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Trixie Limasa Aug 2020
ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭ ̀ˋ

Fighters in midst of war,
A war without guns and bombs so far,
instead, a syringe with vaccines and drugs,
Wearing PPE battledress, a little snug,
Against invisible opponents, that's bizarre,
They called front-liners, our star.

Despite the danger ahead of them,
They still chose to risk their lives, what a gem,
So people stay indoor and pray,
Wear masks and clean your hands every day.

To our dearest front-liners,
You are all the best, ever,
Will we forget you? never,
We will remember you forever.

We love you to the core,
Today and forevermore,
Our precious front-liners,
Let's be safe and fight this together.
I am a beginner in a world of poetry, please help and guide me po. Thank you so much Love lots
Poetical Aug 2020
I wear a face mask wherever I go.
I wear a face mask when I'm at home.
I wear one when I'm all alone.

I distance myself from everyone.
I won't even hug my own grandmother
because I'm a hero
who won't touch anybody
unless I'm wearing a hazmat suit.

When I am dead and in the grave,
Bury me with a face mask on my face,
And bury me 30 feet from all other graves
So I won't get covid-19 when I'm deceased.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth, on the first anniversary of 9-11

She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget”
dove-white on her car’s window (though the wren,
because its heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her). As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.

She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.

Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.
(The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when nestlings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
love's reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.)

She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET!”
because her heart is tender with regret.

Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, The Eclectic Muse, Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine, and Other Voices International. Keywords/Tags: villanelle, 911, terror, terrorism, never, forget, heart, tender, regret, heroism, patriotism, courage, sacrifice
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Flight 93
by Michael R. Burch

I held the switch in trembling fingers ... asked
why existence felt so small, so meaningless,
like a minnow squirming feebly in my grasp ...

... vibrations of huge engines thrummed my arms
as, glistening with sweat, I nudged the switch
to OFF ... I heard the klaxon’s shrill alarms

like vultures’ shriekings ... earthward, in a stall ...
we floated ... earthward ... wings outstretched, aghast
like Icarus ... as through the void we fell ...

till nothing was so beautiful, so blue ...
so vivid as that moment ... and I held
an image of your face, and dreamed I flew

into your arms ... the earth rushed up ... I knew
such comfort, in that moment, loving you.

NOTE: This poem imagines the struggle in the cockpit for control of the Flight 93 airplane. The terrorists apparently intended to crash the plane into the White House. The heroic passengers kept that from happening, at the cost of their lives. Keywords/Tags: 9-11, sonnet, Flight 93, terrorists, terrorism, heroes, heroism, courage, bravery, loyalty, patriotism, sacrifice, love
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
He ran from my demons
so I wouldn't have to.

                                      He yearned for more time
                                                     like I should have.
He lived as me.

He broke as me.
                                                          He spoke in me
                                     so I wouldn't have to.

           I didn't tell him he was human.
annh Jun 2019
The light is dim, but I'm accustomed to working in the dark. Besides, it's safer this way. My eyes are not what they used to be, but it has become second nature to me - the pull of the needle, the tension in the thread.  

I stitched my first collar when I was six years' old, sitting on my grandmother's knee in the parlour of the old house at Innsbruck. ‘Isaac,’ she used to say, ‘you have your father's gift. Use it well.’

Ah, Papa, if you could see me now. Such expectations you had for my talent, but I assure you that the occasion for invisible seams and fine beadwork is over. Nowadays I work with a different fabric. A cloth perforated with ****** fire and riddled with shrapnel. The wounds - forgive me - resemble red Venetian silk embedded with black pearls; the bone like the baleen strictures of a dowager's corset. And the red dye runs. God help me, how it runs.

As I work, Papa, I imagine that you are standing in the shadows, your frayed sewing tape draped around your neck. I am praised for my quick hands and my ability to embroider life into abbreviated limbs. And I pray that you are not too disappointed in what I have become.

'Who is left in the ghetto is the one man in a thousand in any age, in any culture, who through some mysterious workings of force within his soul will stand in defiance against any master.'
- Leon Uris, Mila 18
Oculi Mar 2019
What a spiceless world.
One full of orange, then blue.
One full of purple, then brown.
To get through the waters of the womb, you need steel.
Where blood is flighty. And mud is shallow.
To love, you need to ****.
To hate, you need to birth another.
A pool of men stronger and faster than a colony of ants.
Who are you, when you've lost all your feathers?
When the bridge above you has collapsed?
Who are you, once again, when all you've known has turned to order?
When there is a hierarchy? Where do you fit in?
To make wings, you need a brother and a hammer.
To fight those orderly *******, you need to call upon your own filth.
To waddle through your own ****, your own ****, you need to drink the elixir.
Not some shallow nectar from the gods. Who are they, anyway? Who, who are the gods to question the almighty? You were always better anyway.
Who upon this mound of dirt, ****, ***** and mercury shall question the authenticity of your command, when they're all dead in the ground?
Will there be anyone?
Will it just be you?
You knock on the door of the rich man, but he does not answer. You paint his door red in your own blood and scream.
What has occurred here? A clash of babies dressed in stardust under a sky of light violet?
Maybe a marriage of scales and feathers disguised as ones you could care about?
You know nothing of this world, and that's how you always got by.
You dig through the pool of used needles, you drench yourself in others' diseases, you embrace a death of most painful circumstance and you cut off your limbs one by one.
Only then, at your final moments, tongueless, waddling your chunks of once arms, legs and wings around, drowning in your own *****, can you ask the most important question.
What if the world was the opposite?
A story that I could claim my own. Something that resonates with me. I hope you understand.
zen Sep 2018
Coupling wind and fire
an terrific, tumultuous, take
Time waits for no man but of him
his fate,
the fellow frets and is frightened by fame,
Son of Father Time,
cannot merely hide inside its vase,
Blooming, what a fellow
hath he grown noble and sublime
soon to love and learn
the great burden of his time.
zen Aug 2018
From whom are you wanderer?
The road on which you unravel,
Basking,
and on the brim of infinity
the body becomes nest for neighboring
critters
Ineffable, microscopic, macroscopic
And in the (in) between
on the peak of no where the whole widens,
the well wanes a wish deeper,
All the while
diamonds crest beneath aim
Gold, my galore...
of whom, are you
J C Jan 2018
Take heed, you great Forty-Four!
Steady your steed and draw fire from
great old Romans of Constantinople!
Bring hell, you demons, Forty-Four!
Carry your lances and splinter your shields
for the hour calls on you for battle most noble!
Ride thunder, you swift Forty-Four!
Leave your foes' hearts aching and trembling;
and meld beast and man and steel into one!
Feast hearty, O hungry Forty-Four!
For God's hands smite your puny foes
long before the long march has begun!
Strike hard, you mighty Forty-Four!
Into the fray your swords shall ******;
for all blades unsheathed shall taste blood!
Weary not, O fearless Forty-Four!
The hour grows dark, and you are laden;
and all rage will burst and carnage will flood!
Be still, you silent Forty-Four!
Hear the tremors that rumble and breathe
for the clamor for justice shall be served!
Rest well, our great Forty-Four!
Lest many forget, you ring through the eons;
for the freedom we have is undeserved!
For the fallen forty-four SAF commandos in the Mamasapano clash. Rest well—you have done your duty
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