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Sujan Aug 20
The son of heaven,  erupts with rage,
The south, dare profane my land,
The court tries to appease,
But to no avail.

The emperor's decree,
Bugle the horn and prepare for war!
The granaries full, the armoury filled,
The journey is long.

The soldier,
Kneel, to their parents,
Pray to their gods,
And fly kisses to their love,
Then they march.

Treacherous road, even more the goal,
The entourage proceeds,
Joins the youth, with sickle and hoes,
To their end,
For the love of their land.

South is in sight,
This green plain, todays battleground,
The sun dazzles the land,
As it awaits without care.

The enemy a swarm of yellow,
And ours the mighty black,
The dawn is long,

Close they eyes,
Reminiscence if it's their last,
The tears of mother,
The stern look on my father,
The embrace of love,
And the playful children.

Bugle,
And they march,
The horse gallops,
And within heart blazes a fire,
Of anger and wrath,
For their country.

Clang, the shields raised high,
Roar, the spears pierce deep,
And shine the metallic armour,
And dye the green with red.

The wind bellows,
And With it carries the smell of blood,
The land a shade of green and dark red,
A beautiful red poppy.

The light of day dares not intrude the flower,
Herein lies the true hell, feast upon it,
And see what you create,
The bugle calls the end of war,
But none a soul shouts a victory call

In a serene morning,
A widow, dares interrupt my court,
Within a web of spears,
The widow with eyes of fire,
Shouts,

"His Majesty, Your imperial highness, I hear
Your country won, What about the people?"

THE WAR
rosie Apr 15
in small orange ensembles
they bloom

the sun shining;
beaming

warmth envelops

and a gentle breeze
grazes

swaying
on these grassy fields

time stands still

and life
draws
on and on
The poppies are really pretty today!
Cox Apr 14
Orange Poppy.
Pull your gun.
Please, don’t look so glum.
Smile.
Pull your head up,
Tuck your chin.
Be the flower your mother taught you to be,
Before you sin.
Poetic T Nov 2019
When the last shell fell,
  and the ground was cold.

The land was marked
    by the red petals
that had fallen like the
            lives now cold.

Names of those wrote on
every flag of crimson that
                           had departed.

It was the eleventh moment,
           of an eleventh occasion.
Where the guns fell silent
       like those not going home.


We honour the past,
                   to live the future.

For without there sacrifice,
     we wouldn't be able to live

the life we have now.

Thank you for those who fell,
            those who came home.
Leaving apart of themselves that
               is over there even now.

The last shell fell, but some echoes
                        never fade over time.
Echoing through life hoping to
             never fall like that again.
Wayne Wysocki Oct 2019
A poppy is pretty and bright
And its juice is so far out of sight
    That the smoke in a den
    Full of ***** old men
Makes all of them high as a kite.
Copyright © 2019 Wayne Wysocki
Postpone your worries and follow me through my imagination,
Act upon your wrongs and fall for their sedations.
Progress runs behind protection, projected
As living when death's deeply invested.
Vibrant red always becomes so much deeper.
Everyone tells me I'll heal but I'm not a believer.  
Relief is when I release it all completely,

Repeating history until it kills me.
Hover losses as shadows watch,
Oh the concern as all hope dislodged,
Evenings now tempt you to
Alleviate them for no longer,
Send me away from here forever.
All feedback is welcome and appreciated
Lady Ravenhill Jul 2019
Blanket of scarlet
Magic spreads form earth to sky
Dreams of poppy fieds
©LadyRavenhill
Haiku 107
Isheanopa Zvobgo Mar 2019
I hope shooting stars fall on all your empty acres.
The places where the seeds I planted never grew.

Places that won't even grow poppies.
Yes, I'm praying the Sars fall on no man's land.
More commonly known as your heart.
May stars fall next to Flanders Feilds
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