Short Bayonets Poems
Short Bayonets Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Bayonets by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Bayonets by length and keyword.
For Aung San Suu Kyi
manacled
you remained unyielding
bruised by their bayonets of power
you remained unyielding
gagged by their coarse brutality
you remained unyielding
today you return
and we salute
your spirit
that remained
and remains
unyielding
Form:
Fix bayonets to fight the foe,
Over the 'top' to sound of shell.
Village men of Fingeringhoe
Fix bayonets to fight the foe.
Fighting for King and country lo!
Trench warfare sure is swell
Fix bayonets to fight the foe
Over the 'top' to sound of shell.
The night sings outside
or what's left of it as the sun
stretches and yawns, hits snooze,
it's blue out. My eyes burn and
no one has spoken in hours.
But the quiet is punctuated
by periods of pointed silence, like
bayonets on the end of a rifle.
Means to an end.
© 2013 (Jim Sularz)
Let me muse a bit,
below the parapet.
And bask awhile,
in the sun and grit.
That I should kill,
or be killed instead?
Come my battle cry . . .
“Fix bayonets!”
. . . Dare I charge headlong,
beyond this pit?
Through war’s slaughterhouse,
past the blood and spit.
Do as I’m told,
without regret?
As I plunge over . . .
my epitaph.
1.
The cold touch of steel masonry
it's violent barrage of iron shell
and the crashing thunder with raining shrapnel
2.
The rain, the mud, and bloody terrain
swiftly it crashes through the enemy lines
with it, a swarm of bayonets and steel helmets
3.
Piles of broken bone and empty artillery
raging inferno's and gray smog
bloody bodies and a white flag
immotile sperms
blind soldiers obedient
polishing blood of contaminated boots
splashed from the innocent hearts
workers brain washed
making weapons in the factory of death
incomplete metamorphosis
carboniferous labour of casts
persisting ancient eastern atrocity
we are starving in this sand storm
bayonets grenades tanks and a bombs
large heads and powerful jaws
of the ugly unwanted wars
Form:
Ten thousand chains their bayonets piercing one's flesh; embedded
Spirit's these devilish hooks bereaved it's mastery ? Gomorrah, enchanted
Of baroque embellished your melodies a millstone, pulling hearts down his barracuda
Come out of Babylon, my child: Goliath, her guilotine and all creation groans their, calvary....
Keen jaeger's armament God'speed extracting thorns entangled time; tis what she's like, entombed.
Form:
Cannons are filled with gunpowder-
dozens of cannon balls sorround them;
men's muskets are cocked,
and bayonets firmly fixed against their mouths;
the ship furiously sails forward, leaving behind
terrace-shaped ripples on both sides.
Captain Redbeard is not taking any chances
in capturing the treasure map that leads
to the City of Gold.
British men-of-war are a few miles away;
the English Queen is ready for war
in South America.....
supposing this mined ground beneath a sky of warheads
and a time of damaged armor that try to evade the point of bayonets
when the planet will be called blood
and seeing that harmony soon gets sick
and walks towards destruction,
strange you not accept that the blades gradually spread the decline
because that's how it is
there's nothing new
it's like a simple and logical game of win and lose
and now it's our turn my love.
Did you hear about the charge
On that faithful day
At 4 o’clock in the afternoon
It was the desert you see
And water was like gold
When the Australian Light Horse
Charged Beersheba that day
Chauvel lined them up
And with bayonets in hand
They charged the Turk trenches down
They won the wells for a long cool drink
Breaking the Ottoman Empire
To start the march to Israeli independence
And a place in the world history’s page.
© Paul Warren Poetry
A troop matching,
climbing the cliffs ready in arms,
Guns in gaunt and bayonets fixed.
armoured tanks in rows.
Arrows and terrors like darts,
enraged for the kill.
is this a war?
Yes,
Life a battlefield,
from cradle to the grave a warfare sealed.
to resign to fate, without a fight?
Never,
with tremendous Cheer,
at once to arm.
The sword and the spirit in continuous combat,
only the quickened can see,
through lenses once dead,
now revived.
An outcast, stripped and beaten
up, the sickle moon
smears the clouds with blood.
I hate to wait for –
the sun to undo this mess,
an ethnic mutilation will bring a chaos.
Nursing the peripheries,
tribes were in pursuit of bayonets;
will not surrender the arms
to mate.Unceasingly they are
digging up an abysmal grave
to throw in the truths in uniform-
in pursuit of feathers, offering
for temple archways, turning
on the future, for past glory !
SATISH VERMA
Form: