NO FUCKING WAR
15 writers vent with verse
Different era, same stupidity.
A Love Letter to the Warmongers - Andy Edge
Listen, listen now…
the world's gone sideways again
and our leaders are playing
hot potato with the sun
Here's the scene…
it’s morning and the buffoon shouts I CREATED PEACE!
but by afternoon explosions bloom
come that evening the buffoon shouts FUCK ‘EM
Meanwhile…
Moscow to Tehran, Jerusalem to does it even matter?
everyone's got a dance partner
for this nuclear tango
And Australia…
Australia watches from the bleachers
golf claps
“splendid show, chaps, can’t wait to join ya”
while we check our phones
wondering if tomorrow's
still on the schedule
And the rest of us are out here…
trying to buy groceries
teach our kids algebra
fall in love
fix the sink
you know, LIVING
So now what do we do…
how about we put down the red buttons
pick up literally anything else
a guitar
a garden hose
a green crayon
a grape
a goddamn rubik's cube
Because we're tired…
we’re so tired of watching grown men
cosplay the apocalypse
when all we wanted
was
A MOTHERFUCKING VENTI MOCHA
© Andy Edge 2025
The Remembering - Samantha Lazar
Laurel flew through gunfire. Finally, she saw a different light: a green glow that flashed faintly like fireflies at dusk: a beacon. She flitted back to The Fold as a bomb exploded.
“Lief! We found her!”
He looked up from his breakfast.
She glanced back to see their sister Brynne screaming, trying to pull people out of a burning bus. “Lief! Bring your guitar. Now!”
“It needs tuning.”
“I know it’s her this time. Tune it on the way.”
He did as he was told, squeezing his wings through The Fold.
“Brynne,” Laurel called. “Look away!”
“I can’t!”
Laurel and Lief turned their backs. They knew Brynne would be lost. She had no power to stay in empathy without becoming human.
A missile dropped from the clouds: panic, smoke, ruin.
“Her wings are fading,” Lief cried.
“Start the song!”
Foot soldiers emerged from the dust. Women wailed.
Laurel pointed. "See that light? That’s Brooke! Her eyes are open. Sing!”
Down they flew to clear the rubble, their hands rough from weeks of searching. Singing with tiny voices at first, then soul-stirring breaths of songs from Earth. Brooke emerged; her wings broken, but she joined her siblings in healing music. Soon the vibrations of billions joined in song.
The Remembering began. Dropped weapons melted back to their original metals; boundaries made were forgotten. Children played and feared no more. Abundance would eventually replace greed. For now, the humans sang with all their hearts, and they remembered every word.
© Samantha Lazar 2025
Clipped Wings - Tina, Ginger Ghost Poetry
i used to believe in angels i read a book about angels every night before bed before my prayers i read and read and read about a girl drying visiting heaven with her angel she ate a cloud it was soft and fluffy tasted like cotton candy i look at the sky every night during the sunset when the sky is a neon light of oranges and pink popsicles i imagine her still there with her angel laughing and full of joy i know now these stories were fake…. i carried a book of cards with paintings of angels around me with postcards meant to be mailed instead, i kept them close to my heart i would open them and look and touch the cards finding comfort as my mom yelled and screamed at my dad as my brother yelled and screamed at me my pet fish always died something is always my fault when your mormon, you are baptized age ten white dress a pool of water strangers watching it felt like an execution dead girl walking afterwards, you get the laying of hands where the men of the church place their hands over your head praying a wizard’s incantation the multiple eyes and wings of the angels from revelations be not afraid for you will be abandoned in your time of need wings beat to the screams of husbands in their wives faces threatening to call the sheriff because she is fucking crazy she needs to be locked up she knows about his affair wings beat to the autistics melt down at work from the bullying done by mean girls supervisors will say it was only a miscommunication everyone ignores you does not talk to you anymore the mean girls have dirt on the one of the bosses that is what i get for working where i work blood money wings beat to prepare you for the reaping of war i texted my boyfriend deployed it was seven pm his time sometimes i wake up multiple times a night do you ever feel like you are ever being watched like, you look out your window to see the face of a stranger looking at you? i think you need to adjust your medication Goodnight i guess i never got the guardian angel for a sense of humor sometimes I think when I was baptized something was taken from me now I am empty i used to believe in angels i read a book about angels every night before bed before my prayers i read and read and read about a girl drying that girl will be me but I won’t be in heaven thank god for that
© Tina Leavitt (Ginger Ghost Poetry) 2025
Anything For the Lords & Ladies - H. R. Sinclair
It is the child’s left shoe alone.
It is the mothers empty house.
It is the fatherless son,
or the sonless father,
or no one at all.
It is two pound donations
and trillions in tax.
It is abundance for few
and less than nothing for more.
It is profit for one
death, for all.
It is civilisations crushed,
cultures lost,
languages, lives and love lost.
It is green turned to grey.
It is blue turned to red.
It is all colour stripped away.
It is the shadow cast.
It is the black spot marked.
It’s false speeches and hidden conversations,
rallies, protests and parades
on lands untouched
by bullets and bombs
It is screaming children,
wailing women and broken men.
It is shattered generations,
finished bloodlines
broken branches of the family tree
curses spreading through the cracks
with hatred spun from the roots.
It is the hunter writing the story.
It is history repeating itself.
It is humans repeating themselves.
It is leaders leading from the back
without sight or care of the front.
© H. R. Sinclair 2025
Souls Sold - Laura Catanzano
Future VP writes a book
reflecting on life as an Appalachian
hillbilly, a working class American,
a child raised in poverty.
He assesses the reasons why half a
country, fell head-first for
a billionaire conman.
A future VP acknowledges,
how the wool was pulled over
a coal miners eyes, how much of
a country is compromised of sheep.
How he too, blamed many a politician.
And now he stands,
loyal in the opinions of the masses,
a true lapdog, a future
president?
Do you think he believes the
lies he spews? Or do you think
he just wants you to believe them?
And do you?
Believe
Them?
They tell us ceasefire is the goal. Bring
our troops home, save us from
nuclear war. I'm not sure what or whom
I believe in anymore. Every pocket enriched
with weapons of war. Decades of
manipulation under parties.
red. and blue.
I see the president standing.
His raucous supporters
ready to wage wars on his behalf.
But, the VP is the one I'm most
afraid of. For there's no
price he won't pay. No
declaration of war he won't
proclaim. There's not a
lie he won't campaign on.
He's got the taste
of power now. I heard
he sold
his soul for it.
© Laura Catanzano 2025
Camouflage - Edward Swafford
Can you see through my shapeshifting hues?
Stop me if you can BUT you can’t, I’m only
Following betoken Orwell orders
Every little step to the left = populace minds
Every little step to the right = fanatical fear
The bastardry bastion beat of *that* drum
Can you hear it?
Silent on the streets / deafening from satellite
Scrums of:
“Good evening, there has been
another missile strike on key enemy targets”
Read aloud by poker-faced yessir mainstream
Media alumni, ha, bless their bullshit
Repel. Repeat. Reflect.
Histories of histrionic history play on repeat
Blame me, chalked and painted, canvassed
Rifle at the ready
Weapons of minor destruction curette one
Maybe two civilians, while weapons of mass?
Color me ignorant, ask my in-charge!
I’m just miss-swung, clad in coal-marred
Burnt orange.
© Edward Swafford 2025
Of Gods and Fairies - Sue Banerji
We are fighting
for the Gods
that are neither here nor there
but you and I are.
With their crimson laughter,
little hands, and a pinch of lemonade feelings
of promised lands, the children do exist.
These children keep chasing
the stories of Gods and fairies.
The words gave them thoughts
of bread, blankets, and berries.
Do we see them?
Where could or would they store,
the autographs of celebrities
wearing jackets that declare,
‘I don’t care?’
The children don’t know
how to be a hostage or an orphan.
They know how to count
the piled-up bodies and the spent ammo.
They do know those horrible blasts
that pierce their ears and already pounding hearts.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
They never sowed the seeds of
water, oil, or hatred.
They just happen to be born
on the wrong side of life.
They were never a part of
that evil garden scheme.
How many times do I need to tell you that?
The heaviness of generational
trauma is a size too big to fit them,
like old, oversized clothes
with musty odors
and stitches coming undone
in all the wrong places.
Have you started an Excel
about their losses?
We argue that we know what
the Supreme one looks like and desires.
But the reality of the equality
is lost in stale prayers
and thoughtless verses.
You know, this false worship is not that rare!
A few choices dangle like
a pendulum before us.
We can either embrace our humanity,
Or let the termites of unkindness
eat away at our potential.
May we grow the seeds of compassion.
© Sue Banerji 2025 - Originally published on Medium and revamped for Black Coffee Creative.
BEATITUDES - Stephanie M. Vargo
Your glorious face is lifted
Cloudy blue eyes turned toward heaven
Transfixed by a vision ecstatic
In a trance of pain,
Your lips are oddly open
Intoning words
That no one will ever hear.
The artist has rendered your beatific
Drops, flowing bloody
From the tangled crown of thorns
Piercing your flesh,
The spectator is horrified,
Inexplicably drawn
To the striking display
Of unfathomable religious suffering,
The wounds slicing your side
Your mutilated hands and feet
A tradition swimming in atrocity
Displays terrible inhuman bouts
With holy agony, for the love of God.
We are compelled to worship
To give such immolation the highest reverence
Burning the images into our brains
Where they will remain
Long after the beliefs
Have faded.
© Stephanie M. Vargo 2025 - Originally published on Stephanie's Poetic Trance and revamped for Black Coffee Creative.
NO WAR HERE - Laney Mills
Leaders of nations,
how long will it be?
When will you stop
demanding and conquering?
Attacking over land
centuries old…
developing nuclear bombs.
Do you want it all?
Decisions toward war
affect families and homes.
Causing hunger and anxiety
despite father being home.
Will Daddy have a job?
Will Mommy have a dress?
Will we have food?
Can we keep our pets?
What is a drone, Daddy?
Will the bomb hit our home?
Where will we go
if the bombs demolish our house?
We need a shelter to run to.
My friend Ofer has one.
His father dug a basement
to hide from the bombs.
If they love God, Daddy,
why is there war?
Why do leaders fight
over land ‘til there’s none?
Do they not feel guilty
when people die because of bombs?
Why don’t we take them away
from leaders who are wrong?
Against the night sky,
drones stream across space,
reaching for targets
due to leaders being insane.
”Protect me God, protect my family.
Grant us food and a bed to sleep in.
I don’t want to be afraid
of what will happen to me.
Protect me from leaders
who want to steal from me.”
I love our home, Daddy.
Will you talk to them?
They listen to you!
You are a wise man.
”My dear son,
it is hard to understand
why leaders want land
that doesn’t belong to them.
Do they really need it?
I suppose it’s up to them.
Sleep now, son.
I will protect us as best I can.”
“Hop into bed,
say your prayers.
We will run to the shelter
if bombs land near.
I will wake you up,
grab your Teddy Bear,
we need to keep him safe -
he will be safe down there.
We will bring your sister,
mother will make sure she wakes,
we will hold each other tight
until no bombs are in the air.”
“I want to make a sign, Daddy.”
”NO WAR HERE!”
We can hang it on the door
so no bombs will come near.”
”Let‘s do that later, son,
we must go downstairs,
until there is no War
anywhere near.
It’s not safe outside,
we must stay in.
Trust me, one day,
we will be free out there.”
© Laney Mills 2025
Secular Prisons - Melanie Cole
God sweats in tents and on the side of the road,
and doesn’t seem to give a damn about salvation.
No manna rains down from heaven–
No rain at all, just oppressive humidity and sweltering heat.
Like crossing the desert to the Promised Land;
If the Promised Land were made of drugs and dirty feet.
God promises salvation if only you believe
But quiet skies are secular prisons, privatized for profit and greed.
© Melanie Cole 2025
No Fucking War - Carolyn Jones
Those in glass houses
should not throw stones;
that’s what my grandmother told me
as she shelled peas
with wartime hands,
knuckles arthritic
from ration and grief,
hands that knew
the texture of ash.
But the stone has been thrown.
And now they ride.
The First Horse; red,
rides in a suit stitched from slogans,
his teeth too white
to be anything but false.
He carries no sword,
only a microphone,
a casino chip,
a nuclear code.
He, the maker of noise and fracture,
tears peace from the sky
like wallpaper.
He leaves behind
cities with no shadows,
only smoke.
The Second Horse; black,
he rides with a ledger in one hand
and a scale that tips
only toward hunger.
He does not see the eyes
of the mothers
clawing through rubble
for the sound of their child’s breath.
He speaks of safety,
but it tastes like iron
and starvation.
The Third; palomino pale,
He rides a ghost,
does not speak.
He swallows.
Towns.
Languages.
Histories.
He drinks the blood of old empires
like communion wine
and Hell
follows him
like a flag.
And the Fourth; white,
though it gleams sickly,
He, who was
crowned in conquest,
a bow in his fist,
scriptures rewritten in gunpowder.
He does not conquer land,
he conquers thought,
spores it into lungs and doctrine.
He poisons
the idea
of hope.
And behind them,
Hell comes not with flames
but with silence;
bureaucratic silence,
algorithmic silence,
the kind that forgets your name
before you’re even buried.
But this does not have to be prophecy.
The end is not inevitable.
There is no divine clockwork
ticking us toward doom.
This is not fate.
This is choice,
and we still have one.
No more war.
Not in our name,
not with our silence,
not under the guise
of ancient grievances
or modern greed.
It ends
when we refuse to cheer for blood.
When we demand the ink of peace
over the blood of conquest.
When we see the stranger
and do not turn them into enemy,
but neighbour.
It ends
when we do not look away.
It ends
when we say, together,
No.
Not this time.
Not again.
No fucking war.
© Carolyn Jones 2025
There Are No Winners in War - Sirenskin
there are no winners in war just bodies. terror. children robbed of their futures soldiers haunted by nightmares. just players, and victims. "serve for your country" "protect the homeland" why send them off to a distant land? one we have no place in why do we participate? make our sons and daughters-- into vermin to slaughter? to inflate casualty numbers dirt and grit embedded in skin blood tattooed like sin those soldiers you sent off-- you killed them their bodies may have returned but it's not them inside it's a shell a tormented soul how great a service it must be to die in the name of "freedom" when we all know it's greed men and women White, Black, Hispanic, Muslim all different backgrounds sent to be processed into tokens for government clout a child from a poor family joined to get his tuition free he ends up decapitated arms blown to bits his rosary still hidden under his gear and tac-vest the aged lieutenant-- met his wife in boot camp both deployed, both targets he finds her squad on a mission-- decimated. eviscerated. there's nothing left but pieces he only knows it's her when he finds her mutilated fat, blood and tendons splayed like silly string sprayed on trees her blood is still warm we see the pictures-- they lived the truth photographs are only so much compared to blood and brain on boots not just combatants mothers, sons, daughters doctors and journalists too war isn't glorious, war isn't medals and fame it's human depravity at it's core it's chess for those in power those who risk nothing decimate families and buildings with just a single text message a sole man survives his family his wife and children buried causalities they lay beneath their home rubble crushing bone splintering skulls like eggshell he's all alone what does he have to live for when it's all gone-- and there's no point in going on? there are no winners in war only those in power yearning for more treating human and animal life as poker chips gambling lives and livelihoods all for kicks and power trips the world has been robbed of many beautiful souls some old, some young some who never got to grow their bones and organs fester and rot burials? there are no cemeteries just mountains of bodies rotting in the summer heat someone's daughter, father mother, or son someone's teacher, friend even those who serve god-- none are spared only wealth matters. only power. old white men with dementia tripping over their feet treat their power like pleasure a toy a toddler snaps in anger there are no winners in war. only suffering permeating the soil and rivers.
© Sirenskin 2025
By the Azov Sea - Steve Elliot
Endless wheat ripples in the wind.
Rapeseed spills sumptuous yellows,
shimmering in the unfenced distance.
In the cerulean lagoons of the sky,
clouds drift like white schooners.
Behind the Azov's diminutive waves,
boundless steppes stretch far away.
Rickety fences along a rutted road;
an old house shuttered and worn;
riot of growth in a prolific garden:
a babushka wields a prodigious rake
and the black soil yields to her will —
an abundance, a cornucopia
of flowers, fruit and corn.
The crone glances up, squint-eyed.
Three geese fly by in V-formation,
beating quiet synchronised wings,
receding into the far blue reaches.
A fighter shatters the peaceful sky—
death travelling faster than sound
to the other side’s haunted beaches.
The sea bleeds into the horizon,
where the waters kiss the sky.
But this serene horizontal is a lie;
beyond it lies another front—
long lines of entrenched mud
where the loam is rich in bone
and watered with men’s blood.
..........
Lest We Forget
Artillery takes no prisoners;
it is a careless butcher.
And friendly fire lacks judgment —
bullets have no mercy.
I will spare you the details;
you have an imagination.
Headlines of remote conflicts,
read gobbling Weetabix,
thinking, ‘Will I make the 8.05?’
create disturbing ripples,
petered out by Waterloo.
Who can blame you?
You’ve much to do!
But wait! If you had been there,
after the blast, and seen that housewife,
legless and dying, with question marks
in her fading eyes…
If you had seen the child torn in two,
or the grandma melted into her bed,
and all the other horrors…
Imagine it all in your own backyard!
Well, it happened once
but everyone’s forgotten.
© Steve Elliot 2025
HER - Wildflower
initial priestess
slightly moving
lustrous light
caressing
her sleek
enticing
body
chanting
ancient spells
evoking
HER
the hall
imbued with
aureate loom
silver shivers
drip
the heavy air
tingles
with amplifying
voices
strain
increases
becoming
tangible
///
grayness
smothers
lowered heads
bent
in abjection
no vibrancy
only the
concave sound
of knees
hitting
the ground
the dreary air
filled with
consistent
murmuring
monotonic
dull
sallow subservience
///
feral strength
trapped
crushed
frail innocence
primordial wisdom
burnt
at stake
afraid of
what can’t be
controlled
forced
predominance
to subjugate
the untamable
///
fear
HER
return
© Wildflower 2025
Occupied - D. A. Springer
They say pick a side.
I say I been a target.
Marked by melanin,
born into battles
I never agreed to bleed for.
My hands?
Occupied.
Holding breath in hostile spaces.
Holding back rage in boardrooms.
Holding down joy that tries to slip
through cracks they swear don’t exist.
You want war?
I got one already.
Every step outside is strategy.
Every smile in the system is resistance.
Every night I come home is a damn win.
Don’t draft me.
I’m already enlisted
in the army of staying alive,
in the campaign to keep my kids soft
while the world stays hard.
I’m not fighting your proxy fires.
Not dying in wars
that won’t spell my name right in the history books.
My fight is sacred.
Personal.
Spiritual.
Survival ain’t passive — it’s warfare
with no medals, just memories
of what I kept breathing for.
So yeah—
No fucking war.
Not when I’m out here
guarding peace like a fortress.
Not when hope costs this much.
I stay occupied
with living.
And that’s a battle
you’ll never fully understand.
© D. A. Springer (Vision2Verse) 2025Memorialize us all?
*Opening video embed courtesy of Ricky Esquivel.
**Closing video embed courtesy of Tim Millaway.
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
Thanks be with EVERY writer featured in this piece.
We may be powerless, but we sure as fuck are not voiceless.
Now this is so good, glad I could join the company of all these wonderful writers ✍🏾✍🏾✍🏾