I know the music of violence
The dance of scared feet
The drums of pounding heart
The ugly masquerade
Malevolent with sharp teeth
That drinks the warmth of innocence
and leaves generations scared to embrace peace
I know the cry of dark skies
The shouts of burning roofs
The Crackled whip of confusion,
Mothers Daughter Fathers Son
Death becomes family
draped in blood, silence
While peace screams illusion
Mount the White Flag
Young ones
Surrender to unity
For Unity is
a family of different ideas
It is a table of laughter
A meal of hope
A Glass of joy drank together
A quenched thirst and a belly filled with gratitude.
Unity is a Fathers Pride
It is a Nations Gift
Wrapped in the sacrifice and
Thoughts of freedom
Unity is a Mother’s Prayer
The earth knows the lines on her knees
So Unite, Let’s Unite,
For unity is a safe tarred road
For the present and next generation to walk on.
The plaster in Rick’s place was always flaking near the doorway,
eaten away by damp heat and cheap tobacco smoke
that hung like dirty lace off the cedar joists.
Back in the corner sat a stunted, yellowed box—
a five-octave upright slapped with salmon and faded gold,
its pedals worn down to raw, scuffed brass.
It wasn’t built for concert halls. Just a pine-cased crate
that smelled of spilled Cointreau and stale olive brine.
Heavy teak doors kept the street noise out,
but couldn’t block the shuffle of black-market transit papers
passing under the low oil lamps.
Then Sam laid his knuckles on the keys,
cracked ivory, half-sticking from the salt air,
and the room went dead quiet.
She stood in the entry, silk coat catching the light,
asking for that song from Paris
before the tanks rolled in.
Rick didn't yell. He just stopped dead in his tracks,
watching the smoke curl off his cigarette
where it rested on the edge of the wood.
“Play it,” he muttered, his voice flat as gravel,
and the little wooden box gave up the only thing it had left.
My Worst Enemy Is Anger
On the fire of anger I burned alone,
With dust of anxiety and a heart of stone.
Rage broke the peace of my beloved kingdom,
And left me wandering, lost and numb.
Like history did when two cities fell,
Hiroshima and Nagasaki knew that hell.
Buried in dust, in fire’s cruel breath,
Humanity died in a second of death.
Terrifying rays turned day to night,
Everything to ashes in one white light.
Generations faced the weight of rage,
A scar written on time’s own page.
Poisoned skies became a nightmare cover,
Anger destroyed what love could never.
In one decision, worlds were torn,
And innocence was left forlorn.
Yet one tree remained, its roots held tight,
A ginkgo standing through endless night.
No leaves, no hope, but still it grew,
A quiet vow that life breaks through.
So I lay down anger, my worst enemy,
And choose the green where I am free.
From ash and sorrow, let mercy bloom —
Let healing, not rage, fill every room.
Joy over fear
Joy beyond tears
Tears of emancipation
Tears because of altercations
Altercations because of pride
Altercations because of confusion
Confusion about what’s real
Confusion about what’s fake
Fake news
Fake friends
Friends to die for
Friends to forgive
Forgive the bad thoughts
Forgive our understanding
Understanding that we can change
Understanding that fate won’t change
Change comes with a fight
Change hurts
Hurts to be different
Hurts to stay the same
Same routine
Same mistakes
Mistakes challenge the brain
Mistakes are forgiven
Forgiven trespasses
Forgiven truth
Truth is that we are trapped
Truth is that we are free
Free of decisions
Free to fight
Fight for freedom
Fight for control
Control the city
Control the world
World domination
World war
War on the minds
War on the soul
Soul seeking grace
Soul on fire
Fire on earth
Fire that burns forever
Forever in tranquility
Forever we fall
Fall into turmoil
Fall into oblivion
Oblivion full of control
Oblivion full of darkness
Darkness
Control
Cannons sing where dreams ignite,
flanks ablaze in shifting fury.
A tide of hunger drives them forward,
bellies growling, eyes shot with fire.
Empire surges in their veins.
Pervitin hums a dark rhapsody.
Dive bombers scream their discord,
night and day, tearing silence apart.
Blood is absent from their tongues
only steel, only ash remains.
They roll, ruthless, through broken shadows,
flattening all under their sharp wheels.
Fortifications crumble like wet paper,
the enemy whispers swallowed whole.
Nothing stands; all things fall.
Shock trips, outflanking chaos reigns.
Victory tastes of burnt iron,
a bitter kiss of almost-complete empire.
War dreams devour the sky with noise,
and dusk ascends in violent, silent reverence.
This poem was originally written for and submitted to Writer Monk's monthly poetry contest on social conscience August 1, 2026
Morning rose over two cities
that no longer knew their own names~
light too bright, silence too large,
that felt like the world forgetting how to breathe.
Shadows clung to walls where people once stood,
soft silhouettes of lives interrupted mid-gesture,
mid-dream.
The air carried a strange stillness,
as though time itself had bowed its head.
And yet from the scorched earth,
from the quiet ash,
from the trembling remnants of what had been~
a small, stubborn pulse began again.
Hands reached for hands; voices rose in prayer.
Memory gathered itself into a vow
that sorrow would not be forgotten,
and peace would not be postponed.
Even now, the sky remembers
the day humanity learned how fragile it can be.
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.
Vampire Iran is sniffing out Israeli veins
Xi buzzards are circling the lotus Taiwan
Putin is feeding on the flesh of Ukraine
Nuclear wizards are waving their wands.
Some seven years after the war, food was still scarce and costly,
Yet, I would never change anything that life hadn't brought me.
We hardly noticed the ruins around, houses and churches,
It became a sort of adventure; hidden ghosts were just searches.
We never had a proper football, but one made of old cloth.
We played, cheered if we scored and had fun in that smooth piece of swath
Ma was mad as we played in the rain when we put paper boats.
I ran in the rill by the side of the gutter, watching the floats.
Hot summer was great, swimming and diving sea urchins to find,
Then, it is eaten with bread, oil, tomatoes, and fruit of every kind.
28 September 2018
Note: I wrote this pem ages ago but never posted. Unfortunately we are in the brink of a new war.
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.
soldiers march in rows
gun smoke floats like puffy clouds
a battle is won
He stands alone, gun in hand
Amongst his comrades in a God forsaken land
Bullets fly like pouring rain
As in the distance the bombing starts again
His water canteen shot full of holes
In his boots his feet feel like red hot coals
All that marching through the night
A sorry bunch in the moon so bright
The order comes from up the line
Charge straight and true
Now those in charge now know what to do
Our intrepid hero puts his life on the line again
In the muck and bullets, the blood, the pain
Onward they rush over hill and dale
No way have they wanted this charge to fail
Bullets fly, cannons roar
No peace amongst the blood and gore
Where will he be later, heaven or hell?
It’s onward's and upwards so who can tell
An elder berry said to one who was blue
“My lad, is there something you rue’
The youngster replied, “I haven’t a clue”
“Let us partake of this here rabbit stew
‘Capital idea,’ thus Sir Elderberry,
‘I hear tell it’s an excellent brew.’
“That’s the whole problem,” replied ‘Mr. Blue’
“I’m only 12, too young to drink, Elderberry ~ unlike you
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
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