#armistice
It seems I have been fighting
One way or another
My entire life,
For justice,
Recognition,
For a chance,
Success,
To right a wrong,
To be heard,
Sometimes I have simply
Been an agent of chaos,
At war with myself or
Maybe just from habit?
I really do not know,
But this thing I do now know,
I am done with fighting,
Done with begging
And proving and supplication,
Done with over egging
The situation,
Done with self recrimination
And recrimination of other people,
Done with fighting,
Done with guilt,
Finished with manoeuvring
And tactics and strategy,
Or whatever that label is,
Ÿou either love me
Or you don't,
You will want me,
Or you wont,
I no longer need to win,
I no longer need be right,
Heck I can cope
With being wrong -
Who knew?
I just need to know,
And from that moment onward,
In very truth from this one,
One way or another
You and I
Will have peace,
Because
The wars,
Are OVER,
We have reached
Our armistice
Dec 26, 2023
Dec 26, 2023 at 3:39 AM UTC
With leaves fireworking
their last defiant blaze
against grey skies and the mud,
once again I forget to remember
the muted tannoy announces silence
for customers and staff
and the surreal descends
among the tins of peas and carrots
where the absence of the normal clatter
suddenly roars, catches in my throat,
the plaintive, Sally Army bugler
scoring the sadness in these aisles,
these isles
with two minutes passed,
the cacophony of the tide
of plant based diets
and too early Stollen returns
to wash over, to forget
Nov 14, 2021
Nov 14, 2021 at 6:51 AM UTC
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
Mar 19, 2020
Mar 19, 2020 at 3:42 AM UTC
shoot me with the words of yours
oh, you can't ?
was it a fair ceasefire because it is hurtful
or it was out of pity ?
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 9:43 AM UTC
I've seen your trenches,and I've seen your graves,
I've heard of your weapons and heard of your slaves,
I've imagined the fumes and imagined the rain,
I've imagined the sights but can't imagine the pain.
Not from bayonets,nor shrapnel blasting out,
But from the vision of the gunshot taking the Fritz down.
From the riddling guilt as your hand pulled the trigger,
Which wiped out the unknown,young German figure.
From the nightmares of his family collapsing at the news,
That their beloved son had succumbed to his wounds.
You look over these beaten fields awash with confusion,
Wondering how on Earth humans partake in such delusion.
How they thought,somehow,it'd be the most fitting plan:
"To sort out all of the world's problems-set man after man!".
You walked out on that field regardless, till your last dying breath.
And you made sure,under all circumstances, to fight until death.
For this I'm forever grateful and still can't suffice,
Why we give you two minutes a year, when you gave us your life.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
Generals and Admirals,
making the decisions
On squaddies lives and welfare
Creating the divisions
These combat explanations
The dictionary assigns
The following descriptions
Only the words benign.
A fight between armed forces,
Or, Take action to reduce;
The need for family losses?
Or more souls abuse?
Down among the soldiers
Is there anything more obtuse?
Stood by an adolescent shoulder,
Death in hands to use.
Brigadiers and Field Marshalls creed,
Battles must be won!
With no time for a private’s need
Or their families at home.
One day, with waiting over
Lovers may return,
Some that is, the others
Died in Hades, so listen, learn!
They died, and in their passing
Our freedom they allowed
Take heed, do not stop asking
Be heard and scream out loud,
To those we must make listen
To historical loud spoor
where fields of blood still glisten,
Please! Let peace endure….
Aduain
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 5:06 AM UTC
Today I put a little flag
Down, beside a stone
Where grass and weeds were rampant
And the plot was overgrown
I knew not where he came from
I did not know his name
But, today I left a flag for him
As I'm sure he'd do the same
Today I put a little flag
Beside a soldiers lonely plot
Just to show we thank you
And that nobody forgot
A little flag beside a stone
For one who gave his all
A little flag beside a stone
For answering the call
Today I put a little flag
It waves there in the cold
For a soldier lies beneath the earth
Never ever growing old
A simple little gesture
For a soldier long since dead
I cleaned away the grass and growth
So his story could be read
Today I put a little flag
And I hope you'll do the same
Just to show that you were there
Though you do not know their name
Maybe leave a poppy there
It may blow to someone's door
With a thousand other poppies
From those who came before
Today I put a little flag
Beside a stone, so hard and white
For a soldier who gave all he had
Doing what he thought was right
Today I put a little flag
Beside a stone and then I cried
Remembering how young he was
We won't forget just why he died
Today...I put a little flag
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 7:42 PM UTC
Is this blood mine or yours?
I want to go home.
I don't know you, and I don't want us to die.
We both lay here, barely alive.
You look scared, a deer glowing faintly in the headlights of a rusty green vehicle.
I can see the tempest of my own fear reflected in your chocolate eyes.
Must we be enemies, only because our homelands are?
I see you finger something under your shirt.
It's probably a snapshot- mine is.
You keep it there to remind you of your promise:
Your oath to lay eyes on them again.
I know that we fight for our countries.
For what we believe to be right.
But...
Do you suppose...that only for tonight
--presumably the last night of our lives--
We could ignore the politics, and just fall asleep together?
In the morning, if either of us wakes up,
We can once again plummet into the ocean of duty and justice and pain.
We can drown in it then.
For now, could we take a swift breath at the top of the waves?
That would be nice.
Neither of us has said a word, but no matter.
Language barrier has not kept you from agreeing with me.
A simple series of countenances has signed our temporary truce in our place.
A mutual gaze of farewell,
As I drift...
Into...
Sleep...
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 11:54 PM UTC
This heart of mine is
a wanderer nomad and
now it is on the
loose. It became wroth
and restless for the mind is
bowed down; the shameful
armistice is now
signed. Because it is still
aware that if it
gave upon on you,
if it ceased to love, it would
cease to beat eternally.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 3:51 PM UTC
Morning pallor on a grey day
not a five cent shine
to the sun.
Bitumen hissed all night
trees tossed and tangoed
shuddered and split.
Navy clouds, blue with rain
surfed in from the ocean
racing on the wild wind
learning to scream.
The stones listened
moon listed and tried to find
a space in the cloud-tide rush
to quiet-light the gloom.
Morning Armistice on a pale grey day
of debris and displacement
refugees and leaf litter
surrender and detachment
silent and still
only a five cent shine to the sun
© M.L.Emmett
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC