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Caught in the crossfire of two men's love
Insecure, selfish, and helpless
Only my blood
10.2020
Carol Rose Oct 29
Every journey
Has it’s tight squeezes
Back against the wall of mercy
On a narrow edge empathizes

Repulsed by slime oozing everywhere
Fear grips a bruised soul
Edging slowly searching for help everywhere
Darkness smears pain in weakness for control

Trials are to test our stamina
The intensity increased hopelessness
Reaching out to the world is useless as anima
The traumatic strategy of this war is to produce holiness

Just when rational mind has given up hope
A flicker settles between roaming desperation
With prides determination
Hey who’s pride a tightrope

A war zone without protective armor
We do not fight against flesh and blood
Prayer direct line to the Father
Grace embraces comforting lights flood

Darkness drifts to a corner defeated once more
Barely breathing another day might shine
Feeling the creep waiting at the door
Rise and shine we have a praise the Lord for saving my life one more time

Lord thank You
Big time
*
tinhearts ~©️

🐑 “For though we walk in the flesh, we are not waging war according to the flesh. For the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh but have divine power to destroy strongholds”
Sonnet: The Ruins of Balaclava
by Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, barren Crimean land, these dreary shades
of castles―once your indisputable pride―
are now where ghostly owls and lizards hide
as blackguards arm themselves for nightly raids.
Carved into marble, regal boasts were made!
Brave words on burnished armor, gilt-applied!
Now shattered splendors long since cast aside
beside the dead here also brokenly laid.
The ancient Greeks set shimmering marble here.
The Romans drove wild Mongol hordes to flight.
The Mussulman prayed eastward, day and night.
Now owls and dark-winged vultures watch and leer
as strange black banners, flapping overhead,
mark where the past piles high its nameless dead.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz (1798-1855) is widely regarded as Poland’s greatest poet and as the national poet of Poland, Lithuania and Belarus. He was also a dramatist, essayist, publicist, translator, professor and political activist. As a principal figure in Polish Romanticism, Mickiewicz has been compared to Byron and Goethe. Keywords/Tags: Mickiewicz, Poland, Polish, Balaclava, Crimea, war, warfare, castle, castles, knight, knights, armor, Greeks, Rome, Romans, Mongols, Mussulman, Muslims, death, destruction, ruin, ruins, romantic, romanticism, sonnet, depression, sorrow, grave, violence, mrbtr
At Wilfred Owen’s Grave
by Michael R. Burch

A week before the Armistice, you died.
They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s,
then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie
between two privates, sacrificed like Christ
to politics, your poetry unknown
except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months
with Gaukroger beside you in the trench,
dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench
of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched
your broken heart together and the fist
began to pulse with life, so close to death.

Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care
of “ergotherapists” that you sensed life
is only in the work, and made despair
a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath,
a mouthful’s merest air, inspired less
than wrested from you, and which we confess
we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air
that even Sassoon failed to share, because
a man in pieces is not healed by gauze,
and breath’s transparent, unless we believe
the words are true despite their lack of weight
and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes,
and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate
of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies.

Published by The Chariton Review, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Rogue Scholars, Romantics Quarterly, Mindful of Poetry, Famous Poets and Poems, Poetry Life & Times, Other Voices International

Keywords/Tags: Wilfred, Owen, war, poem, trench, warfare, chlorine, gas, gangrene, armistice, ergotherapists, Craiglockhart, Sassoon, Yeats, honor, lies, gag, gagged, gagging, death, grave, funeral, elegy, eulogy, tribute, World War I
Cole Brantley Feb 10
There's no way
I want to stop it
But I ******* can't
It eats at me

She doesn't deserve to feel
as if every burden
is her doing
its mine

If I did things right
If I was better at this
I live in this constant fear
so trapped in my own afflictions

My lack of control
spirals
why does it have to be this way
it hurts like nothing else

Except for this one moment
I refuse to allow occupy my mind

Maybe if I listened
Shut my ******* mouth
did more, maybe then
she'll understand

my true love to her
my protective intentions
but I feel as if I'm so far
from these things I want to be

for you
I'm sorry.
This is my mind as I go down the road and think of the ways I've hurt her and dream of the ways to make things better
Zywa Jul 2019
From heaven
fast dots diving
to a no man's land

discarded without wings
soft bags, chairs
hard metal, limbs
my heart too

stands still
in disbelief
yet there is a patent leather shoe
yet I read unfolded lives

my blurred eyes
and my mouth full of thoughts
ask for words
for the emptiness

This far too big event
on an ordinary day
extends beyond the horizon
Written on July 20th, 2014

Collection “BloodTrunk”
my heart is a warzone,
and you invaded just so you could attack.
you were never careful about how you treated me,
you just wanted to cause as much destruction as you could and then retreat.
but i will soldier on,
pretending everything is okay,
although the scorched earth around me is crumbling and burning.
but everything is okay,
its okay.
its hard to pretend everything is okay
Isaac Godfrey Jan 2019
The blistering cold freezes the ground we stand upon,
the mud we protect with our lives,
as we stand beside the front line as the monotone winds
pierce soulless faces like knives,
behind the mask, we soldiers are crying,
we fight with our lives because inside we're dying.
The death of myself shan't cause effect, nor stir,
come back a husk of the man you once were,
the slaughter of one is a tragedy, as Stalin said;
but the massacre of millions is just a few more dead.

We spend our last dying moments in a filthy hole,
knowing our efforts had no meaning,
maybe death isn't the absence of life but saying goodbye,
aware of the waste of the bleeding, and screaming,
the bullets that hit us, lose our blood,
but the bullets we send lose our minds,
we sacrifice our forgotten pride for the humility of the state,
the motive long left behind.
You shan't die from the pierce of lead,
for you die the moment you start fighting,
you bleed out and merely become a statistic,
counted with the costs and explosives ignited.
Do we Die the moment we start fighting?
"Every time you drop a bomb, you **** the God your Child has born"
~Serj Tankian, "Boom!"
Sun Drop Dec 2018
Underinterrupted silence,
none to gather at the gates.
Sell your warey wagon's axle,
feed, the castle masticates.

Oh the joyous altercation,
angled, dangling neatly down.
Hold your elder father's picture
underneath your writing gown.

Words defy the lonesome meeting
of the dogs in golden chains.
Herds arise of loathsome chieftains.
Battlecries as arrows rain.

Open book of monstrous brethren,
teach them how your pages turn.
Loving violence, kindred-hateful;
gutted, for a beat you yearn.
Round one, fight
ieyam Jul 2018
You pulled the trigger
     and it pierced my skin, tore at my flesh,
          burrowed itself into the depths of my being.

Then I suddenly realised the irony,
      that your love - the very thing I lived for
          was none other than the bullet that killed me.
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