Field Of Battle Poems | Examples

Lost Ground

Somewhere in the general melee
we lost our imaginary horses,
                                  their ghostly neighing
added pathos to this momentous moment.

It was decided, we boys, and one sister
of a boy we hardly knew,
that Custer must die, the Indians win,
there could be no sudden victories
              plucked from certain disaster.

We had no Indians,
one bow with a rubber-tipped arrow
does not make a gathering of the tribes.
We had no Custer,
six dark haired kids, no long flowing hair,
no mustaches.                        Undaunted
we marched on to meet our heroic death,
lip-bugles tooting, makeshift flags flying.

A fertile field of battle was selected.

At the site of our coming glory,
it was disheartening to discover,
a growling construction site,
giant bull dozers,
tractors, and iron-toothed diggers
busily tearing up
our hallowed ground.

Jim (my best pal),
loudly proclaimed: " fork it,"
to no one in particular,
then sloped away,
                  hands in pockets -

an event which I now consider sadly ironic,
for ever since,
we have lost all sorts of battles
                                  over many a fertile field.

Blood Stains

The blood of a patriot spreads

Like the waves on an endless sea

Though many a patriot dreads

This is where they were meant to be 

There's blood on both banner and sword 

And blood on the field of battle

There's blood on both ocean and fiord

Where men are slaughtered like cattle 

All day and all through the night 

They spill blood so we can be free

And they fight to preserve our might

So their blood is on you and me

Oh God Ares

Oh god Ares, you magnificent brute
You scour the field of battle in your blazing chariot
Followed by the cries of anguish and despair
Of your feeble enemies being crushed and sliced
In your wake only blood and bones remain
As you cross the field of battle
As a living lightning bolt spreading fury and punishment
You are the living fire sent from heaven
To crush the feeble mortals who dare oppose 
Those to whom you are the friend.

Returning Home

Returning home

After decades of wandering over the globe
I am back here at the point where I started 
My home at the top of the lush green mountain 
Stood along the canopy like a  monument of time

Through my Mahogany framed windows
I see the cloud capped Seven Virgins
That shook the aviation history
With an unfortunate chilling story
When a  giant metallic bird on it’s flight
Crashed with all  on board in a  cold dark night

I remember the thundering crash
Followed by a screen of flames
Looked like shells we see in films
The smell of burning life and metal
Wafted the air ,like in a field of battle 

Seven Virgins have buried  that memory 
And moved on with the new century 
Dew on  tea bushes, sparkle like diamonds
Cold breeze greets me as I do my errands 
The  choirs  of songbirds and cokatoos
Make me sing and dance to their tunes

 Mother  Nature  noticed my return
Greeted me with a cool shower rain
Everything  makes me feel very young
This is my home, where I belong

Nature of War

The field of battle spread before us
Enemy soldiers approaching in ranks,
Suddenly soundless silver birds appear
Our focus changes to the sullen skies,
Bombs rain like missiles from the gods
We are defeated by an unseen force,
The nature of war is forever changed.

Written August 7, 2022

We Pause To Say, Thank You

"...that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously
on the field of battle".  Letter To Mrs. Bixby, President Abraham Lincoln.

In 1864, from the files of the War Department, a statement was brought
to the attention of then President Abraham Lincoln.  It referred to a mother
of five sons whose lives were lost in the Civil War.  The statement engendered
a most sincere and heart-warming letter from the president to Mrs. Bixby. It was
a prayer for her bereavement and much gratitude for such "a costly sacrifice upon the altar of freedom".  Today we pause to honor such heroes as Mrs. Bixby's sons.

053022PS

All That I Owe

The sun is blazing torridly,
And the wind piping drearily,
I'm about to lose my mind,
Because I'm running out of time.

Battling with the winnowed tastes of the ages,
One can see the dimness of my sealed eye and soul,
I'm no longer fluent as a rill, that wanders silver-footed down a hill,
Because I'm swept off the field of battle like a monsoon.

I'm almost kicking the bucket with Idle hopes, like empty shadows,
Maybe I'm going home for the last time,
Looking pale and grave as a sculptured nun,
But I wish to survive.

The breathless hours like phantoms should disappear,
These evanescent words shouldn't snap like a whip-lash,
Because they are painted sharp as pang,
Till death like sleep might steal on me.

Until then, I'm giving the world the best of my poeticalness,
That's all I owe.

Memorial Day

To some it's just another paid holiday
with picnics, parades and parties,
emphasizing entertainment and food.

For some it's a day to remember
a life lost on the field of battle,
one who won't be coming home.

Others will visit graves
and remember and grieve,
each year no less than the one before. 

Freedom requires a strong defense,
and this is the day we honor those
who lost their lives to maintain liberty.

We owe them respect, honor and gratitude
on this special day
dedicated to memorialize their sacrifice.

Greed

( A bit of drama in the garden last week)


The seed was scattered, and not long to wait,
a Blackbird was the first upon the scene,
moments later followed by its mate,
I could tell the former wasn't really keen.
It chased the female off across the grass,
a sharing bird it definitely was not,
Pigeons arrived, they couldn't let this pass
and started quickly gobbling up the lot.
Until a Magpie swooped upon the crowd
from left to right it jinked, chased them away,
to dine with such a bird was not allowed,
it smugly strutted, having won the day.
Just then, a blur of feathers from above
as bravely wading in on the attack,
unlikely was this foe, a Collared Dove
surprisingly, it drove the Magpie back.
Harassing the Magpie 'till it was gone,
leaving the field of battle with a squawk,
The combats all concluded, now just one-
but one was enough for the Sparrowhawk.

Stripling Warriors

On the field of battle,
Young brave and strong,
We are stripling warriors,
Ready to bring it on!

We are fighting the darkness,
Piercing through with truth and light!
Charity is our standard,
Faith, courage and commitment our delight!

Captained by our King and Holy Commander,
We are guided by unconquerable right!
With flaming swords in hand,
This is the truth for which we fight!

Rising up to face the gauntlet of hell,
Yet we fear no death,
For we think upon our one true King,
And more firmly upon liberty than life!

We are true at all times,
In whatsoever things we are entrusted.
As disciples of truth and soberness,
We walk uprightly before Him.

We do not doubt,
God, will deliver us!
Our family, leaders and friends,
Have taught us to believe in Christ!

Bridge: (Said in a warrior’s voice)
With such miraculous strength,
And mighty power,
We did fall upon the enemy,
That we did frighten them exceedingly.

Oh what joy to be a warrior,
For not one soul shall be lost!
We will fight and win and never quit,
No matter what the cost!

The Game of the Year

It's the game of the year
  A contest for the ages
In attendance are celebrities 
  Government officials and sages
 
Ceremony, pageantry and pomp
  As the gladiators get ready to stomp
Onto the field of battle, to contend
  While we mortal onlookers pretend 

That what all this tawdry tinsel signifies
  Is that the combatants we so lionize
Will be worthy recipients of the grand prize
  An impressive silver trophy the size

Of an altar, rests on the sidelines
  As warriors position themselves on chalk-lines
To damage each other on a field of deep green
  Each man prepared to rupture his opponent's spleen...

We say that teen-agers' flings and romances
  Are half-baked, immature, risky flash-dances
Yet considering our game-time circumstances
  It's we adults who canonize risky chances

Gettysburg - Terza Rima

In the original Italian form

Broad field of battle waged where soldiers died and
the Southern flame of independence flared bright.
Two kinds of rule then vied to govern torn land.
The ancient practice keeping slaves was seen right.
Opposed was Declaration's say: all equal!
And nation strove to settle issue by fight.
The pride of Southern youth fell like the dripping
of rain off eaves; next day would see its sequel.
Again the cannon bolts in fields were ripping.
That same hot day the battle waged on most strong.
A Southern gray division gave last made try.
That sorry day the Union brave did no wrong.
Attack did fail but gray's moral remained high.
At home a mother gave her child farewell cry.

Anti-War Correspondent

At the start of the next war,
While the headlines scream "war, war, war",
Go fit a lens to your gun's barrel
And a reel of film in its magazine.
It would be a better war—don't you agree?—
If all the innocents soon to face your gun
Froze in a pose
Anticipating the shots to come:
Shots of them, I mean,
Not shots at them!

When the order comes to open fire
That'll be the time to peer through your gun sight
Ready to take to the field of battle
And go clicking away 
At the follies of men in war,
The corporate vultures circling above,
And all the lies, lies, lies about the war.
For where blood spills,
There truth must spill too;
But oft in war, it's the pills we get
To cloud our eyes and dim our minds.

Then, perhaps, we'll someday learn
Why our boys and girls who march forth to war
Never do really as of old return.
The heroes of a thousand battles
Retreat to a thousand bottles
At the doctor's and the barman's.
Who we call survivors
And whom we call casualties
Their fates ultimately come equal:
One falls in the battlefield,
The other in the bottle-field—
But fall they all do, they all do, O lord!

Years Long Past

I walk past the old football field, empty, no gladiators, no cheering crowds.
PUSH THEM BACK, PUSH THEM BACK, PUSH THEM WAY BACK!
Just echoes of the games once played. Just memories of those standing, watching the turmoil on the field of battle, young warriors in their armor girded for war.
Distant images of time long past. People I once knew, no longer remembering their names. November winds again blowing in my hair, what little I have left. I wonder what paths all those people took? I guess I’ll never know.

Daimyo

Normally I would associate one like that with arrogance
With splendor of substance but not valor
Daimyo standing alone in field of battle
Selfish and vain

But sometimes   such defiance is to be prized
Ice in veins
Fire in soul
Sad but purposeful and determined visage

Standing among corpses in battle he didn’t start
Forced hand 
Dream of bliss
Turned into nightmare of demons

Standing before last judgment
After the battle
Will there be justice
You will remember the name

If there be no justice
I will exterminate the judge
In the path of sorrow
The last man standing

Even if he won’t be that man
Name to remember
The soul belongs to me
And only me

This is his, my destiny
And I will be its blacksmith
Forged by my hand
In the final judgment my soul should find peace

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