Compilation: Bombs Bursting in Air and Fireworks
A Poetic Reckoning of Freedom, Fireworks, and Fallout
✦ What if the explosions we cheer echo too closely the ones we survived?
✦ Introduction (Before the poems)
💥 Bombs Bursting: A Fireworks Poetry Challenge
Fireworks—and those “bombs bursting in air”—mean different things to different people.
For some, they’re joy, freedom, memory.
For others, they’re panic, trauma, echoes.This collection gathers voices—some fictional, some real—on what it means to live in the shadow of celebration.
To witness color explode across the sky and feel both awe and ache.These are poems of memory, resistance, loss, defiance.
Some weep.
Some scream.
Some just stare at the sky and wonder why it had to be this loud.
Winners will be announced tomorrow at 6:00pm ET.
But for now—here are all your poems. Thank you for trusting us with your genius.
Every one of you should be proud.
If your poem isn’t listed, it may have exceeded the length limit or didn’t follow submission guidelines.
🎖 Vote for Honorable Mention
Whether you submitted a poem or not, you’re invited to vote for a 4th-place Honorable Mention.
You cannot vote for your own poem, but you can vote even if you didn’t participate.Read deeply. Choose wisely.
👇 Cast your vote here:
👉 VOTE: Honorable Mention Poll
✦ The Poems
Table of Contents
(Poems begin below)
1. Bombs Bursting in Air
bombs bursting in air
have stopped—
giving way to sunrise,
making space for the world to go on.
I’m holding the hand of this young soldier
whose name I don’t know,
whose mother, very soon,
will receive news
no mother should ever get.
And yet—
it’s better
than a notice:
“lost without a trace.”
At least she will know.
He’s saying something.
I lean closer—
“I’m so sorry. Slava Ukraini!”
With that, he goes—
an unknown soldier
whose last words
would’ve got him persecuted
in the place he called home.
I kiss his forehead
and pray for his soul
to go to heaven,
where no bombs are bursting—
a haven of peace and justice—
where he’s welcomed as a hero,
not for killing,
but for staying true to his heart.
Not for conquest,
but for fighting for love.
“Oh my child, go in peace,”
I whisper through quiet tears.
“Find my son there,
and kiss him for me—
hug him like your brother,
for he is...
...born under the same stars
that once told us
of the birth of a savior.
Born of the same mother
who walks with you
all the way to Kolkata,
through violence and cruelty,
bursting bombs and rivers of blood,
pointless death and suffering.
She’s there to say:
‘You didn’t die for nothing!’
For as long as the sun still rises,
the world will go on.
And one day,
the bombs
will have become stars
telling tales of the human heart—
tales of never-dying love.
2. Untitled
They took the time
to hang a flag
suspended across a
construction site.
Between a digger
and a paver—
it rippled in
red, white, and blue.
The men had their cameras
to catch the image in
perpetuity.
There was no work today.
It is a strange thing
to celebrate independence
from tyranny and oppression.
Both seem to have come ashore—
the redcoats turned into hats.
Survivors
frozen with fear
of bombs bursting in air
despite the color bursts.
Land of the free.
3. Fireworks
This Love
in sound, I can search it.
in words, attempt it—
ineffable depths,
to you, try to speak it.
for this love—
not enough.
in touch,
connection to feel it—
heat gently brushing,
sticking, dragging,
arousing, flushing.
for this love—
not enough.
in visions, we render
blissful eyes of our dreaming
with a sight of this love.
for this love—
not enough.
in your smell, I can taste it—
ferrel-scented entanglement.
for this love—
not enough.
surfaces pressing,
insides enmeshing,
tensing, releasing,
hearts as one beating.
lips softly gliding, skipping,
breath gently seeping,
air of yours, breathing.
throats humming sweetly—
in seeking love’s fullness
by becoming the other...
this love.
4. Bombs Bursting In Air
Can the difficulties of her life
Be measured by the pages
Ripped from a journal—
Forgotten?
Can a picture remind her
Of a sacred
Gathering?
The boom and awe of an explosion reverberate
From the blank of a night
When we sit up
From sleep
To wonder.
The pop, splat, and shower
Of starlight
In an
Open air
Pulls her closer to a parent.
There’s a boom—
Separate from fireworks,
From the clatter of
Thrown utensils in
A fight that boils to
Spill in the kitchen.
The timer wears on,
And the dial is set
To simmer.
When the boom sounds on an empty blank night,
And you wake up with a toddler—your toddler—
We soothe and shiver.
We are apart and, again, apart.
But minute by minute—
We are together.
We are choosing each other.
We trust.
5. ONE KID’S NIGHTMARE
On
my first
outing
to our
local
fireworks,
things
did not
go
well.
I
was five years old—
everything
was
big,
and
the
sounds,
the
booms,
the
massive
explosions
of
colors
terrified
me.
The
noise was
a
threat, and
when
I looked up
above,
I knew that
I
was not safe
from
the fireworks
falling
that were
going
to burn me
to
a crisp.
I
screamed.
I
cried.
I
threw a tantrum.
I
begged to leave
as
each firework
felt
like it was about
to
sizzle on top of me.
All
of it had
me
on edge, yelling—
just
like Chicken Little:
“The sky is falling!”
“The sky is falling!”
In
tears, my words fell on deaf
ears.
“This is fun!” they laughed.
“No, it’s not,” I thought to myself,
and
I could not understand
why
everyone else around
me
was oohing and
aaahing
with big smiles
on
their faces.
6. i heard it before it landed
i’ve seen men blow up without a sound
jaw twitching, eyes wet, fists still high
like they ain’t heard the bell
like something inside refused to stay down
like war followed them home in their bones
the gym don’t smell like sweat no more
it smells like cordite and confession
like someone prayed too late on the mats
like promises made to ghosts who can’t answer back
i sparred a man with a hole in his side
gunshot scar, stitched crooked
he said, “i’m tired of talkin’ shit with no hands to back it”
so we boxed
not for points
but for something we couldn’t name
something that lived between impact and echo
bombs burst different when they’re inside you
when you’re swinging with ghosts in your gloves
when the only voice in your head sounds like someone you lost
when every combination is a conversation with the dead
one time
i heard a kid cry after a knockout
not from pain
from remembering who he hit
from seeing his father’s fists in his own hands
and i get it
i do
i lost someone once
not to a bullet
but to life being cruel at the wrong time
he died in silence, like a punch that lands too clean
every july 4th
i hear fireworks
and flinch
not ‘cause of fear
but because he would’ve loved this part—
the way they light up the dark
and it hurts
that he’ll never
hear
the bang
7. For the Ones Who Heard Real Bombs
They call it freedom—
these fireworks booming above cul-de-sacs and beer bellies,
each pop dressed up like celebration.
But I’ve never loved the sound.
Too much like a slammed door.
Too much like the kind of silence
that comes right after a scream.
I never fought in a war.
Never fled one either.
But I’ve seen the way people smile
while the sky explodes—
and wondered who taught us
that joy should sound like violence.
Maybe that’s the part that sticks—
how we light fuses
and clap for the destruction,
how we sell it to kids
in shiny plastic wrapping.
The anthem says bombs bursting in air
like it’s proof we made it.
But I think about the ones
who didn’t.
I think about the people
who hear that sound and don’t feel proud—
just tense,
just tired,
just done.
Maybe I’m one of them.
Or maybe I’m just starting to see
how even celebration
can carry shrapnel.
Either way,
I don’t look up anymore.
8. Love Bombs Bursting
If there are to be any bombs bursting in air,
let them be love bombs,
powered by the greatest force in Creation.
If there is to be any bursting,
let it be the walls that wrap us
in the illusion of separation and scarcity.
Let these walls burst open
with the light of truth and compassion.
Let the air shiver and shimmer,
drenched in the light of Divinity.
May bitterness and hatred burn in the bursting,
and their ashes render new understanding
and possibility.
Let this be the age
of love awakening—
the one our forefathers and foremothers
went for but couldn't quite reach.
And if there are any bombs,
may they burst into fireworks
on the altar of the heart,
each burst a vow:
I will not turn away.
I will not close my heart.
I will love,
and I will stay the course in love.
And by doing so,
will help turn
the course of history.
9. Pyrotechnic Reverie
Amid the warm bustle of cake and chatter
I count thirty-seven birthday candles—
flickering fuses sparking with hopeful light
then launch my flare like thunder:
“Lovely fuchsia dress —
if you’d worn it last year.”
I lean back, sip on the afterglow,
and bask in the aftershock.
My words explode like cherry bombs,
her sugar-crusted cheeks flaring ember red.
I savour the static crackle of triumph.
White sparks zip across the charged air,
streaking the gulf between us—
my pulse a hammer
against the hush.
I survey the fallout of my quiet triumph:
glasses clink like crackling embers,
a whoosh sighs the hush,
eyes fix on smoke-laced flickers,
transfixed by this fireworks symphony—
my heartbeat echoing each pulsed flare.
I grip the room’s fuse like reins,
the crunch of broken silence beneath,
and edge closer, ready to ignite again.
I lick a fingerful of green icing from her cake—
wide eyes scatter sparks in the gloom.
In the indigo silence of my grand finale,
spoons tremble like late echoes,
ashes of anticipation drift—
this blaze of sparks is my reign.
I draw a charged breath,
lean in—
to reignite the rupture.
I purr,
“Go on, fuchsia darling — light your sky.”
A pyrotechnic reverie crackles between us.
I am the fuse,
your final spark.
10. The War Began With a Bang
The war began with a bang
And it just kept ringing
And ringing
And ringing
It wasn’t all pandemonium—
No, the sound was small:
The high school choir singing our anthem
Muffled by the distance
And the hockey rink glass
A gunshot ringing in a dream
Where I didn’t bleed
I woke suddenly
Reaching for a rifle that wasn’t there
I’ve always been a patriot
But every pulling the action back
Stings;
Red, red, red
I turned eighteen
Dropping into the middle of the battlefield
My ignorance was a No-Man’s-Land
I ducked under fire
From both sides
Why would I choose?
Instead, I fight—
Though my body has forgotten
The heat of a barrel
And the bite of a stock
My hands burn from the rope
Fireworks erupt behind the bell I ring
Ringing in solitude
Reigning in peace
Atop this bell tower
I whisper hope under my breath
Drowned out by the erupting sky lights
The war ended with a bang
11. Night Blue Night Black
Mesmerized—
night blue, sand
warm, rumbles of swirling sea.
Your body melts into
mine, and I breathe
contentment.
Awestruck as
fireworks boom and startle,
smiles illuminated in
the dark.
Point
out our favorites—those
blue and red glares—
and observe
this moment of
freedom.
Bombs bursting in air.
Paralyzed—
night black, sand
whips, groans of emaciated bellies.
Their bodies piled in shallow graves,
desolate streets, desperation.
Numb to weapons
of war.
It’s the silence
when their babies stop
breathing
and help has
stopped coming.
When their world
is left
abandoned.
Bombs bursting in air.
12. Little Boys Boom
Red and round as can be, a cherry bomb,
the world on fire with a little green cap
curling right out from whence it came.
If the vine is life, and life is fleeting like a bird,
then it was delivered by one named Enola Gay—
flushed out from the grand ol’ U.S. of A.
You detonate it with the sharp edge of your teeth.
It pops, spurting soft guts everywhere all at once.
Your tongue stirs in the night, alive again, tasting
seeds ripe with forgotten promises,
fireworks fruiting mayhem in your mouth,
bursting like an atomic habit, blinding—
like it’ll get you closer to what you want.
Like it will satisfy you this time.
In the weight of July, in heat serpentine,
every color in the sky—fantastico, green grape,
cosmic purple rain and sweet clementine.
Some mothers can say it’s just people having fun,
when they play with power;
some hold the severed hand
plucked from their only son.
They mark the minute, the hour, the day
darkened by the shadow
of Enola Gay.
13. Forearm Fuse
With an offering in flame, a droplet of crimson
kissed the dark blanket.
A salty pinhole that spoke to the play to come.
Lover's eyes widened before aluminum and magnesium.
Their gaze was ensnared by the sodium.
My body moved closer, the silver stream chops in lithium.
Each kiss I blew upon their sky miracle of the flesh.
As lips touched, red sparks strontium fire
that ignited the Jackson Pollock-esque apocalyptic passion.
I sank my amour to the hilt into their compassion.
This lachrymose fountain erupted, a sacramental font firma.
Anointsweetheart in madness.
Hear the last ragged fire.
A counterpoint.
A crashing thy.
In this double hammer moment, we were one.
Key the pianist for our bodies bound,
shackled by the sacred ritual in this Pyrenees world.
I was the painter, sculptor, conductor
and the ozone my masterpiece.
This became our shotgun-hymn,
a stage set for a dark, surreal scene with a violin score.
Button sewn skin-tight, my dress stained,
wine of our consummation,
acknowledge the standing ovation of the shadows.
The curtains drew open, revealing a world bathed in the radiance.
Our own, private Armageddon.
My hell – blinding gates of heaven, all eyes on me, curtsy.
Dry ice, neon strobe, they reclose, to open nevermore.
14. Pyrotechnic eyes: Sparks and tears
"Boom," "bang," they keep popping—
are you looking up too?
Sharp bursts, another flash
of memories—of you.
I turn around and sit,
I pull my phone and scroll,
then without shame, I jump
deep down the rabbit hole.
Two years ago, same day,
pyrotechnic shower—
my hand holding your cheek,
in your hair, a flower.
I beg my eyes to stop,
and keep holding those tears.
I swipe and swipe some more,
till we get to last year.
A picture holding hands,
and one of us smiling.
Upon my inspection—
a truth reconciling...
The sky explodes with light,
but not sparks in your eyes.
When did the magic fade?
Why did it become lies?
My phone falls from my hands,
the tears win, my eyes pour.
I sit alone tonight—
the sky explodes once more.
Is this independence?
Was my freedom squandered?
If I don't want this fate,
can I be reconquered?
15. Cocktail Hour
A simple cocktail,
my favourite—by far:
Two parts gasoline,
stirred into a dirty, long-necked glass.
Garnished with an old rag.
Served immediately, flaming.
Pairs well with civil unrest.
A guaranteed hit.
A real riot.
16. Bombs Bursting in the Air
(POV of a War Child)
On a summer night, I laid down
in the tender lap of my mom.
She caressed my head
with her gentle embrace.
I felt the peace—
like heaven’s grace.
She sang me a lullaby of her home,
the long-lost land, ruined by bombs.
She had tasted and lived despair—
ache of loss, sting of fear.
The bombs bursting in the air
made her weak, frail, and bare.
Her voice, so sweet, dissolved around.
Her words poured like an angel’s song.
I looked in her eyes—beautiful and bold.
Years of struggle, quietly told.
She spoke of two young lovers,
mutilated on their wedding day,
their joy reduced to rubble and clay.
She spoke of her aunt,
her nephew Farhan,
who lost her child still held in arms.
My mother spoke—
I kept listening—
until a siren pierced the evening.
As the sound grew loud, she panicked too.
She pushed me away, ran to the room,
carried the infant—my brother—in gloom.
I ran outside to check the sound,
sprinted to the meadows where people screamed.
“A missile is coming!” they cried, panicked.
I asked, “Where?” They pointed south.
I looked back—my heart pounding out.
The missile was swimming toward my home.
I ran to ami, to take her out—
but the missile was faster.
It struck my house.
I stumbled back in the wave of the blast.
My world was torn.
It fell apart...
I searched for ami,
through smoke and stone—
but all I found
was ash
and bone.
(Note: “ami” means mother.)
17. What Remains After Fire
The air was velvet-black,
smothered in ash.
Even the stars closed their eyes.
You found me in the ruins—
a body still warm,
but nothing left to save.
Your voice was flint
striking the raw nerve of me.
Every word—
another small explosion.
We didn’t speak of hope.
We knew better.
You traced my scars
like cartographers of a broken continent,
lips soft, hands cruel,
as if beauty could survive this.
“Let it burn,” you said.
“There’s nothing left but us.”
So we kissed—
not tender,
but hungry,
as if the world owed us its last breath.
Every sound outside was ending—
the shatter of glass dreams,
the groan of foundations giving way.
The streets moaned red,
and still, you pressed deeper.
This was not survival.
It was defiance.
You ravaged me
like we were the last two names
on the tongue of time.
Like pain was holy.
Like ruin was ours to command.
When the ceiling cracked
and the heavens gave in,
we didn’t run.
We held each other
as the bombs burst in air,
and knew
that love—
if it ever lived—
looked like this:
two shadows entwined
in the wreckage.
18. She Who Split the Sky
she crouched at the edge of reason
and tore silence
like an unwanted cloth—
that screamed, wounded,
because it was the only silence she had.
her knees, carved from defiance,
her mouth stitched with riddles,
she sat—
and time folded inward,
until the clock lost its hands,
and bled ink instead of hours.
she felt her ribs swell
with the memory
of a flame.
folded in the walls of her lungs,
a house that once dreamed her into being.
it grew—
needy, unapologetic,
pushing outward
through bone, through breath—
but nothing happened.
the wall behind her
forgot it was stone
and dissolved into feathers,
while the air held its breath,
as if she might name it—
with light and sharp colour.
and in that stillness
the world remembered
how it feels
to defy gravity
and split open like a fruit,
watching her combust
into the sound of mirrors shattering underwater.
19. Glitter and Smoke
The bombs bursting in air
The crowd below us seemed so small.
We stood above everyone,
Speaking of a future—
A future of forever.
Until the bomb burst through the shadows.
She was radiant. Calm.
She knew how to light a fire.
She didn’t pause, only moved steady,
Moving toward us with purpose.
Her long black hair flowed with every step,
Her amber eyes locked in place, unwavering.
When she finally reached us,
She was perfectly poised.
Then—
The first bomb leapt into the sky,
And glitter came sparkling down.
With it,
The words of the future I was promised
Fell too.
A future that was never mine—
Already hers.
The words vanished
Faster than the red, white, and blue in the sky,
But left me smothered in smoke.
She simply smiled,
Knowing she was the one who lit the match
That made my colors fly,
Only to disappear
Into the shadow.
20. a good cause
no one walks into a battlefield
expecting to be anything short of a martyr
no dreams of a long life
tomorrow is the price
you hope you paid for a good cause
i wasn't ready
too impaired by the naiveté of youth
and love
(i was in love)
one second surrendering to the hands of my beloved
the next picking shrapnel out of my body
i returned a half-weight
deemed myself lucky to have survived
you
and all that came with your kindness
i couldn't take it
any more than i could move on
we didn’t start the war
never sat at the drawing board
carving borders through sweet pillow talk
soldiers march and they shoot
to kill
i couldn’t bear to watch
i was just hoping i’d miss
returning a half-weight
deemed myself lucky to have survived
tomorrow came and comes still
like a revolving door
so what exactly did i sacrifice?
no dreams of a happy life
i didn’t start the war
but i know
i paid the price
21. Fireworks – bombs in their Sunday Bests
Humankind carries this deeply rooted violence.
I’d like to believe I myself am some sort of exception—
a peaceful being
amongst those violent creatures with their baring teeth.
And for the most part,
that may be true.
But then again…
I find my entire body trembling when I’m being wronged—
like a wounded animal wishing for revenge,
bleeding out
on the mossy forest floor.
Humans have sought battle
for as long as we have walked this earth.
What started as simply surviving
turned into something darker—
millions of deaths
only to prove a point.
How far will we go?
With this in mind,
it should not come as a surprise
that even on celebratory days
we find a way to rip silence apart
as if it were an ex-lover’s letter
with a big “Please, forgive me”
scrawled in unsteady handwriting.
We drench the entire sky
in blood-red sparkles
that make the stars jealous.
— A soldier home from war:
does he not see his dead friend’s white shirt,
soaked by blood,
when he looks up?
We call them fireworks.
But oh—
in reality,
they are bombs
that got all dolled up
for their special day.
22. The Bombs Bursting
I am miles
and years away
from the bombs bursting—
and yet they remain
chiseled onto my skull.
If needed,
I would do it again.
Time does not eliminate the memories.
Therapy aids in coming to terms.
Medication helps regulate.
Journaling—
well, that's where the healing is.
I discover by dawn’s early light
in the company of once-warriors—
companionship and camaraderie
even without the fireworks.
We’ve lived through the real fireworks.
Our patriotism doesn’t demand such things.
Our patriotism demands
love of country
while recognizing the wounds it carries.
As we continue to heal,
as we continue to help heal our land,
we can hear the bombs
bursting in the distance.
And we salute the fallen—
for we know.
We know.
23. Colors
Loud boom
Crazy rude neighbors
Cats hiding in my couch—
shaking, crying,
meowing, stressed
Illegal actions tolerated
day and night
Celebrating bombs
and bloody freedom
Make it stop
24. Untitled
Bombs bursting in air
cause laughter, pain,
and harm.
Talk about the chemicals
that create the explosion—
so hard to pronounce,
but so toxic
that a hospital sounds as delicious
as an apple pie.
That’s harm for one.
Harm for many,
from these bombs,
from this national anthem,
also exist.
The aunties.
The immigrants.
Many of whom get tested—
not in a classroom,
but in a rainforest
in South America.
The creation of America,
the War of 1812,
and those bombs—
lure these A+ students.
Students who have endured
nature’s test,
violence’s test,
kidnapping’s test,
just to hear the words:
“Deportation” and “Warrants.”
Where bombs burst,
hatred against immigrants explodes.
The combination—
having been slowly tipping
to burst every day
since January 2025.
The sounds
were just invisible
back then.
✦ Closing Note
Not all fireworks are celebrations.
Some are reminders.
Of lives lost, wars fought, families shattered.
Of trauma we’ve dressed in sparkle.So the next time the sky lights up—
remember, someone down here might still be flinching.You don’t have to stop watching.
Just watch a little more kindly.
✦ Call to Action
🔗 If this collection moved you, share it. Forward it to someone who needs to feel seen this weekend. Or leave a comment with your own story—whether awe or ache.
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They are so good. Picking one or even 10 as best would be impossible for me...just glad to be here. Amazing.
Oh my goodness...what a powerful collection of poetry! Thank you for this idea, organizing it, and bringing this to us. (I read them all... and if I had to pick one, which is definitely hard in this group of poems (!), it would be #20. Thank you again! 🙏🙏🙏💚✨️