War Iambic Pentameter Poems | Examples
These War Iambic Pentameter poems are examples of Iambic Pentameter poems about War. These are the best examples of Iambic Pentameter War poems written by international poets.
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.
Each of the man-made public disruptions,
Experts say is an unforeseen crisis;
But since they profit from planned destructions,
I am begging you, please don’t go cry sis.
They pre-plan cruel war in people’s back yards,
Wrecking mayhem with killer devices.
Though news says it appeared out of the blue,
It’s their plan all along, so don’t cry sis.
And since war always spurs on inflation,
That is where central bank’s paradise is.
Their fiat money increases with death;
So who’s the killers? For them don’t cry sis.
If the U. S. dollar’s on its last leg,
Then falling empire’s use many vises.
Like foresaid war, division, chaos, hate,
If we learn their ways, there’s less need to cry sis.
And since lately there’s high interest rates,
Countries can’t afford paying debt prices.
So they’ll fool us to fight their dirty wars,
But they’re not worth the fight, so don’t cry sis.
So if we read and learn from history,
And don’t show up for their ginned-up crisis,
We’ll remember we’re one big family;
And that joy, is the reason to cry sis.
Is wished-for peace on Earth our Xanadu?
A golden dream, mirage- our sky of blue?
An aspiration, wishful thinking to
allow us to envision this as true?
If only we could live in harmony
with peace and love, the center of our goals;
world leaders bear the cross of keeping free
all nations from disastrous wars and tolls.
This dream of peace; perhaps not in your life
or mine- will this grand miracle ensue.
But on, we march- endure the stress and strife,
and pray that peace on Earth someday is true.
Our Xanadu- sweet worldwide peace, fulfilled;
not just a flight of fancy, or lost hope;
but firm reality our leaders build-
in taking down our “war-or-peace” tightrope.
I looked, behold, there stood a great white horse;
Its rider had a lethal, silent bow.
And on his head, a crown, rough-hewn and coarse,
And there he went, a-conquering his foe.
And lo, there came another horse, bright red;
Its rider reaped the peace and sowed discord
So great that people slew each other dead,
And in his hand, a perilous great sword.
A stallion, black like the night, then strode;
The rider’s hand gripped scales, ‘twas heard a voice:
“The cost of wheat and barley shall explode;
Harm not the finest oils and wines of choice!”
Alas, a proud horse, pale and bearing Death,
With Hades lurking close behind in tow,
Brought famine, war and pestilence, snatched breath,
And left a wake of desolation, woe.
(from Revelation 6)
The Autumn Leaves fell down and down to Earth,
to feel the gentle touch of our Mother;
The Time, it ticked away,"Seconds" it snatched,
went devastating Life's much long, a stay;
It is as if, to hear the cry of Earth,
that Wars have come and gone and even stayed;
No Wonder Earth will once but shed the cries,
and Yellow Sun will once become the Red;
The Autumn Leaves fell down and down to Earth,
to feel the gentle touch, and cried and burned.
I summon Genie from Aladdin's lamp
Requesting he fulfill his wishes three -
I think of children (eyes becoming damp),
Wish 1: please Genie, end their poverty.
Then, contemplating nations still at war
With all the devastation they entail,
Wish 2: please end the conflicts we abhor
That global peace forever may prevail.
One wish remains, dear Genie; don't be mad,
But this one is more selfish, if I may -
I wish to spend some time with Mom and Dad,
Two souls whose presence I miss every day.
there is average Joe Schmo
who seeks no more to know
than he exists
and he goes with the flow of the show
others tell him there’s much more
and he shows them the door
as the nation and it’s politicians
go to war
there is average Joe Schmo
who thinks he’s in the know
and now stands in the middle of the field
wounded and weighed down by woe
wishing and waiting
for a do over
"What a cruel thing is war: to separate and destroy families and friends, and mar the purest joys and happiness God has granted us in this world..." -letter to a soldier's wife
The scourge of war has ripped our lives apart,
Indifferent to the joys that we will miss;
From this land and from your love I must depart,
With time enough for just one final kiss.
Determined that this moment never dies,
A picture on my heart I sorely trace
Of your tearful, somehow yet angelic eyes
And your trembling mouth my saddened lips embrace.
The Attic
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
in this old attic of dear grandma's home.
So dark, a lighted candle is a must;
here in this place, I feel so all alone.
I come across sweet Grandma's wedding gown
inside a wooden trunk, with photos too.
They look so young...I feel a tear roll down
to see the happiness that they once knew.
The war years seemed like only yesterday
to Gramps, who left this earth three years ago.
And here I find his medals on display...
the combat gear he wore is stacked below.
And now they are together...Grandma passed
five days ago...was buried near their park.
Now I, my precious memories, hold fast...
the candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark.
Sandra M. Haight
~4th Place~
Contest: One Nine and Sixteen
Sponsor: Viv Wigley
Judged: 09/02/2018
Rules: Write a sixteen line poem, using the three lines below.
Line 1 'Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust'
Line 9 'The war years seemed like only yesterday'
Line 16 'The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark'
Sad Journeyman of Death
Sad journeyman of life’s unending tests
bides time in loathsome sojourn cross each dawn
respecting naught but future’s numbered breaths
a-weep upon the touch of bloodied thorn,
Aroused to madness ‘neath the scent of war
bathes in the fearful prayers as fleeing life
soaks the rusting fields of nevermore
too soon, too soon regaled by drum and fife.
Slowly the agony of youth expires
thrust now upon old roots as unleafed trees
clutch the unspent lies of life’s desires
to live, to age, another day to seize.
Sad journeyman this lonely hypocrite
Death wields his scythe yet doesn’t sharpen it.
10/29/2017
//sonnet//
submitted to – DEATH – Poetry Contest
Sarajevo - UNDER A LINDEN TREE
The morning lights and to another day
a pirate's chest you've found but will not stay
for longer than the blinking of your eye
from troubled sleep to wake wherein you die
through every ticking second where you are
as dense and far away as any star
you sit and let your life and time run out
and have become what others talk about
You search to find where you can sit again,
under a Linden Tree, like it was when
the need for firewood made it days gone by
but still you want to hear how love can't die.
from time to time you'll always hear a clue
between each word that's meant for only you
coincidental to what you have seen
you take it in as how each word must mean
and this will guide you through the whole day long
as certain as the hearing of "Our Song..."
just at the proper timing of your need
and then your thought will soar, it has been freed
you cling to it and make it what must be
the fabric of your life and prophesy
and it will carry you from here to there
into another day that goes no where.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
SARAJEVO SNACK
Speak softly to the tune, it plays out in the night,
and never think that Sarajevo hasn't named the song.
Division is the rule, and fools will make our way,
our fear has brought it down on a world going wrong.
I'll still love you in Spring, in Summer, Winter, Fall,
through Sarajevo's night, I'll love you to the end.
and God has told me this, I'll know you after night,
when I fall in love again, and meet you as a friend.
The last of everyone's been written in our rage.
I've told how we will end, in all the words I write.
And these, the words from you, forever sing God's love,
but I'm the fool they blame, for bringing on the night.
Speak softly to the tune, it changes before long,
into a battle cry, dividing right from wrong.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
We are all equal, though they say you lad
who do they think they are they're not my dad,
on battle fields we live or die the same
fight for king and country that's why we came
being just fifteen makes no difference
able to shoot and fight only makes sense,
hungry, cold, lousy, I write a letter
to my mother, try not to upset her,
I do not record horror of warfare
or how my superiors do not care,
fix bayonets, our Sergeant yelled out loud
heard a whistle blow so followed the crowd,
those big tough men dropped down lifeless, like flies
sounds so loud though can not drown out their cries,
then shell carrying my number 7
sending me from this hell straight to heaven,
to the memorial now mother goes
to read my name, so much sorrow she shows,
she now knows the truth warfare is awful
Don't forget memories are immortal.
24/02/2017.
THE FALL OF BAGHDAD
What rite of passage, moves one to the light,
and through the healing of all earthly ail,
bestows this breath of life, to make it right,
Oh Babylon, tis time for life to fail.
Harm thee no thing, no spirit in the sky,
nor any beast nor fowl who's meant to flyl
In algebric expression, your unknown,
will show the spirit world we fail to see,
Your recognizing from your flowers grown
In Poppy fields, your highs not meant to be.
We've paid the price, for all to bear your sin
And left you with no peace you have to win.
Each algebric expression drives us mad,
now your unknown is where we have to hide,
it matters not your ending will be sad,
Scheherazade may dance, but she has lied.
The streets of Baghdad--Babylon's decay
Are made to waste, they will not have their day.
No Shamanistic eye can bear your weight,
nor transforms what you've been to other things,
and when you see the truth, it's all in hate
that brings the end, of which all life now sings.
Witch Doctors all have read bones all the same,
It is our end, and Babylon's to blame.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the Doylestown Poet
SARAJEVO-1995 Another Cease Fire
As old as death and cold as nevermore
all set to stone, by those who've died before;
the acts of love, though viewed a falacy
reveal the truth of what has come to be
and given to what friendship has in store.
This city with its palaces should die
though all the world would come to wonder why,
for better off the world would come to be
than letting blood to flow so fast and free
in gutterways, where life lives on its' lie.
There'll never be agreement, in our day
for east is east, and west, the other way,
and taste for blood is strong and long and deep,
from promises that time will never keep,
and all the world has nothing more to say.
Who'll end the peace so fast we'll never know
enough to place the blame where it should go?
There's always time to bury those who've died
but not enough for helping those who've cried,
and peace is what the reapers never sow.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet