Long Casualty Poems
Long Casualty Poems. Below are the most popular long Casualty by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Casualty poems by poem length and keyword.
In the gray light of the day
where the cold wind of the Arctic
bind me to an acre of broken ice
I lay stranded and dying
No one will hear me, I am alone
trapped between a sense of reality and illusion
The night is coming again, where nightmares hide in the silence
tearing away at my frightened soul
as it wanders through my body, seeking reasons
While I lie here, my life slowly passing before my eyes
I see the years built one upon another
leading to my lonely death on this ice flow
My life will end
And I will enter the realm of memory from the living
Each breath grows shallower
The cold is burning my flesh
As I write these words with my mind
frozen in time, alone
Another casualty of the North Sea
from unforeseen circumstances
I slowly turn my head. In the distance, I hear a ship's bell
Maybe it's an illusion, maybe it's not
Maybe it's too late
All feeling has left, it's getting dark
Maybe, maybe, maybe
Someone will come, A wish to dream upon
Maybe my final breath will come without notice
I exist bound by you
like wildflowers planted pitilessly in dry soil
that plunder and devour the strength of my seeds
My stem grows pallid
My petals scentless and uninspiring
My roots withering in arid dust
strangled by weeds of apathy
Parched in the blight of callous care
Squandered in winds of insentient lies
That snare fire like fugitive arsons
Burning me with insensitivity to shrivel and sicken
As you beget your vanity with the strength
Of the Sun’s scalding degrees
So scarce the waters of your compassion
that scarcely feed my soul
I stand naked, bare and weak
in the barren home inside your pain
I cling harder to grip
As I wither in the dust of lonely casualty
Strangled and forfeited
I slowly die clenched in your fist of willful despair
trembling from your demise
As my unseeing love yields the compromise
May 24, 2023
Brian Strand Premier No. 1219 Poetry Contest
Our sleepy little Island in the middle of the Irish Sea
Opens its eyes slowly for the Isle of Man TT
The Island bursts into life with bikers everywhere
You need to keep alert and take extra care
The Grandstand is buzzing with colour and noise
You have to admire the bravery of the biker boys
Tearing round the course at a million miles an hour
The machines that they ride have an awesome power
They line up on the grid; the adrenalin flows
The starter counts them down and then the rider goes
Tearing around the circuit at a tremendous pace
Trying to be the winner of the TT race
A dangerous sport racing can be
You don’t want to be a casualty
We cheer and shout when they cross the line
Then the Island goes back to sleep until the next TT time
~ This poem is to be featured in a book called 'Bringing it home' ~
A casualty of a personality similarity, apparently,
though it's not apparent to me,
maybe in a parallel reality with unparalleled insanity.
My motto is true individuality breeds pure originality,
I hate monos I do but inconsistency prevents rhyme simplicity.
However, I endeavour to be quite clever,
and mix this rhyme with a talent that only said hello
and let itself be known when I sat all on my own
and met my lowest low and felt all was an unknown.
After I boycotted social events
and my siblings kept a distance
through a transition to clearance
and all was different but for my parents.
When I could of drank and walked around violent
or gone back to cannabis as a daily requirement,
but I vented in silence and sat and wrote a sentence
to then rhyme it in an instant and express a cruel incident,
all done with rational thought and I felt happy with the result.
I found a talent up my sleeve
better than what I ever believed,
assured by my second poem called "Believe",
13 months on there are 400 more to read.
I've covered a whole range of topics,
writes of stupid silly to writes of serious logic,
but lyrical writes enabled
a plastic Eminem wannabe label
as though I'm unable to be a creative individual,
and so slated for not being an original.
It seems that Trim Shady alias will stay with us
and I'll seem ridiculous but the influence
that became the fake appearance will see a disappearance,
I'm Nicholas or Trim I don't initial my title
I'm not trying to be like Marshall whom is unrivalled.
I'll do it my own way with individuality,
knowing that alter ego is the only reason you see a similarity,
but I'll make you see I'm a singularity,
a personality out to become a familiarity.
Though I've balanced my talents over a vast distance using
rhyme to reference these events it makes no difference to opinions,
yet I stay driven because I was influenced by Winston and his words to the wars winning.
Let's be clear Churchill caught my ear like Slim and I listened in awe to him when he said "Never Give In",
so if the world goes silent I'll start to sing,
if you attack me I'll whack you,
if you distract me I'll trap you,
if you perceive me as fake
I'll make you retract that statement with haste.
I'm evolution at play,
changing and adapting,
but I'll always do it my way.
~his strength~
Paul is a recent lone survivor
of a plane crash.
A few of those perished,
his close friends. He's attended
a cavalcade of funerals in just a month.
Outwardly, he seems fine;
He handles the persistent pain
and burns throughout his body
better than expected.
He tries the best he can
to adjust to a new normal.
He puts on a brave face publicly
as he keeps up appearances
here and there. Superficially,
the face of strength and resilience.
~his fragility~
Yet in the loneliness of night
he's haunted by the last screams
of his perished passengers.
He wakes in the dead of night
screaming himself. He's wrestling
with gnawing demons; beset with
insomnia and a crippling anxiety
as survivor's guilt takes hold.
He hides behind his smiles
and sense of humor, but
in actuality, he's struggling
to cope with the aftermath
mentally, emotionally
and psychologically. He regrets
that he survived; a walking casualty.
Juxtaposition Poetry Contest (Winner: 2nd Place)
Sponsored by Silent One
Date written: 11/23/2020
Oh! If I could but free you
From drowning at desolation's door
That has impaled your lonely heart
From reaching a joyful peaceful shore
It would be a divine journey
For my humanity to tell
Of heroes who vanquished tyrants
To release your soul from hell
You are haunted by the ghosts
Of this veterans field in Vietnam
Where brave truths became the host
Of the death and dying of the young
With brothers you shared this journey
In the way that brothers do
Brothers fell with the thuds of casualty
While their blood ran red around you
In a single moment
Of bayonets and bullets
Your soul was pierced with the torment
Of terror and regret
You were a part of a limited few that led
To face "glories" price to pay
Behold the twelve and hundred
That were slain upon the field that day
You were never to escape the horror
of that paralyzing plan
You were to fight and die for
The fields of peace to stand
A peace which lost its meaning
To those who with you served
And were left by forces streaming
On this blood-red cursed turf
Now as your life embraced its rage
Entombed by fear it stripped
Your love which lay frozen in its cage
Your heart locked in its crypt
The dark side of you will haunt me
I saw your universal truth
That evil put his foot upon your doorstep
And will never let you loose!
“War is kind”, so he said
Inclined to disagree I was back then
It was my heart then, now it’s my head
Now I write with a different pen
Blood spattered uniforms
Severed arms and limbs
Destruction in diverse forms
Pain and anguish on all it seems
War is kind, I assert
A fine gentleman with a whip for all
Whether it be at sea or on the desert
We all must answer its call
Only then will communism become a reality
Rich folks, poor folks must alike
In such harsh times submit to equality
So what will it be? Knife or pike?
Yes, I will be a fellow casualty
Yes, I’ll suffer the consequences
But not just me but you of royalty
So prepare for abodes without high fences
A beautiful thing war is;
A real thing of beauty
No real profits, only losses;
Losses for you, losses for me
Still I maintain, war is kind
No more masses for just the masses
But for all, including the blind
The deaf, the dumb and those with diseases
Even if it be for just that moment
The moment before sand mixes with cement
Let our voices ring aloud while marching
For war is more than young men dying and old men talking.
Fellow prisoners..For such are we all. Our will contained
At the very least, in the body of flesh, our time being as
Long as it takes, for as long.? Or short as it is! Or maybe
You are in a prison of concrete; and steel? Like Julian' or
So many others? (falsley convicted as were the postal
Cerks.!!) Who worked under the crown emblem..Such a
Great branding..? Or are you in hospital, a victim of a bad
Accident? Or a casualty of malicious actions maybe you
Were coerced into the plan of the jabs-worthy's? And
You are under assault by sickness and regret.?? Yet all
Of us in many aspects are prisoners..The only true way
To freedom is through entering into Gods Kingdom..'
The only gate being Jesus, from whom all good things
Come' may the reader of this text be blessed with true
Discernment and a clear mind, amen and amen.!
Great is the battle, small the victory
when all that is won is lost to mankind -
in this war of worlds its great casualty
is the fallen consciousness in our mind.
From spear tip and arrowhead to smart bomb
or Ptolemy to Hubble looking glass,
Luxor hieroglyphs to CD Rom -
from the Bronze to Silicon Age we pass.
Primeval footprint, genetic blueprint,
sandstone castles under canyons of steel -
gone are the Caesars and Pharaohs extinct
and there’s a cautionary tale so real.
Civilisations that with hubris act
fall a ruin, a remnant, an artifact.
Written: August 2004
Saracen princess,
Blackened corridors bathed in honey hold you in high esteem as you dance in flickers, eyes raising the death toll every time you envision your body against your next casualty. It pleases me greatly.
Could you cross into that other world with me? Our souls have traversed the morning sky, searching for the cure to this hallucination, masking horripilation with lust and ambition. It would please me greatly.
I am the son of the soldier who was the grandson of a soldier who was the great-grandson of a chief. My mother tells me my grandmother believes she's a queen. It pleases me greatly.
I will bring you every world. The corridors of my heart flicker, masking the morning sky with visions of blackened soldiers, horror hollowed by a honeyed queen. You please me greatly.