War Poems

World War IV

Once upon a midday waiting, by the university gating,
I was wondering and contemplating, what all man’s hating was for.
I slowly became obsessed by the raven that possessed
Poe’s poem that was caressed by his dark pen and nothing more.

As the professor was professing, the confessor was confessing
and the poem was addressing what my heart could not implore,
The winds of hate were howling, the underworld was growling
and all the wolves were drowning on the blood red shore.

The flags they were waving were pretending to be saving
all the people that were craving to be marched to another war.
The politicians were parading while all our hope was fading
fading, fading and cascading beyond the furthest shore.

The leaders were disappointing while the entire world was pointing
in blood they were anointing another declaration of war.
While governments’ corruption, leads to humankind’s destruction
you can forget your liposuction, there’ll be war and nothing more.

The TV was declaring while terrorists were scaring
and soldiers were preparing for another bloody war.
Democracy was turning. The missiles were burning
everything we had been learning throughout the days of yore.

But the bombs they kept destroying, the blasts were so annoying
and every girl and boy in the city prayed for an end to war.
Using religions and nations to legitimize annihilations
in the name of liberation is rotten to the core.

And the purpose of the killing is the oil we are drilling
and the bellies we are filling to fuel another war.
If I sound like a preacher or some peculiar teacher,
I’m sorry I’m just a seeker of some truth and nothing more.

History will be spoken, hearts and minds will be broken,
and when we have awoken, we’ll say “‘twas a war and nothing more”.
World War I was in the mud, World War II was in the thud,
World War III is in the blood and World War IV means ‘nevermore’.

And when we die we ask inviting, “Why were we always fighting?”
We never let the light in; instead we chose to slam the door.
And if we were to awaken in green fields less forsaken
and understand innocent lives were taken – may there be war, nevermore.

The Leaders

Ah, these are the leaders
These are the leaders –

Madmen in suits.

Believing in numbers, percentages and sanity
Drawing bar-charts to make sense of tanks and air strikes.
Using ‘intelligence’ to fool
with White Papers and dossiers
In corridors lined with hanged faces
they meat in murder;
It is not just us and them. I want

An end to war
another world was possible

It has been said, once it was true –
Violence breeds violence.

The lunatics with their economies
Protecting. The lunatics with their rocket launchers
Projecting. Leaders are leading us
down the road

to ruin

we are going going…

Mediterranean Blood

From the Cypriot red that flows from the vine,
to Israeli merlots in Roman Palestine,
from black and green olives in the Peloponese,
to humous, falafal and Labaneh cheese.

From the mosques and bazaars of Turkish Istanbul,
to Byzantine mosaics and Nabatean walls,
from Bedouin tribes and shifting sands,
to the Spanish who banished us from their land.

From the imperial reach of Napoleonic France,
to ancient Greek ampitheatres, the warriors danced
from Sicily to Crete, from Andalucia to Rhodes,
colossal statues of mythical heroes.

From Italian chapels built on green hills,
to Moorish  fortresses, men have killed,
conquered, fallen and risen again,
over the Mediterranean blood we share in our veins.

This is the blood that was drained on the shore,
and bottled by bloodthirsty kings of war.
This is the blood we drink to this day,
whether red or white or sparkling rose.

Pro-War Poem

You can’t write a pro-war poem,
words that exalt execution,
and praise presidents, prime ministers,
and those who decide to destroy,
rather than meet the other half way.

No, you won’t find a good anthology
of ‘Pro-War Poetry’ anywhere on earth,
because poetry is peace by nature,
and words made of hatred will never inspire
or live long on paper made of trees.

Warbook.com

Everyone’s playing the propaganda game.
No-one’s playing the proper Gandhi game.
Some are playing mind games.
Taking sides like war’s some football game.
Some are praying for an endgame.
Some are playing with words.
Others are playing with fire.
Everyone’s playing the propaganda game…

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