Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
Bison Feb 2016
There's an impossibility standing adjacent to the nearest star bound body
It waves and beckons with a sincere familiarity so unnaturally
I am the end of the undulating tunneled vision
I am become a silhouette of a dead city caught in the decaying story bones fiction

We are all emptiness and our emptiness is how we define ourselves.
But our emptiness will become a river into which we will find the world to be held.
The universe exists in the eyes of those who live without the sight to see
Those breathing, freezing stars that burn into the heart buried deep.

Constructs of will and portions of strength cut out the guilt of my youth
All roads lead to the sky but I will not seek to understand you
Futures are made in blinks and beats
Are they aware of the way we lay with our tangled feet under these threadbare sheets?

Follow the light of my darkness
A single shot of whiskey and a conversation whisks away my heart's hardness
All cool and breezy across the great green oceans
I'll meet you halfway between loss and a facsimile of dreamed emotions
James Khan Feb 2
Just whistle, lad and try to hold a tune,

It never rains in France for very long,

By grace of ***, we'll all be back home soon,

The lambent light these Frenchman call la lune

Is dampened dark by Mars' infernal song,

Just whistle, lad and try to hold a tune,

Our gaunt and haunted faces streaked maroon

are advocates for all that has gone wrong,

By Grace of *** we'll all be back home soon,

Unhallowed now, our ditch describes a tomb

and backs of heads afloat are pulled along,

Just whistle, lad and try to hold a tune,

There's sausage, boy and mash so grab a spoon

And hear the Springfield ring the dinner-gong,

By grace of *** we'll all be back home soon,

Our place is not to challenge nor impugn

The principles that make our nation strong,

Just whistle, lad and try to hold a tune,

By Grace of *** we'll all be back home soon.
Linking in with my other poem, Tranquility this Villanelle also encompasses the conflicts across the Albett-Baupamme Road where two significant landmark positions were known as Sausage Valley and, of course the adjacent one, Mash Valley by the Allied forces.

I've taken liberty with a few words such as 'there's' and 'we've' to keep a consistent meter throughout. Please forgive this poetic faux pas and pretend it's proper iambic pentameter.

The villanelle consists of five stanzas of three lines (tercets) followed by a single stanza of four lines (a quatrain) for a total of nineteen lines.[21] It is structured by two repeating rhymes and two refrains: the first line of the first stanza serves as the last line of the second and fourth stanzas, and the third line of the first stanza serves as the last line of the third and fifth stanzas.[21] The rhyme-and-refrain pattern of the villanelle can be schematized as A1bA2 abA1 abA2 abA1 abA2 abA1A2 where letters ("a" and "b") indicate the two rhyme sounds, upper case indicates a refrain ("A"), and superscript numerals (1 and 2) indicate Refrain 1 and Refrain 2.[6]
James Khan Feb 2
No roll-call rouses sleep-encrusted souls
For slumber is a grace received in death
And time, an abstract omnipresent thread
Is measured by the gaps between the shells,
The echoes of our brothers’ latent breath
still linger in the void that was their post,

For fallen friends, we mime a mute ‘Last Post’
But have no room to contemplate their souls,
The earth above lain scorched by dragons-breath
Reverberates with flourishes of death;
The merciless bombardment from the shells
That pull apart our fortitude like thread,

Across the barren leas the wires thread,
In coiled barbs and post by slanted post
They circumvent the gutted farmhouse shells,
Abode to none but memories of souls.
The air alive with aromatic death
Infects the tainted taste of every breath,

And oh!-what I would give to feel her breath,
My sweetheart swooning in her finest thread;
Alone, awaiting rumour of my death
Announced by men with hand-delivered post.
Those men, she knows are kind and goodly souls
Yet duty-bound to fracture family shells,

Our hearts, I fear are mussels torn from shells;
I hear it in my comrades’ hitching breath,
This filthy trench, a rut of sombre souls
All clinging on to life just by a thread
But never would we deign to leave our post
To face a disavowed deserters death,

For come it must, that cavalcade of Death,
Approaching now on wings of Mörser shells
And oh!-my love, you may receive your post!
Your name exhaled upon my final breath
As scissors made of honour cut my thread
Attests, one day we shall unite our souls.

This post, this pit, has claimed so many souls;
Those shells of courage clothed in khaki thread
whom Death, benevolent has stilled of breath.
WWI poetry written in Sestina form, iambic pentameter. The Sestina form is as follows:

A complex French verse form, usually unrhymed, consisting of six stanzas of six lines each and a three-line envoy. The end words of the first stanza are repeated in a different order as end words in each of the subsequent five stanzas; the closing envoy contains all six words, two per line, placed in the middle and at the end of the three lines. The patterns of word repetition are as follows, with each number representing the final word of a line, and each row of numbers representing a stanza:

          1 2 3 4 5 6
          6 1 5 2 4 3
          3 6 4 1 2 5
          5 3 2 6 1 4
          4 5 1 3 6 2
          2 4 6 5 3 1
          (6 2) (1 4) (5 3)
Next page