Posts Tagged ‘Warfare’

Atop his scarred mare,
Beside his beleaguered comrades,
Hussar and dragoon and cuirassier,
The lancer wipes muck from his uniform azure,
Harvest of a cold morning scrap,
Barely a mile taken,
A score of lives paid,

And the general sips his wine,

A reluctant warrior,
A soldier true and father twice,
Thrall to the kings coin,
Yet the battery fire recommences,
And the order to charge is given,
A L’attaque!
The flagging lancer blasts ahead,

And the general sips his wine,

Shrapnel and flesh collide all around his advance,
The lancer picks out his mark,
The grist for his lance,
Akin to a Romeo delivering his final romantic plea,
Direct to the foes heart,
Inspecting his handiwork he saw his victim to be no more than fourteen summers,
Somewhere a mother wails,

And the general sips yet more wine.

Amidst the battery fire and shrapnel,
Ripostes and mud and barbed wire,
Warfare is glorious,
A vehement symphony of iron and gore,
Triumphant charges and resounding firing lines,
Dark clouds braiding with sulphur,
Nations forms are in flux,

You are a soldier,
Thrust your bayonet into that opposing commoner,
To increase your masters demesne by inches,
For those men who sip wine in silken tents,
In elite safety,
For those whom paint borders,
Your blood and your opponents the currency for miles,

There is no grandeur to be found here,
For the common man it is naught but hell,
A charnel house,
And yet for your flag you enlist,
Fire your salvo into that poor mans flank,
Fight for your valour,
Your thanks shall be as dirt upon your casket,

A most ancient con job,
There is no glory in war.

In the new world,
Upon the fields of Lagillas,
A warrior of the Mapuche,
Once defeated,
By the spanish governors soldiers,
Felt shame like a sabre to the heart,

This man of rebellion was punished most severely,
Disrespected even further,
For his insurrection,
His hands were removed,
Out poured blood and fury in streams,
Sent home as a warning,

Returning to his people and chief,
He begged to be sent back to war,
Hands newly fastened with double blades,
Thirsty for Spaniard blood,
Becoming an instrument of revenge,
A warror transformed into a weapon,

To protect his native lands,
The governor would meet his new hands,
Or his teeth.

As I lay incapacitated,
Upon this grassy knoll,
My shoulder and lung run through,
By barb of crossbow bolt,
I spy my Lady-General,

A maiden of war,
This carnage is her dance,
Dashing from dance partner after dance partner,
Bestowing upon them crimson terminal flourishes,
Spewing ribbons and pyrotechnics to applause of screams,

This theatre,
Spanning over ruined meadows,
With fire and arrows overhead,
A charnel drama,
Host to my Ladys baneful ballet,

Chinks in mail,
Gaps in plate,
All find spots for her blades,
She leads the way,
Bringing the wardance to the enemy,

Morosely she kneels at my side,
“We are War”,
“But your dance is over”,
Wistfully pecking me farewell,
I fade into the abyss.

Each leader has a war chest,
Millions,
Paid for with blood and limbs,
The gold of the chest,
Pounds and dollars and roubles,
Minted in hells flames,
Emblazoned with skulls grinning,
Baying for oil and miles,

The true fuel for warfare,
The ammunition of conflict,
As the chest opens its charnel maw,
Arms dealers rub their hands,
And children cry in droves,
The drool of the chest,
It looms over free lands,
And shadows of bombs fall soon after.

The smith sweats,
An armsworker,
Doing the work of shinigami,
Machining thanatos into steel,
Ore becomes death,

A masterwork,
An emotionless tool,
A cold weapon,
A true lifetaker,
A stygian masterpiece,

Harnessing thunder and hellfire,
The power of hades,
The power to take lives,
In one hand or two,
Exerting ones will through iron,

Stocks and smoking barrels,
Breathing fire and ash,
Charon on a bullet,
A life snuffed out,
The gunsmiths work complete,

Can he claim neutrality?
Does this artisan care whose life is ended?
Does this merchant burden himself with ethics?
Does this artist care how his art is wielded?
Is the dollar worth more than a life?

In a space system far off,
Centuries ahead of Sol,
Blood money is the ultimate income,
Wars are raged daily,
By mechwarriors,
Warlords of steel and uranium,
In their knightly engines,
Man made gods of war,
Piloted by saints and killers alike,
Statures of raw scale,
Towering over the enemy,

Metallic bodies collide,
Showering the land with ore and limbs,
Component guts are beaten and torn,
Lazers sear,
Armour plates and artillery,
Autocannons shatter,
Gore and gears,
Missiles swarm,
Carnage and circuit-boards,
The ground groans under the havoc,
The warlords squabble as the planet cracks,

Within this stout bunker,
With the other bystanders,
The ground quakes,
As do I,
I hear the iron feet coming.

I see my target,
Surrounded by craters and husks of society,
Caked in mud and gory detritus,
He must have fought for hours,
Days even,
No matter,

A sniper feels no mercy,
I align my reticule,
Let’s take a look at this prey,
I’ve prowled his unit all week,
Drenched and weary,
Not much longer,

I wonder if he misses home,
His mother must miss him,
His father must be crestfallen,
Their son was conscripted,
But soon to be sent home,
In a bag of his own,

He’s a young man,
Surely a beau of his village,
Glint of a wedding ring,
She must be beautiful,
Wonder if they have children,
He’s not coming home little ones,

He glances fearfully about,
The lightning bolt before the trigger,
Time to earn my pay,
I breathe in,
And smirk,
For him the war is over.

After months of planning,
The sea lion begins its attack,
Teeth bared,
A black cap upon its head,
And an iron cross on its breast,
Its minions swarm overhead,
Ready to drop hell upon the Isle.

Who can stave off the sea lions bite?

Men of the Isle,
Exiles from the east,
And allies from the west,
The bravest of pilots,
The Few.

They take to the heavens,
In their seraphs of war,
Raging Hurricanes,
And surging Spitfires,
Aces against the storm.

Remember their heroism,
303rd, 401st and 312nd,
Remember their names,
11th, 74th and 609th,
Brothers and comrades,
The Few.

The Battle of Britain calls,
This will be their finest hour.

TheFew

Oh little toy soldier,
Why do you cry?
Wooden hands held tight to your face,
Gluey tears oozing southward,
Unheard sobs in the toy box.

Oh little toy soldier,
What are you afraid of?
Build by corporate talons,
Driven onward by unfeeling authorities,
Led to fight for your spiteful toy box state.

Oh little toy soldier,
Grab your pop gun.
It is time to wage war,
On all of those other toy soldiers.
They are of different toy box colors.

Toy soldier