Part one
Caesar cries. An anguish riven home
By news that through the city has been spread
Of Varus and his legions who now lie dead
In far off Gaul. Those men they stare
With sightless eyes. Yearning souls bereft of home.
Poor, ****** souls; yet once the pride of Rome.

How, might you ask, those eagles lost and on that mound
In sacrifice laid out before the sacred Oak?
There, where Wotan took the spear and spoke
Foretelling and demanding ****** slaughter.
Who was it listened, then with cruel, deliberate treachery found
‘Midst Teutorburg, that frenzied, ****** killing ground?

Where Ash and Oak, where Beech and Thorn
Loom from the mist which lingers there.
Where shadowed places, dark and cold
Hide sphagnum bog; the wolf, the bear
Which pad and snuffle through the threatening gloom.
Fool Varus listening to advice
Gave up his men for sacrifice.

Arminius, the Roman name they gave him.
Taken hostage when a child.
Taught Roman ways, imbued the culture.
Disciplined life, not growing wild,
Why though was it no one saw
His worship still of Wotan, Lord of Frenzy, and of War.

This the man who Varus sponsored,
This the man, his friend, his guide.
He knew the tribesmen, spoke their language,
Cherusci by birth, by pride.
Arminius, whom the Romans fostered.
Arminius, he was why they died.

—————

Teutorburger Wald
(Part Two)

Now that Oak, that shattered Oak;
Lightning struck, it ancient stands
With branches blood stained, ground now littered;
Iron rusted that once glittered,
Lethal weapons cast aside,
And bones, bleached bones, of those who died.

From Vetera, march away,
Not thinking of their fate that day.
Proud columns, eagles high, they leave;
(Unseen the loom the Parcae weave.)
The Seventeenth, Eighteenth, Nineteenth, all
Destined by spear and axe to fall.

They march ‘neath Ash and ‘neath the Oak,
‘Neath Beech, through tangled Thorn.
And splash a muddied, puddled trail,
A trail that’s not been worn.
By chanted cadence they keep step
These men all Roman sworn.

For Varus has received the news
Of tribal rebels to his North.
Arminius, questioned for his views,
Suggests a detour, then to sally forth.
And so, with Cherusci their guide
The legions march. Not knowing that their friend has lied.

—————

Teutorburger Wald
(Part Three)

Nighttime now doth through darkening woodland creep.
The bear and wolf unsheathe sharp claw.
While those in ambush take their turn to sleep
And from cruel sky the unrelenting rain doth pour.
The Romans, unaware, in camp they curse and try
To keep their slingshots and their bowstrings dry.

This while Varus tosses, uneasy in the night,
Kept awake by screaming echoes from his past?
Does Arminius going missing mean there’s going to be a fight?
And will the coming morning be his last?
Who knows the fate of man, or men.
Have omina been ignored? If so why, and when.

And now ‘tween wood and bog marsh, over heathland
March those legions, eagles high;
Cadence calling, stumbling, splashing,
Rain, it pours from lowering sky.
Heavens rumble, lightning flickers.
Spears are launched, and thus men die.

Closely formed, penned in tight,
No room to ******, no room to fight.
The writhing wounded, *****, blood;
Trampled entrails and the mud.
Thor’s rumbling thunder, drenching rain;
Lightning flashing then the pain.

Beneath locked shields they curse, the dying;
Contorted, Romans, screaming, crying.
Hurtling spears, the butcher’s list
Writ large in terror, Wotan’s fist.
And Mjolnir, loved, caressed by Thor,
Beloved of Aesir, God of War.

Deprived of bow, the use of sling;
Constrained twixt hillside and a marshy bog;
Unfocused and unable thus to bring
To bear their usual clarity of pressure, it’s just fog - a fog
Of mindless terror; which is why they scream.
And for Arminius this, a culmination of his dream.

And so in frenzied lust it ends, the killing;
Vengeful hatred why they fought.
The tribes involved - Arminius willing -,
Cherusci, Chatti, Marsi, they all sought
From ambush and by spear and axe
To end the hated Roman’s rule, the hated Roman’s tax.

—————
Teutorburger Wald
(Part four) German vengeance

And thus in Wotan’s sacred grove
In wicker baskets freshly wove,
Sullen, proud but anguished men
Are jeered at, taunted, howled at, then
Disbelieving of the savage ire
Die shrieking, screaming, in the fire.

This while warriors roar their boast;
To Odin, Frey and Njord make toast;
And those surrendered by their chiefs:
Now naked, Kneeling, dull of eye;
Rank on rank, axes swinging;
Rank on rank the legions die.

Then, Varus has been found, the cry.
His severed head, it’s held up high.
The tribesmen gloat, they gather round
The spot where Varus, dead, was found.
The body though, to rot  it’s kicked aside,
Deceived, defeated, fated thus his suicide?

—————

Now green grasses grow there where the slain
Once, muddied, bloodied, lay forlorn.
Whispers soft the gentle rain
On Ash, on Beech on Oak on Thorn.
Three legions once stood side by side,
This tranquil glade was where they died.

Part one
Long ago in Macedon
Beneath the burning Sun
While busy bees played midst the Thyme
And butterflies made flutter,
When savage Ares thought to stir
And sleepy gods to mutter.

Philip brought his bride back home
To Sun scorched Pella, full of grace.
Alexander then, the son she bore,
Strong in body, fair of face.
God loved; his mother - and Zeus, she swore,
Had made her son destined for war.

Beyond all that expressed and those
Symbolic sacraments whose right
Olympias endorsed and with her child
Against the king made with to fight:
The savage dancing and the wine;
Dionysus her Mystery, and the snake divine.

But, to baulk her Gods the King stood fast;
The boy his lessons made to do:
Stern duties, Leonidas taught;
Culture, from Euripides.
Logic, reasoning, Aristotle;
Riding, hunting, fighting too;

As well he took Eurydice,
Of Macedonia, nobly born.
The niece of one called Attalus,
A General - now to Philip sworn.
But of children would he dare?
Was Alexander not the rightful heir.

He, known to all, a son of Zeus;
(as indeed Dionysus;)
Thus which Oracle would say
That his was not the rightful way?
The furies tore their hair, they said
His mother - she would see them dead.

First a girl child then a son.
That questioned Alexander’s right.
Its threatening presence, that’s the one
Olympias swore she’d go to fight.
She, with Megaera, Tisiphone, Alecto; those
Jealous, angry, vengeful, daughters of the night.

Intentions though can wait for years,
And so Olympias, exiled, bode her time.
While Philip with his oldest son
Defeated  Athens, Thebes, the Sacred Band.
And thus with Nike, hand in hand
Unaware of plot, of Delos, do they stand

Now with the might of all things Greek,
Of Persian conquests set to seek.
Who knows what Philip might have been
Did not his Moirai intervene
When Pausanias with frenzied, savage, vicious knife
Cut down the King to end his life.

Treachery, ******; why do they shriek
And spit their venom to depose.
What moves the fates do you suppose?
Poor Pella - standing now so cold, so bleak.
Olympias - of her twas said,
Enough, she cried, I want him dead.

Thus Alexander born of love because of hate,
While dying Philip trembled, shivering in the dust,
He, who history would remember as the Great
Assumed his place because of fate - and not because of lust;
Whereas Olympias, mother, regicide, Clotho’s *****,
Ensured because of murderous fright,
Despised she’d be for ever more.

——————

Part two:

And Power it cloaks the young man’s shoulders,
He who sits now on the throne.
The hills resound, fierce acclamations,
(Beaten shields and upraised spears.)
From the lowland raucous cheers;
And thus the Phalanx starts its slow march.
While on Pella, Kratos leers.

For despite the cloying, nursery care,
His father rarely being there,
He’d sacked a city, then elsewhere
(Harsh matters in the harshest school)
The boy had ‘gainst the Maedi, proved the rule.
So, when his generals came they saw
A man, the fighter fit for war.

And at the meeting, his first greeting
Of the generals as their king:
Eumenes, Leonnatus, Demaratus bold;
Erigyius, Hephaestion, all friends, and friends of old;
He takes each hand, gives each the stare
Then puts it bluntly will they dare
With Macedonian might - to Persia would they go and fight?

Bucephalus, in his stable, snorts then lifts his head.
Flames flare, fierce burns the fire, but now the bull is dead.
Killed as sacred hymns are sung and ancient prayers said.

———————-

Part three:

And on the plain drawn up in ranks,
Do Alexander’s men give thanks.
Shield locked with shield, dressed by the right,
Thirty thousand men to fight.
The black Dooms gather, grim-eyed, glare
Towards the east, at Darius where
With Memnon - he of Rhodes who seeks to meet
With Nike’s favour, but with Macedon incurs defeat.

And those, all those, who roar that day
Seek for glory, fight for pay;
Well trained; well drilled; but no one saw
Such bold adventure, ****** war.
Just feed us; pay us; give us arms
They cry, and then we’ll fight - as Philip taught;
For, Alexander, at this point of time
Still in your father’s image are you wrought.

And though the phalanx, Philip’s joy,
And Alexander had its value, as a boy
He’d sought for ways to better it and - of course
He did that by the use of horse - and lance.
Thus those who called him merely Philip’s son
Were wrong. For Granicus proved him to be one
Of those that through their own estate
Are by history called the Great.

So - the Granicus river, fast and wide but never deep;
It’s muddy banks in places sloped and steep;
Preventing Phalanx and the use of spear;
But Alexander, his General’s words chose not to hear,
In fierce and ****** fighting proved Parmenion wrong,
That Alexander’s Tyche, his Macedonia, was too strong.
With Rhoesaces and bold Spithridates dead
The Persians turned and from the battle fled.

But Memnon’s Greeks,
They who’d hefted shield and sword,
And stood their ground - in seeking quarter they
were slaughtered almost to a man.
Survivors, they were sent to Greece, enslaved.
When questioned why,
Alexander said - because I can.

The Army of Lord Cardigan,
Its uniforms so smart,
The men, although they had never fought,
Dressed such, they looked the part.

The Fourth, the Thirteenth Light Dragoon’s,
The Eighth, the Eleventh Hussars, all made,
If you include the Seventeenth,
What then they called The Light Brigade:

Mounted, fast, but lightly armoured.
Launched at guns as they retreat,
And cutting down the infantry
With thrusting Lance if e’er they’d meet.

Skirmishing; reconnaissance.
The Light Brigade took pride to be
Proud horsemen, hard and ruthless men,
Well - British Cavalry.

And Brudenell, ‘twas his, the boast,
Had dressed his men to please his sight.
His officers? Yes, they looked like fops,
But make no bones, those men could fight.

‘Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front, follow the enemy, and try to prevent them carrying away the guns.’

General Raglan drafted orders,
He could see what should be done.
He sent to Lucan via Nolan,
Ordering him to charge the gun.

But Lucan redirected Nolan,
‘Speak to Cardigan,’ the man
Who, when told ‘attack the Russians,’
Said ‘Well, if you think I can.’

‘But which guns does my lord desire
We charge, what does the General say?’
And though he full knew where the guns were,
Nolan waved a different way.

‘There, my lord, there is your enemy.
There, my lord, the Russian gun.
There, my lord, do not you see?
It’s that way, lord, that fate must run.’

Well may you ask, why did he do it?
Was Nolan not an honourable man?
We will never know the reason.
Ponder that as best you can.

Meanwhile the men sit restless mounts
Which shuffle, snort, dressed by the right.
Tossing heads, their reins held loosely,
Each and all can sense the fight.

What Cardigan (called Lord Haw, Haw)
Thought at the time it’s hard to tell.
But someone heard him murmuring
‘This charge will finish Brudenell.’

Then he wheeled about on Ronald,
Drawing forth an untried blade.
He trotted out to centre front
Of those they called the Light Brigade.

By troop, by squadron, sabres drawn.
Hussar and Lancer, Light Dragoon,
Each regiment Royal duty sworn,
Each man to die and that but soon.

And on whose flanks, there lay high ground,
From watching Russian comes no sound.
While in the valley still and hot
Rings out the order, ‘Walk-march, trot – ‘
—————
‘Bugler, sound the advance’

And as we canter forth the guns begin
To range with ball this Light Brigade, for history shaped.
Poor Nolan lies with rictus grin,
The first one dead, the first life *****.

The thunderous noise, the gathering mist,
Hold in your horse, dress by the right,
Your sabre drill, your strength of wrist,
Will see you through the coming fight.

The bugler’s sounding gallop now.
Through dense, white smoke the canons roar.
Each rider urges on his horse,
Midst raging death demanding more.

The Thirteenth point, their sabres reach.
The Seventeenth, their levelled lances,
Close in you *******, fill that breech,
Adjust your dressing (sidelong glances).

And in the crashing, frenzied fight,
Milling shapes that cut and ******
And loom and rage and loudly cry in fright,
Swiping, slashing as they must.

But some are through.
As from the melee we can hear the shout,
(Mrs. Dubberly sips her tea; admires the view.)
**, Light Brigade, form threes about.

Whimper the wounded crouched in pain.
Screams the horse again, again.
These are the victims, these and the slain.
Pray let the memories all remain.

Lest we forget.

Awaiting the news, we feared the worst and hoped for the best.
Life was about to put my family through an unforgettable test
Mom came in, evidence on her face, that granny wasn't okay
"Wita has cancer" mom cried.

I didn't sleep that night, that night was one of the worst
I have been to a funeral before, but I feared wita's would be the worst.
I cried myself to sleep, and little did I get
I wasn't ready to lose my  grandma yet

After the countless treatments and medicines,nothing seemed to work. I visited Wita in her bed, and I don't mean to be rude
But seeing her like this scared me, she looked like a skeleton decorated in tube.
It was exceptionally difficult not to cry, but I tried oh so hard.
I walked over, hugged Wita tight, and held her hand hard. I didn't want to leave her side.

I said in my head: Wita I hope you get well soon, I know you'll be okay
It's okay to be scared, we'll visit you everyday.
And when you get home, things will change, we won't ever fight, it's true.
Wita never give up, keep on fighting...
I don't want to lose you.

As her eyes closed, and she took her last breath
That was the moment my heart dropped, and I couldn't believe it. I wouldn't.
I hugged her for what felt like forever, cried on her, and quickly did time pass.
I never wanted to stop saying "I love you" for fear it would be the last.

Suddenly I was being pulled away, being told it was gonna be okay.
That was the worst day.

As the gunfire ceased
And the battlefield began to weep
There he lies: frozen, asleep.

Battered and lifeless, his hands idle upward—
Through their veins marched a thousand men
They sang their spirits of fury and rage;
Now they rest, unwilling to sing again
As a thousand melodies and songs unheard
Flow for a final time
Upward, through the fingers—
Never to be sung,
Just once,
Only then.

A silent knight who rode through flames,
Fought the war he could not tame.
He knew the end before the start,
But duty burned within his heart.

He fought not for the songs or fame,
Nor dreamed of honor, nor sought a name.
He walked the path that fate had made—
A road of fire he could not evade.

His back is bent, his breath is weak,
No strength to rise, no words to speak.
Still on his knees, he won’t let go
His sword still burns with steady glow

With trembling hands, he plants it deep,
A spine of steel his soul will keep.
Though body crushed, he stands upright,
A shattered man, but still a knight.

You see defeat when you stare,
Yet did you sense the fear there?
He’s lost the war—but he feels none.
For in his fall… the fight was won.

In the hush beneath powerlines,
through fractured stones,
no gardener knelt to bless them.
No springtime choir sang.
Still, golden heads rose,
leaning towards the shadowed light,
the kind filtered by clouds
like a half-remembered memory,
or a lullaby hummed to a ghost.
Roots thread through ruin,
tasting rust,
sipping rain
that fell before the world began.
They were never meant to be here.
And yet
yellow ablaze in the rubble.
A flicker. A flare.
The petaled armor of hope
unfurled against battle-smoked skies
as if the world exhaled
and breathed them into being.