Tiny train...tiny memories...
how toys bring us back,
travel great distances
without actually moving --
how replicas resurrect
the plastic solders and tanks
in an attic trunk, my favorite
gun -- dry, bet the caps still
bang...?
Should these shaky old hands
pass them on? Or let them
desire their own -- to see what
future dusty attics will hold
after a fresh settling of years?
Spears, arrows, muskets, laser
blasters -- does anything really
change? Christ has not returned
despite our subsequent crucifixions....
Yet, love gives me hope....
So It Does
Gently tickling the tree tops as the giggling leaves frolic and play in the sultry summer sun.
Caressing and cooling the skin, it's fingers run freely through loose lavish locks like no lover can.
Nary a notice when blasting the blades made to siphon it's strength, spinning, working, it solders on consistent, strong, always unrestrained.
Billowing the buxom sails urging ever onward into the unknown daring adventures to be had.
Whispery kisses to majestic mountains takes tiny fractured flecks in time making jagged crests and regal peaks wither in it's wake
Fine desert sand, it's dunes Slithered slowly like waves across the wilderness, suddenly, voraciously with great velocity enveloping the sky, stripping flesh from bone.
Compelling the atmosphere downward thrashing twisting demanding the earth to surrender whatever it desires.
A soaring galactic vortex spun up from the oceans bowels stalking it's victims, dumping it's deadly deluge with ferocity and force.
Shifting sands and powered mills,
dancing leaves and withered hills,
Typhoons swirl and twisters spin
friend or foe, I give you the wind.
Finally home.
It’s been a day.
Full of doodads
and thingies,
screws and solders
clangs and boinks.
The work in Santa’s workshop
is never done.
But especially now
it’s busier than ever
and they have yet
to wrap.
The old man lives alone and
tis the eve before Christmas.
He misses her as
she smiles from the mantel.
Tomorrow he will celebrate.
A day off, with hot cocoa
And candy canes from the boss.
You won't kill the spider that scurries
across the floor of our living room,
but you once killed solders at the Chosin.
You called them gooks, then,
now you know each was only a man
masked by the face of dehumanizing war.
After fifty years true faces turn toward you.
In life you never heard their voices,
in death they speak, and you agree,
the Forgotten War never can be.
It was the twenty fourth of December nineteen fourteen.
Troops were English, French & Belgians, a bloody war was the scene.
A sound was coming from the German enemy line.
German soldiers were approaching on that day and singing in voices fine.
A cry of “Merry Christmas” from the German solders who were advancing quick.
They all looked so jovial, it didn’t seem to be a trick.
For a short time, all were comrades not one bit afraid for their lives at all.
There was laughing and joking, and they all joined in singing by night fall.
Seemed all men were the same, didn’t matter which uniform they wore.
How extraordinary, enemies singing together a carol in the middle of a war.
By morning gifts of cake, smokes and clothes were exchanged by each side.
A truce that should be an example of what we humans really have inside.
A true show, that men aren’t killing machines, everyone, a husband or a son.
A true Christmas Miracle from the bloody chapters of World War One.
We who spangle wet eyes, salute proudly
our unflinching eyebrows.
We are the rubber band of rubber soldiers;
we who bundle the truth up-tight,
we war poets that never served
demand respect.
Some world weary solders
even claim they buried God
in a foreign field. “How sad” we say
and pray for those of such little faith.
We untested poets
simply ask that those in uniform
honor our literary efforts,
and try hard not to always see us
as firing pen, and paper ammunition,
at the foe,
while they laugh fit to bust.
GODS WITHDRAW FROM OUR WORLD
OF TAINTED VISION WINGS FROM MACHINES FAN FIRES MARCH DEAD SOLDERS FROM WARS LONG
PAST AND FUTURES WAITING TO BE BORN
METALLIC WINGS OF FALLEN ANGELS EXPAND FORTH TO HAIL CRYPTIC WORDS FROM EMPIRES OF FORGOTTEN WORLDS DEITIES AND DEMONS IGNITE ENGINES OF DOOM AN CONSPIRE HEAVENS TO BURN WITH WAR LOCKED IN A STRUGGLE FOR THE THRONE OF THE GRAND ARCHITECT A CREATOR OF ALL UTOPIA’S A FIRE WITH ITS SUMMONS NEWLY FOUND FURY AND ANCIENT ENEMIES ARE FOUND FORGED IN THE DIVINE PLANS OF DIVINITIES MIND LIVES FALL LIKE GRANS OF SAND WINGS OF MACHINES FAN DEMON'S PASSION AS LEGIONS OF MAN DIE IN MASSES AS WE COME TO PASS WROUGHT BY ARMORED SAINTS IN THIS ILL BEGOTTEN DAYS AS HEAVENS ARE A BLAZE LUCIFER OPENS ITS EYES AND SPREADS IT MECHANICAL WINGS UNDER IS VISION LANDSCAPES DENOTE AND RADIATES HEAVENS BURN AT WAR WITH THE HOLY HOST AS A LIGHTBRINGER BOSTS AS HEAVENS ARE A BLAZE!
People are separated from good food,
Babies delayed reunion with mother’s breasts;
The innocent begin to ape the crude,
Killer attacks a fresh retest of previous bomb tests.
Gravediggers maximize their income,
Mortuary services twenty-four hours;
The solders keep working the atrocious sum,
The chief sponsors of graveyard flowers.
War is their job in camouflage
In branches clad and leafy things;
All battles are a business of sabotage:
The flapping of deception like wings
Soldier faces, a garden of tattoos,
The identical twins of Yoruba masquerades;
Their arms asserting what paints do:
Very expedient things during raids
CIA’s involvement is reasonable guessed,
KGB’s quota remains frightening;
Some kind of godforsaken race is stressed,
God forsaken shows of might heightening
Is time we sang it like a song:
Peacemakers have never been wrong;
A war mongers with journalists moving his jaw
Only talk about the breaking of the law.
how long
is a foot locker
and what
do they keep in it?
foot lockers
foot solders
foot long hotdogs
footballs
what is the obsession
are they politically correct
or are they just a foot fetishes
at the foot of my bed
A heart felt prayer with four chambers alights on a maiden voyage
Meets valves and percussion awaits tenderly to be tuned into harmony
Passion where had been void and stagnation and pulse been icy and flat
The mind once arrested in dangling contemplation halts its corrosion
A wandering soul solders confusion towards awakening warmth while
Destiny folds its narrow lapels onto the fabric of chimes of the time
Tim had enough of canned laughter mocking his elegiac mourning
Surpassing melancholy contempt he ventures an unknowing path
A map shadows mountains temples and valleys in starlit desire
His labyrinth mazes amazing adventure looms spindles of thread
The open book threatens no longer all gloom and fear has been bared
Closing chapter and shimmering verse find beginnings in ends
Trenchant acrimony cast aside Tim arises from pulverized trenches
Reminds himself gently that happiness is more than a smouldering gun
02 February 2019
Are dreams shall not be torn to pieces
Hope will not fade away or wither
Repair the fragments of are broken light
Bring forth a strategic push of relief
Slice the strings of the draining struggle
This still burns, we embody the essence of the sword
Becoming conquers, free are lands
Tear down the enemy walls
Take no prisoners and destroy their heritage
For every one of are solders that have fallen
Order shall bestowed until we dominate
No mercy, just the glory of winning the battle
We must free are selves from the serpent’s coils
Saving are future from a torturous world
Ten angry soldiers up in the tree putting all their scopes on me
Nine saddened solders staring down at their friend who fell all the way down
Eight depressed soldiers sit down to pray to god for the falling friends and not to stray
Seven soldiers sit in their position till one stends up before he lunges prays that they fulfill the mission
Six confuzed solders take aim and fire losing balance falls from perspire
Five less soilders then they begun till one realizes this war can't be won blows his brains out
And he was done
Four furious soilders in denial has a conflict and shot in his trial
Three lost soilders yell out to the sky in hopes had may hear their cry
Two enraged soldiers with nothing to eat lost his balance from his clumsy feet
One lone soilders can be hear in the distant tree echo of gunfire as he aims at me
One last shot is heard one last time following the sound of him tumbling to join his friends who were now a puddle of grime
Ten shadow figures reunite to haunt the forest in the night In search of the won who began the fight
Ten dedicated souls vow to watch over the world and never stop combating over what felt right
THE MONSTER INSIDE
the monster in he is always alive,
Will he ever die. He yearns to thrive in side the lives of war turn solders and veteran's eyes.
The monster inside she never crys she never dies, she is wise to the distinction of lives that she cause, as she take another sip of st eies beer. And she steers the truck into a tree you see the monster is she.
The monster inside is we according too society, we the soliders and vets with PTSD. HELP US PLEASE!!!!.
Starting line she stands
arms around her self
frail, shy, reserved
personage -misplaced soul
appearing unsure
surrounded uniformly by
uniformed male jocks
parading runners physique
matched shorts to tank tops
exclaiming deeds of glory past
prancing, pensive
solders psyching for battle
starting gun
a contest
transformation
shy lady's personage evolving
metamorphic, graceful in flight
emerging determined
single mind set
running machine
male scalps bloody on trail
competition incarnate
Finish line
emerging shy
effeminate
Ann
Elaina
Vicky
male eyes nervous
admiration
mixed feelings
new reality.
Eskil Anderson
Pray for the unidentified solders that does wonderful for the world, that takes the good the great the fight with all his might to the end of a rainbow that shoots off colors like the sun grows over and above the country,as the stars shine like the moon follows the clouds till the end of the universe
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.