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In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard among the guns below.

quote by John McCrae
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Flanders Field

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

poem by John McCrae
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I Wonder.

In Flanders Fields red poppies grow.
But long dead warriors lie below.
Their rotted bodies nourishing
The scarlet poppies flourishing..

As if to draw attention to.
The graves of men who never knew.
That they would not see their homes more
But here they lie for evermore.

In Flanders Fields lost heroes lie.
In unmarked graves beneath the sky.
Far from the which gave them birth
They add their substance to the earth.

Which Belgian farmers cultivate.
Selected randomly by fate.
There can be few survivors left

But those of us who choose to go
To Flanders where the poppies grow.
All make the trip to show respect
Numbers dwindling as you'd expect.

There's very few now left to go.
To see the scarlet poppies glow
The numbers grow less day by day.
When they are called they must obey.

Rejoining those who went before.
The men who fell in the Great War.
I wonder will poppies still grow
When there's no one left to go.

Monday,25 June 2012

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Songs of the Lathes

The fans and the beltings they roar round me.
The power is shaking the floor round me
Till the lathes pick up their duty and the midnight-shift takes over.
It is good for me to be here!

Guns in Flanders--Flanders guns!
(I had a man that worked 'em once!)
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
Shells for guns in Flanders! Feeds the guns!

The cranes and the carriers they boom over me,
The bays and the galleries they loom over me,
With their quarter-mile of pillars growing little in the distance--
It is good for me to be here!

The Zeppelins and Gothas they raid over us.
Our lights give warning, and fade over us.
(Seven thousand women keeping quiet in the darkness!)
Oh, it's good for me to be here.

The roofs and the buildings they grow round me,
Eating up the fields I used to know round me;
And the shed that I began in is a sub-inspector's office--
So long have I been here!

I've seen six hundred mornings make our lamps grow dim,
Through the bit that isn't painted round our sky-light rim,
And the sunshine through the window slope according to the seasons,
Twice since I've been here.

The trains on the sidings they call to us
With the hundred thousand blanks that they haul to us;
And we send 'em what we've finished, and they take it where it's wanted,
For that is why we are here!

Man's hate passes as his love will pass.
God made Woman what she always was.
Them that bear the burden they will never grant forgiveness
So long as they are here!

Once I was a woman, but that's by with me.
All I loved and looked for, it must die with me;
But the Lord has left me over for a servant of the Judgment,
And I serve His Judgments here!

Guns in Flanders--Flanders guns!
(I had a son that worked 'em once!)
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
Shells for guns in Flanders! Feeds the guns!

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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We shall not sleep, though poppies grow: In Flanders fields.

quote by John McCrae
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Blooming Shame

Still fields of scarlet poppies blow
on long abandoned battle fields.
The bones of dead men hid below
will feed their roots increasing yields.

The few survivors are now all dead.
Rejoined the comrades that they knew.
So we remember in their stead.
The many who salute the few.

Now Patch is dead he was the last
veteran who survived the war
A living relic from the past
who lived a hundred years and more.

There�s no one left who can recall
the muddy trenches and the gas.
The pain of seeing comrades fall.
He watched the long years slowly pass.

He never sought publicity.
He was a very private man
but became a celebrity
The last surviving veteran.

Each year the scarlet poppies grow
On Flanders Fields abundantly
The countless dead who lie below
Have earned their place in history.

By foolish useless sacrifice
They gave their lives to end all war
I think they paid to high a price.
The world is as it was before.

Men are still killing other men
but now much more efficiently
Each year we fail to learn again
the lessons taught by history.

There are no winners in a war.
There never was nor will there be.
But men will fight for evermore.
It�s human nature seemingly.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Sowing

Upon the wind sheltered hillside,
the sharp tang of metal and the sting of salt air lay
over a field of blood-red poppies, no Flander's Field.

At years fall, fields of rape roll like waves,
in the harshness of winter-sleet, stray boulders bow;
like the backs of mothers, daughters sowing.
Their nails torn, ragged and bleeding.
They bleed by the moon, and son upon the field.
No white crosses mark their passing.

For hundreds of years, and crops of rape, barley and wheat;
small hands, soft hands, and soft thighs bleed.
They bleed daughters, and sons.
They birth the fields and in the fields by consent or rape;
unadorned by silver stars or purple hearts.

Today, as May's sun wakes the blood blasted pasture,
each precious dropp blooms…..a heroines acknowledgement
the poppies yield.

poem by Deborah Guzzi
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Killers All?

Now bugle boy what do you blow
Your trumpet pressed to your dead lips
I sound recall to let them know
this is the end of their hardships

They came as boys but died like men
From factories farms and mean back streets
They will not see their homes again
The brave young men whom death defeats.

They answered to their country’s call
And donned their Khaki battle dress
And shipped to France where they would fall
by thousands in the wilderness.

Created by the shot and shell
turning the battlefield to mud.
Which drowned young soldiers where they fell
and drenched the earth with their hearts blood.

Now poppies blow in Flanders fields’
The soil enriched by dead men bones
which has increased the harvest yields.
The poppies act as their headstones.

So many died and were not found
their fate unknown, No man could say
Their bodies melded with the ground
but we remember still to day.

The slaughter and the sacrifice
The useless waste of human lives.
They were prepared to pay the price.
Though a small band of them survives.

Each passing year their numbers fall
Old age more sure than shot and shell.
Soon there will be none at all
who endured that living hell.

The war to end all wars they said
You will be home by Christmas tide
Instead of that most would be dead.
Involuntary suicide.

We honour those who bravely died
a generation of young men.
The best of breed on either side.
But still we go to war again.

The world has never been at peace
since the war to end all wars.
I don’t believe that wars will cease
as long as there are warriors.

Who think they can enforce their will
on other men by force of arms.
It seems that killing is a skill
Which can seduce men with its charms.

16-May-08

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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A War to End War.................

Where poppies used to grow
Now a theatre of muddy war.
Hear England’s best did bleed
To seed the earth with death,
Upon the killing fields;
And shell shocked men did quake
With each blaze of cannonades that
Shook the already savaged ground.
Here sad corpses lay unburied;
Never to see homeward shores
But to lie discomfited, lost;
In the cold discolured earth.
A war to end war?
No, so here we are again,
Our soldiers bravely die.
Lost in another foreign field
Where opium poppies grow.

poem by Paul Brookes
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In flanders

Through sleet and fogs to the saline bogs
Where the herring fish meanders,
An army sped, and then, 't is said,
Swore terribly in Flanders:
"--------!"
"--------!"
A hideous store of oaths they swore,
Did the army over in Flanders!

At this distant day we're unable to say
What so aroused their danders;
But it's doubtless the case, to their lasting disgrace,
That the army swore in Flanders:
"--------!"
"--------!"
And many more such oaths they swore,
Did that impious horde in Flanders!

Some folks contend that these oaths without end
Began among the commanders,
That, taking this cue, the subordinates, too,
Swore terribly in Flanders:
Twas "------------!"
"--------"

Why, the air was blue with the hullaballoo
Of those wicked men in Flanders!

But some suppose that the trouble arose
With a certain Corporal Sanders,
Who sought to abuse the wooden shoes
That the natives wore in Flanders.
Saying: "--------!"
"--------"

What marvel then, that the other men
Felt encouraged to swear in Flanders!
At any rate, as I grieve to state,
Since these soldiers vented their danders
Conjectures obtain that for language profane
There is no such place as Flanders.
"--------"
"--------"

This is the kind of talk you'll find
If ever you go to Flanders.
How wretched is he, wherever he be,
That unto this habit panders!
And how glad am I that my interests lie
In Chicago, and not in Flanders!
"----------------!"
"----------------!"

Would never go down in this circumspect town
However it might in Flanders.

poem by Eugene Field
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Homeward

Behind a trench in Flanders the sun was dropping low,
With tramp, and creak and jingle I heard the gun-teams go;
And something seemed to 'mind me, a-dreaming as I lay,
Of my own old Hampshire village at the quiet end of day.

Brown thatch and gardens blooming with lily and with rose,
And the cool shining river so pleasant where he flows,
White fields of oats and barley, and elderflower like foam,
And the sky gold with sunset, and the horses going home!

(
Home, lad, home, all among the corn and clover!
Home, lad, home when the time for work is over!
Oh there's rest for horse and man when the longest day is done
And they go home together at setting of the sun!
)

Old Captain, Prince and Blossom, I see them all so plain,
With tasseled ear-caps nodding along the leafy lane,
There's a bird somewhere calling, and the swallow flying low,
And the lads sitting sideways, and singing as they go.

Well gone is many a lad now, and many a horse gone too,
Off all those lads and horses in those old fields I knew;
There's Dick that died at Cuinchy and Prince beside the guns
On the red road of glory, a mile or two from Mons!

Dead lads and shadowy horses - I see them just the same,
I see them and I know them, and name them each by name,
Going down to shining waters when all the West's a-glow,
And the lads sitting sideways and singing as they go.

(
Home, lad, home . . . with the sunset on their faces!
Home, lad, home . . . to those quiet happy places!
There's rest for horse and man when the hardest fight is done,
And they go home together at setting of the sun!
)

poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Flanders

Flanders, the name of a place, a country of people,
Spells itself with letters, is written in books.

"Where is Flanders?" was asked one time,
Flanders known only to those who lived there
And milked cows and made cheese and spoke the home language.

"Where is Flanders?" was asked.
And the slang adepts shot the reply: Search me.

A few thousand people milking cows, raising radishes,
On a land of salt grass and dunes, sand-swept with a sea-breath on it:
This was Flanders, the unknown, the quiet,
The place where cows hunted lush cuds of green on lowlands,
And the raw-boned plowmen took horses with long shanks
Out in the dawn to the sea-breath.

Flanders sat slow-spoken amid slow-swung windmills,
Slow-circling windmill arms turning north or west,
Turning to talk to the swaggering winds, the childish winds,
So Flanders sat with the heart of a kitchen girl
Washing wooden bowls in the winter sun by a window.

poem by Carl Sandburg
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A Song Of Poppies

I love red poppies! Imperial red poppies!
Sun-worshippers are they;
Gladly as trees live through a hundred summers
They live one little day.

I love red poppies! Impassioned scarlet poppies!
Ever their strange perfume
Seems like an essence brewed by fairy people
From an immortal bloom.

I love red poppies! Red, silken, swaying poppies!
Deep in their hearts they keep
A magic cure for woe--a draught of Lethe--
A lotus-gift of sleep.

I love red poppies! Soft silver-stemmed, red poppies,
That from the rain and sun
Gather a balm to heal some earth-born sorrow,
When their glad day is done.

poem by Virna Sheard
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Bullets and Poppies

Bullets were flying
and soldiers were dying
as crimson poppies
swayed in the breeze,
beyond the trenches
beyond the green leas
in the fourteen-eighteen war
'the war to end all wars'
but these words sadly
failed to please.

The poppy's the emblem
and sorrowful hearts in sympathy
wander back to Flanders Fields
where thousands of comrades
were shamefully killed.
Golden the archives,
with names of the heroes...
and the poppy still sways
in the breeze, because
wars will never cease.

poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Blow Me A Kiss

Take one in the leg [Think about your baby]
Take one in the side [Think about your girl]
Take one in the head [Think about your mother]
Take one in the heart [It's the end of the world]

So blow me a kiss cuz I'm black
Blow me a kiss cuz I'm gay
Blow me a kiss cuz I'm shakin'
Say goodnight then blow me away
Blow me away
Blow me away
Tell me what you're thinkin' tell me why
Blow me a kiss then blow me away

Take one in the face [Think about your life]
Take one in the eye [Think about your soul]
Take one in the mouth [Think about your savior]
Take one in the thigh [Are you ready to go]

So blow me a kiss cuz I'm lonely
Blow me a kiss cuz I'm afraid
Blow me a kiss cuz you don't know me
Say goodnight then blow me away
Blow me away
Blow me away
Tell me what you're thinkin' tell me why

I'm in my room I'm Dr. Doom
Cuz I'm not me I'm someone else
Why should you die don't ask me why
You know it you know it you know it
Blow me away

I turn the page I am the rage
I'm coming from a darker place
A much darker place
So blow me away
Blow me away

Yeah blow me away
Tell me what you're thinkin' tell me why
Blow me a kiss then blow me away
Yeah blow me away
C'mon and blow me away
Tell me what you're thinkin' tell me why
Blow me a kiss then blow me away

song performed by by Alice Cooper from Brutal Planet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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poppies bloom
among the rows of crosses
a fleeting cloud

haiku by Chenou Liu
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Generally speaking

The guns fall silent and the dead
lie quietly they’ve played their part.
The night hour’s pass heavy with dread
at first light the big guns will start.

The sound of the artillery
will fill the silent skies again.
Eroding further bravery
of the war weary fighting men.

The brave young men on either side
are doomed to die face down in mud.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
Their dug outs do but little good.

A shell burst may not kill just maim
The lucky ones are those who die,
they are the winners in this game
when thick and fast the bullets fly.

Opposing sides move to and fro
to capture trenches they’ve just left.
For no good reason that they know
obeying orders quite bereft

of any sign of sanity.
The generals are safe behind the lines
Unlike the vast majority
who fight to fulfil their designs.

Lions by donkeys badly led
Young men by the thousand died.
A foreign field their final bed
because good sense was not applied.

In Flanders fields the poppies grow.
The soil enriched by their hearts blood
What have we learnt we did not know?
Nobody won Nobody could.

There are no winners none at all
except perhaps the carrion crows
They dine well when the soldiers fall
as mighty nations come to blows.

Survivors return home broken men
with small support and little praise.
Until they’re needed once again
when countries their new armies raise.

Another war to end all wars.
We do not learn from history
For men can always find a cause.
Why this should be a mystery.

18-Feb-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Poppies

Poppies they say adieu, goodbye,
men fought, yet did not want to die,
Poppies were tossing, waving free,
as war took lives so poignantly.

Poppies upstanding, boldly grow,
youth enlisted but did not know,
Poppieswould represent such pain,
that they would never forget the slain.

Poppies beautiful, fresh and new,
All one bright colour, flawless hue,
Poppies petals see where they land,
upon a face, an arm or a hand.

Poppies vibrant, stunningly red,
softly surround each silent head,
Poppies fragile, dainty and neat,
guard the space around their feet.

Poppies carpeting the hard ground,
where the marching of boots resound,
Poppies whose wind blown seas of blood,
captured them like a mighty flood.

Poppies tell of their dreams long lost, ,
we hear their names, we count the cost.
Poppies bring tears as we recall,
our loved ones parted from us all.

Poppies they say goodbye, adieu,
men fought for me, they fought for you.
Those tossing poppies, waving free,
mean remembrance to you and me.

Copyright. Ernestine Northover

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Business Of War

The Business of War.
In this clearing in the woods so full of butter coloured flowers
I know there is a mass grave underneath, a forgotten war,
bones of the nameless that died for a cause that was not theirs,
but they were loyal and when told to fight and they often died,
many never knowing why. At the edge, of the yellow field,
there are pale poppies the dead have no more blood to offer.
I think of Afghanistan, poppies there are more deadly, I wonder
if western soldiers who lost their life in a cause that is unclear,
will get their own graveyard and have their crosses there,
in a Moslem country, tended to with fresh flowers, but go easy
on the poppies. The skeletons under my feet, died because of
salt that, once upon a time- before oil- was big business, but I’m
sure the soldiers were told lies about nationality and freedom.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Billy Get Your Guns

I just seen trouble
He's calling out your name tonite
Billy get your guns
You could walk away
But I know you were born to fight
So Billy get your guns
The bandileros are strung out
In the promenade
Billy get your guns
Chorus
Billy get your guns
There's trouble blowing like a hurricane
Billy get your guns
That's the price on your head for the
Price of fame
And it'll never change
Billy get your guns
There's a whiskey bottle empty
Sittin' on the bar
Billy get your guns
And some organ grinder singing
About some sucker moving on
Billy get your guns
All the whores are hanging out
Waiting to get paid
Billy get your guns
From some Johnny on the spot
Who said hey keep the change baby
Billy get your guns
There's trouble blowing like a hurricane
Billy get your guns
That's the price on your head for the
Price of fame
And it'll never change

song performed by by Bon Jovi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blow By Blow

Written by dave mason, john cesario, and mark holden.
Its always something
Or it aint nothing at all
Its feast or famine
Too hot or out in the cold
So here we stand
Alone together
Our backs against the wall
If my heart wasnt in it
I wouldnt be here at all
Blow by blow
Well its blow by blow
And here we go again
(here we go again)
Well its blow by blow
Coming off the ropes
And fighting for the hope in us all
Are you in my corner
Or playing both sides of the wall
So make a stand
Its now or never
Cause life is much too short
And if your heart isnt in it
You shouldnt be here at all
Blow by blow
Well its blow by blow
And here we go again
(here we go again)
Well its blow by blow
Blow by blow
Well its blow by blow
Im back on my feet again
(Im back on my feet again)
Well its blow by blow
I can almost see through the tears
And Ive got my pride
The dreams that Ive hidden for years
Just wont be denied
So here we stand
Alone together
Our backs against the wall
If my heart wasnt in it
I wouldnt be here at all
Blow by blow
Well its blow by blow
And here we go again
(here we go again)
Well its blow by blow
Blow by blow
Well its blow by blow
Im back on my feet again
(Im back on my feet again)
Well its blow by blow

song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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