bang, bang.
boom, boom.
ow.
the rifle bullets ripple and tear through the trenches.
bullets riddle my body, it hurts,
quiet literally, I'm in pain.
bullets run out in spurts.
fiery hot bullets rush my chest like a train.
ouch.
bullet ripping, running soldiers,
dodging bayonets, they raid our trench.
we run and hide behind a pile of boulders,
we camp 'til the end; rain downs the camp's drench.
dead.
- not Freddy Mitch.
Short note:
A soldier's last letter, kept in a golden pocket, never sent home.
The Golden Pocket
A muddy body sleeps in ash-grey ground,
Eyes open, guarding gold without a sound.
While fear and tears stain the paper’s skin,
Love is folded where the light grows dim.
Each word a bird that will not fly home,
And love rusts quietly in a soldier’s pocket alone.
I remember,
Lestweforget,
And the phrase:
Between the wars,
Said during:
Times of peace.
Amid silence filled
with tranquil fervor,
the Weeper stands
blotting the earth
green and yellow keen
against the echoes
of artillery and
dead men
damned to the
muddy wounds of war
The servo sign flickers.. then punches your soul..
Numbers climb higher than you can control.
You stare at the price like it’s taking the piss..
“Wasn’t it cheaper? What madness is this?”
You tap on the pump like it might be a glitch..
Like somehow the numbers will drop if you twitch.
But nah, they keep climbing, no mercy in sight..
That shortage excuse rolled out day and night.
We laugh with our mates, “Yeah, she’s brutal, no doubt..”
But under that humour, there’s stress creeping out.
Bills stacking higher, the budget stretched tight..
While headlines spin causes we can’t really fight.
They point at the markets, the wars, and the trade..
At deals that were signed and the choices once made.
Global decisions, far out of our hands..
Still land at the pump where the average one stands.
So we joke and we whinge, ‘cause what else can we do?
When the tank’s nearly empty and payday’s not due.
We laugh at the madness, but deep down we know..
It’s more than just fuel.. it’s the cost of the blow.
We passed French fields littered with steaming rolled hay
somewhere near the city of Verdun.
Here rain-weary sunflowers stood in ranks
and wouldn't even raise their faces to the sun.
Wilted green leaf shoulders on hunched old men,
all staring down at the mud on their toes;
or perhaps they were in mourning for their comrades
who’d fallen between the shabby rows.
Look up! Look up! The clouds are fleeing
and summer declares its victory.
Sunflowers should not be so sad.
Oh look up, little men, and smile for me.
These fields have known too much grief of old.
Lift up your faces and turn them gold.
War broke out, and all were called to fight.
Young and naïve he stood,
Fear tightening around his tender throat—
Yet patriotism spoke louder.
Thus marched the unknown soldier.
“Why must peace be born of war?”
He wondered,
His plea falling on deadened ears.
“March!” — that was the order.
And so he fought without understanding,
The unknown soldier.
He gave his blood, his sweat, his all,
Yet no one ever knew his name.
Fate turned its face away—
The enemy claimed him,
And they called him
The unknown soldier.
The old declare the war,
The young go forth and die.
And when peace finally dawns,
Those who bore its cost
Are remembered only as
The unknown soldiers.
Only when we have felt, even once,
the clawed caress of strife,
do we value the soft warm hand
of peaceful days in our life.
Give me boredom and humdrum
over adventure and interesting times;
a quiet corner in a calm house
to write and edit my rhymes.
Oh, war has driven the pen stroke
and sorrow versed in the bomb strike,
but I’d rather read all about it
in a book and only imagine what it’s like,
than breathe the smoke of burning -
the death scent of a home.
I do not need to personally bleed
to scratch out a war-time poem.
Better to write of cows and apples,
than Flanders field and poppies;
to write of a Luve like a red, red rose,
than a requiem for the Croppies;
and though the poet much values his words
I’ll bet that each war-torn bard
would’ve chosen to write first hand in the soft
than ink pain in the trench of the hard.
Women
Against
Rapists
Worried
About
Religion
Wannabe
Angry
Realists
Wasteful
American
Resources
War
Against
Righteousness
Dear Belarus
We need a truce
From the deceptive abuse
Balloons in flight
We all see the commerce sight
Bringing packs of smoke
Sounding like a crooked joke
When they drop
Stop
Think what they will do to our future crop
Using those former theatrical cool props
Known to charm
Reality doing harm
Luring youth to a picture filled with power
Cowboys and planted flowers
Puffing away
Later who will pay
Believing the marketed, product to sell
Distorting human blood cells
Paving a pathway through hell
Still weary
Our other theory
Raisin
About this floating invasion
Where territory gets its mark
Sending a message in the dark
We can shoot them down
If they do not turn around
And go home
All alone
Pondering everything
Especially who has the talent to sing
A dream in peace
Winding in streams
working in teams
Full of dreams
Looking up ahead
Hoping we fled
The wars of red
And the memories we said
Countries of greed
Letting us bleed
Taking the lead
Hoping we’d be freed
Maybe one day
We might find our way
For now we pray
Acting in this play
I dream
That the screams
Of the innocent teams
Fade away into a stream
For now we wonder
In this world of thunder
Hiding under
The countries that sunder
I do not know love anymore
I do not know peace resides where's
I do not know what was care like
I do not know what was your embrace
I do not know smile of you anymore
This warzone on our world
Made me forget your true love and everything
My Dream
No
War
Vain
Pain in
The world
Peace rooms
Collect us all in together
Harmony sings love songs so much
We live and let live with no war to wage to harm
WAR
ONLY HITHER KNEW HIMSELF
SELF TO DESTROY THE WORLD
WELL DONE MISTER
WE HAD ANOTHER WAR FROM YOU
Disposable.
Just like the bodies scattered
As unimportant as the soldiers blood splattered
A black man stands watching violence unfold
Not to the enemy
But those who fought close
Those your supposed to trust
Comrades
Yet somehow
The black man
Is on the receiving side of the bullets
Not by the opposition
But by those claiming to be on the same team
With words that sting
He fought for his country
And as a reward
He is erased by history
He became an unknown soldier
Whitewashed because of colour
Seen as another sacrifice 'for the greater good'
Yet deprived of herohood
A man who once had a name
Now demoted to a nameless face
The question is will we ever know
The story of this unsung hero
Will his name forever be buried in the trenches of history
Hidden beneath the blood Soaked sludge
Drowned out by the white man's scream
Forever silenced by the songs of white history
Now an invisible grave of black memory
Under appreciated by a system so weak
It used black strength as a weapon and shield
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Definition | What is World War I in Poetry?
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.