No Glory in the Trenches
So many men never made it home
No Glory in the Trenches
Mud to their knees and worse inside,
they crouched beneath a gunmetal sky.
Rats knew their names. They came at night,
same as the shells, without a cry.
The sergeant’s boots were torn and red,
he walked like men who’ve danced with death.
He never flinched when someone fell,
just muttered, counted under breath.
No grand parades, no bugle calls,
just tea gone cold and letters torn.
They dreamed of beds and Sunday roast,
not medals, not a hero’s form.
The stench of blood, of trench and smoke,
clung to their coats, their skin, their bones.
They joked too loud, they drank too fast,
they carved their names on sticks and stones.
The boy from Leeds was barely grown.
He passed the salt, then said his prayers.
He died before his stew was cold,
still clutching dogtags, full of airs.
They talk of war like honour’s prize,
as if the cost was worth the line.
Walk through these pits, then say again
how noble is the counting line.
They fought because they had to fight.
They marched, they crawled, they didn’t choose.
They came back ghosts, or didn’t come.
There is no glory when you lose.
My mam was lucky, her brothers all came home.
God bless the ones who didn’t.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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The Roads Remember Us
Stanza 1 The roads of Europe whisper names, Of those who walked before, Through cobbled streets and fading wars, And open café doors. Each stone has felt a thousand dreams, Each bridge has learned to stand, Between the weight of yesterday And futures yet unplanned. Stanza 2 In Paris rain, in Berlin light, In Rome’s eternal air, The clocks all move at different speeds, Yet hope is everywhere. A train departs at early dawn, With strangers side by side, Their stories packed in silent bags, No need for flags or pride. Stanza 3 We carry more than passports do, We carry fragile days, A mother’s voice, a lover’s note, A map of former ways. The language of a tired heart Needs no translated line, For grief and joy have learned to live In every border sign. Stanza 4 The mountains guard old promises, The seas remember cries, Of sailors chasing distant stars In unfamiliar skies. And still the children draw new worlds On classroom window glass, Where chalk becomes tomorrow’s road And fear is taught to pass. Stanza 5 We are not made of single roots, But many woven tight, Of wars survived and peace rebuilt From broken bricks of night. Our cities bloom from history, From ashes into flame, Each generation writes again What freedom means by name. Final Stanza So walk these streets with open eyes, And listen when they say: “You are the bridge between two times, The voice of yesterday.” For every step you choose in light Makes darkened corners small, And Europe lives in simple acts— In rising after fall.
By Iazaz hussaina day ago in Poets
Comments (2)
Even though i don’t know them, it’s still sad their lives were cut short.
nice