Best World War II Poems | Poetry

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

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

See Also:

Poems are below...

New World War Ii Poems

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

An Old World War II Song by Ellison, Jack
The world war II by joyce, elliot
An Old World War II Injury by Ellison, Jack
An Old World War II Injury by Ellison, Jack
World War II by Fraser, Steven
The World War II Years by Ellison, Jack
World War II 'senryu x3' by Baxter, Warner
I Met A Veteran From World War II by Wood, Chad
The Man Who Won World War II by Eng, Steve
Season's World War II by Stegall, Rae

View all new World War Ii Poems

The Best World War Ii Poems

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

Pearls Beneath the Harbor

Our bank accounts nearly emptied so we could afford a vacation; two young working girls who'd never been far from home. We were looking forward to finding love on a romantic tropical island. Maybe someone in our group would cast his smiling eyes our way. How exciting it would be to be swept off our feet before we'd even left the ground! But when the tour guide said, "We're all here. Let's go," we were surrounded by eighteen fellow tourists who looked like they'd escaped from the geriactric ward. We saw smiling eyes, but they were all magnified behind bifocal glasses.

walkers and canes  
ambling down slanted ramps: 
no young men around

An overnight flight to Oahu, left little time to say more than 'hello' and "where ya from" before it was lights out for the elderly ones. Soon we heard the snores of those who were to be our companions for the next ten days. Alayna and I giggled as the snoring grew louder. We whispered, trying not to wake them, finding the humor of our plight. We managed to doze and in the morning, eighteen happy faces greeted us as we headed to the loo.

faces blushed in shame
from wrong conclusions drawn

Delightful confidants, the geriatrics turned out to be. They sang and danced and made us laugh at their antics. We learned that age is not a deterrent to having fun, and we became protected daughters of eighteen doting mothers and fathers who chaperoned us as if we were their charges. Not lacking in energy, despite limps and arthritic knees, they were fun travelers through every tour we'd booked.  No complainers among them, and always the most eager to be underway.

On the last day we visited Pearl Harbor. Alayna and I weren't interested in a monument over a ship that was sunk in WW II.  That was before we'd been born! With a little coaxing from 'Daddy' Glenn, we decided to tag along.  Something happened to us as we walked upon the bridge-like structure that spanned the USS Arizona. Several of the gentlemen in our group were veterans and began telling of their experiences in the war. We listened and learned, both rapt in awe of their memories. Goosebumps covered our skin when we looked into their solemn eyes. In eyes that had gleamed with laughter for the last nine days, we saw anguish as they recalled the horror of it all. 

sunken ship
for their burial tomb:
death beneath the harbor

There was an opportunity that one of us could have been romanced. The island boy who surfed the beach at our hotel was throwing glances our way. We decided to forsake the straight white teeth, handsome face, and seductive stares, and opted to spend our time with those who wore dentures and whose faces were wrinkled by time.

It had only been ten days that we spent on Oahu, but in that time we both grew up. We learned not to judge at first glance, and if given the chance, we would do it all over again. Over the years I've often wondered if the group had ever gathered for another journey.

Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2017

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

A Rose by any other name ---

Through the hushed whisper of the breeze Flowing through the majestic circling pine trees I sense that I have stepped Into a sacred hallowed space A GARDEN OF ROSES A heady perfume hits the senses Euphoric, Exhilarating, Enticing, Ethereal comes to mind Heaven sighs in a high frequency of vibrations To whisk one away to never before felt heights An Awe descends on me It's as if time itself has frozen A spiritual and mystical alignment Encased In A Timeless Capsule Of Love Reserved for the weary of heart perhaps? Roses from all nations scintillate in complete harmony Where no negative emotion except love Dares Enter ANGELS SING FROM ABOVE And I feel it deep in my pores I see it in the mother who lifts her child to smell a rose I see the artist who strives to capture its beauty In the frail old lady whose carer brings her wheel chair close to the Blooms In the star crossed lovers In the older couple who stare fascinated at the thorns on the stems Perhaps contemplating their past journey That is now in a blissful state of BLOOM And I wonder to myself Since roses from countries around the world Can bloom in complete harmony Why can’t we as humans do the same?
Footnote: Dedicated to my Mum, whose love for roses shone through with her peaceful nature and her love for peace and harmony in the family. 'La Vie en Rose' was one of her favorite songs. MAY ALL NATIONS LIVE IN PEACE This poem Is Not about the 120 varieties of Roses represented by the best species from 120 different nations. This poem Is Not about the beautiful hues from almost black red, to sanguine reds, pinks, orange, yellows, delicate Harlequin tri-colours of shades of red to cream or the unusual roses of blues and even almost indigos. All these pictures you can see on the net if you look up the Ryoseni Temple in Nara Osaka which we visited on our recent trip to Japan. This poem Is Not about the hundreds and thousands of Rose blossoms encircled by a thousand pine trees. This poem Is About the concept behind this Rose garden established in 1957 as a living prayer for Peace and Harmony among all nations, not long after WWII. This poem Is About the tangible positive, peaceful energy that pervades these gardens. A gentle breath of wind is instrumental to the delicate petals scintillating in orchestration and releasing the beautiful fragrance throughout this massive Rose garden. This is a garden that binds Nations together with Roses that are not only an international symbol of Peace, Romance and Love, but it is no coincidence that it is a species with the highest harmonic vibrational energy frequency of 320 mhz. A most beneficial and elevating energy to our well being. (Humans have a frequency of 62 mhz to 68 mhz at full health). Let’s bring back LOVE & HARMONY people - starting right HERE. For more on the beauty of Japan you may like to visit my poem 'Seduction In Spring - A Haiku Garland' La Vie En Rose sung by Daniela Andrade

Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2017

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


The world's grey. Slowly, methodically,
Feathers from colorful birds have been burned.
Sheep in a fog on a snowy mountain.
One man thought uniformity equaled
Superiority, ugly furor.
Their ashes floated down all around us
There's no color left in this sooty world.
Beauty's palette swirled with color beckons.
Diversity screams for a slight foothold.
The heart just whithers in colorless worlds.

APRIL 23, 2016

Word count 62

Copyright © Cindi Rockwell | Year Posted 2016

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


Thousands living in fear
For they knew Hitler was growing near
In Poland her career would soon to be
As she helped scared persecuted to flee

Gas chambers were yet to come
For not all heeded the warnings of this young one
Compassion and determination
Made her the first in reporting the War of all Nations

A thousand horses and a thousand horsemen
A thousand tanks, her story found both ink and pen
Hollering of the invasion to be
Her worth all would soon well see

As German troops invaded Poland
Her report the first of World War number 2
The first female War correspondent so new
Setting the stage for all the brave lasses who followed through

Days long ago when a woman’s job just wasn’t so
She led the way, helping thousands begin a new pathway
She was the model for those who came after
She never quit, until death's battle 

Her beauty had faded at the age of one hundred and five
Her moxy and determination they stayed vibrant and alive
She sipped champagne to the very end, one oh five
A tear for the lady, whose bravery defeated an evil campaign

Clare au Lune
For all tiss worth
You were and angel 
Brave on the front lines of truth

Rest in peace, divine, for all time

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017

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

Act III, Final Scene


Act III, final scene, psychodrama script- the world is ushered off into history's crypt. All the super heroes lie slaughtered on the floor while apocalyptic addicts are screaming out for more. A handful of patriots ride the airwaves into night broadcasting dire warnings to bring the truth to light. General population is glued to the TV set watching situation comedies, smoking cigarettes. The program's interrupted by a special news update "World War III declared" more details at eight. General population pumps his fist hard into the air grabs himself a six-pack and settles back into his chair. Less then twenty cases later he is morgue decor from the radiation resulting from the war. The tube becomes his headstone, body decomposing on the floor beneath blue light TV flickering...1984.

Copyright © John Wilowski | Year Posted 2012

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

At Dunkirk

At Dunkirk, where thousands of stranded men lined a bloody beach, hope was draining with each air strike delivered by the unrelenting Germans’ aircraft. Cold, starved, and injured men watched from shore - their few rescue ships being bombed and sunk. How must they have felt knowing their homeland was so close – and yet so far away? Horrific days passed when at last brave civilians came with boats, so it was that ten times the number of those not expected to live were instead - SAVED. Aug. 16, 2017: Double Etheree written for JPContest 6: WAR AND HEROISM Contest
From Wikipedia: The Dunkirk evacuation, code-named Operation Dynamo and also known as the Miracle of Dunkirk, was the evacuation of Allied soldiers during World War II from the beaches and harbour of Dunkirk, in the north of France, between 26 May and 4 June 1940. The operation commenced after large numbers of British, French, and Belgian troops were cut off and surrounded by German troops during the Battle of France. In a speech to the House of Commons, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill called this "a colossal military disaster", saying "the whole root and core and brain of the British Army" had been stranded at Dunkirk and seemed about to perish or be captured. On the first day only 7,669 men were evacuated, but by the end of the eighth day, 338,226 soldiers had been rescued by a hastily assembled fleet of over 800 boats. Many troops were able to embark from the harbour's protective mole onto 39 destroyers of the British Royal Navy, 4 Royal Canadian Navy destroyers,] and civilian merchant ships, while others had to wade out from the beaches, waiting for hours in shoulder-deep water. Some were ferried to the larger ships by what came to be known as the little ships of Dunkirk, a flotilla of hundreds of merchant marine boats, fishing boats, pleasure craft, yachts, and lifeboats called into service from Britain.  In his We shall fight on the beaches speech on 4 June, Churchill hailed their rescue as a "miracle of deliverance".

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2017

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


France, fascinating place of beauty and grace overwhelmed by a master and fascist race
 with a dagger in one hand and the other, a mace
 all who do not succumb to the iron fist
 by life’s hand they shall be missed. 

France, now a place of shock and fate
twas this mean to be the countries state?
The allies come in green marching band
 ready to strike at the fascist hand
 to make with us a noble and honoured stand

Copyright © Constant Nicolet | Year Posted 2016

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

Forever Remember, Lest We Forget

In 1914 those aged between 18 and 55
Had no option or choice in life.
In 1939 those aged between 18 and 44
Had to defend home and fight a world war.

They dug holes in the mud and lived in underground huts,
They had no luxuries and would often see guts.
When it rained, there was no drain, so water filled up to their knees.
A regular sight of dead bodies with no escape from disease.

Unlike yours was their life, so remember thee,
It's a small thing to do for you and me.

Those who lived with machine guns taunting day and night,
In a hole in a field miles away from their life.
Vindication unknown and with no indication if the end was in sight,
Just carry on soldier and fight for your right.

Secure the right of freedom,
Allowed in your kingdom,
As that place is your home.
Home is where the heart is but the futures an unknown.

So we who are now alive and don't face that fate,
Should pay tribute to past generations for doing something that we would hate.

War creates heroes but wars are evil,
In the past people gave their life as a present for present day people.

Men and women of our island, our Empire and our Commonwealth,
As well as our allies that fought for a common want,
That want being the luxury of which we know no different, 
So pay your respects as the past is significant.

So thank you soldier, or the women of the factory 
Your story is unpleasant but is remembered as glory.

We that live now should know our existence is simple,
The lessons of history are what make our lifetime peaceful.

We owe unto you the most priceless of debts,
Those generations who achieved greatness we must not forget.

Our nation as one say "lest we forget".

Our species our planet "lest we forget".

Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2017

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

One Marine

Freedom won
Lost of one
Lives touched
Standing proud

One by one
Life on the line
Bullets to bombs
Freedom is the fight

Trained for war
Forward they go
Front line is the spot
Here to fight

21 shots
Folded flag present
There he goes
One brave marine he was

Copyright © Presten Traxler | Year Posted 2015

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

They Never Went To War

They never went to war; they stayed at home
The young, the old, the unwell and the dead
The women who were not allowed to roam
The men who tilled the fields and baked the bread
Some sat in darkness waiting for the rap
Of letterbox, and soft white feather fall
The silence broken by a dripping tap
Dark shadows cast by street lamps on the wall
The little lads who ran behind the train
That took their fathers off to certain death
Who waved until their arms ached in the rain
Who ran until their lungs ran out of breath
Old men who yearned for youth; just one more chance
To feel the blood flow, hear the battle cry
To wear the uniform and take a stance
To stand with other men, to fight and die
The crippled and the mad, the deaf, the blind
Escaped the fate of many thousand men
Some angry that they had been left behind
Some thankful that they’d never fight again
Women, who with their sleeves rolled ploughed the land
Lit candles, raised the children, hid their tears
Made ammunitions with a careful hand
Kept watch and saved the night time for their fears
So many stayed at home, and stayed alive
And suffered pain and loss, regret and guilt
That they were left, that they were to survive
Within the house such sacrifice had built
Their many names are not inscribed on stone
Those sorrowed souls, so haunted by war’s ghost
Were left to stand and mourn the dead alone
Listening to the trumpet sound the post

by Gail


Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2015

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

Vitamin B-12

Started taking Vitamin B-12 for my memory Reminding me of the B-29, a question for Jeopardy A bomber during history's dark time World War II, a disgusting crime We must all be sure so as not repeat this treachery © Jack Ellison 2015

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2015

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

Indian Givers

The once was a Native American Navajo
Who served his country and to war did go.
He wrote codes by the score
Which helped end the war
But came home to no fame, “Oh, no.”

The World War II ends in ‘45
Choctaw and Comanche side by side
Broke the back of the Fuhrer
Our messages got through sure! 
With out their gift we’d not stem the tide!

It took fifty five years and more
For the US to give medals they wore
Many went to their graves
Still feeling enslaved
But, Congressional Gold the corpse bore.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010

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

Short Story

 The first time I saw my father I was a year and 8 months old. He had returned home for a short respite  before shipping out to England to prepare for the invasion. It was the early spring of 1944.  World War II was raging and my father was caught up in the effort to literally save the free world. 

 I sat on a sea blue linoleum floor with  a red stripe border. I was in the hall of my mom's parent's house. The two very special grandparents I was fortunate to have thru to adulthood. I spent many of my early days there during the liberation of Europe. My mom worked full time to support the two of us.

 In front of me was a door to the bathroom. The door behind me lead downstairs to a lower flat and then to the outside. On my left were doors to the two bedrooms and on my right archways to the living room and the kitchen. Two women, my mom and my aunt were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. I heard one of them say, “why don't you lay down for a while, Chevy!” I'm not sure what his given name was. Carmen or Francisco depending on which of his brothers or sisters you asked. He didn't seem to care either way. He signed his name “Frank F. Grasso” and that is the way we buried him. Everyone called him Chevy, from his original nickname “The Little Shaver” and “Shavey”, his two older brothers had given him growing up.
 I heard him walk up behind me and stop. I have no memory of were he came from. I turned my head to look over my shoulder and saw his two feet with laced brown shoes. Two leather spats that covered his ankles ended above my head, just below his knees. I had to bend my head back as far as I could to see what to me looked like a monstrous man, and I saw his face looking back and smiling down on me. He didn't say anything. He just turned and walked into a bedroom and stretched out on the bed. I could see his brown shoes and spats hanging off to one side.

 The next time I remember seeing him was at his mothers wake. (His father passed years before I was born.) He was granted an early discharge when she became sick in 1945. He had made it past the assault on to Omaha Beach, the hedge rows in France, thru the battles in Belgium and Holland and all the way to Hitler's Bunker in Germany and  Germany's surrender. He was an artillery spotter thru the campaign. He commanded an early radar system, a huge drop bed trailer truck with a giant radar antenna mounted on it. His unit straddled the front lines to give warning of enemy air attacks.  He carried shrapnel in his leg from a hand grenade to his death and suffered a cracked vertebrate in his neck from an artillery blast. He was hospitalized and returned to action after each injury. He never received metals for either injury and I don't ever remember hearing him complain about that. Had his mother not taken ill he would have been on his way to the Pacific to fight the Japanese.

  I remember standing in my grandmothers driveway. The wake was in the parlor of her home, which was the custom in those days. I was too young to view her. Just 3 years old. I was looking out into the street thinking about death when my father came out of the house. He walked down the driveway to where I was standing. I turned and looked up into his face. He looked down on me smiling and never said a word.

 The memories are still vivid.

written September 22, 2016

Copyright © Francis J Grasso | Year Posted 2016

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

May Life Bless You

May life bless you with real freedom, 
Keep enjoyment as your place, 
May you find your own confidence, 
From your education and your space;
May you entertain discernment,
Whilst fulfilling your desires,
And may platitude be rescinded, 
By real love in your eyes.

May life be all it can be, 
May your realities come from your dreams, 
May your work become your eulogy, 
And may your identity give your memes. 

May you receive more than you give, 
And see reason when there's none,
May your friends light your inside,   
May you give hope to those with one;
May you save the exploited from oppression,
By making despair to you most personal,
And may equality be the standard,
For your repudiation of its dismissal.

May life be all it can be, 
May your realities come from your dreams, 
May your work become your eulogy, 
And may your identity give your memes. 

May you always uphold justice, 
Even in dark and uncertain times,
When faced with honest requests, 
And its unsettled times sometimes; 
May you do what’s right no problem, 
Not questioning the strain, 
Nor grumbling about the consequences, 
Of morality’s devoted love train. 

May life be all it can be, 
May your realities come from your dreams, 
May your work become your eulogy, 
And may your identity give your memes. 

May your diamond be stalwart honour,
For war heroes old and injured,
Tormented by battlefields and sights,
Of the mangled and beleaguered; 
May you testify to fact and truth, 
And publish what you know;
And may reason be your sociology, 
To dictatorial governments overthrow. 

May life be all.... 

May you respect others in esteem, 
For kindness and achievement,
May you follow those you understand, 
As beautiful in accomplishment;
May you undertake endeavours, 
Which ramify the other unstudied, 
By embracing love and laughter, 
As whispers of grace embodied. 

May life be all... 

May you always say what’s inside,
Whilst giving other people a chance,
Trusting them with your memories, 
That history upon which you cannot glance; 
May you always speak your mind, 
To make rationality your guide, 
And in dignity confide and correct, 
To let the delinquent within you abide. 

May life be all... 

May your philosophies be trophied,
As a garland by the lonely,
And may your way be warmly accepted, 
Without negotiation or apology;
May righteousness be your hallmark,
And caring thought your attribution, 
And may you prevail generally as a good person, 
Bringing light where there’s intrusion. 

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015

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

Ellsworth Wallace Haynes

I was an airplane engine mechanic but worried about the Japs, 
Invading and attacking my land so I joined up for the Navy;
On Brown University campus I was trained with other chaps, 
But was separated from my friend, never seen again, hazy. 

I was sent to Navy Pier in Chicago where there was no food, 
No water, bedding or shelter, and where I became a fireman; 
You had to maintain silence when travelling on the cars good, 
On the public transport which ejected you for a commotion. 

I got my ship, the USS John Penn, from the Panama Canal, 
To Guadalcanal to Noumea, where I was indeed promoted, 
And on my birthday we took leave and got drunk, vinal, 
But as I let another take the blame I wasn’t ever demoted. 

On our next trip to Guadalcanal, it was a transport ship, 
We were hit and sunk and 111 men and 13 officers lost;
That changed my life forever, ‘cos I survived to live, rip, 
So I mailed my mother who’d heard there’d been a cost. 

So I moved onto another ship since mine was sunk, 
The USS President Jackson, another troop transport, 
Had 5000 marines for Bougainville in a team, very punk,
Had the nickname “The Unholy Four”, there’s no distort.

A bomb landed on our deck but the marines threw it, 
Way into the sea, ‘cos they were brave and courageous,
And once we docked in New Zealand, once in Australia, kit, 
And one night we were attacked by a Jap sub outrageous.

But we got it, succeeded to beat, but three men escaped, 
Three of ours escaped from a camp ready and willing, 
So they caught and killed them ten days after, trapped, 
So Chastine and Freddie never laughed again tilling. 

The Jackson went to Luzon, Leyte and Guam armed, 
And to many other invasions, and I was promoted again, 
And lastly we unloaded 5000 marines at Jima crammed,
Because she then needed to be repaired to go out again. 

I was ordered not to return to her, so got time off, 
And by the time that period was up, the war ended, 
So I made it home to Seatle partly by paying myself, 
To return to my wife, her town that we’d defended. 

I feel as if a Guardian Angel went with me all the way, 
All the while he was on my shoulder for that duration; 
I was fortunate, came back, but I often parsed my day,  
For close relationships, not to have them, no obligation. 

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2016

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

remembrance day

we think of those who went to war
we think of them and what they were fighting for
they stood for what they believed was right
they fought for our country and did not take flight
they risked their life so we could be free
they fought all that time ago even for you and me
they were our troops
as one they did stand 
to fight for peace across our land
so think of those who had to go away
and remember them today. Amen

Copyright © diane christian | Year Posted 2015

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

The World War II Years

For what's it's worth, here's my recollection Of my young years growing up in Canada in the 40s Right off the bat, you may think the war years Were difficult for me and my family With rationing of food and the everyday necessities of life I remember my dad dividing up our food in the pantry And when we used up our share of a certain item like butter Before the next allotment, we did without This may sound difficult to believe This is my recollection... but it wasn't that much of a hardship This self-imposed rationing was a voluntary thing No ration police breaking down our door to check us out As a young lad, they were exciting times The good guys against the bad guys We were too young to realize this wasn't a game People of all ages were dying horrible deaths It all seemed so distant, so far away Even though a couple of German U-Boats were detected A far distant inland down the St. Lawrence River My memory of that momentous day when both wars ended Was an overwhelming feeling of joy and exultation Passed down from the celebrating adults We in Canada didn't have it bad But let's all hope and pray that cooler heads prevail And we don't have another one that could be a war to end all wars A cataclysmic event so devastating It would end life on earth as we know it! © Jack Ellison 2014

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014

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

Naked death

			Naked death

…the barred and sealed cattle wagons
at the Konzentrazionslager
						            the faux pas relief
    from urine mud faeces sweat and tears
unkempt armpits buttocks best wear
   turned to damp rags
                             reduced to moaning cattle
		even the heifer   wan straggly limp

          Alles! Raus!

…the last quick dab of face powder
	the lipstick dried blood tan
the felt hat lying  soggy stained
		through bellowed haste
   on the mudcaked barrack floor
the wampumpeag plucked by the helmeted claw
  stabbing on sole-cold cutting cement platform
      averting glances on sapped sagging busts
	shoulders hunched buckled in
     fingers reaching to scratch loins
		nostrils quivering
	whose the naughty stench

then the trooped Indian file
		stray belongings dumped
in a wasteproduct pile
    the once highheeled gait
  slumping to a side
from the hips down to a jaggedknee limp
   prodding the miasmal mist
       the exposed varicose veins
   the knotty pubis
                                the mons veneris
the intimate warts and moles
   last year’s Ceasarian stitches
        the rump  twitched less

the lack lustre sentry gazes
the unmasked leer
the disdainful pursed lips

			neither shame nor pudeur

and then the last gangway to nowhere 
         the Ave-Maria road to Himmelweg
			a reprieve

From the privately pub. coll. (re-worked 2016): longhand notes ( a binding of poems), 1999, 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris,  1999/2016

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

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


Grave is where you lie
Remembering who you are
Attributes you instilled in me, guided fleets 
North Star

Dedicated soldier 
Fought in World War II
Agonizing pain from cancer 
Tried to hold on to you

Home back to God you went
Eternally peaceful as can be
Respectfully loving all you were for me

Copyright © Lauren Smith | Year Posted 2014

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

I Miss You Pappy

Pappy, I miss you
so much, it's sometimes
unbearable, this pain, 
simple pain of losing someone
that was always there
for me, the one eho helped
me, and told me stories
of World War II, Pappy I
still cry sometimes, you
were my life, the center of
everything, the one who always 
came first, the one who is
still the world to me, I miss
you so much Pappy.
Why did it have to be 
you Pappy? Why not me
instead? No, Not me,
someone else? My 
heart is getting healed,
day after day. All I
have to do is think of 
you, if I am having a 
bad day and ask myself
"What would Pappy do
in this situation?"
I miss you greatly 
Pappy! Pappy someday
we'll be together 
again someday
very soon.
I love you
Briana Lynn Palmer
~Dustin's Faithful and loving Wife~

Copyright © Briana Lynn Minard-Adler | Year Posted 2011

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

Bedside Manners

Oh love of mine what can you do,
When day finds loved one soon to die,
Poor taste the joke, self-serving tears,
What gain is there when you deny?

And what exactly would you want
If suddenly the roles could switch,
Is sadness traction that you seek?
Do other’s tears your death enrich?

Think more of how your folks behaved,
They tucked you in, sheets under chin,
A kiss and smile was all it took,
And all that you need still to win.

The rough work’s done, the road work too,
Done practice days inside the gym,
You’re on the team, the die is cast,
There is no chance our love is whim.

You served us all in war and peace,
So thanks for sacrifices made,
And for the family you raised,
It seems you’re light that’s death to shade.

The morn is always on its way,
At least it’s done so in the past,
So why alarm, why the concern,
This morning’s light will be your last?

Think of the love that you have shared,
Those moments etched in heaven’s rhyme,
Love doesn’t live inside death’s room,
Is not expressed in overtime.

To honor Love, for heaven’s sake,
If you Love’s passing would adorn,
Just squeeze Love’s hand before you go,
And say, ‘We’ll see you in the morn!’

Brian Johnston
January 19, 2015

Poet's Note:
This poem exists to commemorate both the love and the friendship that Jack Stone and his wife Lucy brought into my life in recent years. Jack, a marine who was part of a landing force on three Japanese held islands during World War II, was a good-hearted and physical man even into his 80's and an inspiration to many at our local YMCA where I first met him. Though never a soldier myself, I salute the man, the warrior! Hail fellow, well met!

Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2015

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

When Men Become Gods

In ancient times when cruelty abounded, everyone's fate
was controlled by powerful gods who engaged in debate...
deciding where they lived, how they met their death;
today they are similar ones but act with much stealth.

The twenty century was chaotic, bloody and bellicose;
Nazism represented world power, conquest and victory,
and Fascism symbolized the iron hand of ugly tyranny...
Roosevelt and Churchill had a plan to subdue their vice.

Maddened Hitler committed suicide by poison and
Mussolini was hung in Milan; these despised tyrants
faced their final hour enraged by the advancing fiend,
but did they realize the atrocity of their madness?

When men become gods, their morals can sink very low
and by pursuing power, they mock the one who dreams;
and while expanding their evil empire to the extremes,
they gloat over their rivals' wealth--fearing it will grow.

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2016

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

Favorite Movie - Poetry Contest

such atrocities subtract us humans irrespective of but then comes along, common sense approach decisions made find him alive, send this boy home mothers grieving combat found bridged safely firmly held Ryan freedom saved .

Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2016

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

My Bright Orange Rugby Shirt

The bright orange rugby shirt I had, 
When I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen,  
Was my trophy and my pride and joy, 
Never to be deprived of me, 
Even if I complained to my parents or to their friend, 
To have been seen to be a boy too much, 
Or, in other words, mistaken as a superior person,  
With other sociology to fulfil all my wishes. 

I was just assertive and intelligent and all that, 
A fashion icon, an example to others, 
To disabled people or to church young persons, 
Who were both the same to me, like each other;
They just wanted to fit into society, 
To mark their case for more wheelchair rights,
Or in order to state their reason for believing in god. 

I had my identity, my beliefs, and my role models, 
Listened to them in respect, with amorosity:
I knew what I wanted to do in life, 
And my goals were of course reasonable, 
Because they could be achieved no problem, abstractly.

But that was it, and there it was, 
Objectively everything sounded fine, 
Doable, but what you thought about it, 
The practicalities weighed you down, 
Taught the string which so dangled entertainingly, 
As a condition that was more of a pleasure,   
To make, to work out such that your desires happened. 

So my bright rugby shirt said it all really, 
That I should have my desires and goals, 
That I should be met and facilitated in life, 
And not my parents or those church leaders, 
That I was supposed to follow.

I did not ever have to state my case beforehand,
Before the meetings about my future and care needs, 
Because everyone knew I was an atheist, 
Able with expression and communication, 
Able with much trust for other people. 

I was in Germany once with my parents,  
Dressed as usual in the clothes that I like,
Without hesitation, care or timidity; 
My jumper may not have been bright orange, 
But it was still colourful enough to attract attention.

So my parents were embarrassed, particularly my dad, 
Who was a war veteran true and sensitive, 
And so from then on we hid inside shops, 
And even stayed longer in restaurants,  
Because all the wheelchair spaces for the cafés, 
Were outside those cafés at tables on the pavement;
So we shopped, visited the toilet more, went to museums, 
Instead of drinking coffee in the cafés of Berlin.

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2016