No one could say why they were there the brigades the battalions and some in neat formed lines in neat clean uniforms they had come they marched on the parade grounds and through the big cities they trained in the fields out front of towns they ran through the wires to get to their goals they fell to the mud all mown down and their neat uniforms were ragged and torn their clean faces running with blood the muck of the battlefield filled their boots and their minds their assault waves were a simple flood the pretending of training faded from view as their numbers fell to the few the bulllets and shrapnel stopped forward forays as they scrambled to avoid injury or death every day as they cried and they died under the sun until there were none
The lips are thin their colour grey the hair is dull and lank the skin is pallid tugor at bay the smell is fetid, rank the wound is swollen putrid, reddened exposed are tissue and bone what man lies here dead and neglected? what inspired him to roam?
the war that left him lying here alone on hardened ground did abandon him as all wars will to his silence amongst the furious sound
what home did he leave? what cause was his? that left him so cold and pale so far from where he began so distant from a family’s wail with no one to grieve his lost soul with none to respectfully lay him deep
we will take him to yet another hole we will bury him amongst the others in yet another heap
Poetry days #15.
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not use AI. I do not want AI to use my work.
Bear me brother Bear me well Bear me from this churning, bloody hell
carry me brother across your broad back to escape the carnage of bullet, chemical and flack
your boots are heavy, clotted with mud your uniform rain sodden, stained with blood your rifle I can no longer see across your shoulders you trudge with me
my head flops flaccidly I wake and sleep or is it unconsciousness that takes me deep away from pain and brutal surrounds the crashing violence of artillery rounds the moans of others gashed, crushed and burned the landscape blackened the ground turned
my noble saviour my hero of a man my rescuer of honour one who does what he can
as you bear me to safety out of harms way will you release me to live again or fight another day?
We are sitting in the basement fifteen of us and a few cats and dogs the battery powered light flickering endlessly giving this dark windowless space an unsettling strobe effect we are powerless to correct
anything
there’s constant noise down here the wet wood in the furnace gathered in life risking scrambled forays sizzles spits and pops like everything above ground
the thermal fan under it turns on ever grinding stripped cogs whir, grrr, whir, grrr
such a refuge such refugees
the six month old baby grizzles persistently as her mother rocks in place mother elicits an endless suppressed yet ever audible keening cry over the child eeee, oh, eeee, ooh, ooooh
our elderly neighbour in the corner incessantly mutters unintelligibly and fossicks in his rucksack for something he never seems to find rustle, bustle, rustle
the small boys of the street wrestle spar for an activity to do until someone inevitably gets hurt accusations fly accompanied by pleading cries and whimpers for concern but there is little room for that sook sook sook
oh the irony of such violence here and now in play and then the recriminations begin all over again or it's back to the board games already fought over and played dozens of times
or back to exhausted, restless sleep
the horror that has thrown us together it has lasted five days now with no end in sight I mean how would we know we have no radio if there was if there is any end in sight?
add the horror of literally dashing and splashing to relieve yourself topside before something or someone gets you in one way or another
the horror of what you see while you are out there exposed and defenceless amongst the snipers the stray ordinance the wreckage the carnage, the bodies and body parts the smoke and the smell you can't get rid of any of it the imagery burnt into your retinas the stench of burnt everything embedded in your nostrils the burns on your skin your very own smouldering soul
two young girls push toy cars and trucks around the room filling them with anything they can that will support a story of some sort to overcome their fear you never know how it will manifest next as they fret, fidget, fuss, fume or fuse
we all stare at the floor most of the time except for the brief apprehensive looks heavenward, to the ceiling with every new global shudder of our tiny enclosed world we know where we are yet we are lost we are buried I wonder will we be buried here? in our own reality show live tombing what will that be like?
CRUMP!
is it that noise that bothers most? or is it the ripping and tearing of metal and wood like live cardboard screaming until it also is finally dead and still all movement defeated all creaks silenced all purpose gone with the wind
the exploding windows the thumps and whumps of trees and structures unknown falling to the earth the wild crackling and detonation arcing earthing power lines writhing like electrocuted psychotic snakes the searing howling jet stream that is simply the roar of wind generated by wildfire and wild fire the small arms fire rippling like saucepan popping corn the convulsive impacts of guided bombs drones missiles random artillery or the moments of deathly silence when it all stops when the next set of questions begin do we venture out with hope? or do we continue to wait to still sit still in this basement of dread
our will to endure fading fading deeper into despair
our fading resilience a fading of body and mind
we can see in our minds eye the fading of our ink from every record of us there ever was as we fade from presence and the present and from remaining data banks we fade from existence as surely as every other ordinary person is knowingly or carelessly erased by war
The people are raining in bits and blobs the rain is red bled tears and sobs the people are flying up through the sky arcing like rag dolls to heights very high the thunder is frightening the lightning is death the people are dying taking last breaths fleshy lumps are dropping back to their berth with fractured bones falling to rattle the earth the children are worst as their bodies burst with each new detonation another curse as the soldiers wade through the carnage they create claiming it’s orders no difference can they make instructions come from those sitting above but the executioners fit in with them hand in glove while mothers cry and fathers weep some bodies may heal but other scars run deep and the harm ensures an eye for an eye more and more people will rain from the sky
Melissa’s dVerse prompt for we poets today references the surrealism of Rene Magritte. I chose the painting Golconda (1953) of raining men to address the terrible wars around the globe and our repeated failure to learn the lessons of history.
Somewhere in France. I can’t remember where, but it had a profound effect.
It’s an old adage I know, but if everyone declined to go, if every decision- maker said no, if every arms maker built only ploughs, there would be no seeds of war to sow. Forget the patriotism of nationalists. Strike to stop the weapon fashionists. Vote out war mongering communists and capitalists. None of it is worth the risk.
To the battlefield fallen, most unknown, dead eyes to the sky, ground to the bone, lost to family, lost to home, forgotten souls of false hopes grown, ploughed into fields of woe and sighs, lost to memory, without good byes.
Soon out of sight, out of mind. Innocent victims of war’s relentless grind. Pay some mind, pay some mind.
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