Two Rogues
Dim, grim, and silent as a ghost,
The sentry occupied his post,
To all the stirrings of the night
Alert of ear and sharp of sight.
A sudden something-sight or sound,
About, above, or underground,
He knew not what, nor where-ensued,
Thrilling the sleeping solitude.
The soldier cried: 'Halt! Who goes there?'
The answer came: 'Death-in the air.'
'Advance, Death-give the countersign,
Or perish if you cross that line!'
To change his tone Death thought it wise
Reminded him they 'd been allies
Against the Russ, the Frank, the Turk,
In many a bloody bit of work.
'In short,' said he, 'in every weather
We've soldiered, you and I, together.'
The sentry would not let him pass.
'Go back,' he growled, 'you tiresome ass
Go back and rest till the next war,
Nor kill by methods all abhor:
Miasma, famine, filth and vice,
With plagues of locusts, plagues of lice,
Foul food, foul water, and foul gases,
Rank exhalations from morasses.
If you employ such low allies
This business you will vulgarize.
Renouncing then the field of fame
To wallow in a waste of shame,
I'll prostitute my strength and lurk
About the country doing work
These hands to labor I'll devote,
Nor cut, by Heaven, another throat!'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
Santa Claus
"HALT! Who goes there?” The sentry’s call
Rose on the midnight air
Above the noises of the camp,
The roll of wheels, the horses’ tramp.
The challenge echoed over all—
“Halt! Who goes there?”
A quaint old figure clothed in white,
He bore a staff of pine,
An ivy-wreath was on his head.
“Advance, oh friend,” the sentry said,
“Advance, for this is Christmas night,
And give the countersign.”
“No sign nor countersign have I,
Through many lands I roam
The whole world over far and wide,
To exiles all at Christmastide,
From those who love them tenderly
I bring a thought of home.
“From English brook and Scottish burn,
From cold Canadian snows,
From those far lands ye hold most dear
I bring you all a greeting here,
A frond of a New Zealand fern,
A bloom of English rose.
“From faithful wife and loving lass
I bring a wish divine,
For Christmas blessings on your head.”
“I wish you well,” the sentry said,
“But here, alas! you may not pass
Without the countersign.”
He vanished—and the sentry’s tramp
Re-echoed down the line.
It was not till the morning light
The soldiers knew that in the night
Old Santa Claus had come to camp
Without the countersign.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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He Embraced Death
He embraced Death,
Death, the thought of which,
Made men shiver and abhor it,
Death, which had the reputation,
Of being the ultimate victor,
Death, which could humble,
Even the mightiest.
He embraced Death,
Death, which laughed,
Even at the most robust of men,
Death, which mocked every birth,
Knowing that it would overcome,
Death, which thought,
That it had no challenger.
He embraced Death,
Death, which was mean,
And humiliating in its quest,
Ravaging some of its prey,
Till it gained infinite pleasure,
Death, which never would,
Accept ‘no’ from man or beast.
Yes, He embraced Death,
And took it by the throat,
Nailed it to the Cross,
Till Death in pain cried out,
To the Author of Life,
'You are the Victor'
And Victors will be they who believe in you.
poem by Caleb Jones
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The Song Of The Allies
We are the Allies of God to-day,
And the width of the earth is our right of way.
Let no man question or ask us why,
As we speed to answer a wild world cry;
Let no man hinder or ask us where,
As out over water and land we fare;
For whether we hurry, or whether we wait,
We follow the finger of guiding fate.
We are the Allies. We differ in faith,
But are one in our courage at thought of death.
Many and varied the tongues we speak,
But one and the same is the goal we seek.
And the goal we seek is not power or place,
But the peace of the world, and the good of the race.
And little matters the colour of skin,
When each heart under it beats to win.
We are the Allies; we fight or fly,
We wallow in trenches like pigs in a sty,
We dive under water to foil a foe,
We wait in quarters, or rise and go.
And staying or going, or near or far,
One thought is ever our guiding star:
We are the Allies of God to-day,
We are the Allies-make way! make way!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Combat Soldier
Many accept the name of soldier,
Yet sit in the office, at the rear.
Whilst the real soldier, the combat soldier,
Fight the enemy, eye to eye.
Their uniforms dirty, faces weathered,
Hands rough, minds tethered.
They’ve seen death’s hand, reaching for them,
Their friend’s, death did condemn.
Their weapons are scratched, and used,
Long in the battle, they are abused.
These soldiers seek refuge, in the wire,
Where many spend the operation in its entire.
The combat soldier gets a short rest,
Only to go back out, confined by their vest.
For days they spend in a crosshair,
Terrorist seeking them, death they declare.
Combat soldier, many missions did you fulfill,
Many friends lost, forever still.
No esteem or awards will you receive,
Those with the rank, medals you will receive.
Though the combat soldier defends the post,
Their treated like the lowest, or a ghost.
The soldier and combat soldier, aren’t the same,
The only similarities are in the name.
A Fresh Endeavour
So now I've taken leave of life,
I thought you'd like to know, I still
Possess a mind in love, oh wife;
A soulful eye to catch a show of
Silent beauty – ever yours;
An ear to pick the metaphors
Of tonal dance in words you say,
Grasp a thought in verse you pray
Inside your head, bemused of mind,
Softly mournful, intertwined with
Understanding tears.
I'll drift a whisper o'er to you
To tell that I am quietly calm;
Keeping time till your adieu
To flesh, upon the carol of a
Psalm of consummation. Now!
A fresh endeavour – we're forever
One together, resting yonder,
Cross our open plane of blue.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
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death death death death death death death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Night Close
Under night close
Death rose to greet me.
I turned; looked back,
Though nothing beckoned -
No one cried or mourned.
Scorned by all
- My fellow race -
I shed the byes to empty space, then
Gazed upon the stony face
Of Death anon, and
So chose our treaty.
Line of Death
death death death death death death death death death death death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Y - hole- 8
Back at another hole.
Just not feeling that bold.
MAYBE getting old.
JUST THAT WATER HOLE.
Can't have no water.
FOUL-FOUL-FOUL-MAN-no water.
GO! ! ! Have a soda dude....or who ever.
Just want water man.
WE ONLY GOT - ACID RAIN - water.
DON'T need that trip.
But that is it.
100.00 dollars for a cool cup.
MAN-I said-MAN-WE GOT NO WATER.
YOU JUST OUT OF LUCK.
500 million cars are right.
EVERY DAY I NEED WATER.
DIE MAN-that's it # 8
1/18/2007 Joe Poewhit
JESUS SAVES
poem by Joe Poewhit
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Sin (II)
O that I could a sin once see!
We paint the devil foul, yet he
Hath some good in him, all agree.
Sin is flat opposite to th' Almighty, seeing
It wants the good of virtue, and of being.
But God more care of us hath had:
If apparitions make us sad,
By sight of sin we should grow mad.
Yet as in sleep we see foul death, and live:
So devils are our sins in perspective.
poem by George Herbert
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Soldier's Ghost
I bled for you - would you for me?
I blessed a skin in blazing fuel
Then took a bullet in a duel of
‘He or I to Die.'
I often question ‘Why? '
Do you?
My country was my life to give -
Would you for country cease to live?
Sinking in a mire of death,
You have no choice -
So while you're still alive,
Rejoice!
I cried in failure - did you care?
And as I waned, were you aware of
What I did -?
Fighting for my country while you hid
Behind your comfort back at home?
Still relaxed?
My wife and child are fading at the tomb.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier soldier soldier war
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Chronicles Of A Day Stranded In Nature Part 2 Ground Zero
Shells exploding all around
Only one audible sound...
The sound... the booming sound of war
Not clashes of swords, praised in ancient lore
No i talk about the exchange of gunfire
One side shooting the other sometimes not knowing why
They know only what told. Whether it be from a liar
Or porpagand, they can't tell al they know is die
Either die or kill
March up this hill
Fight, shoot, reload, shoot again, kill, hear
the screams of allies and enemies together, who shed more than a tear
Allies and enemies dotted with blood
Death in their faces
When each side goes to pick up their own
Not one man can tell apart races
Enemies and foes and allies and fellows all
dead... all alike, not a man can tell
One bloodied body from another, no more fell
Is there no mercy... none, not in war
poem by David Knox
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Sleepless Eyes Make Sleepless Night
Sleepless eyes make sleepess night
Please world
Give me something to hold on tight,
For even though I have
Sleepless eyes that make sleepess night
I yearn to rest, a rest so peaceful
Only death can make it right.
Sleepless eyes make sleepless night
Please world
Restore my life so it can be in my sight
For all I see is death
Because only death can make it right.
Sleepless eyes that make sleepless night
Rest assues that the world
Will give in and not put up a fight
Otherwise there is but death
Only death can make it right.
Sleepless eyes make sleepless night
Please world
Shine hope back into my life with light
So brightand warm it makes
Death seem not so right.
Sleepless eyes that make sleepness night
Give me the strength and will
That the world will share its might
To fight against death
For only death can make it right.
Sleepless eyes make sleepless night
Please close your eyes
So death will disappear with the sunlight
And let the world
Be the only one to make right.
poem by Music Galore
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Sunrise
Foul times there are when nations spiritless
Throw honour away
For tinsel glory, to base happiness
A mournful prey.
Then from the nations, fain of lustful rest,
Dull slavery's dreams,
All virtue ebbs, as from a sponge tight-prest
Clear water streams.
Then men, to vice and folly docile slaves,
Aye lowly inclined,
Ape the vile, fearful reed that stoops and waves
For every wind.
Then feasts and kisses; naught that saith the soul
Stirs shame or dread;
One drinks, one eats, one sings, one skips,—is foul
And comforted.
Crime, ministered to by loathsome lackeys, reigns;
Yea, 'neath God's fires
Laughs; and ye shiver, sombre dread remains
Of glorious sires.
All life seems foul, with vice intoxicate,
Aye, thus to be.—
Sudden a clarion unto all winds elate
Peals liberty!
And the dull world whose soul this blast doth smite,
Is like to one
Drunken all night, up-staggering 'neath the light
O' the risen sun!
poem by Victor Hugo
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The Countersign
Alas! the weary hours pass slow,
The night is very dark and still;
And in the marshes far below
I hear the bearded whippoorwill;
I scarce can see a yard ahead,
My ears are strained to catch each sound;
I hear the leaves about me shed,
And the spring's bubbling through the ground.
Along the beaten path I pace,
Where white rags mark my sentry's track;
In formless shrubs I seem to trace
The foeman's form with bending back,
I think I see him crouching low:
I stop and list - I stoop and peer,
Until the neighboring hillocks grow
To groups of soldiers far and near.
With ready piece I wait and watch,
Until my eyes, familiar grown,
Detect each harmless earthen notch,
And turn guerillas into stone;
And then, amid the lonely gloom,
Beneath the tall old chestnut trees,
My silent marches I resume,
And think of other times than these.
Sweet visions through the silent night!
The deep bay-windows fringed with vine.
The room within, in softened light,
The tender milk-white hand in mine;
The timid pressure, and the pause
That often overcame our speech -
That time when by mysterious laws
We each felt all in all to each.
And then that bitter, bitter day
When came the final hour to part;
When clad in soldier's honest gray,
I pressed her weeping to my heart;
Too proud of me to bid me stay,
Too fond of me to let me go, -
I had to tear myself away,
And left her, stolid in my woe.
So rose the dream - so passed the night -
When, distant in the darksome glen,
Approaching up the sombre height
I heard the solid march of men;
Till over stubble, over sward,
And fields where lay the golden sheaf,
I saw the lantern of the guard
Advancing with the night relief.
'Halt! Who goes there?' My challenge cry,
It rings along the watchful line;
'Relief!' I hear a voice reply;
'Advance and give the countersign!'
With bayonet at the charge I wait -
The corporal gives the mystic spell;
With arms aport I charge my mate,
Then onward pass, and all is well.
But in the tent that night awake,
I ask, if in the fray I fall,
Can I the mystic answer make
When the angelic sentries call?
And pray that Heaven may so ordain,
Where'er I go, what fate be mine,
Whether in pleasure or in pain,
I still may have the countersign.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Dead Kids In War
He just happened upon them
In a field lying there in the tall
Grass on their backs, seemingly
Sleeping, but dead; two children
Of Finnish origins, maybe, at least
By where they’re found and area
Of ground. She lay as if trying to
Catch the sun’s attention, with one
Hand by her side, the other resting
On her thigh. The boy lay a little
Way away small fists clenched tight
As if frozen by death in pose to fight.
The soldier walked slowly around
Them beneath the hot sun, wiped his
Brow, reached inside his pocket for
A cigarette, fumbled for a lighter,
Stood over the girl six or seven,
She oblivious of her state of dress
Or how she lay. The soldier inhaled
Deep, the hot smoke hit his throat
Made him choke. Kids killed in cold
Blood in war; no joke. It was 1942
He remembers now, taking up the
Photograph of white and black,
Taken in midst of war and battle
Scarred and brain in fog, wearied
By march and sight and smell of death.
Whose kids they were he never knew,
Sleeping in death’s claim; two kids,
In a field without memory, without name.
poem by Terry Collett
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Foul play
Foul play not good
Foul players destroy themselves.
Foul play means play with injustice
Foul play means neglect justice.
Foul play I do not like
Foul play I do not like.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Let it Kill
let it kill me and if it doesnt let it try again and again and again till i die, then let it try again and again and finally let it kill me if not then let it try again till i die of pain cause this pain i cannot take, so let it kill until i feel death creep up the corner, let me die with honor or without it just let me die, so let it kill me again and again and if not let it try until i die, for this life i cannot take i have lost all faith so just let me die, let it try to kill me dont set me free come on kill me i refuse mercy or sympathy all i want is death so please let it kill let it send me to death as fast as things go past, let it kill, let it destroy my soul and leave it not whole for i want death, i want death again i say i want death let it kill and if not let it kill again and again till death is all that remain, let it kill
poem by Adens Kamwi
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Trailing Voices
A million cried
Help! Help! Help!
Another million yelled
Foul! Foul! Foul!
Before an unfeeling
Sovereign! In vain! !
And a billion populace
That raised the reign
Remained maimed!
Letting quietly its body
To be eater away
By its own organelle! ! !
poem by Sathya Narayana
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The Spies' March
There are not leaders to lead us to honour, and yet without leaders we sally,
Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of his fellow.
There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugle we rally
From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow the Standard of Yellow!
Fall in! O fall in! O fall in!
Not where the squadrons mass,
Not where the bayonets shine,
Not where the big shell shout as they pass
Over the firing-line;
Not where the wounded are,
Not where the nations die,
Killed in the cleanly game of war --
That is no place for a spy!
O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work is less than ours --
Here is no place for a spy!
Trained to another use,
We march with colours furled,
Only concerned when Death breaks loose
On a front of half a world.
Only for General Death
The Yellow Flag may fly,
While we take post beneath --
That is the place for a spy.
Where Plague has spread his pinions
Over Nations and Dominions --
Then will be work for a spy!
The dropping shots begin,
The single funerals pass,
Our skirmishers run in,
The corpses dot the grass!
The howling towns stampede,
The tainted hamlets die.
Now it is war indeed --
Now there is room for a spy!
O Peoples, Kings and Lands,
We are waiting your commands --
What is the work for a spy?
(Drums) -- Fear is upon us, spy!
"Go where his pickets hide --
Unmask the shape they take,
Whether a gnat from the waterside,
Or a stinging fly in the brake,
Or filth of the crowded street,
Or a sick rat limping by,
Or a smear of spittle dried in the heat --
That is the work of a spy!
(Drums) -- Death is upon us, spy!
"What does he next prepare?
Whence will he move to attack? --
By water, earth or air? --
How can we head him back?
Shall we starve him out if we burn
Or bury his food-supply?
Slip through his lines and learn --
That is work for a spy!
(Drums) -- Get to your business, spy!
"Does he feint or strike in force?
Will he charge or ambuscade?
What is it checks his course?
Is he beaten or only delayed?
How long will the lull endure?
Is he retreating? Why?
Crawl to his camp and make sure --
That is the work for a spy!
(Drums) -- Fetch us our answer, spy!
"Ride with him girth to girth
Wherever the Pale Horse wheels
Wait on his councils, ear to earth,
And say what the dust reveals.
For the smoke of our torment rolls
Where the burning thousands lie;
What do we care for men's bodies or souls?
Bring us deliverance, spy!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Gen Ocean of Life
Cockleshells of Life are we,
Braving storms of tempestuous seas;
Riding the breakers, clinging on tight,
Rolling awash, praying for light.
Into the doldrums, gasping for breath,
Thinking at times, better 'twere death;
But the thrill and the skim of a bright windy day
Chases such sad thoughts far, far away.
Come weather foul, come weather fair,
We'll give of our best and do what we dare;
Keep weather eyes open and show that we care
For other sea-farers whom met here and there.
Throw life-lines if need be, drink some good beer,
Sharing what's there of all kinds of cheer;
Then wait in the offing as long as seems best
Till called to the harbour to take a good rest.
poem by Mill Field
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It's Death Again
It's Death again - He's always there -
Watching, waiting - e'er the stare!
Every time I look behind
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood -
A little clue to where he stood;
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But O! no use, he'll never go.
The adamant phantom; don't you know
He will but wait until it's time
For me to hear His fateful chime? -
The toll that claims my destiny,
To Hail: 'You're next, it has to be…'
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
The Reign of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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