#worldwar1
The dawn cracks as the majestic artillery ceases its roar.
I sit in a trench that once sustained life.
A boy in men’s clothes, watching and waiting.
The whistle sounds that puts my heart in my throat, as fear rolls across my body.
I climb the 20 foot ladder in seconds, over the top rifle at the ready.
I’ll do my part for king and country.
As I look across the writhing and moaning muddy hell.
The barking of machine guns reach my ears.
With the sound of steel bees whizzing past my head I run past the barbed wire nest that protects our trench.
As I sprint with a scream in my voice, a fear in my heart and heroics running through my brain.
I see the enemy close yet a 1000 miles away.
Suddenly the world goes quiet, slows, my legs fail and I fall to the embrace of the mud.
Another lost son to the heavenly hell of Passchendaele
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
the painting was literal
figure hunched walking a dirt road in rain
its hues and tone spoke
mute but vividly
each brush stroke matched the images birthplace
in the authors crippled heart
each leaf a burnished gold of autumn
each a dying fragment of the withered tree
even the mans footprints in muddy soil
one can almost feel the squalid mud underfoot
his uniform and helmet named him a frenchmen
from the great war
his boots rendered with bloodstain
figure hunched walking dirt road in rain
a great dying had come to france that day
swords drawn they charged into deaths embrace
this man and his comrades in this awful place
the painting hangs in some museum
an awkward moment for the viewer
is he going into the storm of battle
or going home after
the tale is left untold
it is just the tale of a man on a road in the rain
a frenchmen in the world war
a lone figure in rain
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
Casualties of war
Godlike? No. Human? Maybe.
Yet living above the bones of dead babies,
Who fell to their deaths from the top of the world;
The forgotten, the miscarried, the unfortunate boys and girls.
Now the babies lie with bullets;
Sanctity no longer exists.
Once upon a time, we were all for it,
Now we just wish this war would cease.
Fire! Called the Sergeant as the Germans advanced.
Onward called the General, as the men became entrenched,
In the trenches and fell to their knees;
Some prayed to the lord above, others fell down silently.
Many days and many nights had come to pass
And still Old Blighty was under attack.
Churchill’s calls, spurred on a nation;
Whilst mothers and babies were simply seeking salvation.
The babies cried, as the explosions filled the skies;
The poor boys tardiness meant he had to find somewhere to hide,
And pray he wasn’t killed by the bombs or the bullets.
Just hoping not to die in a watery grave.
For all that’s left in the bottom of your rivers,
Is babies bones and war souvenirs
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 8:25 AM UTC
In the trenches they
run busily back and forth:
the thousands of mice.
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 3:43 AM UTC
It started not with blood and flame,
But whispers passed in power’s name.
A line was drawn upon the land,
Then came the gun, the sword, the hand.
A fuse was lit beneath the skies,
By suits in rooms with shadowed eyes.
The youth were called with dreams still warm,
To fight the tide, to face the storm.
They kissed their homes, their sweethearts' hair,
And marched to lands they’d never care
To know in peace — only in strife,
Where death would barter soul for life.
Steel rain fell where poppies grew,
And turned the fields to crimson hue.
The mud consumed both horse and man,
And time stood still beneath the span
Of shattered trees and smoking wire —
A world remade by man-made fire.
The cities groaned, the skies turned black,
And none could dream of turning back.
Factories roared with sleepless breath,
Mothers stitched the cloth of death.
Children learned to hide and run
Before they ever saw the sun.
The sea was red, the air was flame,
And all the maps were not the same.
Old empires crumbled into dust,
Their banners soaked with rot and rust.
But even victors bore a cost —
No side could count the lives they lost.
And yet, amid the cannon's cry,
Where angels feared to watch or fly,
A soldier shared his crust of bread
With one who moments prior had bled
To take his life — the bitter proof
That hate breaks down beneath the roof
Of shared despair, of human pain —
And peace can bloom in war’s own rain.
The medics bent with trembling grace
To heal the wounds war can’t erase.
The chaplain prayed, the wounded swore,
The poets wrote from under floor
Of trenches deep and tunnels black,
And dreamed of one day coming back.
But not all do. The nameless graves
Lie silent near the ocean’s waves.
The dogs still bark where soldiers fell,
And trees remember shot and shell.
Their roots grow through the iron waste,
Through helmets left in hasty haste.
Now decades on, the drums are still,
But shadows walk the highest hill.
And when the wind moves just so light,
We hear the ghosts who chose to fight —
Not for the glory, nor the gain,
But just to end a deeper pain.
The war does not die with the guns,
It lingers on in daughters, sons.
In empty chairs, in shattered glass,
In stories grandmothers may pass.
In dreams of those who wear the scars,
And wake to march through mental wars.
Remember this, you heirs of peace:
The cost of pride does not decrease.
And if you must take up the blade,
Then do so knowing what is paid.
The war may sleep, but not forget —
And we are in its shadow yet.
Aug 9, 2025
Aug 9, 2025 at 8:42 AM UTC