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Amateur Poetry Volume 1
This volume will be dedicated to all those amateur poets out there who wish to get their name noticed. If you wish to add on to this volume, feel free to put the poetry into a book of its own and add it to the volume sequence. Though, please, ensure that this title page remains in your volume and that it truly is your own work.
Thank you,
Cole Griner
Blood of Oil, Tears of Bullets, Hearts of Ice
by Cole Griner
War.
The greatest folly of mankind,
And the most potent of all, I find.
On oil and steel these countries dine,
So that they may push to the Volga or Rhine.
Nationalism takes hold, the people sing,
Awaiting orders from their "righteous" king.
To nations bordered and afar,
Guns, bullets, and death they bring.
War carried out, casualties mount up
As more men equip their bullpups.
Death and destruction
They pour into their cups.
Victory and defeat, both in sight.
Neither country fully right.
But each combatant continues on
In order to finish their horrid fight.
Over the hills and plains men walk,
Their eyes, focused, like hawks.
Professors of combat, their guns chalk.
To the enemy's capital for a lecture they flock.
Men, young and old,
For their country they are bold
To kill and conquer they are told.
And so their hearts grow arctic cold.
Victory achieved
Or so they believed
For there was no winning
When families grieved
Maimed, yet no crutch
All that is gained,
Well, not much.
Widows and children, pained
Mothers and fathers, tear stained
War, but a bane.
On history a smudge is placed
Of which wishes to be erased
A time of bayonets affixed
An era of hostilities to never be fixed
Eventually forgotten, the memory is erased
Until one day an old minefield faced
War's fetid aftertaste.
Bullets
by Cole Griner
Whiz!
The sound of a bullet's fly-by
As men cower in trenches
Praying not to die.
Lifeless branches on a scorched tree bow
The pungent and bitter winter air
A broken man lying in the snow
His thousand yard stare
The maimed man, his limbless token.
His bloody bandages tightly woven.
He wishes to head back home
To those he shall not see
For even when he makes it back
His loved ones read their eulogies.
Amateur Poetry V1
Written By: Cole Griner
Fiction
This volume will be dedicated to all those amateur poets out there who wish to get their name noticed. If you wish to add on to this volume, feel free to put the poetry into a book of its own and add it to the volume sequence. Though, please, ensure that this title page remains in your volume and that it truly is your own work.
Thank you,
Cole Griner
War.
The greatest folly of mankind,
And the most potent of all, I find.
On oil and steel these countries dine,
So that they may push to the Volga or Rhine.
Nationalism takes hold, the people sing,
Awaiting orders from their "righteous" king.
To nations bordered and afar,
Guns, bullets, and death they bring.
War carried out, casualties mount up
As more men equip their bullpups.
Death and destruction
They pour into their cups.
Victory and defeat, both in sight.
Neither country fully right.
But each combatant continues on
In order to finish their horrid fight.
Over the hills and plains men walk,
Their eyes, focused, like hawks.
Professors of combat, their guns chalk.
To the enemy's capital for a lecture they flock.
Men, young and old,
For their country they are bold
To kill and conquer they are told.
And so their hearts grow arctic cold.
Victory achieved
Or so they believed
For there was no winning
When families grieved
Maimed, yet no crutch
All that is gained,
Well, not much.
Widows and children, pained
Mothers and fathers, tear stained
War, but a bane.
On history a smudge is placed
Of which wishes to be erased
A time of bayonets affixed
An era of hostilities to never be fixed
Eventually forgotten, the memory is erased
Until one day an old minefield faced
War's fetid aftertaste.
Whiz!
The sound of a bullet's fly-by
As men cower in trenches
Praying not to die.
Lifeless branches on a scorched tree bow
The pungent and bitter winter air
A broken man lying in the snow
His thousand yard stare
The maimed man, his limbless token.
His bloody bandages tightly woven.
He wishes to head back home
To those he shall not see
For even when he makes it back
His loved ones read their eulogies.