In Foriegn Soil Beds.


In Foreign Soil Beds



They lie in

neat rows under

sterile crosses
sacrificed to causes
that no longer matter.

Only names
and ranks remain
while their rank remains
moulder into

crumbling bones.

Private first class

 surround them,
An occupation of

Ground troops
in the most

literal sense,
Stationed beneath

hallowed ground,
as poppies

like tiny

platoon flags

bloom blood red.

above them.







A Momentary Lapse.


for the

billion time,
in a long sigh,
then halting
the usually

demand for

for just a
brief interlude
in memory of
all those who have
ceased to breathe

while fighting

for my right to
till the demand for
my next breath
overwhelms me
as life goes on.







Bone Appetite!


Gnawing on

bony knuckles,

for the want of

something more,
grave shadows

have already set

under their sunken eyes,
bloated bellies mimic

fullness as stomachs

spasm around emptiness.
They are the leftovers

from famines feast,

growing cold and listless
while we scrape dishes

daily of enough table scraps

to feed them all.

Look into their

prophetic eyes,

that see no tomorrows,
then spend yours at a buffet,

suckling all you can eat,
or spend a few of your

gluttonous dollars on them.

But hurry if you decide

to choose mercy,
They are dying even

as you digest this poem.





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Micky Dee 6 years ago

I'd like to write an ode to the unknown soldier. But most are unknown.

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