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.
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.
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.
I remember,
Lestweforget,
And the phrase:
Between the wars,
Said during:
Times of peace.
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
As the plane thundered overhead,
the little one smiled—faint, fragile—
at last, he thought, help had come.
He hungered for bread,
for water,
for life.
He was mistaken.
With trembling hands,
he lifted his empty plate—
but death was what descended.
Fire rained from the heavens,
hell unleashed upon him,
though innocence clothed his soul.
And far away, they celebrated.
They named him terrorist—
a child who only begged for bread.
Yes—
a terrorist,
for daring to be hungry.
The war to end all wars; has been fought'
Yet the world sum, of peace total
It remains at naught.'
So much is spoken
by this scene of the world,
a king's stubborn hatred,
a disaster upon my home from God.
Someone please tell me
the state of that battlefield -
is this a sight of a school
or graveyard of children.
They fall from the open sky
and merged into the earth,
the home of my dreams
turned back into a dream again.
Beyond my purse's limits
A nightmare before dawn .
Just whispers in my ears
There's no need to explain.
OH GOD ITS HAPPENING AGAIN
THE FORBIDDEN BY THE LAWS OF HEAVEN
FORBIDDEN BY HUMANITY AND LOVE FOR GOD
ITS HAPPENING AGAIN TO WRACK THE PEACE
ITS HAPPENING AGAIN FROM THE MINDS OF EVIL WHO KNOWS NO HUMANITY AND ITS IMPORTANCE
ITS HAPPENING AGAIN TO MAKE FALL OUR HUMANITY AND MAYBE FOREVER
OH GOD SAFE US LIKE YOU HAVE DONE
OH MY LORD SAVE US FROM THE TYRANTS FROM THEIR TYRANNICAL ACTS
OH GOD WE NEED YOU AGAIN !
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.
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Definition | What is World War Ii in Poetry?
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