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Carlo C Gomez Oct 17
Red letter days
and friendly fire.
Will I ever go home?
Your voice over
the airwaves soothes.
But the things you say
cut like teeth,
sharp and vile.
You visit the hospitals,
shake down the morgues.
The batting of your eyelashes,
a ruse to your construction:
You're a steam shovel, girl.
Digging for Nazis
at the center of the Earth.
Mildred Elizabeth Gillars, nicknamed "Axis Sally" along with Rita Zucca, was an American broadcaster employed by **** Germany to disseminate propaganda during World War II. Following her capture in post-war Berlin, she became the first woman to be convicted of treason against the United States.
Elena Mustafa Sep 30
Dreams tell
Another about
A persons past
For example my father
Was according to a dream
Was a mad scientist
Who cheated on his wife with his subjects
How the horrors the dreams can reavel
About other people
Or yourself
Let me introduce myself
I'm Robert K. Wesson,
Sgt. Retired
I like to say the K was for killer,
But, in fact it was for Knowlton
I have no idea why,
Nobody in our family named that, as far as I know.
Anyway, that's out of the way.
35 years served. Can't give away anymore information than that, it's a national secret. I can say, I can cook a mean chipped beef for 1100 men though.

I served in WWII, lost a lot of friends. I'm 97 years young now, as they like to say. I don't, I gave up counting years ago when I lost my wife, but, folks round here like to put on a show every year I get closer to 100. They wheel a cake into me, have me blow out the candles and then I head down stairs to the commissary for a beer. A light beer mind you, but, still a beer. Anything harder messes with my meds.
Personally, I think they give me the beer to shut me up, puts me to sleep in no time. I'm on pills for blood pressure, diabetes, headaches, one to make me ***, one to make me ****. Won't get into those now, rather unsavory things to chat about.

As I said, I served in the big one, came back relatively unscathed. No physical issues that I know of, but, mentally, I saw things no one should. Things that stay with you for ever. I wasn't front line per se, but, I can't tell you what I did, it's a national secret. I can say though, 100 loaves of bread, I can do trouble at all.
Around here, I'm Grampa Bob, or Gramps, depending on who is working. Not many from my generation here now. Oh, here? I'm at a military home outside of Kingston. Some days, it's great, others, I wished I was gone years back. I wish I was gone in the war sometimes, but, then I would never have met my wife and had the fantastic life I did have. No kids, but, we made do.
Met her once I came home. But, that's another story. Wished I'd gone first though, tough watching her pass, cowardly to say, but, it was rough. I came in here after that. Was having trouble sleeping, concentrating, and generally couldn't take care of myself.
Seems strange a man who could do what I could, I can't tell you though, National Secret and all.  But I could field strip my weapon in the dark in a windstorm, and make stew for 1100 men no sweat.
Well, I came here, before I burned out the house. The local fire department got tired of coming out I guess, made a few calls, and here I be. Sold the house, made enough to do ok here, what with my pension and all too.
I'm not one for reading too much, eyes aren't the best anymore, and my hands, well the arthritis flares up and I can barely move some days. There's a computer in the common area we can use, but, I know all I need to know, and some things I wished I didn't.
Never got used to television, especially after it switched to colour. I didn't get the jokes, and the cop shows? I had the murderer figured out in the first ten minutes, why couldn't they figure it out?
Back to here. I'm an early riser, always was. Get up, shuffle to the sink to do my teeth before they come in and give me the whole whang dang doodle wash and wax to get me ready to face the day.
I used to go to the crafts classes here. They were ok, but, a man only need so many fake leather wallets with horses on them. After all, I've nobody to really give one to. If you want one, let me know, I've lots. Did a few of the Christmas trees in ceramics, but, after a while, I lost interest. The wife loved having the trees around, but, without her, it's not the same. Made about 7 or 8, let the nurses have those.
The nurses, great kids. Not the same as the ones we had in the war. Those....well, those were nurses. They could do anything needed, field strip a rifle, put in an IV under fire, drive a jeep, all without getting those starched white uni's ***** or blood stained. And...without losing their caps. Nurses today? good kids, but, not as tough in my book. Things have changed a lot, no uniforms like the old days, pretty casual, and 5 nurses to do what one would do in one quick visit. Now, 5 nurses, 2 hours to do what?
Anyways, I hear one coming now, so I best go. I know it's not my birthday, and VE day was the other day, so, must be tests again for something. I'll be here if you need a wallet remember, lots to go around. Hope to talk soon,
Just ask for Gramps, they'll get you here.
Ordinary Valaam nursing home
For the good and the poor but not for saints.
There are a lot of crowded wards home,
For old people with neither arms nor legs.
Here the nurses can’t keep track of everything—
That’s why there are always  stench and doom here,
Everybody has a look depth carrying
In which is visible renunciation mere.
Here lived the hero of the USSR.
Wounded in battle under Krasnodar.
Like everyone else, a Soviet officer,
Just cynically called “a samovar”.
He was never discouraged for everyone—
He joked of everything and laughed heartily,
He gave useful advices to everyone,
And he only smiled at rudeness daily.
They took  veterans “out for a walk”, they
Attached the veterans to fir trees on sackcloth,
In the evening old men were removed from fir trees , they
Had to sleep. Was  forgotten the hero’s
Life. He didn’t die from multiple wounds,
He died quietly, without a cry or a sigh.
Died here so, having frozen veterans.
Together with them died the epoch, great and high.


Обычный валаамский интернат –
Не для святых, но сирых и убогих.
Здесь много переполненных палат
Для стриков безруких и безногих.
Сиделки тут за всем не уследят –
А потому здесь смрад и обречённость.
У каждого - глубокий очень взгляд,
Видна в котором только отрешённость.
Тут жил один герой СССР ,
Израненный в бою под Краснодаром.
Подобно всем, советский офицер
Цинично назывался «самоваром».
Он никогда для всех не унывал –
Шутил про всё и искренне смеялся.
Советы всем полезные давал.
В ответ на грубость – только улыбался.
Однажды «выводили» всех «гулять» -
На мешковинах к елям прицепили.
И к вечеру с деревьев сняли - спать.
А про героя начисто забыли!
Он умер не от множественных ран,
По-тихому – без крика или вздоха.
Вот так ушёл, замёрзнув, ветеран.
И с ним ушла великая эпоха!

Translator - I. Toporov
Yash Jan 31
Oh Papa, perish the invading Persian armies.
Oh Papa, do or die at the D-day.
Oh Papa, fight the foreign forces at the front lines.
Oh Papa, go face your turbulent trials in the trenches.
Oh Papa, come back in one piece from the Pearl Harbour.

But Papa, why did you scare your own son into submission?
But Papa, why did you beat your own blood till he bled out?
But Papa, why did you scar your own son into suicide?

Your own son, the sun of your life.
But then Papa, why did you suppress your sun into the sunset?
But then Papa, why did you bury your sun in the horizon beach?

Johny Johny.
Yes Papa?
Did you disobey me?
No Papa.
Are you lying?
No Papa.
Turn your back.
Ah ah ah.
This was my first poem. This poem is about a child who knows that his papa is fighting the odds to survive and provide for his family but is confused and wonders why then, the papa turns around and does horrible things to him.
The flag of a once proud nation,
And the flag of a once proud dictatorship,
Both signs of a war that should never have occurred.

The cold brick walls, and the black metal gate.
Like the open arms of Death,
Welcoming the unfortunate fodder.

Their screams still echo in my head,
The pain still stabbing at
My writhing, wailing heart.

Why? WHY?
I find myself screaming
At the man who never listens.

Why them? Why US?
What did they ever do
To be murdered and burned alive?

The flag of a once proud nation,
And the flag of a now dead man,
Both signs of a law that should never have been made.

Bright crimson eyes, snow white hair.
A fluttering yellow bird,
Almost as crazy as him.

Their words still echo in my head.
“The Prussian State which from early days has been a bearer
Of militarism and reaction in Germany has de facto ceased to exist.”

Why? WHY?
I find myself screaming
At the men who never cared.

Why him? Why US?
What did he ever do
To be murdered without reason?
A poem I wrote for English class.
A Hetalia fanpoem, in the perspective of Germany after WW2. Again, part of my Isolated AU.
"The man who never listens" is ******, "The men who never cared" are the Allied nations, the second "Why US?" refers to how it Germany was blamed for the previous World War and now Prussia had ceased to exist after the second World War. The "Prussian State" part is actually the first line of Law 46, which resulted in the abolition of Prussia.
I. Black Eagle

A casket.
Simple. Brown.
Made with the wood of an oak tree.
And covered by the flag of a once proud nation.

Within that box
Lay the remains
Of the one he called his brother.

The one who, despite everything, was always there for him.
The one who, despite everything, followed him through it all.
The one who, despite everything, was loyal till the end.

And now that man was gone.

No longer would he wake up
To that cheery pale face and those crimson eyes.

No longer would he live
Knowing he still had family.

If the war is truly over...
Why was he still hurt?

- - - - -

II. What Never Was

Those stern,
Blue eyes.
Shallow, yet so deep one would get lost in them.

The still, cold frown,
To be turned into a warm smile.

The face he had wished,
So many times,
To see again, if only for a moment.

All sorrow, all grief,
It all evaporated
As he ran into the arms of his lover.

Then he woke up.
The ring on his finger
Now a painful reminder of what never was.

If the war is truly over...
Why was he still hurt?

- - - - -

III. Cherry Blossoms Stained Red

Scattered petals
Of cherry blossoms,
Painting the land fuchsia.

He’s felt this before.
Loneliness. Abandonment.
So why was it different this time?

The commanding shouts of the German.
The boyish charm and playfulness of the Italian.
And the silent whispers of birds in his empty garden.

If the war is truly over...
Why was he still hurt?

- - - - -

My only brother, dead.
My family, gone.

My heart, once full of unexplainable emotion,
Now empty, torn, his memory slowly fading.

The pain of abandonment.
The same, yet worse than before.

If the war is truly over...
Why are we still hurt?
A compilation of all parts in my trilogy 'If The War Is Truly Over', plus an extra part.
The trilogy is three Hetalia fanpoems based in my Hetalia AU 'Isolated'. The three poems are in the perspectives of the three main Axis countries (Germany, Italy/North Italy, Japan).
William Rapp Dec 2019
Suffering is all I knew,
The soldiers marching through the streets
Each battalion larger than before
Kitty is in danger, along with her kind

A knock on the door knock, knock, knock
My loved ones are in danger,
My feelings alienated
Towards the cruel dictatorship

The door opened with a creak,
My mother hid behind the couch,
My father grabbed the blade,
Sunlight gleaming on its surface

The soldiers step in
I’m behind an overturned table
I hear a bang, two more
A women’s scream, a manly yell

My father and mother were gone.
The soldiers had murdered,
Destroyed the last of my joy
Taken away my pride

I ran away, over to the library
Kitty hid behind the shelf
I was not religious but I still wore the star
I was not the same so they searched for my head

I dyed my hair up to standard,
Put in colored contacts
I went outside and ran away
The soldier catching up to me

“I plead for it to stop,
The tormenting conflict.
I plead for peace,
An end to this hate.

I plead for something new.
I plead for life.
I plead for freedom.
I plead for change.”

My family divided due to death,
I stayed with the locals.
Nearly everyone was religious
In this ethnic neighborhood.

An officer came to my door
And asked for the Jews
Asked whether they were living
In the house next door.

I couldn’t do it,
I couldn’t reveal
To the soldier who waited
For the answer to appear

The survivors of the war,
They destroyed the hate,
I followed their lead,
And pushed away the horror

The memories torture me.
The memories destroy me.
The memories hurt me.
The memories sicken me.

But the liberators came
Their flag red with a sickle
Their big metal beasts
Tearing up the streets.

I risked my life because of this hope,
The hope that my family would survive.
I have lost all of it,
Because of this treachery.

I learned about the Bolsheviks,
How they liberated Russia
How they created the Soviets
And destroyed the Germans.

I did the right thing, I think
But I lost all of my friends
I live now with pain and torture
In Warsaw. Suffering.
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