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Literature Text
They do not stretch towards the sky,
Have not grandeur to recommend them,
But modesty does dignify
And describe those markers for them.
While some are named, and others bare,
Through rows of crosses stretching on,
Anonymity does not impair
The sacrifice beneath each one.
There was a Cost.
The battlefields still flowing red
Not held in bootsteps in the mud,
Crimson poppies unfurl instead:
Colour of remembrance, passion, blood.
In that grave which held youth’s toil,
The earth hid the terrible stain,
Flowers sprung forth the tremb’ling soil,
With the lives it could ne’er contain.
There was a Rebirth.
The huddled masses look for dawn
With frosted breaths cresting their lips,
The haunting wail of a brass horn
Sings of unity and mateship.
And as they stood, some overwrought,
Praise, not shells, heard amid the throng,
And though they thought of those who fought,
They acknowledged all war is wrong.
There was a Moment.
There was a moment we said stop,
There was a cry to end it all.
There was a time the guns were dropped
And for Peace, united, we called.
Have not grandeur to recommend them,
But modesty does dignify
And describe those markers for them.
While some are named, and others bare,
Through rows of crosses stretching on,
Anonymity does not impair
The sacrifice beneath each one.
There was a Cost.
The battlefields still flowing red
Not held in bootsteps in the mud,
Crimson poppies unfurl instead:
Colour of remembrance, passion, blood.
In that grave which held youth’s toil,
The earth hid the terrible stain,
Flowers sprung forth the tremb’ling soil,
With the lives it could ne’er contain.
There was a Rebirth.
The huddled masses look for dawn
With frosted breaths cresting their lips,
The haunting wail of a brass horn
Sings of unity and mateship.
And as they stood, some overwrought,
Praise, not shells, heard amid the throng,
And though they thought of those who fought,
They acknowledged all war is wrong.
There was a Moment.
There was a moment we said stop,
There was a cry to end it all.
There was a time the guns were dropped
And for Peace, united, we called.
Literature
Conversation...
Conversation waiting for the Train
1.
It pisses me off when he pretends
to sleep like that –
his eyelids flutter and that's how I know he's faking.
Maybe I will live in Battery Park…
Dirty grey water slapping against the wall –
Why a wall?
That way no hypodermic sand.
Ha ha.
Mmm.
The statue's nice, too, when you can see it.
I like the trees best, and the
grass.
The bums are interesting –
Literature
Whining
My poems don't have time for me anymore.
They talk like there are
better places to be
real people to see,
like life's a movie worth watching,
but I'm not on the screen.
At least I can still sing.
Well,
I have a cold right now.
Oh well.
Literature
A cappella
My mother, a famous classical violinist in her day, was on her deathbed and I didn't care. She was bedridden by the usual suspects, old age and a fall, and had been for many months when they called me. "Come see her," they said. "She'll pass on soon." They told me the nurses played Tchaikovsky, her favorite.
"No," I said, and hung up the phone, slamming it against the wall, the cord jerking about in a wild dance. I glared at my CD player, as though it would suddenly come to life with violin concertos, then grabbed my coat, and left the house.
The critics never tired of sayin
Suggested Collections
[link] Peace Competition
I chose to write about War, because it is the greatest sin against life, and Peace itself. Yet, at the same time, it is the thought and the memory of the horrors of War and the capability to indiscriminately and senselessly take life that fills us with a sense of immediacy and the acute need for Peace itself. It fills us with the impetus to unite against it, and to mourn the greatest loss to all humankind of the most basic human right to live, as if it was our life itself lost.
I chose to keep my poem fairly simple in subject matter, style and language as well as make it easy to read. Peace is simple in its instinctive nature to us, and all I wanted my Poem to do is to remind you we are just as capable of extending our hand to our neighbour as we are of pointing a gun. Make love, not war!
If only the world could function on a single rule:
'That everyone has individual rights up until where their rights take away the rights of their neighbours.'
Something always gets lost in translation, don't you think?
Thanks, Sammi xoxo
I chose to write about War, because it is the greatest sin against life, and Peace itself. Yet, at the same time, it is the thought and the memory of the horrors of War and the capability to indiscriminately and senselessly take life that fills us with a sense of immediacy and the acute need for Peace itself. It fills us with the impetus to unite against it, and to mourn the greatest loss to all humankind of the most basic human right to live, as if it was our life itself lost.
I chose to keep my poem fairly simple in subject matter, style and language as well as make it easy to read. Peace is simple in its instinctive nature to us, and all I wanted my Poem to do is to remind you we are just as capable of extending our hand to our neighbour as we are of pointing a gun. Make love, not war!
If only the world could function on a single rule:
'That everyone has individual rights up until where their rights take away the rights of their neighbours.'
Something always gets lost in translation, don't you think?
Thanks, Sammi xoxo
© 2007 - 2024 sammehsweet
Comments12
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That poem is absolutly amazing you almost made me cry!!! I will be back to read your other work!!