The drone and the groan of the track upon sand As an armoured car rolls over the land Its cumbersome movement, the desert it stirs By the haze of the heat the terrain is disturbed
Outside, it’s bleak, not a green blade of grass Just the crack and the spit like the splinter of glass The heat beats down fiercely making barren the ground Inside only by sweat are inhabitants drowned
Excitement and fear as emotions run high The chests of our warriors swelling with pride Yet nerves are on edge, the horizon is scanned The route is familiar, just as it was planned
Eyes glance at each other, as the whoosh they do hear The sound of a mortar launched somewhere quite near A moment of panic, then one of relief A feeling of terror, though only quite brief Senses are heightened, and vigilant eyes See a trail of black smoke coming from the roadside
‘Under attack’ is the message relayed ‘Back up requested, please do not delay’ Positions are given and soon comes the sound Of the spinning of blades as the copter flies round
Under the blaze of the full midday sun Insurgents caress the steel barrels of guns The rattle of cartridges spent as they fly Exchanges of fire flash across the blue skies
And whilst fears are replaced with adrenalin rush Its suddenly ended by deafening hush.
Poet’s Note: The poem aims to create an image of the reality of modern warfare.. its ending is deliberately ambiguous. The poem is part of a series written by the author that focuses on different perspectives on war.
Fiona Jamieson has been writing poetry since childhood and is currently embarking on her first published works. Her current work mixes mythology and fantasy, using the central character of the Goddess Isis. Her latest writing is around the Goddess 'search for wisdom' and we see her meeting some of the great minds of time. She considers the issues of knowledge and wisdom and the past and how this influences current thinking. She illustrates her own poetry. Fiona also writes war poetry.
Hoisting the bisexuality on a figurine, I crawl back to anxiety. The primitive instinct was taking over the stitches on a snake. What do you want from a moon for the drooling mouth of a seashell? Braiding the breasts against
All braced to face the day, The diurnal engine ignited, Gently revving up, Barging into the quietude Of the colony, With a daily prayer escaping His mumbling lips, As he steered mildly Into the road, To see a car pulled
We are all in a race, the race for being first, From childhood we have been told you have to come first or your life will be as meaningless as dust. People are struggling to be appreciated and be known,
Travelling through these barren lands, Thoughts unprecedented flickered in my mind. And here I was standing near the diversion, Wondering which road do I travel by? Lying in front of me were two distant roads, One grassy and frequently travelled