running free
her bed sheets fought the wind
A tear drop fell her worried eyes
at hate now once again

Of drawbridge wars in endless fight
to stones of castle keep
A single rose a’ bloom this dawn
as mothers come to weep

For sons of father’s destined fall,
these followed footsteps bare
Along the streets so narrow, long,
where death becomes aware

“Enough!” she shouted far and wide
“This fighting now shall end”
“Take your swords and hateful spite,
do not return again”

And lifting high her amulet
upon a staff of wood
She chanted as the stone did glow
this morning where she stood

“Of peace, let all be felt this hour
Thy breath of saddened greed
Be gone, be gone, oh beast of war
No longer doth thou feed

Ye shadows o’er a nightfall mist
Lest blood befall your hand
Beyond this tree lined sacred place
Be gone from this our land”

When then a mighty wave did flow,
the streets were cleansed of fear
And there beyond horizons call
the sunrise did appear

And where once sat a single rose, 
one thousand buds did grow
Of crimson red and silken gold,
the sweetest fragrance flow

Mothers hugged their children close
as loudly trumpets blared
The bloodied streets now white with snow
and love by all was shared

But there within the canyons lurked
cast eyes of beaded red
“I shall return to take this place
O’ ye who think me dead” 

“To once more fill yon streets with blood
of this ye can believe
No matter what the masses want,
know this, I shall not leave” 




Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

When Heaven and Earth Wept

In camps, they’d slaved and starved; cold nights, they’d slept - Each woman, man, and little girl and boy. Relentless horror had around them crept. In camps, they’d slaved and starved; cold nights, they’d slept Until one day, even the angels wept! For freedom’s win, the world cried tears of joy. In camps, they’d slaved and starved; cold nights, they’d slept - Each woman, man, and little girl and boy. For Seeker's My Take on the Holocaust Poetry Contest


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

God Bless America

In the courts of sport and entertainment
They have forgotten the scales of justice
Lacking honor for those who gave life and limb
Sacrificing blood, and buried with god giving grace

The anthem is our history
of all triumphs, good, and even flaws
Look into the eyes of a veteran
to see inside a suffering vault

They, who fought, so that you may play
They who died, so that the rich live this day
Even the poor still have their freedoms
For veterans themselves, knew their reasons

No man, no nation can stand up to perfection
Its about respect of those, who gave...
Despite all imperfections
Without, history repeats, sending more to the cross and knave

When you hear "God Bless America"
Think of those flag covered graves
Think of the children
No fathers, because it is you they saved

Our nation is human
Filled with imperfections
Protest for change, for better days
While holding respect for those, who before you

With their blood, led the way


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Seb's I Love You Eyes

Seb's young fertile face beamed African royalty
even in the penury of this Nigerian refugee camp.
Her mother's downcast eyes shunned the camera's querying lens,
while Seb's, "I-love-you", eyes were welcoming. 

Seb's eyes were as blossom-petaled obsidian pools,
each pierced by the light of a distant star.
Her blackness did not succumb to woeful displacement,
but shone with the promise of an overcoming spirit;
for a Mother's prayers were writ in the marrow of her bones.

Born with a tenacity to love,
her young heart leaped out through trusting inquisitive eyes.
Her tongue, budding out of rich dark faced soil, seemed eager
to taste the sweet juices that her spirited-eyes promised;
smiling, "l love you", behind barbed wired love-me-nots.

Seb was a child . . . full of joyful expectations.
A child who did not choose this world;
'tho born of a Spirit conceived to love . . . 
to love the . . . hell . . . out from her world.


gv 4.2015

			~~~~~~

(Note: This piece came out of seeing this fascinating photograph
by Sebastian Rich,  of Seb clinging to her Mother in a camp for displaced Nigerians.)

Caption  :  A Nigerian child in a UNICEF clinic, who was finally on the road to a full recovery after suffering from severe acute malnutrition. Her unprompted smile filled my lens.

I would encourage everyone to visit the website of Sebastian Rich.  His heart-gripping photography is incredibly moving and of great importance. 


Copyright © george v. | Year Posted 2017

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Hope

You see hope when two kids share marbles between a volatile border.


Date: 16/06/2017


Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2017

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Verdict

NOW
Well, GI Jack is welcome back, he left his legs in 'Nam.
He wakes at night in sweat and fright, then drinks another dram.
He doesn't know quite where to go, so seeks his uncle, Sam.

BEFORE
One can't ignore - his ma was poor, and life was sometimes cruel,
yet Jack was brave and well behaved and surely no one's fool	
so joined the ranks that man the tanks, as soon as he left school

He learned to kill our foes at will (ordained a sacred rite),
and packed his bag and wrapped his flag and went away to fight.
And yes, the tide was on our side (for, clearly, might makes right)

Through tangled days in jungles' maze, he sought the enemy
behind the trees where, ill at ease, he fought the Yellow sea -
upon the waves of sunken graves he sailed a killing Spree

The napalm dropped and cooked the crops, burnt huts along the way
and tanks, with ease, mowed down the trees and villages of clay.
Yes, turret guns were loads of fun with roaring roundelays

While on the hunt with other grunts, he burned some babes alive
and wondered why frail things must die, while evil's phantoms thrive -
When folly ends, he'll make amends if only he'll survive
	
With booby traps (sticks dipped in crap)... yes, Charlie fought unfair.
He hid in holes like snakes and voles and snuck up everywhere
and like a mite beneath the night, caught Jackie unaware

At battle's end, Jack sought his friends - their souls were washed away
and only he and destiny were left in disarray -
with bed and pan, just half a man, the man of yesterday

When Jackie woke, beyond the smoke, his frame no longer whole,
he found instead a medalled thread, some wraps to hide the hole,	
and realized another prize: a chair on wheels to roll

Across his chest (you've surely guessed) his medals shone, arrayed.
His head felt light, as well it might, at Victory Day Parade
for when he rolled, while others strolled, his boots no longer weighed

AFTER
Well, Jack stayed home (no roads to Rome)  to start his life anew
receiving dole (that took its toll) which fell in Sam's purview,
but soon enough, when times got tough, his uncle, Sam, withdrew

To walk the streets with fine elites (or someone else who begs)
or find a job (or even rob) requires both your legs,
and those that don't and those that won't are those we call the dregs
 
For getting by he tried to ply and mine his medals' worth -
a tinny cup, a hungry pup near loamy pits of earth,
and best of all, per protocol, beneath a bridge, a berth

He clutched a sign 'A dime to dine?', if anybody cared,
but soon he found, as time unwound, that victors seldom shared.
And Jackie's pride was slowly fried by vacant eyes that stared

He took to drink to break the link with thoughts of what he'd done,
though threads of doubt began to flout the yarns Big Brother spun
of freedom's ring and other things like what it was we'd won

He told the breeze his vague unease; his words infused the air
and like the fogs above the bogs, soon floated through the square
where people sat at tea to chat, and thought 'How could he dare?'

But freedom's price is never nice: like storms before the flood
the Daily Rag was on a jag, was looking out for blood,
deemed Jackie's thoughts untamed and fraught, then dragged him through the mud

By snooping clues, they plucked his views like grapes upon the vine.
Big Brother came, blamed Jackie's name for thinking out of line,
shut Jack away from light of day while letting freedom shine

The Junto Brass, with eyes of glass, were robed in fine array
to hear the words (though slightly slurred) the witness gasped to say,
while Justice snored (the water board awash with Perrier)

Well, Jack was charged with laws enlarged in secret dossiers
within the guise of spreading lies and leading thoughts astray -
The Jury's out... the rabble shout 'well someone's gotta pay'

The Judge (who fears the mind’s frontiers), he turned his head to yawn
while making haste through courtroom waste, though slightly pale and wan -
The voodoo Lune withdrew as soon as Night condemned the Dawn

ETERNITY
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the sighs of Silence, rife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the Reaper played a fife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the price was Jackie's life

Epilogue
While censor’s cooks are roasting books (and truth) on stakes ablaze,
well, Jackie's head (though chopped and shed) still thinks about the praise
for deeds once done in victories won when cruising in a craze,
and then again about the sin of thinking, nowadays,
where, absently, humanity is served in urns on trays -
and, reconciled, it simply smiles at fortune's funny ways

Epitaph
A  mind was caught while thinking thoughts neath Sammy’s prying gaze
and forced to stop by concept cops, else join the castaways.
For now it's law to hold in awe the brave new world's malaise
and dance like mimes to rigid rhymes (which no one disobeys)
and celebrate with white-washed pate, adorned with dead bouquets -
with freedom’s death, time holds its breath, and waits for better days...


08/08/2013


Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

When the Flowers of Youth Fell

When the Flowers of Youth Fell

Winter stayed late that year
courting Spring with a fury.
Beautiful gifts of snow
and dazzling ice, he gave her.
It was during such courtship
I found myself lost -- adrift
in a place that once was ....
decades from this century.

Where mud and blood held hands
beneath duty and honour
and kindred flowers fell
to sounds of bugle and drum.

Smoke arose through Spring's tears.
Images of Blue and Grey
pilfered my breath as cannons 
rained thunder upon the brave.

How was this happening?
This was not where I belonged!
My time was not this place
and I wanted to go home.
Where Winter courted Spring
and snowmen fell -- not flowers --
upon the muddy ground
as snow reigned upon the brave.

The smell of gun powder
danced about my head and nose
like spirits for the faint --
arousing life ... far from home. 
"Get down! Get down! Get down!"
The half-crazed voice plunged me 
into the mud and blood
and I lay frozen in fear
beneath his weight ... and the cold. 
So cold, no hearts were beating, 
no breaths were being drawn, 
just the smell of sweat and blood.
The smell of rain and death.

Clutched tightly in his pale fist 
a tattered blood-stained note
bore the words, "Please ... for
mama ...."      
I tried but could not scream. 
And, I felt daylight passing ....

As shadows took the brave,
Winter's folly tamed sweet Spring
with final coats of snow ....
and snowmen fell -- not flowers. 

©deborah burch
3.08.2013


Copyright © Deborah Burch | Year Posted 2013

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Sold

There is no difference,
the saints whisper and every enemy and ally
wake to forever’s difference,
that neither knee nor tongue will deny.

Doubt bit into Innocence and sold
the first coffins wrapped in pride.
Creation became a seed – a box filled twofold,
when under silt,  Eden died.

Secular tides engulf their last season
to bury God and Baal,
synthetic rainbows enlighten treason
fulfills the fool’s tale.

Escape suffering to bend
love to an abstract sum.
Detached absurdity when
a false bliss is done.

Not enough of Earth’s blood
to sustain paved veins,
a technological flood
of isotopes and labor pains.

Fiat economies root for
the drug and gun,
made the bomb’s core
hotter than the sun.

infusions of contraband’s revenue
numbs the inconvenience of sin.
A dream’s fence became headstones ensue,
declared wars we can’t afford to win.

Seeded skies less blue to breathe,
the incense of death and device,
ivory towers babel and seethe,
lies spoil the last grains of paradise.

One rich man though licked by the flame,
still sees Lazarus as a servant and to those
who tear Christ off the Cross to make him the same,
Judas still hangs in the shadows.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Written 10.28.16
Contest: Saints and Sinners
Sponsor: Silent One
	


Copyright © rob carmack | Year Posted 2016

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Causalities of War

.                                                     Beneath a blanket of earth
                                                     With a pillow made of stone
                                                       Her child eternally sleeps
                                                                    
                                                                   ~~~

.                                                     While at the foot of his bed
                                                           She stands alone
                                               And weeps! And weeps! And weeps!


.                                                  Written:  November 20th, 2009
                                                    Author:  Elaine George


Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2009

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

He Was My Sun

He was my sun, my one and only son,
and dressed up as a cowboy for the day.
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.

And dressed up as a cowboy for the day
he found some foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play
the part of injuns in a mock charade.

He found some foes (with bows and arrows made)
in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of injuns, in a mock charade,
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.

In history books, before he left from school -
the tales retold, of victories that we’d won,
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel -
the flow of paint was not to staunch when once begun.

From tales retold, of victories that we’d won,
he learned to fight for god and country glory, though
the flow of pain, ’twas not to staunch when once begun
and cruel to both sides (as he’d later come to know).

He learned to fight for god and country glory, though
the wounds of war were still unseen (though nigh)
and cruel to both sides (as we’d later come to know);
and soon he stuffed his bag with several things of youth and said goodbye.

The wounds of war were still unseen. Though nigh,
the hours boomed, the clock struck 12, before his time to leave,
and soon he stuffed his bag with several things of youth and said goodbye
to those who’d stay and even those who didn’t grieve.

The hours boomed, the clock struck 12, before his time to leave -
they brought back bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died
to those who’d stayed. And even those who didn’t grieve
with tears were stiff and masked like wooden boxes meant to hide.

They brought back bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died.
They brought his boots back, camouflaged with mud.
With tears, the stiff were masked in wooden boxes meant to hide
our children from the spilling of their blood.

They brought his boots back, camouflaged with mud.
They said they’d needed him to help defend
our children from the spilling of their blood.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?

They said they’d needed him to help defend,
and so they handed him a little gun.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
He was my sun, my one and only son...



Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Gold Star

I remember as a young boy, going out to play, I would sometimes see old Mr. Kimball, sitting on the steps of his porch, often reading the paper. World War II was in full swing so the newspapers and radios were avidly sought out for the latest news.  Mr. Kimball was a fireman, and probably not even that old, but he seemed that way to me.

Sometimes, he would invite me to sit with him and we would talk about everything and nothing.  I loved spending time with him because, he was the only grown up I knew that took the time to entertain the mind of a young boy.

In his front window hung a small flag. It had a red border surrounding a white field, upon which there were two blue stars.  I was always curious about it, so I asked him what it was.  He said “It's a Sons in Service flag.  One star for each son serving.  You remember my boys don't you?”  I did of course.  Chuck, the oldest, used to tease me, calling me a sissy to get a reaction.  Bobby was a couple of years younger, and the bike I was riding once had been his.

Mr. Kimball went on to explain how Chuck was now in the Army and fighting in France.  Bobby was in the Navy, aboard a ship somewhere in the Pacific.  He didn't say it, but I'm sure he was worried about both, communications being what they were back then.

One day, when I was walking over to see him, I noticed that the flag had changed.  It now carried one blue star, but the other one was gold.  With the innocence that comes of being a child, I asked what the gold star meant.  He quietly said “It means Chuck is coming home”, and without further comment, he turned and went in the house.

A couple of days later, I saw a hearse pull up to the Kimballs house, and four men carry a flag draped box up the porch steps.  That is the moment the meaning of war came to a small boy.  I knew Chuck was home.


Copyright © Bob Quigley | Year Posted 2012

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

That Was a Human

Allow me to be disgusted at the jest
and your halfway happy surprise at the end result
of the missile timed precisely:

Did he just splatter?

And allow me to feel the brunt of the bruising
upon my saddened heart, where for others was felt,
from laughing hard.

Yes, all lives matter

Even the ones who don't bear
our national colors
our political expectations    no matter how wrong or right
For just this occasion let us get back to basics:

That was a human

ten fingers and ten toes
perhaps a wife and family to call his own
but do you even know?

            Or even care to think
beyond the face of it?

Getting kicks at watching the Live Leaks
of people being blown to smithereens      It bothers me
That one should find it amusing
Does it bother      You?

---a single tear of blue
is all I'm asking---

Who he was or what he did
what difference does it make?
When life closes the lid
all we have is the acknowledgement:

That was a human      A human

What if those pixels on the screen
were all that was left of that man's memory

would you still find it funny?

And yet still we turn to Facebook Enlightenment
with quotations that decorate a sniper in a holy moment ---

"And oh God. One more thing.
Ignore my enemies heathen prayers
and help me send those bastards
straight to hell.

Amen."

(The amount of "likes" are disheartening
and should be a sin.
Where's the "vomit button" ... ?)

Reading through the comment's section,
like poetry for the juvenile,
and the criminally insane.
No Alka Seltzer      No pills
I'm riding this crazy train unprotected
as if I'm dying for a thrill.

Dying ... at the very least.
Queasy at the vertigo of a nation
acting to love and loving to act

(Nineteen-Eighty-Four called,
they want their plot back)

And have you read empathy such as this?

ROFL, mate! That's classic!

(you have a doggie bag on ya, by chance?
I think I'm gonna be sick)

That was a human

A HUMAN!!!

And you call yourself a Man of God?
Yet still feel compelled
to pull back His Grace to your own ends

... that slippery tide
between your fingers

As if infinity could only be stretched so far;
it won't last long my friend,
before you look into that celestial mirror
scared at what you see

 Is that            me?

Yet still you wear that outpouring of love
on your neck like a trophy
as if you even deserved it.

a single tear of blue     just one
can you give it to me, son?

t h a t w a s a h u m a n

And do you even care?
Does it phase you in the slightest?
Or does a coat of arms
give you further reason to divide?

Jesus died for all      For all

All that upheld the American flag
      as equal to His words.
All who marched to the beat of the drums
      drowning out the birds.
All who bravely proclaimed: We are Heading to War!
                                       We are Heading to War!
And all those who never asked: And what for? What for?

Do you feel its beating on your soul?
S h  o   u    l     d
      I       t        a        l         k
          s           l            o             w?

(the unwritten verses
you added long ago)

It doesn't even matter now,
because all that remains
is what's been left on the page.

All that remains...

Just four sad words
like hopeless sand
slipping through my fingers

That was a human      (or at least it was)
Before Man forgot what he had,
Believing he could do better,
Egging the Almighty to play his game

... back to the drawing board, smirked the Creation

And what about you, Dear Reader?
What will the eulogizer speak
in your honor
when the lights out?

That was a monster
He won't bother you now


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Rain over Vietnam

There is the calm before the rain
It’s almost silent all around
The clouds expectant in the sky
Foreboding birds are homeward bound.

The soldiers stare at looming clouds
There is the calm before the rain
And yet there’s tension in the air
Will all this waiting be in vain?

They know the feeling well enough
The sun gets left out in the cold 
There is the calm before the rain
They have to be prepared and bold.

The sound of planes will soon be heard
Torrential bombs will fall again
But ‘til the heavens burst in floods
There is the calm before the rain. 

-----------------------------------------------------------
Inspired by the song “Have you ever seen the rain?”
Sung by Credence Clearwater Revival.
With underlying reference to the Vietnam War.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Contest: Screwed (Mar 2015)
Sponsor: Rob Carmack 
Placed: 7th


Rock N' Roll Contest sponsored by Kelly Deschler. NA



Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2014

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The Poet Warrior

My Dear Enemy
Here I am
In full armor
My quill is full of arrows
My bow is taunt and ready fro battle
My horse is pristine and shiny black
I am your enemy
As you are mine to the death
I shall take my bow and arrow
Pierce you through the heart
My king shall praise and honor me
For many battles so well fought
I know I have to shoot my arrows
To save my own pitiful soul

My dear enemy
I just long for you to know
Every arrow, every drop of blood
Every soul that must depart
Due to my fine skills and sharp arrow darts
I die along with you
I know not who you are
Yet a weep for your lost soul
I imagine other times
Maybe we would sit for tea and cookies
Laughing over words of glee
You and I so battle ready
I am sorry for all the battle scars
The blood that flows so deep
Every arrow that leaves my bow
I am sure it too, also weeps

My Dear Enemy
I prey today that before the dusk
One of you will have a finer bow
My heart no longer has the will
To fill my quill with arrows so
Today, I let one of you end my day
No longer can I live on this way
All my fine arrows fired
Have finally been on target
My Dear Enemy
I love you as any man
I have only love for humanity
I pray one day
Our Kings and Queens shall feel this way
As off the battle field, I am carried away


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | War Poem | Create an image from this poem.

American Tears

Article: http://endgenocide.org/learn/past-genocides/native-americans/

American Tears Aftershock atrocities after you left; Apologies abundant amidst your regret. Amplified apprehension, Agonizing annihilation; Acquitted yourself, but I’ll never forget... Beaten by brutality ’fore you bred bulbous boars, Conquered by “cleansing”; cascading commodores; Destructive diseases delivered death’s doors, Everything extracted, as Europe explores. Fought fierce fatality: now a fungal formality, Grievous and gruesome tale for humanity. Inanity igniting increased insanity, Jingles “...justice for all” in jovial jejunity. Kicking, Kindling and Killing: legality, Land of liberty home of the slave. Monotonous mundanity muddles mentality, morality missing: must misbehave. No-nonsense nationalism now the normality, Omnipresent oppression; outdo or outbrave. Perverse professionalism or perfect profanity; The quintessential quarterback’s cave. Ready, set, for restored reality, Set sail all, who are sans superiority. Totalitarianism triumphs with total tenacity, Uniformed ugliness, undermining urbanity. Victors’ vitality victimizes with volcanity; Warmongers wish in woeful whimsicality. Xenophobes want copies: hair with xanthic similarity: Yobbish youths yelling for zestful zealotry. ... American tears have fallen and will Continue to bawl until the land is still. Listen to the wind as she tells her tale, For the vales are frail as its people wail. 27th January 2017 Word Challenge Contest by Silent One 1st Place


Copyright © Nicola Byrne | Year Posted 2017

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Standstill

Strangely bent this journey extends
Surreal at times, yet so real at ends
Each end confronts with a hardship of choices
With an abrupt passing, or an eternity of voices...

You and I, once on similar trends
Like brothers, we traversed all evil impends
The wheels then turned, unleashed worst of fears
We parted asunder on an ocean of tears

Through fallen decades, aggrieved heart sustained
I found my calling, forgot I was pained
Just when the going got peaceful and boring
Gales of anguish, and war started pouring

Again, I was forced to extinguish my wills
Left home for those in need of my skills
Forced to welcome the worst of thrills
A reward for one with the highest kills?

As we splattered blood on uncertain causes
Strode down the road of victories and losses
A vessel, merely, I was as I killed
Of sons, of husbands, of fathers, I spilled

In the heat of the battle, as I charged through
When my craving eyes met the eyes of you
That instant, that second, that moment, I knew
Neither decades nor ages could help subdue

My faltering sword could no longer fight
For whom I now behold in my sight
And I question my vow, having vowed despite
Whether or not my cause was right

Yet again, I stand on the recurring hill
In the midst of havoc, at a standstill
A piece of land that I swore to defend
Is it worth the life of a brother, a friend?


Copyright © M. Hussain Effendi | Year Posted 2011

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Gettysburg Hauntings

Gettysburg Hauntings

When General Meade met General Lee
At Gettysburg in 1863

Sons of the South battled Northern brothers
And neither side has ever recovered

Fifty-one thousand lives lost in three days
Of a summertime swelter, July haze

Souls rose not to heaven from bodies piled
On blood-soaked battlefields spanning 40 miles

An on-scene photographer moved fallen men
To snap better images with his lens

Hats off to Alex Gardner if you please
Today picture-takers’ cameras freeze

At a large bouldered site called Devil’s Den
Sharpshooter hid, killed unsuspecting men

Travelers at night on Pennsylvania roads
Claim they see soldiers, hear cannons explode

A century after the Revolution
United our states to wage war as one

Virginians were forced to choose blue or gray
Mason Dixon Line divided that way

If only Tom Jefferson’s wise notion
Had not been struck from the Declaration

Slavery, the impetus for war and hate
Would have been quashed before State versus State

Gettysburg might have been a peaceful farm
Where soldiers had never succumbed to harm

But restless spirits, faces pale and gaunt
Never retreat from their Gettysburg haunt

Our nation’s darkest hour plays out each night
And passersby still marvel at the sight

Where sons of the South battled Northern brothers
For neither side will ever recover


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009

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I was a Soldier

I was a Soldier

I was a soldier many years ago,
How time flies, where did it go.
To many places I was deployed,
Never too long before I was sent,
To fix things electrical was my bent.
I saw no action, that's how it was to be.
No matter where I was,no medals for me
I signed up to serve, wherever I was sent.
Invalided out, from FARELF I came,
No hero's welcome, just a whole lot of pain.
Didn't want Civvy life, thought it was a drag.
I guess it had the edge on a body bag.
I see guys coming home, leaving limbs behind,
A struggle to get help for their case do they find.
I see a disgrace on this government today,
They sent our best to fight in lands far away.
Our young fought and died in some foreign affray,
When you see them homeless,out on the street,
Let your heart go out to them as you hear them cry.
Because there but for fortune, go you or go I.

© Dave Timperley May 2016


Copyright © Dave Timperley | Year Posted 2016

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The Enemy's Child : collab with Carolyn D


The battles on the field are harsh and tough
The looting in their wake engorged with greed
Abundant spoils of war are not enough.
 
Atrocious in their acts that make no sense
The women and the girls are taken slaves
Abusing them with lust and violence.                        
 
Unable to resist the touch of shame
The captive females cry in pain and fear
Their lives will never be again the same.
 
And when the dust of war has blown away
The children of the foe get born to those
Who months before fell prey and ravaged lay.
 
Unwanted children still need loving care
Mothers find it hard to nurture such babes
Shame is endured by children in despair.
 
Their lives are defined by horrid attacks
Evil men who satisfied selfish needs
Indignities make them fall through the cracks.
 
Who loves a child rejected by its kin?
Society offers them no solace 
The “enemy’s child”, created by sin;
 
But all these children still have hearts and souls
Rejection renews the cycle of pain
When there is no one who cares or consoles.

-----------------------------------------------------
Co-write: Paul Callus & Carolyn Devonshire
@ March 2015



Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2015

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The Phantom Horse

A phantom horse came galloping 
beneath a silver moon
across a field of recent war 
where corpses’ bones lay strewn.

With thunder in his hoof beats,
again and then again,
he raced along a river which,
like blood, ran through that plain.

Though frightful he appeared to be
on land that reeked demise,
a sole intent gleamed strongly
in his sad and ghostly eyes.

Then finally, as dawn began
to paint the broad stretch red,
the unrelenting stallion stopped
and seemed to bow his head.

He briefly knelt, then stood upright
and bore away, with speed,
the spirit of the knight for whom
he’d been a trusty steed!


For Skat's Premiere Contest number 9 Poetry Contest


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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Yellow Ribbons

Yellow ribbons furl
on oaks that line our driveway
as we await your return.
Their luster's now pale,
reflecting the challenged hope
of a son you’ve never met.



*Entry for Russell’s “Sedoka me any subject” contest
Written February 21, 2012 by Carolyn Devonshire


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2012