The Battlefield
Hear the sound of retreating trumpets
in the distance where they play.
The battle is over now,
but will commence again another day.
The battlefield is strewn with bodies
where the old and young fell
on a field where two armies clashed
and now among the dead the dying moan and yell.
3 July 2010
poem by David Harris
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Across The Battlefield
Hear the cannons roar
across the battlefield
with its pits of pain
where the dead and dying lay.
In the no man’s land
that separates friend from foe.
Hear the mournful sounds
of weeping flesh
entangled within the baptism of death.
Across the battlefield
where there are fleeting ghosts
of those who fell on another day.
One day the guns may fall silent
and flowers will once again dance
with an evening breeze.
Instead of the blood of innocence
milking the no man’s ground.
Birds may again sing one day
replacing the agony of young men
dying before their time.
In twenty, fifty or a hundred years
they will be remembered
for the sacrifice they gave,
condemning themselves to an early grave.
Maybe when that day comes
no more cannons will again roar
across the battlefield
with its pits of pain.
19 May 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A War To End All Wars, But Wasn’t
They not only fought the enemy,
but fought the elements as well.
They fought for their country
in lands far from home.
They fought rain, mud and the enemy
in trenches stained with blood
from those who had fallen there before.
They fought on and on
while the Generals watched
the slaughter from far away.
For their mistakes men died
by the score across the battlefield.
Their blood would stained the land
then and forever more.
Then came the gas
like a creeping mist across the battlefield
that silenced all in its wake.
It made no distinction to young or old,
just poisoned all it touched.
Their contorted bodies rotted where they fell.
They said this was a war to end all wars, but it wasn’t.
Almost twenty years later
men from different countries gathered to fight another war
and again in the trenches men fell.
The mechanics had changed;
machines became more prevalent across the battlefield,
still men died for small victories in the tide of war.
3 July 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Life
life is unfair
it seems you don't get everything you needed
life is like a battlefield
there's always a war to deal with
in life all i can hear is the sound of people screaming
in life all i can see is tragedies
people dying over there, people dying over here
life is like a novel
it has its beginning and its ending
life is a like a 3D video game
but only play in reality
every moments
every second
every hour
every year
people are dying
life is like a barren field
life is like a broken wing
oh life
why do have to come this way
why do you bring people into this
why there is to many wars
life
poem by Guenael Oristel
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Field of Battle
I walked the field of battle,
eerie silence accompanied me.
The bitter odor of confrontation,
lingered mutely in the air.
I trod where warriors clashed.
Did my imagination soar, or.
Could I hear in the quiet,
sounds of dying souls?
Everywhere I stepped, I touched,
mute tokens of conflict.
Haunting evidence of siege.
I shuddered as the chill of fear caressed me.
On scorched earth a helmet laid.
What account might it cradle?
Who once had been its owner?
Had it been discarded, or orphaned?
An empty boot, a broken blade,
a long gun supported by bayonet.
Dented helmet graced the butt.
Had once young hero rested here?
In this field of battle,
‘midst smoke, fire, screams.
Did valor accompany fear,
and violence cultivate history?
What lie hidden, covered,
in these now so silent meads?
Were fainthearted to become hero,
had victors, and vanquished, dwelled together?
I wondered,
as I walked the field of battle.
10FEB06
poem by Kurt Hearth
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Jerusalem's Cry
Can you hear Jerusalem's cry
Can you see the storm on the rise
Look around you can;t deny
This is the hour of heaven's time
Armies gather in the East
For the war that's soon to come
Death will march with the mark of the beast
So seek the Light and walk with the Son
Soon we'll see His wrath come down
And the Lord descending from the sky
When you hear the trumpets sound
God has answered Jerusalem's cry
When the sun goes black
And the moon blood red
And the stars fall from the sky
The Word of God in the Bible says
We're living in the end times
Soon we'll see His wrath come down
And the Lord descending from the sky
When you hear the trumpets sound
God has answered Jerusalem's cry
Soon the dead in Christ will rise
And join Him in he sky
Even unbelivers will see
God has answered Jerusalem's cry
God has answered Jerusalem's cry
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spoilt For Choice
Daylight reveals now night has fled.
The mangled bodies of the dead.
Now provender for hungry crows
Who feast alike on friends and foes.
Opposing armies fought and died.
Now enemies lie side by side.
The scavengers do not care
What uniform the bodies wear.
To crows all bodies taste the same.
They are the winners in the game.
The foolish game men choose to play.
So when the battle moves away
It does not matter in the least.
They are content to stay and feast.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Songs of Battle
Old as the world--no other things so old;
Nay, older than the world, else, how had sprung
Such lusty strength in them when earth was young?--
Stand valor and its passion hot and bold,
Insatiate of battle. How, else, told
Blind men, born blind, that red was fitting tongue
Mute, eloquent, to show how trumpets rung
When armies charged adn battle-flags unfurled?
Who sings of valor speaks for life, for death,
Beyond all death, and long as life is life,
in rippled waves the eternal air hs breath
Eternal bears to stir all noble strife.
Dead Homer from his lost and vanished grave
Keeps battle glorious still and soldiers brave.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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I Too Mourn The Dead!
i too mourn the dead...
the victims of bullets,
preordained by message.
the blown and splintered bodies,
strewn in nameless disarray.
the guilt pills of generals,
swallowed with patriotic vodka.
but too the carcass of the dog,
blindsided by the truck.
and the small bird beneath the tree,
whose wings froze and failed.
the stray cow that fell,
and couldnt get up.
the tree cut and felled,
to widen the road.
the mountain blown asunder,
to make way for progress.
the thousands of fishes,
choking to death on oil.
the river stopped and stagnant,
filled with raw sewage....
the young boy's body hanging,
at the edge of bullied taunts.
the girl on the corner,
selling her body for a rock
the businessman dying,
with every numb decision.
the body of the old woman,
barely breathing in a bare room.
the child sick and shaking,
dying of hunger...
the baby in the dumpster,
nothing else needs said...
and the apathetic faceless mouths,
devouring the poor....
i too mourn the dead, and the dying...
and see their faces,
in the palm of my hand!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Killers All?
Now bugle boy what do you blow
Your trumpet pressed to your dead lips
I sound recall to let them know
this is the end of their hardships
They came as boys but died like men
From factories farms and mean back streets
They will not see their homes again
The brave young men whom death defeats.
They answered to their country’s call
And donned their Khaki battle dress
And shipped to France where they would fall
by thousands in the wilderness.
Created by the shot and shell
turning the battlefield to mud.
Which drowned young soldiers where they fell
and drenched the earth with their hearts blood.
Now poppies blow in Flanders fields’
The soil enriched by dead men bones
which has increased the harvest yields.
The poppies act as their headstones.
So many died and were not found
their fate unknown, No man could say
Their bodies melded with the ground
but we remember still to day.
The slaughter and the sacrifice
The useless waste of human lives.
They were prepared to pay the price.
Though a small band of them survives.
Each passing year their numbers fall
Old age more sure than shot and shell.
Soon there will be none at all
who endured that living hell.
The war to end all wars they said
You will be home by Christmas tide
Instead of that most would be dead.
Involuntary suicide.
We honour those who bravely died
a generation of young men.
The best of breed on either side.
But still we go to war again.
The world has never been at peace
since the war to end all wars.
I don’t believe that wars will cease
as long as there are warriors.
Who think they can enforce their will
on other men by force of arms.
It seems that killing is a skill
Which can seduce men with its charms.
16-May-08
http: //blog.myspace.com./poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Battlefield Of Love
I am a soldier
A casualty of love
I've been from heaven
All the way to hell
I've had a journey
Much more than I can tell
I've got stories
Much more than I can sell
All this mass confusion
Causes chaos in my brain
I'm on the battlefield
The battlefield of love
With all of the illusions
I won't ever be the same
I'm on the battlefield
The battlefield of love
I'm a prisoner
A prisoner of love
I have been captured
And kept underground
I have been tortured
But I don't make a sound
'Cause I know one day
One day I will be found
All this mass confusion
Causes chaos in my brain
I'm on the battlefield
The battlefield of love
With all of the illusions
I won't ever be the same
I'm on the battlefield
The battlefield of love
song performed by by Lenny Kravitz from Lenny
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Champion
Young and a conqueror, once on a day,
Wild white Winter rode out this way;
With his sword of ice and his banner of snow
Vanquished the Summer and laid her low.
Winter was young then, young and strong;
Now he is old, he has reigned too long.
He shall be routed, he shall be slain;
Summer shall come to her own again!
See the champion of Summer wake
Little armies in field and brake:
'Cruel and cold has King Winter been;
Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!'
First the aconite dots the mould
With little round cannon-balls of gold;
Then, to help in the winter's rout,
Regiments of crocuses march out.
See the swords of the flag-leaves shine;
See the shield of the celandine,
And daffodil lances green and keen,
To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen.
Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings
Banners that mock at defeated kings;
And wherever the green of the new grass peers,
See the array of victorious spears.
Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound
Over the garden's battle-ground,
And lovely ladies crowd out to see
The long procession of victory.
Little daisies with snowy frills,
Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils,
Primrose and cowslip, friends well met
With white wood-sorrel and violet.
Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold;
Thousands of buttercups licked with gold;
Budding hedges and woods and trees -
Spring brings freedom and life to these.
Then the triumphant Spring shall ride
Over the happy countryside;
Deep in the woods the birds shall sing:
'The King is dead--long live the King!'
But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight;
He will ride on through the meadows bright
Till at Summer's feet he shall light him down
And lay at her feet the royal crown.
She will lean down where the roses twine
Between the may-trees' silver shine,
And look in the eyes of the dying knight
Who led his army and won her fight.
She will stoop to his lips and say,
'Oh, live, O love! O my true love, stay!'
While he smiles and sighs her arms between
And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Whinin' Boy Moan
Van Morrison
Exile Publishing Ltd / Universal Music Publishing Ltd
Drop that coin right into the slot
Get it whether you're ready or not
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Well they call him Mr. Jellyroll
It's just the way he rolls his dough
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Well let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Cos he can do it better, better than anyone else
Whine, whine, whine, whine
All the winos down on Market Street
Roll on over to old North Beach
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Well he gonna sing and play for you
Exactly what he's s'pposed to do
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Whine, whine, whine
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Let the whinin boy moan
If you don't know how to do it yourself
Cos he can do it better, better than anyone else
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fogging Up The Windows
the sound of a small child crying
hungry in the night
of a young woman sleepless
waiting for daylight
the sound of church bells ringing
not too far away
the sound of an old man dying
remembering how to pray
the sound of two hearts breaking
a thousand miles apart
of the last tear a fallin'
unseen in the dark
the sound of lifetimes wasted
of a love that didnt last
the sound of memories forgotten
of a time already past
can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'
life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
the sound of the nails driven
into His screaming hands
the sound of salvation
entrusted to a man
the sound of bodies falling
of buildings swept by flame
the sound of different voices
whose souls are the same
can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'
life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room....
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Remember
I hear the sound of distant guns,
as good lives march away,
to foreign lands to fight and die,
to preserve the rights of freedom,
for those in that distant land,
can have the right to live,
and not under a tyrant’s hand.
They go not as heroes for glory,
but to help innocent souls,
so they can sleep securely at night.
However, the battlefield where they are,
hold allsorts of dangers there,
some will never return safely home.
Their souls will look over
the battlefield where they fell,
possibly wondering at
the folly of it all.
Therefore, the next time you look at,
a monument with columns of names,
remember that their sacrifice
was made not for one, but for all.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Last Post.
The last post sounds and echoes round.
The neat and well kept burial ground.
Head stones in rows beneath the sky
to mark where our dead heroes lie.
Standing as if still on parade.
Each headstone looking newly made.
It is one way we show respect.
No more no less than I expect
Head stones don’t only signify
that battle weary soldiers die
They also serve who wait for men
who will not see their home again.
The last post makes us realise
That war destroys their families.
Each time I hear the last post sound
I’m filled with sadness so profound.
Tears spring unbidden from my eyes,
they always take me by surprise.
I’m not ashamed to let them flow
Because I’m old enough to know.
That real men aren’t afraid to cry
Despite the ancient common lie.
That men don’t let emotions show
and should not let their tear drops flow.
When I hear the last post sound
I can recall the battle ground.
Where so many comrades still lie
in foreign fields beneath the sky.
The last post serves to honour all
brave soldiers who sadly fall.
Not only friends but enemies.
Death selects quite randomly.
Young widows weep and mothers cry.
They have the right and so do I.
Tuesday,31 August 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Don't You Hear Jerusalem Moan
Don't You Hear Jerusalem Moan
Don't you hear Jerusalem moan?
Don't never let a chicken get big enough to crow
Don't you hear Jerusalem moan?
Don't you hear Jerusalem moan?
Don't you hear Jerusalem moan?
Thank God there's a heaven and a ringing in my soul and my soul's got free
Don't you hear Jerusalem moan?
Well a hard-shell preacher you can tell him how he do
Well he chews his own tobacco and he drinks his own brew.
Well a Baptist preacher you can tell him by his coat
Has a bottle in his pocket that he can't hardly tote
Well a Cambellite preacher his soul is saved
Well he has to be baptized every other day
Well the Holy Roller preacher he sure is a sight
Well he gets em all a-rolling and he kicks out the light
Well the Presbyterian preacher he lives in town
His neck's so stiff he can't hardly look around.
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Love Trumpets
Are you up tonight?
I think you wait for a miracle
If it came would you accept it?
I don't think so
The meek and gentle need love
World tomorrow is a hard sell
Do you believe in preserved bodies
I seen one in Rome
In a catacomb just laying there
Waiting for the trumpet
Do bad girls hear trumpets
I am from both sides my dear
You can be a woman with me
I love trumpets
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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We Need Fear For Survival
Of valour on the battlefield and in other ways we hear
But only the most foolhardy one would never know of fear
We need fear for survival may they rest in peace the brave
Their reward for their bravery the cold and darkness of the grave.
We need fear for survival the very brave are dead
And little use to them 'twould seem if good things of them are said
We need a bit of fear in us in order to stay alive
Few of the brave to a ripe old age have been known to survive.
I'd rather live to a ripe old age than have died young and brave
We need a bit of fear in us for to keep cheating the grave
Why would you even wish to die though your better days are long gone
Our will to live is always strong and it keeps us keeping on.
The fear of death is a healthy fear the brave seem to die young
Though of no use to the deceased if their praises are sung
In their graves they do never hear the bugler for them play
They lay in peace forever more that's life as some might say.
poem by Francis Duggan
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News to the king, good news for all
'NEWS to the king, good news for all,'
The corn is trodden, the river runs red.
'News of the battle,' the heralds call,
'We have won the field; we have taken the town;
We have beaten the rebels and crushed them down.'
And the dying lie with the dead.
'Who was my bravest?' quoth the king,
The corn is trodden, the river runs red.
'Whom shall I honour for this great thing?'
'Threescore were best, where none were worst;
But Walter Wendulph was aye the first.'
And the dying lie with the dead.
'What of my husband?' quoth the bride,
The corn is trodden, the river runs red.
'Comes he to-morrow; how long will he bide?'
'Put off thy bridegear, busk thee in black;
Walter Wendulph will never come back.'
And the dying lie with the dead.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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For What It's Worth
[Originally by Buffalo Springfield]
There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
There's battle lines being drawn
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
Young people speaking their minds
Getting so much resistance from behind
I think it's time we stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
What a field-day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side
It's time we stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you're always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away
We better stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, now, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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