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Best Poems Written by Amelie Ison

Below are the all-time best Amelie Ison poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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World's Most Wanted

If someone spoke a different language to you,
Would you kill them?
If somebody worshipped a different god than you,
Would you kill them?
You, personally, would you kill them?
How much hatred could you be filled with
All because someone lives a different life to you?
Why are we, as people, so averse to the unknown;
So desperate to destroy what we don’t understand?
What happens if we find aliens— 
Something we’ve talked about for so long— 
And they have a different way of life than we do?
Would we tear them apart 
Just because, in our eyes, their culture is “wrong”,
Even after being so desperate to meet them?
Yes, this world we live in has a painful history of destruction;
Of wanting everyone in one box; all the same;
Everyone like this one “perfect” example of how we should be.
But why do such obscene things
Just because something is new and strange
And is therefore labelled evil?
We can’t live sheltered lives forever:
There will always be so many things we don’t know;
Something we haven’t encountered before.
Yet thousands have been killed—probably more— 
And why? We are all humans. Yet, somehow,
We have made each other our greatest enemies.

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Echoes for a War Requiem

I think sometimes of the life there once was:
Of a time when birds sang throughout the woods
And insects flitted between the flowers.

But when greedy hands infected the land,
The beauty was ruined; life lost its home— 
And the gentle calls of sparrows and swifts
Were quickly replaced with thundering guns

Foxes found their homes within dead bodies,
And owls on the hunt flew above shellfire;

Butterflies drank from the growing poppies,
Tainted by the blood of the innocent,
That grew like a plague sent to cleanse the land.

In some places, only the dead remained,
Strewn about randomly and carelessly— 
Lying like dolls on a child’s playroom floor;

Never even given a proper grave.

With patience, they wait to be discovered— 
To be welcomed home by beloved arms;

But, within all their rosy dreams of home,
Hides the truth they have known for far too long:
They remained forgotten; their names are dead.

Out of anguish for all those who were killed,
Nature returned to reclaim its power.

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your kind of rain

You know that rain
that just feels like it’s never gonna end— 
that rain,
where the clouds seem angry
so they shower us with the torrential rain
of their never ending tears.
The kind of rain that causes rivers
to burst their banks and flood
because they cannot bear the same burden 
that the clouds were forced to carry.
A kind of rain
that revives entire deserts 
and brings life to even the most desolate of places—
that refreshes the elephant
who's been waiting for a storm.
Here, it is not barren,
so the rain is just spiteful— 
it will never end as I hear it land on the ground
like nails;
you know that kind of rain.

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From the Bones of the Dead

The poppies grow where the bodies lie.
They grow out of their skulls;
Out of bullet holes and discarded limbs—
Anything is their home.
And in this brutal massacre,
A young poppy seed finds solace:
Somewhere to grow old.
The poppies reach upward,
Each like a spindly, quivering finger
Pointing to the heavens—
Come rain; come shine.
They are an unwavering beauty
On such a deadened and weary land:
Flattened and trampled by the lost souls,
Still searching for their justice
And for their lives back.

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the flowers that grow within

Let the ground have my body
So I can play hide and seek one last time.
Let the worms eat my flesh
So my death brings about something good.
Bury me where you’ll remember me;
Where I can be happy again:
Where I can still climb the highest trees
And roll down hills—
I’ll be friends with the breeze,
And let the bugs crawl over my hands
So I can feel their tiny footsteps,
Like I used to feel your hand on mine.
Where my body lies,
The earth is freshly disturbed
For a meadow to flourish:
So when flowers grow through my bones,
I will finally be beautiful.

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Memory in Solace

There is a grave with no name
That stands lonelier still.
It has no flowers nor despairing mourners
And the grass grows thick and bushy,
For this grave is left to rot.

Abandoned is this grave—
No one knows if a funeral was ever held.
The vicar says he knows all faces,
Yet this one, he cannot place.
Ostracised even by the other dead,

This grave stands alone.
Who could tell who was laid here to rest?
Not you, nor I,
Though I knew him once.
He was a good man. But, now, he rots.

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'All You Left Me Was A Feather'

All you left me was a feather—
The greatest goodbye I could ever receive.
And, hidden somewhere within its delicate intricacies, in every fibre;
Buried beneath the tiny atoms that make up who you are:
Are written the words "I love you".

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only in death are we seen for who we truly are

-To all those who died believing they were failures

Madman, fool, fraud, disgrace:
Curse your insolent mind and set alight your life’s work— 

Forget about happiness; forget about fame
When money and power is needed to get ahead of the game.

Forget about passion and making things right;
Someone will steal your ideas in the dead of the night.

No one likes change, so don’t dare to be different— 
New ideas aren’t needed when old ones have always existed.

Just sit on your hands and bite down on your tongue;
Your words mean nothing—they won’t let you talk for very long:

The sound of your voice will never be valued here,
And, shamefully, you can’t stop letting your eyes show fear.

So just get up and walk away; no one would blame you— 
Throw down your vile heart’s creation.

Out of bitter resentment, you constantly rise and fall;
You become more insistent: shoulders back, head held tall— 

You don’t let whispers poison the way you think:
After all, the more you rise; the more they sink.

And a hundred years later, after being laughed at for so long,
Your work is exhibited and admired for what it truly is.

Whilst those who doubted you lie forgotten in their lonely graves.

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Where The Church Bells Do Not Ring

A fox cub ventures out of his den
For the first time on a pretty Sunday morning.

He should not have left.

On these days, when church bells ring out,
All is silent in the forest—
There is always peace.

The trees—tall and swaying— 
Make the fox cub nervous,
But he has other things to fear.

In the distance, the church bells do not ring;
The fox does not detect their gentle harmony 
That reaches his ears so sweetly,
Like a lullaby to rock him to sleep.

Instead, he detects a cacophony of explosions— 
There is evil just around the corner. 

Yet, the fox cub is too young to know 
What is right and what is wrong,
So he walks towards the curious sound
Until he is belly-deep in mud
And he can’t walk any further.

Now, the crashes are all around;
His fight or flight tells him to run,
But, as much as he pulls and pulls,
He is in vain— 

He will never leave this spot again.

One day,
The soldiers might find his body:
Frozen stiff and plastered with the thick
Mud they have all come to despise.

Perhaps they will take pity on the small creature
And give him a warm bath 
To show him some kindness in such a cruel world.

Maybe, then, they will cradle him 
To keep him warm
Throughout the brutality of winter
That he did not live to experience.

Perhaps, the mother fox 
Still calls for her son
When the light hits on Sunday mornings.

She calls in case there is a chance
She may see him again—
To curl up around him and keep him close
With her tail—

But her never answers her desperate pleas,
And she knows. She knows.

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Choiceless

Our silent heroes:

The animals who served us

Did not have a choice.