The mist hangs low. No panic though,
no cause for distress, just mustard - and cress
adorns the forest floor, no roar, just the soaring
of woodcock, no shock of the dead, just the red
of poppies on man made redoubts, moss covered,
with Plovers eggs,undiscovered, in its secret places.
No traces here of the primal fear of a generation lost,
oh, what a cost that I may bask in the afterglow
of a warming sun whilst row on row
of bluebells chime and rhyme with nature,
now restored to dappled light in forest deep
and birdsong comforts those who sleep.
Categories:
redoubts, remembrance day, war,
Form: Free verse
The moon was moving
stealthily in wilderness.
Time was running out
tracing the shape.
I let her go, the
comely thing, putting on
hold, the teetering
poem.
Running faster than light, the
words catch you in midstream.
A warlord wants to put on
a helmet in night.
It was raining sparks and
cinders. You walk along the
redoubts, obliterating
simmering footsteps.
I am not a loser
dancing in the pit of snakes.
Bring the sweetness of venom.
I am alive.
Satish Verma
Categories:
redoubts, art,
Form: ABC