Been stuck in this trench for days,

The stink of death is encompassing,

Blood stains the slushy mud,

The ever constant roaring of machine guns,

And the blaring mortar explosions.

Rats scurry to and fro,

Amongst the dead bodies,

Amongst mud,

Their tiny squeaking drowned out by the discharge of weapons,

And the endless screams of the wounded and dying fill the air.

- Michael Hall

War.

WAr.

WaR.

WAR.

The everlasting conflict,

The bloody stream

Showering the world

With its amorphous dreams

Once the flames go out

Are we any better

Killing with the shackles of life

Instead of a gun, or a blade,

Or a fist, or a rocket,

Or a rock, or a club,

Or teeth, or starvation,

Or drowning, or burning,

Or shocking, or fear,

Or by doing

Nothing at all?

The very life-fibers

Holding each walking

Mass of flesh

Bear witness to the tribulations

Of history and the human spirit within it

And they go through each waking moment

Constantly, persistently, consistently,

At war.

Sperm fights to impregnate, and be born onto its mother,

Children fight for the approval the living,

The living fight for the approval of the dead,

And the dead fight to be remembered by the world.

Who will be forgotten first,

The man with the trappings of a monster?

Who brought peace to the era?

Or the monster with the trappings of a man?

Whom struck fear into the BREATH of the world?

Is the suffering of innocent lives a nation away,

Less than the dirt that spackles your boots?

Do the eyes that open to another round

In the revolving ring see anything more than themselves?

It is the struggle,

Imprinted in the very genes we pass on.

The very will to survive

That shall forevermore

Plunge the Earth,

Into

War

The   Cry   of   War

By  Don  Ford

Sounds of anguish heard,

The pain of brokenness is felt.

Lives all scattered ’round –

Cries in war like chorus swells.

The bandages of hope worn thin,

While children’s voices call.

Like whispers of the soul,

And all around the mighty fall.

Shattered broken pieces,

Lack of sacredness in life.

Destruction is their calling card,

They even throw away their lives.

The games they play with bombs as toys,

We gather up the fragments.

These village fools, not martyrs be –

Offering up their child – they vent.

The stench of killing fields below,

Running out of graves to fill.