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Evie G Feb 24
No more poignant photographs.
No more signs of the times.
No more war stories.
No more scars with stories.
No more stories that scar.
No more futures dashed.
No more glass smashed.
No more Heroes.
No more ‘we rose
From the ashes.
The ashes will be too thin,
Blown too far apart by the toxic winds.
This cannot be a remix
Icarus eyes have killed the Phoenix.

There is no future,
There is no past,
When we face the atom blast.
Yeah, so basically this is a terrible day.
Man Aug 2021
in a Serbian hospital ward
the dingy overheads blink in and out of existence
i wished i were dead
bedside, my mother weeps
saddened by what remains of her boy
what doctors had been able to save
my eyes weigh heavy
the morphine they have me on is strong
stronger still is the pain
radiating, like heat off the hearth
and the woe from my brothers
interred in the earth
you can live
to still die
you can live, dead
but no horrors can you see greater
than the ones in men's heads

that's it.
that's the poem.
Art is antiwar, no exceptions.
n-khrennikov Mar 2020
Power is power,
War is cruelty,
Honesty and determination.
Who can refine it when the guns begin.
I knew what a sweat blood it was,
The heartlessness of ideas,
and we are here is beyond history and hurt.
Look, the hostile world
while all flee in terror.
Rohit Chatrath Feb 2020
"If you want peace, be prepared for war
Which is a sure thing without any either - or.

Is there anyone open to non-violence walk
Who has that drive for a peace talk ?

War must be fought think I, with no other solution
Guns once bunkered up won't know dissolution.

Call then the soldiers, set up the cannons
Destroy the forts, bulldoze the mansions.

Let unstinted carnage reign supreme everywhere
Procure the bombs today that lay the earth threadbare.

Not a soul should survive, I issue the command,
If any peace - promoter found, send him on remand.

Should one signal out any olive branch,
Tell him peace has now no chance.

Riding with power, I shall be the omnipotent supreme
Subjugating the world to my feet is my only dream.

Thought of war fails to give me moral jitter,
War will be raged finally, with repercussions bitter.

Sanguinary will be the history now as tainted will be the scene
The seen will be unseen henceforth as the unseen will be seen.

Enough of chasing elusive peace; now bullets from drone,
Wives will wail now and mothers will groan".

Thus finished he; History testifies that a dictator had his will,
Throbbed the cruel heart saying go for the ****.

The heartless soul is deaf and dead to the peace notion
You debate for; he only debates against the motion.

War is a **** thing; a butchery; no act of a sage,
Humanity must reign supreme for all the world's a stage.

It's vivid that the aforesaid was uttered by a bragging wiseacre,
For this song digs at such rulers; is, at bottom, a power caricature.
This self composed poem, crafted in couplets, is an overt criticism of war and war loving autocrats around the world. In a nutshell, the anti-war piece portrays satiric caricature of a reckless war - promoting dictator ; not an individual but a type; a self - righteous dictator who falsely believes unsolicited war to be the only solution for peace.

i am stone,
a bandaged angel
in the middle of hell
where the lightening lifts
the dark night from its gloom
and stars no longer shine.


i am a skeleton of flame,
death’s child of an ugly
war, and all the love
in the world can’t change
the past like a rose pressed
in the dust.


i am the living,
seeing the soldiers come,
and i pray to god and the angels,
on this broken road,
that the darkness is not real
and the angel is not stone.
Mark Motherland Mar 2019
Part One - Missing presumed dead

Apparently Alec was missing presumed dead
at least that was what the obituary said
how then he got married is still a mystery
life after a very dark period of history

               Jane plodded head down through another long day
               solitude complete in a strange kind of way
               while Kestrels are tacked to an untamed sky
               she screams "Dear Lord wont you please tell me why"

young Alec stood well over six foot tall
legs full of shrapnell disfigured and all
willing to give all for a meagre days pay
a young man with half of his face blown away

                Shepherdess Jane sat under sad twinkling stars
                it was plain to see she had her own mental scars
                the Ferryman's Daughter, she was so kind
                different from the others, Jane was blind

when the bells of victory began to ring forth
it was too much for Alec, he headed up North
up to the North where the bronze fields shone
but Alec's old personality had gone

                 there in the North a young Shepherdess called Jane
                 did dry Alec's tears and soothed his deep pain
                 Her voice rolled over hills in a plaintive wave
                 as they assumed Alec lied in an unmarked grave

In time they married, Jane bore Alec a Son
but talk about the war, Alec would have none
all that he said was "between you and me..
I've seen things that no man should ever see"

                 flashbacks in his mind of the dead still ringing
                 offset by his young Wife's ethereal singing
                 somewhere around the Somme young Alec lay dead
                 at least that was what the obituary said.

Part Two - The Ferryman

The Ferryman vowed he would find his girl
he picked some roses to place in the top room
searched high and low to find his precious lost pearl
swore he would have her back before the flowers bloom

treated like a slave, a young girl in her prime
the Brothers got away Jane was left behind
her body it did whither through the passing of time
She was different from the others, Jane was blind

worked as a Milkmaid her hands would get so sore
under constant threats she still searched for the spark
work never done a family waits on the shore
although Jane was blind she could see in the dark

the moon shone bright on the path to the Ferry House
the gusts picked up on the night Jane ran away
salty wind and sea shanty's awakened the grouse
as Jane finally gets her break from the play

He scoured every square inch of the land
yet couldn't ask why? Or search into his past
at the Wayfarers Inn they'd got it all planned
released from a cruelty that could no longer last

the night the Father died Gaelic psalms they sang
a lonely house still stands like a watch to nature's will
when they buried the Ferryman the church bells rang
the flowers in the attic, they stand there still.

Part three - The Inn (recapitulation)

The Ferrymans lantern swung in the pouring rain
he heard that his Daughter had made it to the Inn
the audience sang to the Drovers refrain
midst discarded cigarettes, rolling dice and gin

Jane had long picked brambles from thorn covered vines
lived an intoned existence yet she had her plans
though Jane was blind she could read between the lines
a chance to escape, she grabbed it with both hands

the Inn's cosy light shone at the end of the lane
to Whiskey Jack, Jane's elopement had come to light
she had nothing to lose and everything to gain
Jane's now with Alec and has recieved her respite

see him dramming away yarns, bereft of what's true
then screaming his lies to the starry sky above
but tidal subtleties are demanding their due
his heart had long died to the trueness of love

the landlord played the piano and felt every note
the Ferryman's lantern swung in the pouring rain
given up his search, now in want of his boat
regular at the Inn but never seen again

he knew that yesterday would never come back
sailing aimlessly like a throw of the dice
he knew there would be no-one to take up the slack
the doomed Mariner paid the ultimate price.
On the North coast of Scotland on the Ard Neakie peninsular, there lies an old Ferry house, built before the road in 1830. Sadly it has long fallen into desuetude. On the other side of Loch Erribol lies the Wayfare Inn, now a holiday let. My imagination knows no bounds.
Humble Feb 2019
If there was no war,
I don't think "peace" would have been a word.
mal monson Dec 2018
arm the so-called enemy to
shove the war down citizens throats
throw the blame onto anyone but yourselves
Mark Motherland Nov 2018
The *** Gardeners there were twelve in all. Hurrah! Hurrah!
everyone a Hero and answered the call. Hurrah! Celagh!
they were going out to war to fight the ***
soon be back as Heroes when the work is done
so get the Cheer Leaders ready...
the *** Gardeners are coming home

poison gas threatened from afar. Hurrah! Hurrah!
Soon be back as Heroes and first at the bar. Hurrah! Celagh!
they climbed over the top of the fields of fire
and complex networks of barbed wire
so get the fireworks ready
the *** Gardeners are coming home

deadlocked enemies on the Western line. Hurrah! Hurrah!
their bodies were earth their hands were slime. Hurrah! Celagh!
they didn't have time to take a breath
out of duty to the King they laughed at death
so get the flagpoles ready
the *** Gardeners are coming home

specialist bombers of an infantry platoon. Hurrah! Hurrah!
our Heroes longed to be home so soon. Hurrah! Celagh!
overhead shellfire scared them out their wits
dropped in their trench and blew them all to bits
so get the coffins ready...
the *** Gardeners are coming home.
The *** Gardeners were twelve young men who were masters of their craft. They transformed the gardens of Kinloch Castle, on the Isle of *** (Scotland) into a veritable paradise. There were Palm trees, a Japanese walled garden, an array of tropical plants, crops of peaches, nectarines, figs and grapes as well as acres of glass houses with free flying hummingbirds. Out of the 12+ young men that went to war, only two returned.4
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