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Damian McCarthy.
Their Problem Our Solution
so what is this
thing
this thing we call
war
what do we make
of it
what is it for
can we form an opinion
can we find solid
ground
can we beat the
same drum
and sound the same
sound
does war enter our
thoughts
when we're alone
by ourselves
do we think - analyse
or leave it up on
the shelf
waiting to fall
to fall on our heads
as we lay safe and
warm
asleep in our beds
Wake up
will you please
my friends in this
room
this needn't be
a tale
of sadness and gloom
but of power
and freedom
opinion and rights
of intelligent interpretation
not political shite
we've all come together
through a common
theme
we love living life
and we love being
being
so is it just me
am i going mad
but this war with
iraq
don't it feel
really bad - to
you
and you
to you and you
we know what's going
down
we've checked out
this coup
and lets face it
whether we're
hypocritical christians
fanatical muslims
peace loving krauts
or arrogant yids
whatever we do
we leave to our
kids
and i want my son
to think his dads
sound
a fool to no one
and prepared to
stand ground
for not just what
he believes in
but what he feels
to be right
could they ever
be wrong
will we always sit
tight
as it falls out
of sight
in a political blur
to appear later
on
as a wrong bloody
war
so come now my friends
and lets make a
pact
for the sake of
our future
lets agree that
we'll act
not as courageous
young martyrs
who leave but their
souls
but as a movement
of people
pursuing like minded
goals
to be shared amongst
all
not bartered or
sold
lets do it ok
cos soon we'll be
old
and what could be
worse
when we're waiting
for death
to say to ourselves
If only IF.
6 11 04
Hubert Wilson
A son, a brother, a husband, a father, a veteran. On the second anniversary
of George W. Bush proclaiming the end of major combat operations in Iraq.
Copyright 2005
Emma Seaberry
The aircraft is
loaded and ready on the tarmac.
Tonight for Delaware
he flies.
A world away from
this land of sand and heat.
To her land of lush
greenery and cool nights.
He and others finally
aboard.
The aircraft is
filled with silence.
During his year
away
He thought of her
azure eyes.
What would they
hold on his return?
Would they be the
same?
Would he be too
different?
Would they reclaim
their past together?
Flags are in place.
Fresh crisp uniforms
for the departing.
He and others aboard
no longer fear death.
Those left behind
still do.
The war still rages.
The brief fighting
of months has now turned to years.
Distant tracers
briefly fill the heated night.
A sharp rapid climb
And the aircraft
is soon away from the horrid
Smells of frustrating
death.
Within a day he
will return to Emma Seaberry.
Down through the
coastal mist
To the saddest azure
eyes waiting to claim his body!
Copyright 2005
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David Holden
13 5 05
I have always been
interested in the poetry of the Great War and in what I
term trauma poetry,
whilst acknowledging the fact that I don't have the same
kind of trauma to
influence my subject matter, it is nonetheless a humble
tribute to those
men who died on those hallowed fields that sit astride the
river Somme in the
Picardy region of Northern France. Hence the title "The
Ghosts Of Picardy".
I tried to portray
a sense of haunting poignancy and collective loss , I hope I partly achieved
this.
The Ghosts of Picardy
As the barrage lifted
from the blanket
of dawn;
slowly; the rhythmic
ticking
of time, zero hour
5.30
the nervous sentry
shifted
tired eyes into
the grim mist
of a thousand guns
abstained
the shrill shriek
of whistles blown
echoing down the
caverns
of time sunk deep
into silence.
Manning the parapets,
the ghostly
shadows in lines
of khaki;
eternally await
assailants grey.
death draws no distinction
of
gaudy colours, with
crimson
reddening on greatcoats.
none saw their spent
spirits pass
to this valhalla,
free to roam;
in the whispering
breeze; murmuring;
a million poppies
bleed, they bleed.
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Derek Sellen
I have been writing
poetry for forty years and wanted
to express the way
that the shames of this war cannot
and should not be
escaped but shadow us in our daily
lives.
Shadows of War
I walk in the gardens,
on the run from
the news.
The orange waste-sacks,
bellied with swept
leaves,
crouch between the
limes
all along the bare
avenue -
prisoners of Guantanamo.
I walk in the orchards,
abandoned to autumn.
A dog leaps playful
out of its owner's
control,
runs with the leash
trailing
among the shit-coils
in the dirt -
barking an echo
of Abu Ghraib.
I walk in the break-time,
see poems on a classroom
wall,
Owen, Sassoon, Sorley,
the texts of this
year's syllabus:
words wailing like
shells,
beyond the limits
of our hearing -
mourning the corpses
of Fallujah.
November 2004
Eric Morrissey
Collateral
Are Those wet,
red,
blossoming petals
mine?
Am I laid-out,
on this glistening
wreath?
The next cortege
of cordite, buries
a dirge of unanswered
questions:
as I take root.
Yet one more poppy.
December 2004
Jerry Calow
To Whom It Would Be of Interest,
I wrote this song to pay tribute to All Veterans and
would be honoured if you choose to post it on your Patriotic
Web Site. I thank you and God Bless!
A
Tribute To Veterans
To
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In Vietnam, Korea
and World Wars Past
Our Men Fought Bravely
so Freedom Would Last
Conditions Where
Not Always Best They Could Be
Fighting a Foe You
Could Not Always See:
From Mountain Highs
to Valley Lows
From Jungle Drops
to Desert Patrols
Our Sinewy Sons
Were Sent Over Seas
Far From Their Families
And Far From Their Dreams
They Never Wrote
Letters Of Hardships Despair
Only Of Love, Yearning
That One Day Soon:
They Would Come
Home, They Would Resume
And Carry On With
The Rest of Their Lives
The P.O.W.¹S
Stood Steadfast
Against the Indignities
And Cruelties Of War
They Could Not Have
Lasted as Long as They Did
If They Had Relinquished
Their Hope That Some Day:
They Would Come
Home, They Would Resume
And Carry On the
Rest Of Their Lives
Medics, Nurses,
and Chaplains Alike
Did What They Needed
To Bring Back Life
They Served Our
Forces From Day Into Night To
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Not Questioning
If They Would Survive:
They Mended Bones
And Bodies Too,
They Soothed the
Spirits of Dying Souls
And for Those M.I.A¹S,
Who Were Left Behind
We Echo This Message
Across the Seas
We Will Search For
as Long As It Takes
You¹re Not
Forgotten And Will Always Be:
In Our Hearts, In
Our Prayers,
In Our Minds For
All Time
A Moment of Silence,
a Moment of Summons
Is Their Deliverance
of Body And Soul
To a Sacred Place
That We All Know
Deep In the Shrines
of Our Soul:
To
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In Our Hearts, In
Our Prayers
In Our Minds For
All Time
INTERLUDE:
GOLD STAR MOTHERS
GRIEVE: ENDLESSLY,
ENDLESSLY, ENDLESSLY.......
These Immortalized
Soldiers Whose Bravery Abounds
They¹re Our
Husbands, Fathers, and Sons
They Enlisted For
the Duty at Hand
To Serve the Cause
of Country and Land:
They Had Honor,
They Had Valor,
They Found Glory
That Change Them Forever
Men Standing Tall
and Proud They be
A Country Behind
Them in a Solemn Sea
So Let the Flags
of Freedom Fly
Unfurled in Their
Majesty High:
To
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In the Sun, In the
Rain
In the Winds Across
This Land
Years of Tears Has
Brought Us Here
Gathering Around
to Hear This Sound
So Let the Flags
of Freedom Fly
Unfurled in Their
Majesty High:
In the Sun, In the
Rain,
In the Winds Across
This Land
REPEAT:
To
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In the Sun, In the
Rain,
In the Winds For
All Time
Jerry Calow (copyright
2003 )
John Anderson
Thanks for the opportunity to tell how thankful I am to the heroes in our
midst. John Anderson
A
Stand
They humbly stand
before us.
Like people that
I know.
But our glory is
from the torture,
Of a nation called
to go.
Good towns and families
from where they played.
Until the war had
called.
And traded all for
fight and freedom,
To tear down bloody
walls.
The men who stand
before us,
Most I've never
met.
But I feel that
I know them,
From the freedom
that they've sent.
The cost our freedoms
took,
Brave souls of unknown
names.
They fought for
what is right.
When passion dignifies
claim
If I could list
all those I owe.
A list that wouldn't
stop.
These heroes that
I really don't know
Would be upon the
top.
To tell the men
they didn't fight in vain,
And those that stand
tonight.
Is to let them know
we'd meet again,
To fight for what
is right.
To
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25 November 2004
Laura Oliver
This poem is an imitation of John McCrae's 'In Flander's Fields"
On
the Eve of Remembrance
Into Iraq I dare
not go
Where there are
bodies, row upon row
That line the streets;
and in the sky
The larks, shot
down, can no longer fly
Loud blasts shot
from guns below.
We insult the dead,
by roaming low
They lived, died,
fought a true foe
Loved and were loved,
and now we tromp
On Flanders fields.
Invent a reason
to quarrel with a foe
To Bush, angry fists
we throw
The torch of freedom
and peace is nigh
If we only see the
truth through the lie
We cannot sleep,
because poppies stir
In Flanders fields
~ Laura Oliver on
Nov. 10, 2004
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Kevin Skinner
A
Soldier's coming home.
===================
A Soldier returning,
parents yearning.
Packing away trouble,
clearing past's rubble.
The soldier prayed
each day to take him home one day.
Mother and Father
prayed, having him home one day
Calling him son,
showing friends medals he won.
A phone ringing
home, a desperate tone
"Mom, Dad,
I'm coming home"!
A son with a plea,
affecting all three.
"A friend
I'd need to bring home with me."
"Son, he is
welcome" they replied, "We love you, like God who has guided you."
The son gave a history
to his plea.
A land mine took
his soul, rescuing me his toll.
Now I'm his guardian
as angels go."
"We can help
him find a loving home, finding his soul, will be our God given goal."
"Must be with
me that he must go, I carry his woe."
"Son, can't
let this be our sin, time will fade your friend away.
He'll find a way,
will say a prayer."
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The son hung up.
Dead tone rung.
Phone for day's
never sung.
Only thoughts ringing,
while mother washing linen.
An echoed ring the
phone did sing
A voice so bold
told an ear so cold.
"Your son has
died, a suicide."
The grief-stricken
parents, a morgue.
A body covered in
linen.
Telephones ring
the only din masking a sin.
The face now going
to angels place.
An inward disgrace,
as hearts raced.
He lay betrayed,
although he prayed.
A Mother holding
a cross looking lost.
The father mumbling
a prayer in despair.
A Doctor an open
door, dictating, a daily choir.
The son, not the
body of one.
A leg an arm, only
a half of one.
A friend indeed
is a friend in need, the son was both as one.
Years of War, politicians
applaud with galore. Medals hanging, memories happening as walls start cracking.
The son's Empty
room now an ageless tomb.
A cross gathering
moss, enlisted now inscripted:
Beloved
"Son's"
Mom
& Dad
IN GOD
WE TRUST
16 November 2004
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Author: Souladviser
Imperialism
Upon a trail of
a darkened past.
The true light just
began to glow.
The soldiers fell
in their path.
Changing forever
their envisioned goal.
The mighty have
a future so clear.
Oppression and devastation
became their throne.
The 'king's' mighty
hand not opposed.
Submission a doorstep
for their foe.
As a poor man, bridled
with shame.
Treachery now seeking
their ultimate doom.
Impressive power,
hands drenched in blood.
Not clearly showing
the intended goal.
The illusion of
a liberating force.
All must yield as
a puppet on strings.
Pleased with outcome
of their might.
As graves lined
prostrate before them all.
Voracity and supremacy
the trophy won.
Challengers powerless
as stricken with fright.
Power driven an
addict to control.
The innocent's crime
is only fear.
Elation adrenalin
in their veins.
Iraq not their only
goal?
O Allah, O Sufficer
of the isolated and weak and Protector against terrifying affairs! Offenses
have isolated me, so there is none to be my companion. I am too weak for Thy
wrath and there is none to strengthen me. I have approached the terror of meeting
Thee and there is none to st ill my fear. I beg for Your Mercy! Ameen
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Mary Scardino
Illusions
/ Elections
Fierce fighting
last year during the advance,
Your main task is
now civil governance.
How many died during
hostilities
Keeping peace at
oil refineries?
How many died since
"Mission Accomplished"?
Democracy can't
be shipped, and packaged.
During police work
and guard duties,
Is there open combat
by Iraqi's?
Particularly, Iraq
is hostile,
With authority,
unprovisional.
The Tigris River
has a garrison
As if a river can
be a mansion.
If green were the
color of sympathy,
I'd have mine set
up like a company.
It's going to take
a coalition
To scope the daylight
using night vision.
From bomb blasts
and mortars, gimme shelter.
This is really about
helter skelter.
A huge weapons cache
does not make a mosque
In a severely radical
Iraq.
Here's the quote
Secretary Rumsfeld gave:
"You go to
war with the army you have"
But how does that
help one who's life he gave?
That sounds like
a command with expletive.
["Not the army
you might want or wish to have"?]
The question was
much more definitive.
He had asked a question
about armour
And he got an answer
about power.
Mr. Rumsfeld, "Do
you have a Humvee?"
Land Mines don't
honor a West Point degree.
Man the gunner's
hatch, you're vulnerable.
The roads are ripe
with risk, none peaceful.
And drive down to
patrol another mosque,
Temperature, 85,
in Iraq.
For his big bold
style, ten gallon hat,
Cited for doing
what was important,
President Bush was
named man of the year.
A cloud of smoke
billows up through the air.
The desert is famous
for its illusions,
The United States,
for its elections.
Mary Scardino
4 March 2005
Michael Pilarte
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Road
Through Hell
I took the road
through hell
one along the Tigris
and Euphrates;
Death fouled in
the air
and Agony had no
place to sleep.
Three hundred and
thirty days in the trail
piercing ill memories
in my heart,
unpleasant dreams
aplenty,
and the struggle
to remember who I am.
Predators ravaged
the land
while scavengers
fed on the less fortunate
the weary, bloody
stained desert roads
reminded me that
death could be eminent.
Will I finish the
journey as I began?
The next thirty
some days will tell me so
as I go back along
the Tigris and Euphrates
and leave the place
I once called home.
If
My Eyes Could Talk
If my eyes could
talk
what would they
tell you?
And if they did
how would they say
it?
Could they or would
they tell you
about places that
I have been
of the things that
I have seen
of the things I
have done
or the ones I didn't
do.
Could they tell
you so much
or could they tell
you so little.
Or, would they tell
you just enough
to judge me- and
then would you?
If only my eyes
could talk
and tell you the
stories that I am keeping quiet,
would you call me
a coward?
Would you think
any less of me,
or shake my hand
and buy me a drink?
If my eyes could
talk
and told you what
I have seen and done
would you be here
with me
or would you walk
out the door.
David Roberts
Shall we remember what war is?
Each Remembrance
Day
shall we remember
what war is?
What is war?
In the human psyche
it is the fatal
flaw,
a perversion of
the human mind,
using our greatest
brains to create
a threat to all
mankind.
War is
the profoundest
disrespect
for the sanctity
of human life,
the ultimate in
racism,
the collapse of
morality.
War is
the ultimate in
criminality,
the ultimate obscenity,
the ultimate crime
against humanity.
So shall we honour
war?
and shall we now
praise broken men?
Or shall we remember
what war is
and give true meaning
to "Never again?"
28 September 04
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I realised that
my poem "There will be no peace" was entirely negative and that it
could be the opposite. So this is a re-write of my 1999 poem written just after
the Kosovo war.
There
Will Be Peace
There will be peace:
when attitudes change;
when self-interest
is seen as part of common interest;
when old wrongs,
old scores, old mistakes
are
deleted from the account;
when the aim becomes
co-operation and mutual benefit
rather
than revenge or seizing maximum personal
or
group gain;
when justice and
equality before the law
become
the basis of government;
when basic freedoms
exist;
when leaders -
political, religious, educational - and
the
police and media
wholeheartedly
embrace the concepts
of
justice, equality, freedom, tolerance, and
reconciliation
as
a basis for renewal;
when parents teach
their children new ways to think
about
people.
There will be peace:
when enemies become
fellow human beings.
David Roberts
November 2003
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Remembrance
Day 2004
Remembrance Day
2004.
More British soldiers
dead
In another British
war.
Yesterday some of
their parents
In anguish and anger
went to Downing Street
To lay a wreath
To lay the blame
At the door
Of the man most
responsible
For our latest war.
But their sons are
gone.
And Iraq's cities
are in ruins.
In many thousands
Iraq, too, has lost its sons.
Their sons are gone,
their children maimed.
Chaos and trauma
are everywhere.
For the shattering
of this nation
We share the blame.
No fine words can
give these crimes
The slightest gloss.
Parents grieve.
Such a quantity of grief.
Such needless destruction.
Such needless pain.
Parents grieve.
Let us reflect on
Their needless loss.
Let us reflect on
their needless loss.
David Roberts
Steve Walshe
Poem about the Second World War by Steve Walshe
My father, his brother and his brother in law were all in the R.A.F during
WW2.
Although it was hard to get either of them to talk about it, the one thought
they had in common was how easily people forget what they went through themselves.
How
Soon They Forget
Our innocent youth
was used and lost
To fight for Freedoms
Cause
Whatever the cost;
The friends we made
so fast;
Some to fade
Some to last;
To live or die
Was but a pause;
How soon they forget!
2
Winged chariots
rusted and bent
No use for modern
fray.
Engines silent
Their power spent.
No more the shout
" Contact - chocks away;"
How soon they forget!
3
Hero's of the past;
our tales we tell
In the fading Autumn
of our years
We re-live the scream
and yell;
But who listens
to the tears
Of an old mans laughs
and fears
Who remembers what
we lost;
How soon they forget!
4
Once a year old
friends assemble
The numbers they
grow light
They; Do not understand
The tears that distort
our sight
When we hear the
"Merlin " rumble
Or see the "
Hurri " or "Spit " in flight.
They say "Silly
old man to fret";
How soon they forget!
5
The Winter Years
to us call;
Like Autumn leaves
old friends and comrades fall
Year by year we
Famous Few
Give up our fight
and fly to pastures new
There are some to
mourn us; yet
How soon they forget.
Stephen Walshe
Copyright 1997
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