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Glory

At the crowded gangway they kissed good-bye.
He had half a mind to scold her.
An officer's mother and not keep dry
The epaulet on his shoulder.

He had forgotten mother and fame,
His mind in a blood-mist floated,
But when reeling back from carnage they came,
One told him: "You are promoted!"

His friend smiled up from the wet red sand,
The look was afar, eternal,
But he tried to salute with his shattered hand:
"Room now for another colonel!"

Again he raged in that lurid hell
Where the country he loved had thrown him.
"You are promoted!" shrieked a shell.
His mother would not have known him.

poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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Hoisting

A fledged reincarnation starts a carnage
before the scared skull, ribs were missing
from the pink wraps. Eye over eye opens a split

vision, to live in a shirtless thoughts, to kill
where the truth was. An accidental lover hovers over
the green breasts, full of secret grief.

All the birds on the lake have surrendered
the sun’s light to extinguished nests and flown away.
The pain of yesterday now, will haunt the bride

of moon who had to abandon the baby in mud
to be watched by wolves of garlanded priests.
The tear was me, subway was me.

The skin was changing colour, camouflaged for
shame and guilt, pleading a glimpse of fire.

poem by Satish Verma
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Evil.

One, two, three, four bomb,
Carnage in London.
Evil did decide,
kill by suicide.
Scores dead, many maimed with changed lives,
daughters, sons, husbands, wives.
Evil had trod,
good had bled.

Not a matter of if, but when!
majority can't comprehend.
Evil had done it's deed,
Why on this do they feed?
What is the root cause?
whether political or religious wars.
Anger and disillusionment is being bred,
and vented with misguided hatred.

All four suspects‘home grown'it does appear,
foreign influence from far and near.

[...] Read more

poem by Guy Lipmore
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Going Home On The Northern Pacific

The way home for me was eastbound
on the Northern Pacific from California
riding coach (pillow furnished for a fee)
and reading paperback books -

everything from Robinson Jeffers
'...stones have stood for a thousand years,
and pained thoughts found the honey
of peace in old poems.'

to Denise Levertov's Illustrious Ancestors
'...poems direct as what the birds said,
hard as a floor, sound as a bench,
mysterious as the silence when the tailor
would pause with his needle in the air.'

even the obscure Ray Durem
'...I cannot find those mild and gracious words
to clothe the carnage.'

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Gazing Out

I gazed out over the crazy sea in halves,
Faint breezes witnessed me as well,
Inner youth was a commodity, in surplus.
But she marries the wrong man, in this stand
Called understanding, so take him in where they begin.
Utterly comforted as the sun, it was gazing and stargazing,
Openly committing folly under the sun and stars,
Like a world of men and women in unity.
Carnage planned children from the start,
Stretching the limbs of madmen and sanity.
Filled with pain and bliss, the madness of a person
Is so laughable and so tame, you will be in tears.
She felt the youth of her soul in a period of doubt,
But the madmen have approached her and taken lives.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Going Home On The Train

The way home for me was eastbound
on the Northern Pacific from California
riding coach (pillow furnished for a fee)
and reading paperback books -

everything from Robinson Jeffers-
'...stones have stood for a thousand years,
and pained thoughts found the honey
of peace in old poems.'

to Denise Levertov's ILLUSTRATED ANCESTORS
'...poems direct as what the birds said,
hard as a floor, sound as a bench,
mysterious as the silence when the tailor
would pause with the needle in the air.'

including the obscure Ray Durem -
'...I cannot find those mild and gracious words
to clothe the carnage.'

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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The Luminous eye.

Television scares me.
It frightens me silly.
Our best known channels transmit
The worst of human disasters
Comets hurtling towards earth
Mega-quakes. Mega-tsunamis,
Tornadoes, and generally the
End of this earth.

Television stations seem to love this carnage
Mixed together with the atrocity of war and starvation
The fear factor reaches out
And startles us.

To add a touch of the macabre
We are told by experts unknown to most
When and where this will all happen
' The Rapture ', cry the tv believers
' You must be born again ', they reply
With a knowing grin.

[...] Read more

poem by Willow Moon Pearce
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In Midnight Sleep

IN midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish,
Of the look at first of the mortally wounded--of that indescribable
look;
Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide,
I dream, I dream, I dream.

Of scenes of nature, fields and mountains;
Of skies, so beauteous after a storm--and at night the moon so
unearthly bright,
Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and gather
the heaps,
I dream, I dream, I dream.

Long, long have they pass'd--faces and trenches and fields;
Where through the carnage I moved with a callous composure--or away
from the fallen,
Onward I sped at the time--But now of their forms at night,
I dream, I dream, I dream. 10

poem by Walt Whitman
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Fatal Facet

Ectopic dreams and stillborn nightmares
Chills and shockwaves breaking my sytem
Destroy, destroy
Depleat me, my desperado
Longing, forever longing
For the astral sunset with an iridescent glow
To shine againist your deathliness
To make you forget your carnage and hate
In the rainbow sunset of begotten dreams
Its become redundant, in this matter
In our games or give and take and hide and seek
Forgetting myself in my hiding place
And losing myself within you embrace
And this world, it just keeps spinning
Though time is still and all is dead
I just can't seem to let go and fly
Because I'm still concious and so aware
That I can't do anything but watch
Forever observing
From the shadows

poem by Cori Arbuss
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Vox Ecclesiae, Vox Christi

Not 'neath the altar only,—yet, in sooth,
There more than elsewhere,—is the cry, “How long?”
The right sown there hath still borne fruit in wrong—
The wrong waxed fourfold. Thence, (in hate of truth)
O'er weapons blessed for carnage, to fierce youth
From evil age, the word hath hissed along:—
“Ye are the Lord's: go forth, destroy, be strong:
Christ's Church absolves ye from Christ's law of ruth.”
Therefore the wine-cup at the altar is
As Christ's own blood indeed, and as the blood
Of Christ's elect, at divers seasons spilt
On the altar-stone, that to man's church, for this,
Shall prove a stone of stumbling,—whence it stood
To be rent up ere the true Church be built.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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