# War; the March challenge.



## Olly Buckle

Our winner in the poetry challenge this month was Baron, as you may have guessed from the poll results, I have received this message from the winner.

“with the agreement of my lady, who was placed second, I'm giving the "laureate" title and the month FoWF membership to Apple.

I'm suggesting "war" as a theme for the next challenge”

Congratulations to Baron, and thanks for our new theme, I am looking forward to a variety from Tennyson to Owen.

Your entries on the theme of *War* please

Please post only your entries in this thread, comments, congratulations etc. should be posted in the Bard’s bistro or the poll thread. This challenge will be open for two weeks, or until I get up on Sat. the 12th March as it is a bit late now and we are poets and not very precise, (except with words)


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## Jinxi

*Doc*

Shivering
Starving
Quiet
Except for the occasional grenade that goes off in the distance

Trenches
Snow
Forest
Seeing nothing in front of me due to the heavy mist

Memories
Images
Tears
For the French girl that I met in the hospital in Bastogne

Looking around at the few men who have managed to live through this
Knowing that this may be the last time I see them
Be it from the Germans who we know are waiting just through those trees
Or from the intense cold that is eating through our bones

The supplies were supposed to arrive today
But we received word that they are not coming at all
We do not have enough food, warm clothing or ammunition
To make it through another day

There is an uneasy feeling within the men
We can hear the German’s chatter from beyond the trees
It is so difficult to stay aware
A cold pain is consuming me

These men have come so far
Fought many battles and survived
Now they may die, not from a bullet
From hunger or hyperthermia

I walked around the trenches today
Trying to help those who seemed to be battling
I gave my ration of soup to a young man who must have been little of 18 years old
My shoes were in better condition, so I gave those to him too

Some of the men are pacing
Trying to keep a blood flow to their feet
The sky is a deep grey
Nature is completely still

I hear a faint whistle-like sound in the air
Followed by a massive crash
I see a comrade of mine battling flames that are lapping at his uniform
Another man lying on the ground, both legs severed from the blast

The Germans have no pity
Bomb after bomb
Shattering our safety
Dismembering us

I am the Medic
I hear men screaming my name over the constant bombings
I want to run, hide
Where I no longer have the responsibility of saving men with no hope

I have nothing
No morphine, no bandages, no scissors
I am wrapping wounds with old food sacks
And giving alcohol to ease the pain

I have no way of cleaning the wounds
If they do not die now
They will later from infections
I am the Medic, and I can do nothing to save them

We have been fighting for years
Struggled through so many battles
We have finally reached a point where victory is within reach
But our own army cannot send us the supplies we desperately need

I am the Medic
I have saved so many men
I have nothing anymore
I want to go home


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## hoby

*War*​War is the bitterest experience we can face​It destroys without distinguishing between creed and race.​War is a bomb which explodes suddenly.​We can not predict its time accurately​War is a fire which glows strongly​It kills people and burns them quickly.​War is a big and massive disaster.​It leaves us destroyable nuclear cluster.​War is a force pushing us to unknown future.​It is like a very strong butcher​War is killing, destroying and damaging​It is burning, firing and bitter experiencing​We hope peace would be found last.​We wish it in the future, present and past.​


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## Nick

*Trenches and Sandcastles*


It’s time for the big push, father.
There’s a fear in your eyes,
for what might lie over the top.
We have to run there now,
clad in jeans and shifting styles;
piercings shining on me, then fading,
worry burying itself in your face.
Memories of the road crossing,
cars roaring at my kitten’s face.
Hand in trusting hand,
you helped me pass the danger.
These guns are plastic toys,
from days at the park.
These trenches are deep for
sandcastles in Spain.
These enemies are
memories before they come.
We can’t look back, soldier,
when we hit that new soil,
but I can promise you
that my hand will be there,
guiding you in mirror irony.
We’ll cross at the lights together.


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## Squalid Glass

*Cross Lines*
_(after Arlington)_

I saw a stilted, little girl
standing against a post.
She had ashy teeth 
beneath bent lips.
Her eyes were like old doors – 
faded and worn.

Her dress was squalid,
her lock was picked. 

I wanted to call to her
or tell her to run, 
but my face was sandpaper 
and she’d be scared.

Sometime later,
white marble is lowered 
draped in red, blue and white silk.
A soldier salutes – guns fire,
synchronized in sound and flight.


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## Baron

*Resonating Sounds​*


Resonating sounds,
like distant peals of thunder, roar;
group memory shapes the world view -
molds the vision of a generation,
helpless to imagine there can be
a final end to war.

Nobody who’s living for the Day…
None really learn the lessons
while the bloodshed colours all 
those yesterdays.

Hanging heads and wringing hands
will cling to any thread of hope,
while everything  around descends 
into decay.

Where none have given
peace a chance;
believing jaded promises
from politicians of despair;
who lead a foolish flock
to join a final cosmic dance.

People in the streets gyrate and prance 
in passive rhythm to the beat;
the fiery reign pours down
to brand the saturated ground,
accompanied by a backbeat 
driven...

by those resonating sounds.


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## Martin

*What for?*

Red tears run from your body,
soldier.
Remember what brought you here
the visions, the future.
Get up!
The whistling air, too heavy for many
still veils a path.
Think,
while God hammers his piano
melody planned, stave after stave.
Move,
away, act -
throw that grenade before it explodes,
that spear before it sheds more tears,
sling the holy rock,
that point of view -
fight
for what it's worth, until
…


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## ClosetWriter

*Circle of Death*

An infant, besieged by a dire life,
Is cast into unlawful strife.
No course, no plan,
Led, only, by his mother’s hand.
Now, a youth, confused, he is taught to hate,
By men who warn of his mother’s fate.
Into a crowd he suddenly appears,
The screams are real, many shed tears.
Lives cut short, potential is gone,
It only cost a single pawn.
An infant, besieged by a dire life,
Is cast into unlawful strife.


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## Gumby

*The Viral Revolution*

Shades of anarchistic arson strike 
the matches of despair-
to the human tinderbox: the haves, 
the have nots.

Co-opted movement,
paint a face upon the masses,
and throw your voice to speak
for those left speechless-

being led by the _No's_ of those 
who dropped the Radical Pose,
for the radical end of life,
as we know it.


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## TheFuhrer02

*The Fifth Trumpet*

There I stood amidst the howls and cries
of women and children in despair
as the stars came falling from the skies
left not a single life to be spared

Then I heard above a trumpet sound
that roared across the blackened heavens
and this made strong quakes beneath the ground
that made me ran for a safe haven

The ground trembled and lo, it opened
from it came out a horde of locusts
and ominously did they ascend
that seemed to destroy, they were focused

And so these locusts of steel flew out
with their spinning tails loudly roaring
they flew towards the foe’s strong redoubt
and attacked it with flames from their wings

The foe responded with their own force
as they produced metallic scorpions
with speeds that could match that of a horse
and stings that shot unknown munitions

And then the two massive forces clashed
with their weapons firing at full blast
catapults, cavalry – lo, they dashed
onwards their foes with weapons at mast

I saw the battle slowly unfold
and the land that was first plain, barren
was now ridden with chaos untold
that sent the land burning and ashen


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## MJ Preston

The Sergeants Prayer

Hello God
Are you there?
Did you weep like me?
We sent you many today.

Are you listening God?
Did you see them fall?
Did they march your way.
We gave you much this day.

Oh God forgive my slight
I know they're all your children
But they are my brothers
and we lost so many today

Are you still listening God?
I need your help for I'm afraid
I lead these soldiers and...

Hello God..


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## Lady S

*Answers*​ 
Artist, poet, 
minstrel balladeer,
feed my eyes with romance; 
tickle my ears
with words of glory 
and tales of hungry years.

I search for answers.

Children starved 
while haggard women bled;
a crimson stain laid waste 
to leave so many dead;
in grief I still remember 
all those histories I read…

which held no answer.

With cries of “freedom” 
many are maimed;
brainwashed,  
they believe in the patriot game,
they speak of injustice 
then dish out the same…

they have no answer.

A woman alone 
giving comfort to mourners,
speaks of a peace 
which waits just round the corner;
whispers a prayer 
for those dark souls who scorn her;

she sees an answer.


I gaze at my face 
in the mirror on my wall;
part of the problem
if I heed the battle call;
this generation can end it all…

a double edged answer.


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## Boddaert

*THROW ANOTHER BONE ON THE PILE *

i
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
Disturbed by that exiling leer,
The sheep wait quietly, talking low,
Triangulated by their fear. 

Retribution cased in lead,
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
Creating sickly, fetid smells,
That’s whirl and cling thro' night and day. 

As from a building, half destroyed,
A doctor drops, on growing pile,
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
A small child's leg, a father's smile. 

Dislodged, a hand slides slowly down,
Caressing gently on the way,
The now dead heir, a once loved son,
In countries where the mad-dogs play. 

ii
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
As bombs rain down, black mindless flies,
The unwashed corpses rot away,
Beneath the calm but leaden skies. 

Great tides of people swirl in fear,
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
The Ethnic Cleansings reached a point,
Where no one's left to clean away. 

And I: what aid; what deed; what thought?
While children burn and parents die?
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
What answers give to their last cry? 

I cannot touch these displaced souls,
Their suffering is too far away,
Far better try to touch the sun,
In countries where the mad-dogs play.


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## Olly Buckle

Limerick;

The warp falls out with the weft
And that leaves someone bereft
When all’s said and done
There was only one won
And he wasn’t whose right but whose left.


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## bearycool

The delegations
the congregations.

who?

But only the masses, yes
just that.

I, no... I am
not a I am;
but just a We.
a we are...

For when the fires sweep
and out goes the light.
its dust, in ashen heavens 
forever now.

The un-diaphnous lining beyond
brings the clouds; 
for they are crying.

weeping.

but they don't bring down
life giving waters,
but Acid Raid. For our
pollution, our struggles, inherited 
inside these droplets.

And when ends come to ends
and we come back to light.

it is a light that has paled
to red.
Our Home, is no more.

We have fought for nothing!

_and all is quiet on the homebound front..._
And I, or we, look to see
in a transluent reflection
from time and time.

All we see is the devil;
for we are the devil.

Who(m) was that being 
swept up in the storm,
not so long ago?
the child,
the pastor,
the widow,
the baker,
or the enemy?
or were They also the enemy?

The delegations
the congregations.
they are not real.

just the masses,
just a we are 

just the devil.
I am the devil,
therefore _we _are the devil...
and, therefore, the world is hell.

_ad infinitum inferno._


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## RM Americano

*behind toledo*

death took time coming down
but never left low orbit
of the field.

darkness crept on the men
even light wounds 
felt weight of death
in the sagged air
hung low and thick
and hot like swamp fog.

no birds sang
no men spoke
the trickle of a stream
provided ambience
a stream of blood
and earth's tears.

blades of grass seem washed in black,
and blades of steel painted red
and the sky
paralyzed in mourning.

and then down he came
with long scythe in hand
to collect harvest.
anguish and despair seep out
to soak the dirt beneath
husks of bravery
and cowardice.

all of them beaten.

then he was gone
and the field was still.
absolute zero.

and in strides three yards long
the reaper was to the next valley
bag of heads hung
from his belt
arms spread
clearing all in minutes.

and what was left was frozen
time left the valley
no longer life
no longer death
just a warning.
unseen.


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## Glass Pencil

Where once stood scores there now stood none
all before a smoking gun
but bide, oh churl, the time and mission
all become at your admission

And all the soaring, screaming hell
A sight to see but not beheld
By those whose hands had first unleashed
the devil's hounds upon their feast

For while the high and mighty roar
the lowly lumpen live no more
and all the blood, the hate and fear
are worth no more than children's tears


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## Leyline

*The Left Behind*​ by George Potter​ 
I.

God gave her one son.
The State took him away.
To fight a war, it said.
An important war.
Freedom was at stake, it said.
Democracy and liberty, it claimed.
She'd accepted and feared and hoped.

But her son still died,
thousands of miles away
from his mother's arms,
And she'd be damned if
she could tell a difference
other than a broken heart,
and a belly full of hate.

II.

Her name was Quy Hue
but in the singsong patois
of the streets she ran
they just called her Round Eyes.
The round eyes were from her father
a conscript wanderer
Who'd conceived her one night
drunk and desperate for warmth
in a hotel in Saigon.

He died in the jungle a month later.

She never met him, our Quy Hue.
But when she was five
she watched the helicopters
flee the embassy downtown
as the conquerors at last
took the ground they claimed.
She did not know a great nation state
had finally been defeated.
She just thought: "My father is gone forever."

The northerners killed her mother a year later.

Left alone she ran.
She stole and whored and killed three men.
She ate when she could and lived
as best as she could tear from the world.
She learned the ways of the knife,
the quiet step and the empty heart.
But in her dreams her father smiled
down on a precious lily flower,
and she woke herself crying often.

She died in a Saigon gutter at the age of thirteen.

III.

_They took my boy,_
he often thought.
_And sent me back a mad dog._

Chuck screams in his sleep often.
He drinks too much.
He's missing a foot.

Sometimes Chuck stares at the stump.
He stares at the missing foot.
And he just has to hit someone.

_It's a sad game,_
he often thinks,
_for a 65 year old man to make excuses for bruises._

"I killed a little girl."
Chuck sometimes slurs.
"I thought she had a bomb, but it was just an old radio."

_Such is life,_
he always thinks
_but he fought for our freedom._

And the old man goes on
Making excuses for bruises.
Lying to the world and himself.

And Chuck is trapped,
until his last breath,
staring at a dead child and a radio that didn't even work.


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## Chesters Daughter

*Them's Fightin' Words*

I evaluate the fifteen forever feet
of the vestibule.
No obvious signs of sabotage,
(a strategically placed sneaker
easily trips up the enemy)
but I must proceed with care,
domestic IEDs are ingenious
and varied.

I slap on ballet slippers
to keep me on my toes,
flagrant footfalls won't do,
silence is my ally.

I poise en pointe
as snores inform me
the despicable sniper
won't be scoping my course
from his foxhole in the sofa.
(No digging required,
flab long ago beat the cushions
into submission)
Without the assurance
of his somnolent symphony,
I wouldn't endeavor to dodge
syllabic bullets sprayed
by a machine gun tongue.

My legs serve me well
this jaunt 
and I enter my former haunt
to score some rations.
Sans sufficient artillery,
I can't recapture the mess hall
and forays into hostile territory
are needed to feed the troops.

Eight feet into the return trek,
sleeping beasty stops singing
and the first bullet makes a beeline
for my already bruised ears.
Knowing a barrage
is only seconds away,
I execute a grand jete
that would make Nureyev proud,
and reaching my destination
slam shut the door 
to my bedroom bunker.

The wrath of wretched worded ammo
peppers the sealed hatch,
bouncing back to echo down the hall.
Another skirmish skirted
with the aid of battered toe shoes.
I blast booming bass
to block my bitter foe's attack,
doubled in intensity,
for my stealth had negated
the rules of engagement.

How unfortunate it is
that the innocent utterance
of I do
is too often misconstrued
as a declaration of war.
If only the populace 
were truly aware,
enlistments would dwindle 
down to nothing.


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## InsanityStrickenWriter

War

I use not a gun, grenade, rocket, or tank.

I use gas.
It is from deep within,
Like hate, or love.
It tempts me with release.

The noise.
It shall shock you,
Like a bomb explosion,
Make you cower.

I am trying to cause terror.

The smell.
It shall overwhelm your senses,
Like pain or wound,
Make you scream.

I am trying to cause harm.

You retaliate.
Before noise makes you deaf,
And smell makes you sick,
Make me die. 

Blood.
On your hands or mine?


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## Nellie

*Propaganda*

A forceful power
luring men and women in
for a noble crusade,
offering comradeship
on soil no longer foreign.

Brainwashed by the glory
of winning, a fantasy,
while lying in the trenches
waiting, hearing the angels of death 
roaring overhead.

We hear not the cries of agony
only, "War is a worthy crusade",
we see no mangled bodies
only stars, stripes and Generals
promoting organized killing.


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## apple

War of the World

It flattens little homes
with ego and heavy hammers,
proclaiming it’s truths for the winged wild    
while pockets jingle 
as it usurps the earth and sky
to offer handy work,
“good intentions”,
and the righteous quest to civilize.

Old forests and sky cannot provide
the wondrous manna
bestowed by human hands; 
peanut butter 
and oily finger pointing for safety.

To beacon truth,
sanction is divined to assure freedom
and assuage feral hearts
by coiling mighty flags into imbedded footprints.

For Sabbath days, 
it captures trills of songbirds
inside four holy walls 
and cocks its ear 
while peeking gleefully through the holes
with one righteous eye.


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## chickadee123405

In The Silence

everyone around me goes about their lives
but in the quiet I hear the cries

no one notices as they buzz around
only I see them littering the ground

the agony is everywhere in my mind
but to others it's another time

day by day it does fade away
but in the silence I know its here to stay

sparkling rain mist the skies
unseen tears drop from my eyes

far away in another land
lives ended by my hand


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## Olly Buckle

Good morning, time is up and I think we have a record entry so time for me to close this thread to entries and set up the poll, best of luck everyone.


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## Guy Faukes

Whew, well, if I'm too late, this was fun to write. Enjoy!
​
Chase Hope​
We are soldiers,
masters and puppets, 
treading the line
between life and death.

Lies and truth blur,
we fight shadows
choking under the veil
of deception and deceit.

The corrupt, the soulless,
the hollowed evil
diminish and steal
our greatest sacrifices. 

I admit,
my eyes are jaded,
my soul is wearied,
my hands are stained.

But still, I believe.

I believe
the hand of justice,
unravels strings of lies,
illuminating all to light. 

So chase hope,
my brothers, 
my sisters.
Follow me.


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