No Man's Land
I'd been cleaning out the attic
And the gables in the roof,
Which were dusty, full of cobwebs
And a horror, tell the truth,
There were boxes, wooden chests
And mouldy papers overall,
'Til the ceiling couldn't take it,
It was bowed, about to fall.
So we shunted all this detritus
Until it filled the space
We had cleared on the landing
To gain access to the place,
'What on earth are we to do with it? '
My wife said in despair,
'We'll have to burn the lot, ' I said,
'Except that old box chair.'
I remembered the old box chair
From my Grandad's, Arthur Oates,
It was taken from a hallstand
Where we'd hung our hats and coats,
It was made of polished oak, and sat
So proudly, just inside,
My father must have brought it home
When my Grandfather died.
Later, when we'd finished sorting,
Burning, and so on,
I lifted up the lid to see
What treasures I had won,
My gas mask from the second war
That looked like Mickey Mouse,
Was sitting still within that box,
So many years had passed.
I tipped out scarves and ancient gloves
That still lay buried there,
My sister's broken China Doll
The type that had no hair,
And at the bottom, going brown
And brittle, somewhat dank,
My Grandad's faded diary,
With Number, Name and Rank.
I read it through that very night,
I sat there in the gloom,
And there the 'War to End all Wars'
Unfolded in my room,
It left me pensive, sitting there
For now I understood,
Those many journeys made to France,
My Grandad's bitter moods.
In 1914, Christmastime
He'd lain there in his trench,
The ground was hard and white that morn,
The atmosphere was tense,
The Germans in their trenches were
Just fifty yards away,
He heard them bursting into song,
They Caroled forth that day.
The strip that they called 'No Man's Land'
Lay under recent snow,
The bodies of the slain lay there,
No Christmas would they know!
A note came from the German side
A ceasefire, honour pledged,
Allowing each to venture out
Unharmed, bury their dead.
My grandfather had watched in awe
As slowly, German heads,
Rose up above their parapets,
Dispersed their fear and dread,
He climbed on out himself, and wandered
Over No Man's Land,
When the advancing Boche had smiled,
He shook a German's hand.
They wished a Merry Christmas each
These soldiers who were foes,
They were just men in uniforms
That day, as Jesus knows,
'We have no wish to kill you now, '
One said, 'nor you kill us,
So why shoot on this Christmas Day,
I'm you - you're one of us! '
They all exchanged small gifts that day,
Cigars, chocolate, tobacco,
They spoke in English, and in French
In accents loud, staccato,
They laughed and joked and passed around
Snapshots, from hand to hand,
They even played scratch football
Cheered and laughed, in No Man's Land.
My grandfather then wrote at length
Of one young lad, a Hun,
Blonde haired, blued eyed, his name was Franz
He seemed a friendly one,
They promised, they would find each other
When the war was done,
And drink to peace with Schnapps and Gin,
Scotch Whiskey, one for one.
That day the guns lay silent, then
They filed back to each trench,
Catcalled and whistled, bandied jokes,
Those soldiers were just men,
At midnight the ceasefire was off,
They all fired in the air,
No-one was hitting anyone
Across that land - 'Despair! '
But then the 'War to End all Wars'
Went grimly back on course,
The Officers made threats, and soon
Their orders lent them force,
My grandfather fired at a head
That bobbed in No Man's Land,
The Boche had fallen dead before
He recognised him - Franz.
I always thought my grandfather
Was grim, there was no light,
That animated him by day,
Or cheered his soul by night,
He spoke just once about the war
And said - 'War should be banned!
You'll never understand the horror,
There, in No Man's Land.'
6 January 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Merry Christmas
The snow is falling in a cold winter night
Stars in the sky shining bright see the light
forget about the problems for one day in your life
With your wife, your family, your friends and in harmony
Let's come together help the sad and lonely through
it could be me or you so what we gonna do
Come and take my hand, let me understand
Welcome to the Christmas land
Merry Christmas, merry Christmas
Feel the power of the silent night
Merry Christmas, merry Christmas
See the guiding star is shining so bright
Oh oh oho
We're celebrating Christmas
Come and join the party of love
Oh oh oho
We're celebrating Christmas
See the stars are shining above
Who wants to spend Christmas time alone
at home on your own sitting next to the phone
Waiting for someone who's calling tonight
To hold you tight, let the stars shine bright
Feel the spirit, the power of love
These emotional moments and the sky above
Friends are together celebrating hand in hand
Welcome to the Christmas land
song performed by by DJ Bobo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jobism-According to Uncle Bob
'Jobism'
he said
'the real disease of the 2Oth century'
Bob was warming up to the topic.
'Now you take my grandfather,
what he wanted was his own piece of land
the ability to run his own life
he didn't work all his life for a job.
He worked for land and the independence
that land meant.
It has been that way for all of history of the human race.
From the cave man marking up the cave walls
to the rancher, the farmer
and the homesteader,
all we have ever wanted was a piece of land
to call our own.
My people came here to America not for a job
but for freedom.
Now we are settling for cubicles.
Mere one-hundred years ago
they taxed us off the land
gave to the corporations;
the farmers left the land,
got herded
into the dirty cities
plopped down into factories
becoming wage-slaves.
My Grandad is still bitter about that.
Now our kids are taught be good,
get a good education
and try to get a good wage-slave job.
One hundred years ago
it was get your own piece of land,
be independent,
don't be beholden to any man,
don't let the authorities run your life.
What a change huh?
This has had for more impact
than we think.
Hitler's minions asked why did they gas the Jews
and their answers were, 'it was my job.'
People in experiments will kill other people
if scientists in white lab coats tell them its ok to do so.
Whole nations go to war and maim
because somebody told them it was their job to do so.
Job one
means obedience is number two,
obedience to those that you might not ever obey
except for they tell you
obey me or your family starves.
or you can't get a good job.
We need to sever the wage-slave
from the job
which enslaves.
Cities never really worked
they create wealth for the few
and poverty for the many. Still does.
My idea, ' he said'
is I don't want no job:
I want independence.
Then he smiled.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Merry Christmas Wish
My Merry Christmas Wish
By Lori Triggs
Copyrighted Jan.5 2009
At one time their was an Santa Clause
Today people are greedy even selfish
over money made by man to make more money,
Even over land will fight to their death
When the land was never theirs in the first place,
It is mother earths land and the animals even mammals with fishes.
So how can people believe in Santa Clause all they want to do is take.
At one time we believed in flying reindeer
today people have no courtesy or want to be friendly,
They are ignorant even self indulged into themselves
Thinking this is my money or my land even my car.
So how can people believe in flying reindeer.
At one time we made snow angels
Today people say you will get dirty,
Or that it is childish to make snow angels
Because people have no imagination anymore,
So the mammals with fish have clean water to live.
So how can people want to make snow angels.
At one time we put up a real or fake Christmas Tree
Today people say lets not decorate this year,
But when it comes to cutting down forests
even rain forests it perfectly ok in doing that,
So the animals with birds do not have a home.
So how can people want a Christmas Tree.
At one time we where given gifts
Today people are forced to give you gifts,
They think you need to earn them or not get them at all
The gifts I think we need is a clean earth, the land,
The sea, the air we breath even the water we drink
We do not need a brown earth, but a green clean earth,
With no wars, no starving people, no people living on the street
We need free medical care even housing the best education.
So how can people give gifts.
At one time we filled hung stockings
Today people just keep them in the closet,
I guess people forgot how to fill them?
So did I pull the stocking over you?
So what is the philosophy here?
poem by Lori Triggs
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Christmas, Like A Lullaby
This song was first released on the christmas, like a lullaby album. it is the only album it has been released on.
Christmas like a lullaby steals across the land
A breeze upon the waters, rainfall on the sand
We celebrate a baby born from spirit into man
And christmas like a lullaby steals across the land
Its morning in australia; in fact its christmas day
And colorado never seemed so very far away
Back where night has fallen and its still christmas eve
And snow is in the mountains that I always hate to leave
But here I am down under with a brand new family
Christmas bells are ringing
Theres presents neath the tree
I know that its been said before and now I know its true
That home is where the heart is
And christmas lives there too
And on this morning peace on earth
Is still your fervent prayer
And I can feel it being
Whispered softly everywhere
And guns are are called to silence
And anger called to still
And brotherhood and sisterhood
Surrounded by goodwill
Christmas like a lullaby steals across the land
A breeze upon the waters, rainfall on the sand
We celebrate a baby born from spirit into man
And christmas like a lullaby steals across the land
Words and music by john denver
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Come Away
(g.bowser/j.jupp)
Published by chappell & co., ltd. - capac
As I walk along the lonely streets
I cant talk to the people that I meet
I see them come, and I see them go
I see them smile, and say hello
Come with me and take my hand
Ooh, fly away to another land, oh yes we will
Come with me and take my hand
Well fly away to another land
Come over here little girl
And Ill show you another world
Where we can be free to do as we want
Live our lives as we please, and say what we like, oh
Come with me and take my hand, ooh
Well fly away to another land
Come with me and take my hand, oh
And fly away to another land
Theres so many things that remain to be done
And no one has thought of a way to begin
So follow me into my life
Come with me and take my hand (and take...)
Fly away to another land (fly away to another land)
Come with me and take my hand (ooh)
Fly away to another land (fly away to another land)
Come with me and take my hand (take my hand)
Fly away to another land (oh yes we will)
Come with me and take my hand (and take my hand, take my hand)
Fly away to another land (yeah)
Come with me and take my hand
Fly away to another land
Come with me and take my hand
Fly away to another land
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Avalanche-the White Death
The land is white
The name of the land brings you
to the land of nothing
The name is white
The white is dead
Sun shines pale, the land shades full of pain
Avalea doesn't bloom and fall in this drain
I'm going back alive again
But no one's crying for the dead
The land is still white
Ice and snow are still the same as yesterday
But the wind is stronger in the sorrow
The land is white
The white is dead
They weep wherever they blow
Forever love, cursed land
Forever goodbye, my lovely land
No more tears falling in this land
Even the sand doesn't know
why he doesn't round to anywhere
The land has frozen like stone
The air is blowed dead
The land is white
The name is white
The land called white is dead
poem by Maria Sudibyo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What is a Grandfather?
What is a Grandfather?
A Friend, a confidant, and a mentor
That is what a Grandfather is.
Call him Grandfather, Grandpa, or even Pappy.
Just a thought of him and your heart is happy
A kindly face and snow-white hair
In his gentle eyes there is no disappointment
There is no despair
A whisper, a smile and secrets to share
A bond that is beyond compare
Fishing poles and bedtime stories.
Dressing as Santa, or even the Easter bunny
Hidden pockets full of money
JPM 1/21/2008
My Version Of T'was The Night Before Christmas
So...
While the children were sleeping,
Snug in their beds...
A fat man dressed in a red suit,
Trimmed in white fur...
Began to sneak around the house.
And your very protective grandfather,
Got his favorite baseball bat...
And began to beating that fat man in the head.
The policemen arrived,
And took your grandfather away.
When the children awakened,
Not a toy was in sight.
And all the children living in the ghetto,
Got a reality check.
Learning to go to sleep...
Without believing they will hear reindeer,
On the roof...
The night before Christmas.
'Honey?
Why are our grandchildren crying? '
~I read them my version,
Of T'was The Night Before Christmas.
They are too old to be thinking,
They will be getting something for free.
When we have spent our retirement money,
To keep them fantasized.~
'Couldn't you have found a better way,
To break the news to them? '
~No! ~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Defiance Of Meaning.
The fighting has died off once again,
They slump amid the mud
Wondering if their 'war effort' will be in vain,
Whilst staring at a recent victim's face covered in blood.
Witnessing comrades fall and die,
Some must of asked why?
In these fields of death, If there is any room for love and care?
Now that the festive season is kind of in the air.
Then the 'Jerries' started to erect Christmas trees and many a lantern light,
Then started singing 'Silent Night'.
To the 'Tommies' it was a pleasant sound and different sight,
Even more so on that smoke filled night.
They respond likewise,
With Christmas carols that fill the skies.
Before long, batches of each entrenched side would be singing along,
Together in the next 'chosen' song.
One side would sing and the other would be cheering and clapping,
There seemed no stopping.
Shouts of 'friendship' ring out from from both opposing lines,
Each side making 'come over' signs.
Slowly but surely, men from both each side emerge from their part of each trench,
Out from their corridors of hell, from the blood and mud filled stench.
Uneasily men with different shades of uniforms walk towards 'no man's land',
Both sides reaching out to hug and shake the nearest 'foes' hand.
Hugging and exchanging of cigarettes, chocolate, pictures, stories, jokes and seasonal cheer,
The thought of getting killed by one another is was no longer a fear.
A game of football breaks out, only 'opposing' teams,
No one died, no blown to smithereens!
Only a few hours before, they were trying to wipe out each other,
But now it was love thy brother.
It seemed like a dream, it didn't make sense.
Mortal enemies, with no need for defence.
However like most good things it come to an end,
The enemy friend is no longer a friend.
Cannon fire ends their game of football,
Both sides obey own high command call.
Every one scrambles their respective ways across the crater filled pitch,
Returning to their 'normal days' back to a watery ditch.
So back to shooting the heads off short-lived friends,
Until the next night descends.
The politicians and generals said, 'There's no room for good will in the carnage of war, '
Some one on that front line must of felt, why the hell not for?
If ever in history of mankind, there was a much needed pause,
It must have been needed in the 'great war', the so called war to 'end all wars'!
That unusual pause in that senseless cause,
Must be remembered by us all.
Now and for ever, and the next time we have to answer our country's call.
But especially by the 'war hawks, '
To remind them that there is some times 'room' for talks.
That interval of 'unofficial peace' showed past, present and future generations can be understood,
without the spilling of his blood!
DEC' 1984
poem by Guy Lipmore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Old Family Picture
In the old
black-and-white
family picture,
I see
great grandfather
dead drunk
with his hat
slightly skewed.
In the same old
black-and-white
family picture,
I see
grandfather
as drunk as
his father is
with his hat
also slightly skewed.
Father fools
great grandfather
and grandfather
with his rice-washed-water
as the good old home-made
Makoli.
They all believe him.
1996
poem by Sangnam Nam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Homeland
My beautiful Armenia
that since the day
i never saw
Though It was my
dream since my
chidhood days
The longing and the
love of a mother land
Melted with ache and passion
always were there
At the deepest
corner in my childish
heart
The love and the
ache of being away
from the home
gave me the
inspiration to write
The first poem i've wrote was about my motherland
Yet all that I knew
about my home
i've learn it from
the history books
I've watched the
beauty of my home
with the eyes of my soul
I figured it in my mind
I saw it with the eyes
of my soul and i
admired
Every time a friend
asks me
'what do you want from
homeland'?
I answer
'.A bottele of an air
and a piece of
stone'
From the grounds of
my home.
To kiss the ground
of my grandfather's land
To smell and breath
the pure air
The memorial lands
rich in history
Where my
grandfather's
memories lie.
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's quite a famous story that takes place on Christmas Eve, and the Germans, French, and Scottish are trying to make peace one night and they bury their dead and they play football. I play a German opera singer, in German, which I never have so I am really excited about that.
quote by Diane Kruger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fred Gestier
When my Maternal Grandfather
ploughed the acreage
his tractor bucked and shook
the engine roared
giving him tinitis
his bleached hat
flopped impotent
as the confronting Sun
had its way
immolating
my Grandfather’s cheeks
with the catalyst
for a future legacy
of skin cancer.
At dawn
he rose
to milk Cows
indifferent
to tactile fingers
on strong hands
manipulating teats.
Walk past the rainwater tank
that collected so seldomly
random contributions from clouds.
To be a Farmer
‘Boss Cocky’
on your own
piece of land
was better
than
“a life
of quiet desperation”*
on alienating urban thoroughfares
with shallow dreams
which contemplated
their own suicide
but decided to bore
en-route to a home
that was halfway House
halfway God’s waiting room.
“People were lonely
in the Big City”
thought my Grandfather.
They were strangers
to themselves
ceasing to exist
alone in company
until the moment
someone reminded them
to behave in a manner
ingratiating to the Boss
to come alive
upon retirement
in seaside resort
or hobby farm.
Grandad
was never alone
curious crows called mockery
at his solitary man
interrupting still landscape
with rhythmic cadences,
that punctuate,
the reality
of Wagga Wagga
Country life.
* Henry David Thoreau
Dads Bad News
Dont believe a word your grandfather says
Hes been classified grade a psycotik
You can see it from the hole in his head
A saner man would have used a bigger gun
Degeneration ah ah ah ah ah
The lunatic clause was written for you
The story spoken is a story unheard
By you so listen cause its unbelievable
A certain trait has passed while while centuries turned
This certain trait has been a family tradition
No simple way to tell you son
We share the same red tainted blood
Im gonna kill me, youre gonna kill you
Killing you
Dont believe a word your grandfather says
Dont believe a word your grandfather says
Dont believe a word your grandfather says
Hes a psycotik, grade a psycotic
song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Can Can Dancer Gran.
I used to be a dancer
during World War 1
your paternal grandmother said
as she sat next to you
on the seat in her
back garden in London
and your grandfather
would come and watch
with his army friends
and afterwards
he'd come
to the stage door
with flowers or chocolates
or just stand there
with that awestruck look
on his face
and she looked
at the flowers
that your grandfather grew
along both sides
of the garden
and she smiled and said
Look at him now
sits in the same room
and says nothing
or moans about the bills
or how the country is run
or the noise of the traffic
by the front gate
and you sat there
on the seat
in the back garden
in your new suit
and with your hair
cropped short
and that fifteen year old
I'm bored as hell look
on your face and you said
Why did you give up dancing
you must have been good at it?
and as you looked
at your grandmother
with her white frizzy hair
and stocky build
you couldn't imagine her
as a dancer on a stage
with men gawping at her
especially not your soft spoken
quiet grandfather
who sat in his armchair
by the fireside
in a silent mood
occasionally reading a book
or giving that
I've seen too much
of mankind's foolery
kind of look
and your grandmother said
Well after we got married
I fell for your uncle Fred
and beside I wasn't that good
a dancer and your
grandfather didn't want
a wife of his
to be peered at
or have her legs
gawked at
by other men
and then she was silent
and watched
a white butterfly
go by
fluttering its wings
but
she said softly
getting up
from the seat
and doing a small
Can Can dance
the shows not over
until the fat lady sings.
poem by Terry Collett
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Unseated At Clent
When Grandad fell off the horse
everyone laughed,
spluttering the event
into family history.
No-one was hurt,
nothing damaged
but his pride.
After all that time,
to be unseated
and made to eat his words
garnished with embarrassment!
If it had happened
forty years earlier,
he would have known about it,
trapped in No-Man's Land
with bullets flying,
and no-one would have been there
to laugh
when Grandad fell off the horse.
poem by Len Webster
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Custers Blues
Well you look just like general custer
On the day of his last stand
Heading up into the black hills
Glorious and grand
I saw it by your side
A map in your hand
Heading up into the rain
Singing this land is your land
Now Ive seen your dust a-rising
And Ive seen your numbers swell
Ive seen you crossing the badlands
And Ive heard your captains yell
Ive watched you when youre sleeping
Ive seen you filling up your can
Thinking as you work
That this land is your land
But now youre bursting into my country
Youre messing up my fields
Youre playing games with my holy places
Youre tearing the earth with your wheels
Right now your star is ascending
And your head is bursting with pride
But I wonder if custer was still singing
this land is my land when he died
Was he still singing this is my land when he died
Was he singing that its my land when he died
Was he singing when he died
Was he singing when he died
Was he singing its my land when he died
When he died...
Was he singing when he died
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Killing Fountains
I see rockets in the desert sky
I see flesh and blood and I dont know why
Ive seen fathers and Ive seen them die
Ive seen mothers and their daughters cry
Surprised soldiers with holes in their heads
Smiling presidents sweating in their beds
Dreaming of the land where the black gold flows
Where the sun always shines
And the desert wind blows
Its always one step forward and two steps back
They stumble and fall and break their necks
In the land of the killing fountains
Once it was gods land in the middle-ages
Now blue helmets try to stop the rage
While rocket launchers burn the sand
Thats what you call the promised land
Its always one step forward and two steps back
They stumble and fall and break their necks
In the land of the killing fountains
You can kill bodies but you cant kill religion
This is the truth and peace is the fiction
In the land of the killing fountains
And millions die with a silent smile
Seven days a week and the years pass by
In the land of the killing fountains
Where the black gold flows
Where the desert wind blows
song performed by by Fury In The Slaughterhouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Elena (Twice Raped)
Born 1830 'Elena De Magdalena' in Mexico
Was kidnapped by Comanches at age nine or ten
At 13 she married a war chief named Ebi Pui
She was seen by Comanchero traders now n' then
At age 18 Elena was rescued by Mexican soldiers
Who had surprised her captors one early morn
She was taken back to her Mexican family
Where she was met with disdain n' with scorn
'Why did you not fight them or kill yourself'
Elena's grandfather said in a loud cry
She answered;
'Grandfather sometimes it takes,
More courage to live than to die'
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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A Soldier's Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
in a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney with presents to give,
and to see just who in this home did live.
I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by mantle, just boots filled with sand,
and on the wall pictures of far distant land.
With medals and badges, awards of all kinds,
a sobering thought came to my mind.
For this house was different, so dark and so dreary,
the home of a soldier, now I could see clearly.
The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone,
curled up on the floor in this one bedroom home.
The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder,
not how I pictured a United States soldier.
Was this the hero of whom I'd just read?
Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?
I realized the families that I saw this night,
owed their lives to these soldiers who were willing to fight.
Soon round the world, the children would play,
and grownups would celebrate a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year,
because of the soldiers, like the one lying here.
I couldn't help wonder how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas eve in a land far from home.
The very thought brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees and started to cry.
The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice,
'Santa don't cry, this life is my choice;
I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more,
my life is my God, my country, my corps.'
the soldier rolled over and soon drifted to sleep,
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.
I kept watch for hours, so silent and still,
and we both shivered from the cold evening's chill.
I didn't want to leave on that cold, dark, night,
this guardian of honor so willing to fight.
Then the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure,
whispered, 'Carry on Santa, it's Christmas day, all is secure.'
One look at my watch, and I knew he was right.
'Merry Christmas my friend, and to all a good night.'
poem by Wade Blade
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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