Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
A Mar 2016
I  am facing yet another war, and I know you are too.
So please know,
This battle is worth fighting for you.
I rather be loved by the outcasted,
Then to be hated by the royalty.
But I will always be a princess suited in metal armor.

I promise to hold your hand and clense you of your wounds,
I promise to always listen,  validate, and accept you no matter what weight, age, color, size, sexuality or diagnosis.
I promise to always fight for your safe haven to become the world you live in.

Even if you do not think you are worth it,

I always will.


Equality for all,
Or equality for none.
III
Dania Elmayer Jul 2018
A dismal dystopia.

A  dissociative place .

Abducted; from normality
suppressed my thoughts , cunning
immorality .

My mind craves for instanity .

Reached.
An eerie  valley
streams beyond the tide .

In a place were birds do not fly .
I crumble in my desolation
pleading mercy.

I resuscitate , revive.

LORD.
If this was pre -determined
why does my -fatality- never arise .
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

slow
Slow think,
make real

re-al-ize
what fighting for life is…
this is the only
try,
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
listen,
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,
CHARGE?

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

Duck'n'cover,no
crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup
poser-power

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Weil's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
meme,
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
Radioman,
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H two Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
agency,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tangle wood and catclaw and mesquite,
willow thicket,

wait.
And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
maybe
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Tophet?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Nullify
Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

Loose
those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
triggers,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.
-----

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen

listen

60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
possessing
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?

Ah,
novelty.

Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  
mound

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

pull-tight,
do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
sign
?
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

-----
Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.
A continuing examination of opposing forces when good is the goal, who could be against that? The old word war is festering, inflaming evil to start a try, therefore,  I whet the edge and swing wide
He woke this morning
Another night of her dreams

He glanced into the mirror
She’s not real it seems

Society unknowingly accepts
The image presented
Unaware of the damage
Being self-inflicted

He hides her for fear of rejection
She battles for her reflection.
______

Michelle Renee Milford
Nov. 2014
I was blessed to have this poem chosen by T.E.N.T. (Transgender Education Network Texas) for the Austin, Texas 2014 Transgender Day of Remembrance ceremony at City Hall. :) :) :)
Aaron LaLux Oct 2018
She’s got scars on her legs,
calls them battle wounds,
I’ve got the music up way to loud,
so loud we can’t hear our thoughts,

city lights provide the background,
as we lose control and make love,
doing anything to feel anything,
because it’s 2018 and it feels like no one gives a fck,

so we fck,
and after it's said and done she says,
“I don’t usually do this.”,
yeah well we often do things we don’t usually do,

no road home and no rules,
no control no lines no tolls,
keep knocking and you can come in,
but no one’s home,

what’s going on up there,
how can you be so terrifyingly beautiful,
why are you armed with such a stare,
I know you’re a weapon but what do you use it for,

armed to the teeth no bark all bite,
I say she’s a unicorn she says she’s a vampire,
and I don’t fall in love but with this one I just might,
because we better express ourselves before we expire,

got burned from her fire,
but it hurt so good,
like those cuts that we inflicted onto each other,
feeling erratic I guess blame it on the mood,

always ready to talk about anything except the truth,
she says she only lied to me once,
and that was about not liking Ethiopian food,
and I pretend to care but honestly don’t know if I give a fck,

what the fck,
I’m drunk,
and I don’t usually drink,
but I often do things I don’t usually do,

and I don’t mean to be rude,
but I’m not sure I love you,
because even if I did,
I’m not sure it’d matter to you so what’s the use,

you want the truth,
the truth is we’re born alone and we die alone,
and in the middle is where I found you,
and for a moment this runaway thought he'd found a home,

and I wanted us to stay forever in that moment,
laying there naked in each other’s arms,
but you were insecure and covered yourself back up,
because you didn’t want me to see your scars,

you’ve got scars on her legs,
calls them battle wounds,
I’ve got the music up way to loud,
so loud we can’t hear our thoughts,

city lights provide the background,
as we lose control and make love,
doing anything to feel anything,
because it’s 2018 and it feels like no one gives a fck...

∆ LaLux ∆

Melbourne, Australia
October 2018
Morgan Mercury May 2014
Lay down your burden.
Lay down your arms.
Hardship is over and all is numb.
You finally get to rest.
You finally get to let go.
Fall down in the snow and let nature take you.
You are not alone, never.
Thousands of bodies are scattered on the battlefield.
They all had lives.
They all had futures.
They all ended too soon.
Go ahead and turn the snow strawberry red.
Your song will be played.
Your name will live on.
We will remember you forever more.
So rest now, my soldier.
Your brothers shall bring the peace.
2014
MJL Feb 15
Do what they do
Fight the ***** fight
Do what they do, to you
Take from them
Lie to them
Wage war without words
Their righteous greed controls the earth
They have morals for each other
Hold you down in the name of God
Fear them
Patriate them
Oppress them
Malcolmize the pain
Invert the rain
Watch it flow back up
Up into the clouds
Breaking all that is around
To let the sun shine through
Let the sun shine through
Move all that stand in your way
Move all that cast a shadow on freedom
Let the sun shine through
Follow Caucasus Mountain Pass
Do what they do
Feel your right to the sun
Feel the warmth of your freedom
Wash away the black party soot
Feel the warmth of your King
As you fall from grace
Leaving love behind to be burned
With the memory of the righteous
You rise up
Free


© 2019 MJL
The fight for freedom is often through compromised morals.
King Panda Mar 2016
my dear Cosette,
why did you fall?
why didn’t you pick
yourself back up?

I saw you
on the battle lines
red shemagh
tied about your neck
I saw the bayonet
pierce your
breast
to match your
red
your man’s
clothes

why do we
disguise ourselves,
Cosette?
why don’t women
make history?
why can’t a woman
take a bullet?

my dear Cosette,
we fall
on words
on chisels
on the battle lines
sometimes we don’t
get back up
sometimes we die
before we are dead

my dear Cosette,
I watched you
bleed
I heard you
scream blue
******
you were my sister
and I was the sculptor
to capture
the peace of death
on your face

my dear Cosette,
I watched you die
now rise
to the battle lines
rise
with your head high
let me resurrect you
with my hands
Deb Jones Jan 2018
We all have battle scars.
We can heal the wounds on our bodies, but we can’t heal the wounds of the soul. The scars they leave are there forever. We have to learn to live with them. We have to choose to live beyond them.
Lyn-Purcell Jun 2018
They may use you
abuse you
slap you
kick you
shoot you
stab you
curse you
mock you
choke you
tear you

and at times,    defeat you
in that time a   n   d time alone
They may do   all    this because
they know you can reach the
heights, the impossible,
that they can only
dream of
but

they won't      ever destroy
you.    You        know       when to be
a tempest and     when       to be tranquil
You know when     to         be a flicker and
when to                     be                        a flame
When to shake the        earth and to sprout
they may put so much energy to see you
on your knees, vulnerable and weak,
but as long as you continue to
rise to your feet, they will
be blinded by the
light of your
glory.
Feeling a lil optimistic now. You know, I can say that there are ALOT
of people I can list now that really want to see me fail, friend and family.
Shame but at least I know who I can and can't trust. I'm on that level of
consciousness now. This is a poem dedicated to them.
To let them see me down is a victory to them.
But it'll always be hollow because I will have that strength
to get back up again.

If anyone is in need of more fire to their flame, I hope this poem is at least a drop of fuel / a piece of wood.

Be back soon!
Lyn ***
Battle scars of lives once known
have come to haunt my waking life
I clench the wheel but waves have thrown
my modest journey into strife
clouds pelt rain from mighty storms
that rage relentless on endless seas
thunder rolls and figures swarm
the mountains dark and void of trees
the wind and rain like needles cold
submerge my desperate plea for light
the day now distant, faint and old
like a child's balloon drifts out of sight
there is no place for memories here
the waking life will pay the cost
seas are littered with those that fear
the echoes of the battles lost
You wish for me to put in words
What I have to say
Like the answers that I've given
On their own
Could never relay
They come and go
Touch on fate
Dissipate and replicate
The disingenuous nature
That you frequently necessitate

Extend your olive branch
Then act like you feed me
When the branches are famished
Needy, condescending and deceiving Conceiving that I'm the villain
When I don't respond to how you react
Like you could perpetuate in me
The supposition for your tact

The fact that you lack any original clarity
Is the reason I'd never reach to you
Like I was Seraphim
The simple reason
That I'm writing all of this
Is simply just to prove to you
That I don't have to convince
I don't have to persist
Rehash, then reminisce
Like treading through faded memories with you
Will satiate my daily fix

I resist
Because I know exactly where I'm headed And you insist because that truth
Is what keeps us separate

Every second
You playcate on a pretense
When your intentions are crystal clear
And I can't provide that service
Or serve that purpose
While I'm standing here

To be perfectly honest
I never promised you anything
All I did was sigh and reply
To how your heart would so readily sing
Then you project your insecurities
Directly to my face
As if I was the one who gave them rise
Within the first place

Protecting your manipulations
While contemplating your motives
Are exactly the reasons we're done
Before we even started
I'm sick of being a punching bag
For someone acting devoted

And now it's been denoted
I've written you off, this story is done
This time you're in the subject line
Because you are truly NOT the one
You wanted me to write you something. There you go.
Chris Saitta Jun 9
Brother, our young summers held us in a long chain like the phalanx of bronzed soldiers forward flung,
And the lion was skinned and hung out to dry like the sunned-fur of the beach at Marathon.
Brother, help me to dream again.

Brother, our yellowed days shook us like serried Hoplites of an atomic age,
Shoulder to shoulder, friction rubbed, all ranks split from the fissioned-flanks.
Brother, help me to dream again.

Storm-footed Titans of heat, dust, and irradiated wind pry from a ruptured Tartarus,
The flanks are an open pulse; the scorch-song thirsts for its sea-cooling to stone.
Brother, the lion lives that wears your skull around its mane.

Brother, dream of me again, of Persian arrows and lances,
And my fallen eyes instead of yours pouring in
With a sea of lavender water and mists
And summers of once-were.
For a slide video of this and other poems, please check out my Instagram page at chrissaitta or my Tumblr page at Chris-Saitta.
Forgotten Lion Oct 2013
We're safe behind our horse and lines - yes we are.
We will hit you with our batons

We know you are desperate,
We will hit you with our batons.

We know you have mouths to feed,
We will hit you with our batons.

We know your cause is lost,
We will hit you with our batons.

We are safe behind our horse and lines.
em Jul 2015
I want to say that I'm getting better,
that  these scars are starting to feel
like the marks of a warrior who has won battles,
but even if the bleeding has stopped, the war is not over.

There are so many days when the sun will come out,
and I can feel its warmth wash over me, and it is
when I am covered by its happy grace,
that the shadow of sadness is cast across the
sidewalks.. those sidewalks where every crack
was a canyon to wide to cross.
My blood stained on every square.

And as I stand on top of that mountain and look down
upon the valley that I had conquered,
i realize,
that my footprints spell your name...

Then there I go again,

crashing
burning

f
a
l
l
i
n
g

falling, right back into
the devils claw.
love.......ehh not for me :P
Traveler Dec 2018
Collaboration
Cen' and Traveler Tim

Traveler:
This is not about ***
There will be no
******* *****
Any flesh
That you read
Shall not be nibbled
On by me
Any mentions
Of flower traps
Petals filled with
Sweet cream sap
Curves or crevasses
Such lustful lines
I refuse to burn
By your design
You **** thing
Such beauty I seek
But I won't
Be made
Into a freak!!

Cné:
A poem of ***
But not in this text
I just used those words to see
~
If you would come
Looking for fun
And read this poem by me
~
You will not find
Words of that kind
No moaning passionate steam
~
Two of the night
Not in this write
All of these verses are clean
~
Lips locking soft
Hearts now aloft
Maybe what you did expect
~
Candlelight flame
Screaming a name
Glistening skin, beads of sweat
~
Sensual sighs
Quivering thighs
****** moments to trace
~
Euphoric throes
Fingers and toes
Sorry you’re in the wrong place
~
None of that here
Let’s make it clear
Nary a stanza reflects
~
Words that you see
Written by me
Not a Poem of ***

Traveler:
I'm sure these words
Cleverly crafted
Would never lead astray
A moaning voice
Breathing heavy
With a wanting to get laid

No words of touching
Self out loud
No fleshly fluid rhymes
I'm sure your words
Would never stir
My lustful hunger mind!!
Traveler Tim
And
Cen'
Jayantee Khare Sep 2017
The toughest battle
lies
between
"GO BACK"
And
"LET GO"

"
Just a fiction
Chris Neilson Nov 2017
She lived with her husband in a Manchester suburb
toiling to keep their kid's bellies filled
oblivious to the horrors yet to be lived
"The war to end all wars" and millions killed

From a thread-bare working class
with poorly paid work and a struggle to get by
her future was stolen in August 1914
she didn't have the 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
as posters warned the Germans would be here

Tommy returned from the front to nurse his wounds
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, bereft and forlorn

Supporting her husband throughout his trauma
much work to do and mouths to feed
2 years now into this epic madness
more brave cannon fodder 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 as 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
another pointless, tragic waste of a 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 read some news
they were showing a film at her local cinema
the carnage at the Somme could now be viewed
some 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.
Carter Ginter Jan 2014
It's mind versus defenses
Nowhere near consensus
Except that something is wrong in the offenses.
My memory is burning away
Strained and begging to stay
Rarely able to remember what happened yesterday.
I can't do this forever
It's a detriment to me and her
And it's destroying me for sure.
There's no way to apologize
For this situation's size
Because I'm under that much disguise.
There's no turning back this time
The decisions have been all mine
And it's the time for me to shine.
Only in the light of a liar
And I've already began to tire
But I swear no one will see my desire.
No, no one could even try;
As they believe the lie
They'll never see how much I really want to die.
A huge analogy of a soldier deciding whether to enter the battle (of which is his own fault). Im at war with myself and I am now facing my decision, which is its own battle, without fear of the result, despite my current mental exhaustion.
Amulya May 21
There was fire, there was ice,
There was truth and there were lies,
I wasn't a fool,you weren't wise,
I had to walk,you had to run,
But it was a battle we never won.
Chris Saitta Jul 30
You who have never known the loveliness of love,
Gather your heads on the torn pillow’s edge of mud,
Under the wood-tar shadows of camphor-aided sleep,  
Where your low-flung groans are starvations of sound,
And the amputated clouds, insinuated with gangrene
And blood-stained woods, are still bound to the shooting
Stars that fell beside you and flung up hissing rays of grass.

Parents of the midnight sky, the stolen stars of your children
Open their broken mouths to the battlefield heart of trespass.
To their soldiers’ eyes, the floor of heaven is uncut grass,
Wet with rain and mold and the unlifted wings of Pegasus,
Whose unearthly hoof to unearthly earth scuffs the clod
Of the lunette for the cannons to divulge the great, stuttering
Coda of everything old, malformed of breath and bone.  

Some grass somewhere will now seem the hair of a sweetheart,
And those dead eyes will aways stare, too fond of love unknown.
So the dead soldier and grass and sky conspire to hold a woman,
So the soldier makes the truce between earth and sky,
Between man and the divine, though the chestnut trees    
In red human tongues, pay their deep-forested encomium to distance,
In misspilled gorgeousness like Apollo surveying his own tomb.
This is a Civil War poem that doesn’t pretend to examine causes or the sides, just the aspect of war and its toll.

“Lunette” is simply a crescent-shaped, earthen fortification that was used for cannon in the Civil War, with several well-preserved examples on the Chancellorsville battlefield.
Next page