Thread: War; the March challenge.

Our winner in the poetry challenge this month was Baron, as you may have guessed from the poll results, I have received this message from the winner.

“with the agreement of my lady, who was placed second, I'm giving the "laureate" title and the month FoWF membership to Apple.

I'm suggesting "war" as a theme for the next challenge”

Congratulations to Baron, and thanks for our new theme, I am looking forward to a variety from Tennyson to Owen.

Your entries on the theme of War please

Please post only your entries in this thread, comments, congratulations etc. should be posted in the Bard’s bistro or the poll thread. This challenge will be open for two weeks, or until I get up on Sat. the 12th March as it is a bit late now and we are poets and not very precise, (except with words)

Doc

Shivering
Starving
Quiet
Except for the occasional grenade that goes off in the distance

Trenches
Snow
Forest
Seeing nothing in front of me due to the heavy mist

Memories
Images
Tears
For the French girl that I met in the hospital in Bastogne

Looking around at the few men who have managed to live through this
Knowing that this may be the last time I see them
Be it from the Germans who we know are waiting just through those trees
Or from the intense cold that is eating through our bones

The supplies were supposed to arrive today
But we received word that they are not coming at all
We do not have enough food, warm clothing or ammunition
To make it through another day

There is an uneasy feeling within the men
We can hear the German’s chatter from beyond the trees
It is so difficult to stay aware
A cold pain is consuming me

These men have come so far
Fought many battles and survived
Now they may die, not from a bullet
From hunger or hyperthermia

I walked around the trenches today
Trying to help those who seemed to be battling
I gave my ration of soup to a young man who must have been little of 18 years old
My shoes were in better condition, so I gave those to him too

Some of the men are pacing
Trying to keep a blood flow to their feet
The sky is a deep grey
Nature is completely still

I hear a faint whistle-like sound in the air
Followed by a massive crash
I see a comrade of mine battling flames that are lapping at his uniform
Another man lying on the ground, both legs severed from the blast

The Germans have no pity
Bomb after bomb
Shattering our safety
Dismembering us

I am the Medic
I hear men screaming my name over the constant bombings
I want to run, hide
Where I no longer have the responsibility of saving men with no hope

I have nothing
No morphine, no bandages, no scissors
I am wrapping wounds with old food sacks
And giving alcohol to ease the pain

I have no way of cleaning the wounds
If they do not die now
They will later from infections
I am the Medic, and I can do nothing to save them

We have been fighting for years
Struggled through so many battles
We have finally reached a point where victory is within reach
But our own army cannot send us the supplies we desperately need

I am the Medic
I have saved so many men
I have nothing anymore
I want to go home

War

War is the bitterest experience we can face

It destroys without distinguishing between creed and race.

War is a bomb which explodes suddenly.

We can not predict its time accurately

War is a fire which glows strongly

It kills people and burns them quickly.

War is a big and massive disaster.

It leaves us destroyable nuclear cluster.

War is a force pushing us to unknown future.

It is like a very strong butcher

War is killing, destroying and damaging

It is burning, firing and bitter experiencing

We hope peace would be found last.

We wish it in the future, present and past.

Trenches and Sandcastles


It’s time for the big push, father.
There’s a fear in your eyes,
for what might lie over the top.
We have to run there now,
clad in jeans and shifting styles;
piercings shining on me, then fading,
worry burying itself in your face.
Memories of the road crossing,
cars roaring at my kitten’s face.
Hand in trusting hand,
you helped me pass the danger.
These guns are plastic toys,
from days at the park.
These trenches are deep for
sandcastles in Spain.
These enemies are
memories before they come.
We can’t look back, soldier,
when we hit that new soil,
but I can promise you
that my hand will be there,
guiding you in mirror irony.
We’ll cross at the lights together.

Cross Lines
(after Arlington)

I saw a stilted, little girl
standing against a post.
She had ashy teeth
beneath bent lips.
Her eyes were like old doors –
faded and worn.

Her dress was squalid,
her lock was picked.

I wanted to call to her
or tell her to run,
but my face was sandpaper
and she’d be scared.

Sometime later,
white marble is lowered
draped in red, blue and white silk.
A soldier salutes – guns fire,
synchronized in sound and flight.

Resonating Sounds

Resonating sounds,
like distant peals of thunder, roar;
group memory shapes the world view -
molds the vision of a generation,
helpless to imagine there can be
a final end to war.

Nobody who’s living for the Day…
None really learn the lessons
while the bloodshed colours all
those yesterdays.

Hanging heads and wringing hands
will cling to any thread of hope,
while everything around descends
into decay.

Where none have given
peace a chance;
believing jaded promises
from politicians of despair;
who lead a foolish flock
to join a final cosmic dance.

People in the streets gyrate and prance
in passive rhythm to the beat;
the fiery reign pours down
to brand the saturated ground,
accompanied by a backbeat
driven...

by those resonating sounds.

What for?

Red tears run from your body,
soldier.
Remember what brought you here
the visions, the future.
Get up!
The whistling air, too heavy for many
still veils a path.
Think,
while God hammers his piano
melody planned, stave after stave.
Move,
away, act -
throw that grenade before it explodes,
that spear before it sheds more tears,
sling the holy rock,
that point of view -
fight
for what it's worth, until
…

Circle of Death

An infant, besieged by a dire life,
Is cast into unlawful strife.
No course, no plan,
Led, only, by his mother’s hand.
Now, a youth, confused, he is taught to hate,
By men who warn of his mother’s fate.
Into a crowd he suddenly appears,
The screams are real, many shed tears.
Lives cut short, potential is gone,
It only cost a single pawn.
An infant, besieged by a dire life,
Is cast into unlawful strife.

Shades of anarchistic arson strike
the matches of despair-
to the human tinderbox: the haves,
the have nots.

Co-opted movement,
paint a face upon the masses,
and throw your voice to speak
for those left speechless-

being led by the No's of those
who dropped the Radical Pose,
for the radical end of life,
as we know it.

The Fifth Trumpet

There I stood amidst the howls and cries
of women and children in despair
as the stars came falling from the skies
left not a single life to be spared

Then I heard above a trumpet sound
that roared across the blackened heavens
and this made strong quakes beneath the ground
that made me ran for a safe haven

The ground trembled and lo, it opened
from it came out a horde of locusts
and ominously did they ascend
that seemed to destroy, they were focused

And so these locusts of steel flew out
with their spinning tails loudly roaring
they flew towards the foe’s strong redoubt
and attacked it with flames from their wings

The foe responded with their own force
as they produced metallic scorpions
with speeds that could match that of a horse
and stings that shot unknown munitions

And then the two massive forces clashed
with their weapons firing at full blast
catapults, cavalry – lo, they dashed
onwards their foes with weapons at mast

I saw the battle slowly unfold
and the land that was first plain, barren
was now ridden with chaos untold
that sent the land burning and ashen

The Sergeants Prayer

Hello God
Are you there?
Did you weep like me?
We sent you many today.

Are you listening God?
Did you see them fall?
Did they march your way.
We gave you much this day.

Oh God forgive my slight
I know they're all your children
But they are my brothers
and we lost so many today

Are you still listening God?
I need your help for I'm afraid
I lead these soldiers and...

Hello God..

Answers

Artist, poet,
minstrel balladeer,
feed my eyes with romance;
tickle my ears
with words of glory
and tales of hungry years.

I search for answers.

Children starved
while haggard women bled;
a crimson stain laid waste
to leave so many dead;
in grief I still remember
all those histories I read…

which held no answer.

With cries of “freedom”
many are maimed;
brainwashed,
they believe in the patriot game,
they speak of injustice
then dish out the same…

they have no answer.

A woman alone
giving comfort to mourners,
speaks of a peace
which waits just round the corner;
whispers a prayer
for those dark souls who scorn her;

she sees an answer.


I gaze at my face
in the mirror on my wall;
part of the problem
if I heed the battle call;
this generation can end it all…

a double edged answer.

THROW ANOTHER BONE ON THE PILE

i
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
Disturbed by that exiling leer,
The sheep wait quietly, talking low,
Triangulated by their fear.

Retribution cased in lead,
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
Creating sickly, fetid smells,
That’s whirl and cling thro' night and day.

As from a building, half destroyed,
A doctor drops, on growing pile,
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
A small child's leg, a father's smile.

Dislodged, a hand slides slowly down,
Caressing gently on the way,
The now dead heir, a once loved son,
In countries where the mad-dogs play.

ii
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
As bombs rain down, black mindless flies,
The unwashed corpses rot away,
Beneath the calm but leaden skies.

Great tides of people swirl in fear,
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
The Ethnic Cleansings reached a point,
Where no one's left to clean away.

And I: what aid; what deed; what thought?
While children burn and parents die?
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
What answers give to their last cry?

I cannot touch these displaced souls,
Their suffering is too far away,
Far better try to touch the sun,
In countries where the mad-dogs play.

Limerick;

The warp falls out with the weft
And that leaves someone bereft
When all’s said and done
There was only one won
And he wasn’t whose right but whose left.

The delegations
the congregations.

who?

But only the masses, yes
just that.

I, no... I am
not a I am;
but just a We.
a we are...

For when the fires sweep
and out goes the light.
its dust, in ashen heavens
forever now.

The un-diaphnous lining beyond
brings the clouds;
for they are crying.

weeping.

but they don't bring down
life giving waters,
but Acid Raid. For our
pollution, our struggles, inherited
inside these droplets.

And when ends come to ends
and we come back to light.

it is a light that has paled
to red.
Our Home, is no more.

We have fought for nothing!

and all is quiet on the homebound front...
And I, or we, look to see
in a transluent reflection
from time and time.

All we see is the devil;
for we are the devil.

Who(m) was that being
swept up in the storm,
not so long ago?
the child,
the pastor,
the widow,
the baker,
or the enemy?
or were They also the enemy?

The delegations
the congregations.
they are not real.

just the masses,
just a we are

just the devil.
I am the devil,
therefore we are the devil...
and, therefore, the world is hell.

ad infinitum inferno.