Armistice Poems - Poems about Armistice

C Centuries of fighting and vain inglorious trauma A E Enemies for no reason other than blind terror R A Agony fueled by apocalypse in ultimate...

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Fields of red, of poppy leaf The fields where so many brave came to grief Brave men indeed who refused to kneel To give freedom to others, we remember them still Fields of red, of poppy leaf For Those men and boys who passed we grieve The light extinguished in their eyes But the dream of freedom was realised Fields of red,...

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Covered in mud, blood, sweat and tears. Lads so very young in years. Some so young they shouldn’t have been. Even witnessing those terrible scenes. Let alone fighting in the trenches surrounded by death. Watching comrades draw their last breath. Giving everything they had to give. Wondering if they are going to Live. Scared to death they fought the fight. Death was...

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Eleventh hour— young men perished, their hopes and dreams all lost: Ypres, The Marne, Verdun of the Eleventh day— silent, fell guns, and stillness took the front: Argonne, Belleau Wood, Amiens of the Eleventh month— the war men claimed would end all others: sadly, it did not...

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In the cold of the bleak morning sky, we see no leaf stirs, nor birds flying by. As we wake to the crisp Autumn chill, we see flags at half staff, are hanging still! It’s a day well suited for a sombre event, when we, as a Nation remember and lament, those who, answering Freedom’s clarion call, fought the aggressor, and...

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The barbed wires gone the craters filled in But the poppy's still grow on Flanders fields men's tears have been wiped and burials done But the poppy's still grow on Flanders fields young men died because old men lied But the poppy's still grow on Flanders fields A nation bows its head in prayer this day But...

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This heart of mine is a wanderer nomad and now it is on the loose. It became wroth and restless for the mind is bowed down; the shameful armistice is now signed. Because it is still aware that if it gave upon on you, if it ceased to love, it would cease to beat eternally....

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, Remembering Armistice Day ...

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The old soldier reflects During a two minute lull. Shiny medals worn On clothes drab and dull. Wearing a red poppy With feelings of regret and pride. Teardrops for comrades Who died by his side. Now begs for pennies On the city streets Looked down upon By some that he meets. Waiting for a pension Promised years before. One more statistic A hero of war....

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Apart from being torn in pieces, I am together. Aside from what is known, I am in twain. Life is fulfilled with so much complexity; however, the world is mundane. It seems to be a lack of involvement in an enricher way. Through variables of disparity, discrepancy is everywhere. None of this matter when augment must be the sound of...

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Self-crippled arrayed in abundance Too poisonous to move, to dance Striking a medicare deal Reeling in unemployment checks Our disabled bodies left to hang From crippling blows The pressure of expectation Lynching sanity Propping self-delusion on stilts Searching for rights The reason to exist In a muddled play by play Blessed are those in spirit Accepting power over their destiny Accepting free will And the test of time...

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With paper blooms of vibrant red, recalling battles and their dead. A moment’s silence, deep in thought of young lives taken as they fought; of blood and innocence still shed. From Flanders fields the poppies spread, on black lapels they grow instead. Remembrance, love and hope are sought with paper blooms. Eleven chimes; with lowered head sincere, unspoken prayers are said, let those lives lost be...

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unrearthing the fallen saint you wash your feet and enter the temple of forgotten god : cult of escapc from tangled half- truths with dramatic entry of hysterics you fail to accept yourself, the grieving death – mask transcends a fresco labyrinthine, spacey soul-sick mates disputing for no things the unstained shirt reminds the absence you bake a new recipe SATISH VERMA...

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unrearthing the fallen saint you wash your feet and enter the temple of forgotten god : cult of escape from tangled half-truths with dramatic entry of hysterics you fail to accept yourself, the grieving death-mask transcends a fresco labyrinthine, spacey soul-sick mates disputing for no things the unstained shirt reminds the absence you bake a new recipe SATISH VERMA...

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He lowers his hat as she wipes her tears, when falls a thoughtful hush, as battles cease, we hear their silent thoughts across the years. He comes home battered and torn by his fears in nightmarish dreams that will never decrease he lowers his hat as she wipes her tears. Weary soldiers greeted by grateful cheers, from the pits of war, a...

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