"gehen" poems - Hello Poetry

Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn Amongst endless blanch green fields which Arc with a gust and apart where he treads, Dragging his silk cape afar from flame Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole He is as content with death as he is to survive Just not burn the world and condemn his soul A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot Monsters had come for him once before this day They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?” The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”

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Sep 13, 2014

Sep 13, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC

aaron-wallis

Seeds

Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn Amongst endless blanch green fields which Arc with a gust and apart where he treads, Dragging his silk cape afar from flame Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole He is as content with death as he is to survive Just not burn the world and condemn his soul A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot Monsters had come for him once before this day They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?” The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”