|Best Poems About / On SOLDIER
Every soldier is a willing terrorist
Waiting only for the order to come
To pull the trigger on someone
And throw granites at another one.
Every terrorist is a forced soldier
Waiting to annihilates the suppression
And free the people of their love
From the wilderness in the civilization.
What matters here is both kills
One claims to kill to defense
Another claim to kill to free
At the end both become the losers
And innocent people gather tears in their eyes.
Guns and granites is no peace matters
Once they are touched forever follows the fear
Every second each one dies in freezing heat
That boils the heart and soul and conscience.
Rights is what the terrorist is fighting for
Might is what the soldier is given
When the soldier dies, he dies and gains
When a terrorist dies, he dies in vain
Yet each has the essential supports
The soldiers essence is to defend
While the terrorist break the fence.
Be it in defense
Or a wave in defiance
The earth is wet again and again
With the blood of human agony
And again the people gather tears in their eyes.
That which lives so far
Through the many wars
Are not man and his will
But the guns that kill.
Open the eyes my brothers
The soldier and the terrorist,
We cant cup the water in both palms
And walk a hundred miles to quench the dying souls
Its next to our feet, we shall bow and lift the humanity.
©cyclopseven. All rights reserved 031207.
Read more poems from cyclopseven Ram >>>
A Soldiers Wifes Dream of hope
His dream was loving only one to love. War was the game we played when we were kids.
Now he's on the battle field. Fight to live. Only to dream what is to Be.
She lays awake wondering where he is. She wishes he was there to hold. Soldiers Dream alive.
3a.m wake of silence. She dreams one last shot. After battle is At End.
Was he the soldier to Fall?
She prays he is alive. it is only a dream of Fear. She gets the call he is alive the soldiers Dream still alive,
Time has come war is Grounded.The Love united. The Soldiers Dream Now to be. She cries A Soldiers Home and to be with me.
Untied we shall stand and support We will give. Until the last soldier is here.
Read more poems from Karie Tyler >>>
A Soldiers Veiw
Upon the battlefield
Shooting the enemy
I may not come home.
Nothing can change
I am doing.
I yearn to sleep
In my own bed
Keeps me here.
Is to perform
On the now bloodied
My only response being
Freedom isnt free
My fallen comrades
The very proof I offer.
I may fall with them
Its a small price to pay
If it means
My kids will be
People want peace
You think it
I think of
The twin towers.
When you scorn
We gave you the right.
We dont need the manpower
I think of
The many men
In need of training.
A different view
It is also
That defend the right
The one thing
That matters to people
Is that theyre safe.
When they complain
What they have.
Remember the cost
It is the soldiers
An uncertain future.
And the soldiers
Live it every day.
They would indeed
Do it again
Given the chance
If that is what
People say we dont
Need this war
There are some things
Worth fighting for.
And rather then
I thank those
To Pay the price
For people they dont
For land they dont
What needs to be done.
This has been written
Who didnt make it home
Who are already here
Are still there
Read more poems from Sam Byron >>>
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,
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 whos 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
Read more poems from Windsor Guadalupe Jr >>>