Short Bayonet Poems
Short Bayonet Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Bayonet by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Bayonet by length and keyword.
On a battlefield so far away,
those marching soldiers never play,
all scanning the horizon,
a target in question,
freedom defender,
with their rifle,
bayonet,
combat
boots.
In this day and age, some ailments are chronic
Sonic screwdrivers are best to expensive tonics
Would I try it, no sweat
Beats incision by bayonet
Much quicker, less painful with speeds supersonic
In this day and age, some ailments are chronic
Sonic screwdrivers are better than expensive tonics
Would I try it, no sweat
Beats incision by bayonet
Much quicker, less painful with speeds supersonic
Sex is a battle, love is war
I lay you down on the floor
I plunge my bayonet in your soul
You make my existence whole
I let out a deep sigh
My prick begins to cry
You begin to weep as well
For a baby inside you will dwell
In this day and age, some ailments are chronic
Sonic screwdrivers are superior to expensive tonics
Would I try it, no sweat
Beats incision by bayonet
Much quicker, less painful with speeds supersonic
Inspired by Sir Thomas Cunningham
Sleep deprived awake in sweats
And sleeping by a bayonet
I feed the guy then lay in bed
If the beast I like don't take his meds
He's creeping by my blanket step-pin
Discreet then hides and raise his head
Might see the light embrace the end
Get eaten by my favorite pet
Death standing
at attention
for a fated
reveille
Which trumpets
through
the darkest cloud
to rain down liberty
Each bayonet
he wills in place
with fearlessness
empowered
A call to arms
through hill and dale
to launch
‘His Finest Hour’
(Winston Churchill At War: December, 2025)
To write poetry on the battlefield…
intrepid from the heart
Its words to cover scars and wounds
grief peeling back like bark
Each verse fired like a rifle shot
with bayonet attached
All volleys sharp and to the point
the blood spilled—turning black
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
The light bulb absolved its flickering duty
Bayonet stuck in the depth of despair
‘Screw you’ but the mismatch prevailed
Life takes a psychic but the medium is fraught
The planet a stroboscope for fits of illusion
She severed the cord and turned on the gas
Shadow play and the pantomime was over
To write poetry on the battlefield
is to write poetry from the heart
Words to cover the scars and wounds
grief peeling back like bark
Each verse fired like a rifle
with bayonet attached
Its volley sharpened and to the point
the blood spilled—turning black
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
when the soldiers returned
after winning the battle
none of us found it strange
the fact that in their faces
there was not a semblance of peace
we know the anguish
by violating your own convictions
hurts more than the bayonet
that's why these young people
who should be exulting with joy
carry on their shoulders
the weight of an unparalleled sadness
Battalion column coup de grace;
It’s what was planned, but didn’t work that way.
We’ve bled all our embarrassments
At bayonet point and now must cede the day.
God damn the blasted cavalry;
They’ve left this muddy field a bloody pool.
All hell for the artillery;
I’d like to face one gunner in a duel.
It’s over, done and finished with.
The very best withdraw in disarray.
La Garde reculé.
(Civil) War
With incision, create division.
Bury the red, white, and blue.
Play them all, they will fall.
A masterminded coup.
O say can you see, they all disagree.
Just watch the division grow.
Hating each other, brother on brother.
Milk and honey no longer flow.
Blood in the street, vision complete
War won, by words on the net.
So easy to do, nothing is true
Fake news a sharp bayonet.
In the Trenches, In Love
Digging deep, entrenched,
barricaded against love's bayonet,
securing the heart,
impregnable, shielded,
but,
love breaches the lines.
The defences crumble,
walls of steel melt away,
shields are lowered,
minefields disappear,
as,
love overwhelms the night.
Alone now, desolate, exposed,
my embattled heart lies injured,
the fatal blow being dealt by you,
in the trenches, in love.
Form:
It was not really a picnic.
The odor was in the air.
Tomorrow the battle.
Time for a song and prayer.
Standing before his lonely tent.
Cleaning his gun and silver bayonet.
Powder was counted, making a full load.
A letter home, sewing name on his chest.
Lest a bullet fell, him, with no place of rest.
Silent determination, of a cause far away.
Knowing God was working his fate.
2007 from 8Hop.com
search: POEWHIT
JESUS SAVES
A dead baby lays in the middle of the road
her mother decapitated, blood seeps into the river -
A piece of bamboo and a broken bayonet
one penetrates the rectum, the other,
a man's head -
The water is stale, bitter, and putrid
a corpse washes up on shore -
a young boy, his skull smashed in
blood on the butt of a rifle -
A sword, a decapitated torso
rotten flesh, a mass grave
hands mounted to a poll
spoiled meat, rotting in the sun....
That scarlet drop of a life still on my bayonet;
Lying lonely then in a six foot trench fox coffin,
Judgements of those at home not yet screaming in ears.
Shouldn't I have died to free them of guilt ridden freedom?
Only if they knew I had dreamed I wished it happened;
That final pain so much easier to survive than my fear.
Having to kill to live painting me into coward's corner,
At least that's the way I saw it in bloody dying color.
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn A.R.R.
Mother, I just put a bayonet in someone's heart and
found it warm with love, his last words were
goodbye brother, god have mercy on you.
I let the last touch of his hand on my heart,
gentle like the breeze of the night, and rested.
I bowed to him and held up my head to the sky
crying and saw the angles carrying him with their wings, singing
remember love and pain merge in songs.
What a moment, how beautiful the spectacle that was
rudely interrupted by the bullet piercing my skull.