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Poems On / About SOLDIER  9/30/2014 4:45:48 AM
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Best Poems About / On SOLDIER
 
 
 
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  313.     

Like A Toy Soldier

Like a toy soldier,
We were pushed to the war front,
Some gave up on the way,
Some fell by the enemy’s bullet,
Yet, all in all,
We were all tools in your hand.

Like a toy soldier,
You gather us together,
Each serving different functions,
Some for good, and some for bad,
Some to serve as example to others,
Yet at the peak of our life,
We will eventually realise,
You have always been our director,
We were actors in a play.

Like a toy soldier,
We have always moved like zombie,
When those in front fall,
We never take lessons,
We still fall for the mistake of our fathers.

Like a toy soldier,
Those who do not have life,
Who cannot even rule their own homes,
Have always been the ones that rule us,
Those who actually could make things happen,
Prefar to stay put like a monkey,
And watch in entertainment, our degraded economy,
Unwanted children fill our homes,
Hungry mouths cry for help,
Innocent bloods are still being shed,
Yet nobody seemed to care,
As long as they make their living.

Like a toy soldier,
When I look at others,
I really wished I could copy them,
Yet on a second thought,
When I take a closer look,
I found out, they were already copying me.

Like a toy soldier,
I may not have the life I desire yet,
I may even feel unhappy with myself now,
Yet I chose to add meaning to other lives,
By making my own life relevant.
 
Olumide Bisiriyu

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  314.     

A Soldiers Veiw

Upon the battlefield
Shooting the enemy
Knowing
I may not come home.

Nothing can change
How
I feel
Or
What
I am doing.

Although
I yearn to sleep
In my own bed
My pride
Keeps me here.

My duty
Is to perform
This task
Here
On the now bloodied
Combat field

Most say
It’s unnecessary
My only response being
Freedom isn’t free
My fallen comrades
The very proof I offer.

And though
I may fall with them
It’s a small price to pay
If it means
My kids will be
Safe.

People want peace
But, most
Don’t understand
The meaning.



You think it
Unnecessary
I think of
The twin towers.

When you scorn
George Bush,
I say
We gave you the right.

You say
We don’t need the manpower
I think of
The many men
In need of training.

A soldier
Holds
A different view
But,
It is also
The soldiers
That defend the right
To uphold
That view.

The one thing
That matters to people
Is that they’re safe.

And
When they complain

Most forget
What they have.

Soldiers always
Remember the cost
Yet,
It is the soldiers
Who have
An uncertain future.





Life isn’t
Always fair
And the soldiers
Live it every day.

They would indeed
Do it again
Given the chance
If that is what
Is needed.

People say we don’t
Need this war
Soldiers say
There are some things
Worth fighting for.

And rather then
Criticize
I thank those
Willing
To Pay the price
For people they don’t
Know
For land they don’t
own
For doing
What needs to be done.

This has been written
To honor

Those
Who didn’t make it home
Those
Who are already here
And
Those
Who
Are still there


Thank You.
 
Sam Byron

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  315.     

Soldiers

Soldiers, soldiers, everywhere, with no good wars to fight
How do you flex your muscles, the weapons of your might?
Where do you go to kill these days, false enemies in sight?
How do you earn the wages paid? Through false created blight?

Embroiled in eternally unresolved conflicts
That let you earn your daily bread through long established rifts
You are warriors for fatheads, for economic shift
Feathering their filthy nests, blindly turning tricks

Prostitutes of sordid death, paid to broker peace
Where peace would reign uneasily, without you at the feast
Marching out with weapons cloaked, bullying the meek
Masked behind a war machine we laymen can't unleash

Step back upon command from all injustice wielded
Run from the needless fight, within your barracks shielded
Draw guns to save yourselves alone, not innocents who yielded
Who raised stained hands, to bat away the missiles not being fielded

Remember when this world was pure and life counted for more
Remember somewhere, someone is eternally keeping score
Rise up my sons and represent the put upon, the poor
Destroy the progress of these filthy harbingers of war

Oh soldiers, soldiers everywhere, please see the things you do
The innocents who fall aside, not as strong as you
The unprotected, underfed, with skin of the wrong hue
Stand with honour, change their skies from darkest black to blue

Ignore the ghoulish, greedy cats who use you for their gain
Refuse to fight in unjust wars to satisfy their aims
Remember what your honour means, protect the weak and maimed
Fight only for freedom, or for justice, an end to power games

So soldiers, soldiers everywhere, lay down your bloodied arms
Come home to keep your families safe from needless harm
Smash the kings of industry who tell us all is calm
And deny the politicians who destroy our peace with charm
 
Carey Lenehan

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  316.     

Shameful Soldier

Look at me –
Besmirching the whites,
And tainting myself eruditely,
Adeptly, with black – or something somber
I am morose with my pen,
And never logical
Never witty nor a blissful man
I am a wounded soldier,
With my pen and pen alone,
Shall I dine with,
Sleep with,
With poetry, I make love to
And that is all about
The creeping despair that I hold
And embellish with my pen
-
Look at you –
You are never a ruptured soldier
Apart from I, ostracized –
You are a saintly fellow
Guised in the skin of a human
With no worries,
You do not sulk in defeat as much
As I am
You do not grieve for the loss of love
In the middle of the meddlesome warfare
How downtrodden I am, I do not know,
But one thing is for sure, sordidly,
I do not look pleasant with my pen,
For when I write words,
My skin aches
My heart twinges and syncs with misery
Despairing with my pen,
And my pen alone, slinging like a soldier
With an ardent rifle
The time is ripe,
But mine body is not – my innocence,
Where is it? I fathom to regain a part of it
In the time of my writing, like a soldier of redemption
And lose it once I felt the sudden urge
To write again in contemplation
-
And so, as you find life in these words
From a fainted poet who’s not even adequate
To be called a writer or a soldier,
I die once more – and then
With one more word from a lost lover,
I am revivified only to find
That as a soldier is dispersed into battle,
I face my demise over, and over
As if a vicious cycle of living,
And dying – in my words, with my pen,
And my troubles.
 
Windsor Guadalupe Jr

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