Chris Neilson Nov 2017

She lived in a suburb of the city
with a hard-working husband keeping kid's bellies filled
oblivious to the horrors yet to be lived
"The war to end all wars" and millions killed

A thread-bare working class, but they still lived their lives
poorly paid work though, and struggling to get by
in 1914, her future ripped from her hands
she couldn't even vote for her husband to die

Tommy and his pals signed up for glory
marching and grinning but gripped by fear
she waved them off with her heart so heavy
the posters warned the Germans would be here

Tommy returned from the front a different man
gone was his smile, his whistle in the morn
a haunted look, he couldn't say what he'd seen
she felt sad and lonely, upset and forlorn

Supporting her husband throughout his trauma
much work to do and mouths to feed
2 years now into this madness
more lambs to the slaughter was the nation's need

They recalled Tommy for a battle at the Somme
his mental wounds hidden, he stood at the door
she kissed him, then he left to meet his maker
she sighed, then cried and collapsed to the floor

On a warm July morning he was sent to his death
cut down in his prime in no man's land
a pointless, tragic waste of his life
most now saw this "Great War" wasn't so grand

She opened the letter bearing the news
they regretted her loss and said they were pained
passed to her loved ones and back again
barely readable now it was so tear-stained

2 months passed and she heard some news
they were showing a film at her local cinema
the carnage at the Somme could now be viewed
her family and friends went to see it with her

She saw a body being carried in the trenches
the face of the dead man was screened
that face was Tommy's, she leapt to her feet
"That's him! That's my Tommy!", she screamed

She was led back home to her children
her pain and anguish she could now release
seeing Tommy one last time gave her closure
his face had looked content and finally at peace

In remembrance week, a piece I wrote a few years back. I wrote it from the point of view of a volunteer's wife to give it a slightly different perspective.
Saint Audrey Aug 2017

Protecting the carcinogen
God bless this anomaly
Who they choose to protect
Intravenously a sight to see

Saving this misstep
Blight of justice, repetition
Six million people left to vet
Each one with tunnel vision

That's the view
Is right
Death and disorder
The walls
Of the holy manor

Then kill them all
Inside and out
Violent, volition
No one truly knows self doubt
Ventricle technicians

Each coat of paint
Is closing the space between the walls
Halls closing in
How much longer before you fall?

Oh god, I'm still alive
Please, someone kill me
I shouldn't have to go through this

It's funny, ain't it
Fancy feast for the whole congregation
My words aren't an open book
A buffet for crooks run amok
On ground up horse hooves

Frowning down I pout
I'd kill my fucking self to put their fire out
A brisk shower of intuition
Intention of slowing mass emissions
Eating vomit in
Filtration organs

Go vegan

HATE. hate.
Stanley Wilkin Jul 2017

Mired in history, coiled around by cheap reflections
On previous ramshackle glory,
Roman armies camped in valleys,
Swords trickling with blood from the battle
On the heath. Bodies covering the bracken
Like a foreshortened locust swarm, wingless

Over the town. The triumphant Italians had there
On the high ground, above the sinuous Col,
Built temples
And baths. Marble hauled in from Sicilian quarries,
Loaded on to Carthaginian ships by fierce North African slaves-
Themselves beaten warriors.
They were in the town when the tribes struck,
Dying in chains.

Before their own savage deaths, they slaughtered
Others, cut them into ragged pieces, decapitated, raped,
Choralling songs of victory, leaving none alive.
That day, the dun hills smelt better!
They torched the temples and wasted the proud theatre,
The slender apogee of culture.

Now the town slumbers in the present,
Burying its past under beautiful gardens, purple flowers and
Raffish gladioli peeking out from unobtrusive suburbs
Stinking of ancient corpses.

Arpan Rathod Jun 2017

Come close to me
stab me from the front this time
and look into my eyes
while you do that.

Kathryn Maurine Apr 2017

It’s rather difficult to comprehend what’s going on in situations of mass chaos
There’s a man laying in a pool of his own blood, next to a young child with his arms detached, a box of knives, a pile of rags, an overturned safe.
How can one possibly make sense of it all with the constant buzzing of the fan…
That’s how it happens
Lives so precious taken in an instant, from the conception of the murder carried through to this serene silence of the scene at hand
That’s where we are now,
the tranquil peace of the absence of life, no struggling, no pain
just vacant stares and the crimson red of the blood pooling around their bodies
There’s something beautiful about the silence  
something that draws you in, yet the eerie nature of it brings you a sense of dread
A sense of dread that I created
I think to myself, it must be raining outside, but I know that can’t be true…
I look down to see my palms are raining blood

How can I ever explain it?
Not without a full disclosure
I will tell you every bit
Your kindness to which I demure

Soldiers fight their own private war
Mine to protect the Hill Tribes
Willing to suffer all the gore
All credit to them I ascribe

Upon arrival in Da Nang
I gathered my field gear and rifle
A mission with Colonel Vang
Preparation seemed but a trifle

My kind mountain Hmong Tribal ladies
Give a great gift to me, your sons
I will escort them through Hades
I'll teach them to murder with guns

Wet their tongues in cobra's blood
I have come to save you from doom
The coming communist red flood
Boys already made their own tomb

We shall fly the flags of the Hmong
We'll rally boys from the villes
We must slaughter the Minh and Cong
The Hmong will have their own Bastille

I will take a dragon to wife
Boys will nurture in her foul breath
They will worship their bloody knife
We'll dance the ritual of death

I’m the lost soul forest monster
Others have come before today
They are pathetic impostors
We will flow through the night to slay

Other boys born beneath the palm
They have come to steal your life's breath
It's them that we target to bomb
I'll walk among you as Macbeth

My Duncan is among your kin
Banquo will haunt me til I rot
I will be fixed with mortal sin
Unable to wash away the spot

I will hide my hands from Odin
A conundrum in which I'm caught
Future will be among the Jinn
My destiny from this foul plot

Your sons buried in sacred ground
They'll not be stained with my darkness
Peace for them will be so profound
How many thanks can I express

Those boys in valor's selfless crown
From gallantry, their future gone
Sins I keep and can't beat down
For many years, I must atone.

I, far removed from battles roar
Do fondly remember those boys
Their smiles and laughter before
Stand out among life's greatest joys

No more the fierce warrior am I
Just an old man with memories
I am needing to just say goodbye
And maybe, maybe my conscience appeases

This is my lament.  It is extracted from my third life.

We ain't got no use for you, Jewboy.
None whatsoever
Your wife is one of them gooky people
From the Philippines,
But she thinks more like we do.
So, she ain't got no use for you either.
We banned you from the KavaSutra
So, we could shut your kikeass mouth,
But you keep talking anyways.
I don't know how the hell we're gonna' make you shut up?
We might have to put you in a Concentration Camp.
We'll see what happens
When our man, Trump,
Gets into Office.

gray rain May 2016

Who came up with the word slaughter?
did they think killing things was funny?

Eloi Apr 2016

Run away, child,
Don't let me in,
I'm a demon,
I'm a devil,
I'll teach you how to sin.

Run away, little son,
Don't look into my eyes,
They are black-blue, they are deadly,
And full of dangerous lies.

Run away, little daughter,
Before your mind I will slaughter,
My existence knows no love,
I was expelled from above.

You can never run away,
Your mind is my slave,
I will haunt you until you die,
Never to leave your side.

Run away, child.
While you're still alive.

My last poem was very focused on a time in my life where I had a lot of problems, this is also a poem about that time.
I went through some very traumatic experiences, and I believe that a lot of it was super natural.
Josiah Wilson Nov 2015

My veins thrum with
The thrill of death and blood
My eyes alight with life
As I stride through the mud

Dead men all around
Most felled by my hand
They gave their all to die
And still alive I stand

I am invincible
Too angry to die
The battle rage fills me
As I roar at the sky

My thirst is never sated
I always yearn for more
More killing, more blood
More bodies for my sword

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