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Guns Of Peace

GHOSTS of dead soldiers in the battle slain,
Ghosts of dead heroes dying nobler far,
In the long patience of inglorious war,
Of famine, cold, heat, pestilence, and pain,--
All ye whose loss makes our victorious gain--
This quiet night, as sounds the cannon's tongue,
Do ye look down the trembling stars among
Viewing our peace and war with like disdain?
Or wiser grown since reaching those new spheres,
Smile ye on those poor bones ye sowed as seed
For this our harvest, nor regret the deed?--
Yet lift one cry with us to Heavenly ears--
'Strike with Thy bolt the next red flag unfurled,
And make all wars to cease throughout the world.'

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Along The War Avenue Of honour

Along the war Avenue of Honour a plaque to a dead soldier nailed to every tree
Brave young men who died in battle their reward for their bravery
They died in the war said to end all wars in the killing fields of World war one
But many wars since and far too many bloody battles and peace in the World not yet won.

Wars started by silly ageing men who send the young for them to die
Ageing men who themselves will die of old age and their twilight years they will enjoy,
ageing males heroes of their people we honour cowards as heroes one might say
The young men will go to war for them and the young men with their young lives pay.

The war supposed to end all wars long over almost nine decades since have gone by
But many wars have been fought since then and war pilots dropp their big bombs from the night sky
But suppose that's what will always happen when we give all of our power away
To silly and ageing male war men who with hair dyes cover their gray.

Along the war avenue of honour long dead soldiers names on every tree
Young noble men who died in battle far from homeland and family
In what was to be the war to end all wars yet we don't have much wisdom to show
For the loss of so many fine young men well over eight decades ago.

poem by Francis Duggan
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When Women Will Rule The World

When women will rule the World sadly i won't be around
My bones will be resting forever in some quiet dead person's ground
But what a World 'twill be to live in the flower of peace will bloom again
And for as long as women do rule the World peace in the World will remain,
For as long as men rule the World terror and warring will live on
They have not learned from the mistakes of past male leaders with men as leaders all hope of peace gone
When women will rule the World the World will be a better place to live in
Mothers will not have to weep for their dead children there will not be wars for to win,
Women give birth to the soldiers mothers do not want their children to die
A dead hero is better than a living coward that is if you believe a lie,
Women do not want their children fighting in wars far away
There would be less wars in the World if women had a greater say
And when women will rule the World war will be a thing of the past
The flower of peace will be blooming and beautiful peace it will last.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Harvest For The World

All babies together
Evry one a seed
Half of us are satisfied
The other half of us in need
Loves bountiful in us
Tarnished by our greed
Oh, when will there be a harvest.. for the world?
(harvest for the world)
A nations planted
So concerned with gain
As the seasons come and go, we wont wait in vain
Far too many, feelin the strain
(chorus)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest for the world)
Dress me up for battle
When all I want is peace
Those of us who pay the price
Come home with the least
And nation after nation, tuning into beasts
(chorus)
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest..

song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Veterans

When the last charge sounds
And the battle thunders o'er the plain,
Thunders o'er the trenches where the red streams flow,
Will it not be well with us,
Veterans, veterans,
If, beneath your torn old flag, we burst upon the foe?

When the last post sounds
And the night is on the battle-field,
Night and rest at last from all the tumult of our wars,
Will it not be well with us,
Veterans, veterans,
If, with duty done like yours, we lie beneath the stars?

When the great réveillé sounds
For the terrible last Sabbath,
All the legions of the dead shall hear the trumpet ring!
Will it not be well with us,
Veterans, veterans,
If, beneath your torn old flag, we rise to meet our King?

poem by Alfred Noyes
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Class Distinction

A quiet house where quiet ghosts
haunt quiet rooms but silently
The Ghosts respect their living hosts
and treat them most respectfully.
They can’t go back they won’t go on.
Confused by their predicament,
they wait until the daylights gone
before they show they are present.
They do not wish to cause alarm.
as common ghosts are wont to do.
All part of their well bred charm.
Though they are dead they hold the view
that no aristocratic ghost
should stoop to frightening their host.

26-Mar-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Losers Never Write The War History

The losers never write the war history that's something we already know
Yet for the many wars fought through the ages we do not have the wisdom to show
That victory too comes at a huge cost for war the price is huge to pay
For families who grieve for their dead members their sense of loss with them will stay
Until they themselves go to the reaper the reaper who claims one and all
The loved one war had taken from them with great sadness they will recall
But the dead to life cannot be returned better to live as a coward than die brave
For none has yet come back for to tell us that there is a life beyond the grave,
They died for their God and their Country of dead war heroes some well may brag
Those who place too much worth on the unknowable and the colour of their Nation's flag
I for one find religion and patriotism confusing of god and war heroes hymns and songs are sung
But surely it is a misnomer that only the good do die young
And yet from war we have not learned young lives are lost for wars to be won
And if lasting peace ever does come it won't be through the barrel of a gun

poem by Francis Duggan
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Company K.

THERE'S a cap in the closet,
Old, tattered, and blue,
That would be little value,
It may be, to you;
But a crown jewel-studded
Could not buy it to-day,
With its letters of honor,
Brave "Company K."

The head that is sheltered
Needs shelter no more;
Dead heroes make holy
The trifles they wore;
so a wreath better winning
Than laurel and bay
Seems the cap of the soldier,
Marked "Company K."

For eyes have looked steady
Its visor beneath
O'er the work of the reaper,
Whose harvest is Death.
Let the muster-roll meagre
So mournfully say
How forcement in danger
West "Company K"—

Whose footstep unbroken
Came up to the town,
Where rampart and bastion
Looked fearfully down—
Who, closing up breaches,
Yet kept on their way,
Till gone downward pointing
Faced "Company K."

Like cameras fearful
Stood cannon aloof,
Till the signal was given
To strike off a proof
Of the soul of the soldier,
To send up to Him.
(Pray God that he knew them,
Though bloody and dim!)

Who faltered or shivered?
Who shunned battle-smoke?
Whose fire was uncertain?
Whose battle-line broke?
Go ask it of History
Years from to-day,
And the record shall tell you,
Not "Company K."

Tho' my darling is sleeping
To-day with the dead,
And daisies and clover
Bloom over his head,
I smile, tho' I'm crying
As I lay it away,
That battle-worn cap
Lettered "Company K."

poem by Ethel Lynn Beers from All Quiet along the Potomac and other poems (1879)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Circular Breathing

Pick up my wings and fly
Into a constable sky.
Look down on the world and try
To make you out on the distant ground.
Lonely toy in a lost toy-town.
Suspended in spiral sounds---
Sounds of circular breathing.
Im a kite on a silver thread.
Daring lightning to strike me dead.
Harsh echoes of things you said
Banished me to a thinner space
With unholy ghosts of your bedroom face.
Hands cupped to my ears to place
The sound of circular breathing.
Matchbox cityscape below----
I watch lowry matchstick figures go.
Caught in the timeless flow of discreet silence.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love is Dead

Artistic brain-drain
occurring after loss-
when words fail and wither
on parched, broken lips.
Not knowing self from Self,
bouncing from warm bed to warm body-
Loss of identity and direction.
Wandering, wondering-
wishing on a shooting star, but
the stars above are ghosts long dead.

Artistic suffocation
occurring during rapture-
two bodies entwined;
legs, arms, hearts, all broken and
remade, though easily broken again.
Lost in a kiss, embrace; drowning in
raw lust, all stale and purple-
writhing under the dead dead stars.

poem by Brian Hinckley
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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

http: //blog.myspace.com./poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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England

ENGLAND, England, England,
Girdled by ocean and skies,
And the power of a world, and the heart of a race,
And a hope that never dies.

England, England, England,
Wherever a true heart beats,
Wherever the rivers of commerce flow,
Wherever the bugles of conquest blow,
Wherever the glories of liberty grow,
'Tis the name that the world repeats.

And ye, who dwell in the shadow
Of the century-sculptured piles,
Where sleep our century-honoured dead,
Whilst the great world thunders overhead,
And far out, miles on miles,
Beyond the smoke of the mighty town,
The blue Thames dimples and smiles;
Not yours alone the glory of old,
Of the splendid thousand years,
Of Britain's might and Britain's right
And the brunt of British spears.
Not yours alone, for the great world round,
Ready to dare and do,
Scot and Celt and Norman and Dane,
With the Northman's sinew and heart and brain,
And the Northman's courage for blessing or bane,
Are England's heroes too.

North and south and east and west,
Wherever their triumphs be,
Their glory goes home to the ocean-girt isle,
Where the heather blooms and the roses smile,
With the green isle under her lee.
And if ever the smoke of an alien gun
Should threaten her iron repose,
Shoulder to shoulder against the world,
Face to face with her foes,

Scot, and Celt and Saxon are one
Where the glory of England goes.

And we of the newer and vaster West,
Where the great war-banners are furled,
And commerce hurries her teeming hosts,
And the cannon are silent along our coasts,
Saxon and Gaul, Canadians claim
A part in the glory and pride and aim
Of the Empire that girdles the world.

England, England, England,
Wherever the daring heart
By Arctic floe or torrid strand
Thy heroes play their part;
For as long as conquest holds the earth,
Or commerce sweeps the sea,
By orient jungle or western plain
Will the Saxon spirit be:
And whatever the people that dwell beneath,
Or whatever the alien tongue,
Over the freedom and peace of the world
Is the flag of England flung,
Till the last great freedom is found,
And the last great truth be taught,
Till the last great deed be done,
And the last great battle is fought;
Till the last great fighter is slain in the last great fight,
And the war-wolf is dead in his den–
England, breeder of hope and valour and might,
Iron mother of men.

Yea, England, England, England,
Till honour and valour are dead,
Till the world's great cannons rust,
Till the world's great hopes are dust,
Till faith and freedom be fled,
Till wisdom and justice have passed
To sleep with those who sleep in the many-chambered vast,
Till glory and knowledge are charnelled dust in dust,
To all that is best in the world's unrest,

In heart and mind you are wed.
While out from the Indian jungle
To the far Canadian snows,
Over the East and over the West,
Over the worst and over the best,
The flag of the world to its winds unfurled,
The blood-red ensign blows.

poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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Father's Soul

father's soul comes again
i am cold
to his hug, this sickness
of ghosts
embracing us, the living,

questions and images
mixing on a night
of horror,

always, the question is:
what for, dad? what for?

leave us, we know how to
live our lives,
stay in the land of the dead
and be rested,

for now is our time to confront
our own ghosts,
equipped by your quotes
we think we know the routes.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Peaceful Prayers

Let there be peace in the world.
Let us all see peace and not war.
Let us all have peace in the world.
Let all our statesmen know no violence,
Let all love peace with warm vehemence,
Let all be clothed with passionate patience,
Let all respect peace with real reverence.
Let peace pervade every political terrain,
Let peace calm the spirits of every domain,
Let peace be at peace with every reign,
Let each achieve peace with poor pain.
Peace, to you we plead: come to us.
Peace, we entreat you: deign on us.
Peace, we want you: envelope us.
Let our homes be adorned with peace,
Let our streets be paved with peace,
Let our cities be set on a hilltop of peace.
Let peace taint our every thought.
Let there be peace, let peace never cease
Let there be peace, let war forever cease.

poem by Jude Ogunade
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My Life in the bush of Ghosts (reprise)

Down the bush path
I came running down my hut
I have a pot of food
But what do I do with food
When I have no appetite
And why does life seem
To leave me so soon
.
After a few decades in life
I find my soul roaming
Aimlessly in the bush
Of ghosts, when I wasn't
Really dead.
I never believed in ghosts
Until I saw a ghost
And now, I am to be host
To a host of ghosts
In the bush of ghosts
Which I, myself have not
Come to understand
.
Things do change with time
,
I have worked very hard
To be among those who feel life
But yet, life seem to be
Very far away from me
I have said to myself
When I see life, I will grab life
With both hands
But I will not steal another
Mans life to have life
I will not bring sadness
To another to have life
I will not deceive another man
To have life
I will not seek life through the back door
For what do I gain if I
Bring sorrow to others
To gain life for my self
And what do i do with life
If life I seek to find
Will not stay with me.

poem by Efe Benjamin
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Who really rules the world

I

At times I wonder
who really rules the world
and it might sound quite silly,
and you may think that every country
is sovereign and ruled by its own,
but at times
I know that land of the free
thinks that she does.

She sees other countries
as her colonies,
where her produce are sold
at prices that she sets
and where her companies
gather resources in.

Her CIA gets others
to help fight her wars
and in Angola, Afghanistan and Iraq
non-American soldiers are dead.

II

Some people think
that secret societies like the ulluminate
and free masons
pulls the economic strings
that sets the way
that the world turns.

They see conspiracies everywhere
and maybe some organizations
do look out for their own
and in a way the really rich
do not pity the poor
and are set in the getting of more.

III

The state of society
and our world portrays
the fact
that Lucifer and his host are sure
that they are in control
and that everything
is on the tract that they set.

Pestilence, poverty, famine, wars
and disasters are spreading everywhere
and no human regards another
as his or her brother
and everything is set
in the here and now.

IV

When I look up in the blue sky,
or see the starry lights
in the dark night,
the beauty of each flower,
animal, plant and tree
tells me
that only the creator God
rules supreme.

Every day my world stays
in His mighty hand
and He is present
everywhere that I go
and I know
that this earth belongs
to only Him.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Irishman's Song

The stars may dissolve, and the fountain of light
May sink into ne'er ending chaos and night,
Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away,
But thy courage O Erin! may never decay.

See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around,
Our ancestors' dwellings lie sunk on the ground,
Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains,
And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains.

Ah! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure,
Ah! sunk is our sweet country's rapturous measure,
But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears,
The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears.

Ah! where are the heroes! triumphant in death,
Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath,
Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by,
And 'my countrymen! vengeance!' incessantly cry.

OCTOBER, 1809

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Dead Or Alive

There in the shadows, looks like a hand
Without its owner, to give it a command
Its got a purpose but I dont know what it is
Im in trouble
There in the streets, looks like a man
But something wrong that I dont understand
His eyes are open but he dont see a thing
His skin is peeling off, his bones are sticking out
Im getting scared
Oh my God (is it dead? )
Is it living? (is it dead? )
Is it dead or alive?
(is it dead? ), is it dead? (is it dead? )
Is it dead? (is it dead? )
Is it dead or alive?
Hiding in the cupboards, like little mice
Hiding in the frigerator, that isnt nice
Its not an animal, it dont have legs
No one else can see it
It moves so fast, corner of my eye
Look again its gone, its hiding
Wont somebody help me, doesnt anybody care?
It waits so patiently, for me to lose my guard
Im getting scared
Is it dead, is it
(is it dead)
Is it dead
(is it dead)
Is it dead or alive
(is it dead)
Is it dead
(is it dead)
Is it dead, is it
I remember there was a time
When dead and buried meant just that
Underneath the cold dark ground
Things stay put!
Oh them bones they make them bodies walk
Them bones, them bones
If they could only talk!
Is it dead (fade)

song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: A Bit of Patience

A bit of patience works out miracles;
A bit of patience puts off arguments;
A bit of patience problems well tackles;
A bit of patience preserves monuments.

A bit of patience can avoid hatred;
A bit of patience cools one’s anger off;
A bit of patience marks well good kindred;
A bit of patience makes many to laugh.

A bit of patience keeps good friends at peace;
A bit of patience can avoid big wars;
A bit of patience can jealousy cease;
A bit of patience can avoid big scars.

A bit of patience gives good advantage;
A bit of patience is good heritage.

poem by John Celes
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Harvest For The World

Gather everyman, gather everywoman
Celebrate your lives, give thanks for your children
When will there be a harvest for all the people
When will there be a harvest for all the world
Harvest For The World
All babies together, everyone a seed
Half of us are satisfied, half of us in need
Love's bountiful in us, tarnished by our greed
When will there be a harvest for the world
A nation planted, so concerned with gain
As the seasons come and go, greater grows the pain
And far too many feelin' the strain
When will there be a harvest for the world
Gather everyman, gather everywoman
Celebrate your lives, give thanks for your children
Gather everyone, gather all together
Overlooking none, hopin' life gets better for the world
Dress me up for battle, when all I want is peace
Those of us who pay the price, come home with the least
Nation after nation, turning into beast
When will there be a harvest for the world

song performed by by Isley Brothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The peace that war knows

The peace that war knows
Wasn’t purchased with dripping blood;
The war that peace knows
Wasn’t punctured by artillery sounds.

The peace the dead know
Wasn’t bought by a furrowed brow;
The war not known to the dead,
Feels all the same to them, as peace.

Knowing neither wars,
Nor that the dead are dead;
Shouldn’t we be jealous-
And wish it were us, instead?

poem by Patti Masterman
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