The War Hero
He sat at the bar, drinking his Jack
Talking about the war, since he came back
It ruined his mind, and broke his spirit too
He had seen alot of death among his crew
He drank till he didn't have to think at all
He drank till he couldn't hear the bugal call
When not drinking, he was taking so many pills
Disabled now, his wife paying all the bills
His very soul was tortured all the time
From crawling in the jungle in the dirt and slime
Hearing the shots fired every where
He was shooting too, just a boy there
He lived the war over every night in his dreams
In his sleep he could still his buddies screams
The war took a young boy and ruined his life
But he was proud, he had served in all the strife
This good man died just a year ago
He fought for our freedom and we do owe
Our freedom takes the life of young men
They serve their country and most come home again
All their lives will never be the same
Some will return whole and some lame
I'm proud to be a citizen of the USA
Where we're strong and proud and will never sway!
poem by Donna Nimmo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Insomnia
Reading magazines and counting sheep to pass the time away
Hoping that tomorrows gonna bring a smile home again
Images of palm trees swaying in the wind on south beach
Takes me back to better days, summer days the everglades in june
My brain, my poor brain
My brain, my poor brain
Im drinking myself to sleep again, nightnurse pills to keep me sane
Drinking myself to sleep again, insomnia
Flying high in golden skies, Im flicking channels in my mind
Finding my utopia a different chapter in a book
Thinking back to younger days as I escape in coopers break
It takes me back to 84 the futures knocking at my door
My brain, my poor brain
My brain, my poor brain
Im drinking myself to sleep again, nightnurse pills to keep me sane
Drinking myself to sleep again, insomnia Im drinking myself to sleep again, nightnurse pills to keep me sane
Drinking myself to sleep again, insomnia
Turning off a switch inside me, leaving all the stress behind me
Flying over streams and houses, passing over the wye valley
It takes me back to 84 the futures knocking at my door
My brain, my poor brain
Im drinking myself to sleep again, nightnurse pills to keep me sane
Drinking myself to sleep again, insomnia Im drinking myself to sleep again, nightnurse pills to keep me sane
Drinking myself to sleep again, insomnia Im drinking myself to sleep again, nightnurse pills to keep me sane
Drinking myself to sleep again, insomnia.
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Proud Old Glory
I am the blood, I am the soul
I am the essence of liberty, so bold
I am the heart, I am the life
I am the dream and the vision, all that's right
I am the hope, I am the truth
I am the faith and the spirit of the aged and the youth
I am the warmth, I am the breath
I am the peace and the honor, life and death
I am justice, I am love
I stand for freedom, and salute our brave
I serve my country with pride
Old Glory is my name, God made this land my home
I am the proud flag of America
I am the proud flag of America.
poem by Trade Martin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We Are Told
We are told that we have got freedom yet not freedom to do as we like
There are places we are not allowed to walk in or where we cannot ride a push bike
Which means that our freedom is so called since we cannot even walk where we please
Ours is such a limited freedom we are not as free as a breeze.
Without a passport we cannot travel to another Country and that is for a limited time
And if we overstay our visa that is a deportable crime
By the Immigration Department of Government by a Government not blessed with a soul
There is a name for such a practice 'tis known as population control.
Young men in wars fought and died for freedom but was it for freedom they died?
When their Government leader told them they were fighting for freedom to the young and naive troops he lied
They fought for the glory of their leader and risked their lives on a foreign shore
They were used as pawns in a deadly power game just that sad to say nothing more.
We are told that we have got freedom though we have to be careful with the words we say
And if our speech on it has got restrictions then what is freedom anyway?
Young men fought and even died for freedom at least that's what we are made to believe
By so called patriotic politicians people who are known to deceive.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Power of the King
Death be not proud
for you have no hold over my life,
Death be not proud
for I cannot die! !
Death be not proud
you instill no fear
Death be not proud
for my King lay down His life for me
Death be not proud
you have no power
you destroy just flesh and bone
you dont have the power to resurrect
Death be not proud
you own me not
for I have been bought
Death be not proud
for my soul shall live on,
In HIS Kingdom is where I belong! !
poem by Melissa Desiree Reddy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One Fateful Friday Night
The night was young, the energy high.
The weekend was in sight.
For four lads from Vancouver.
On one fateful Friday night.
They suited up, put on their best.
And filed into the car.
Not knowing for them what lay ahead.
Off they went to a local bar.
The bar was packed, the drinks went down,
Everything seemed just right.
They were having the time of their lives.
That fateful Friday night.
They drank and drank and drank some more.
Until it was last call.
They ordered up a round of shots.
All for one and one for all.
They staggered back to their ride.
It seemed like so much fun.
But on that fateful Friday night.
The nightmare had just begun.
The car sped off the boys all laughed.
Not a problem in the world.
They laughed so hard, they didn't see,
The tiny little girl.
And then the sound they won't forget.
It cut them like a knife.
The four lads that went out for fun.
Had taken a young child's life.
They stopped the car and all got out.
They didn't make a sound.
They huddled around the little girl,
That lay bleeding on the ground.
Her hair done up in pigtails.
A pretty pink flowered dress.
Her mommy was coming home from work
So she wanted to look her best.
A mother's little baby girl.
And four futures that looked so bright.
Were all lost in a drunken haze.
On one fateful Friday night.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad Of Ira Hayes
Gather round you people and a story I will tell
About a brave young indian you should remember well
From the tribe of pima indians, a proud and a peaceful band
They farmed the phoenix valley in arizona land
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till their white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed
Now iras folks were hungry and their farms wene crops of weeds
But when war came he volunteers and forgot, the white mans greed
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
They started up iwo jima hill, 250 men
But only 27 lived to walk back down that hill again
And when the fight was over and the old glory raised
One of the men who held it high was the indian ira hayes
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
Now ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand
But he was just a pima indian, no money crops, no chance
And at home nobody cared what ira had done and the wind did the indians
Dance
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
And ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home
They let him raise the flag there and lower it like youd throw a dog a bone
He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he had fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for ira hayes
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, but his land is still as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where ira died
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am Not Proud Of My Country
I love my Homeland Country and of it's scenic sights I sing
But I don't say I am proud to be Irish as proud has a patriotic ring
And those who feel proud of their Country often go that step too far
As pride leads to patriotism and patriotism leads to war.
I have never waved my Country's flag at parade or football game
And I am not Proud of my country though I love it just the same
For pride and love are different as different as can be
And pride that leads to patriotism has never appealed to me.
Some people on flag post in their front yard fly their Country's flag
And I am proud of my Country you hear them proudly brag
But others worthiness and cultures they never could embrace
And without saying so they are telling you that ours is a superior race.
I am proud of my Country you will never hear me say
Though many feel that pride and patriotism are good and quite okay
But how many young men have died in wars due to patriotic pride
Love brings people together whilst pride and patriotism divide.
I have never been a soldier or had honours to my name
And I am not Proud of my Country though I love it just the same
And those who feel proud of their Country can take that step too far
For pride leads to patriotism and patriotism can lead to war.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad Of Ira Hayes
(peter lafarge)
Gather round me people and a story I will tell
bout a brave young indian lad, you should remember well,
From a tribe of pima indians, a proud and peaceful band
Who farmed the phoenix valley out in arizona land.
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till the white man stole the water rights and the running water hushed.
Iras folks was hungry, their fields grew thick with weeds,
But when war came ira volunteered and forgot the white mans greed.
Call him drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking indian or marine who went to war.
Well, they battled up iwo jima hill, two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again.
And after the fight was over and old glory proudly raised,
Among the men who held her high was an indian, ira hayes.
Call him drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking indian or marine who went to war.
Well, ira hayes returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land,
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand.
But hes just a pima indian, no food, no friend, no chance,
And nobody cared what ira did and when do the indians dance.
Well, ira took to drinking hard, jail often was his home,
They used to let him raise the flag there and lower it just like youd throw a dog a bone.
And ira died drunk early one morning all alone in the land hed fought to save.
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for ira hayes.
Call him drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking indian or marine who went to war.
Yeah, call him drunken ira hayes, but his land is till as dry
And his ghost, well, thats lying thirsty in the ditch where ira died.
Call him drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking indian or marine who went to war.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nightmares (English sonnet)
There sometimes is really bad kind of dreams
which you want to avoid, to be waking,
when in your ears you hear your own screams,
while your body, mind and soul is aching
These dreams return like a bomb ever ticking
to the time that they come back with anxiety,
as if the past, the time of war is sticking
its fingers in the present life with impropriety.
Night after night as in sleep you plunge in
again you are in cover behind enemy lines,
you dream of escaping barely by your skin,
where you were trapped by some landmines,
about shooting to kill to be able to survive,
about as a duty taking someone else’s life.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Final Goodbye
It really hurt you know
Every time you would go
It's getting harder to hide
That It's killing me inside
For once you left me alone
I never left that phone
I couldn't even look at others
I didn't even think of lovers
Now you can't come back
And now there's just this huge crack
In my life and my mind
It's like I've become blind
The first time they said
‘He made us proud the life he led'
I knew you were so long gone
And I broke, everything was wrong
Why'd you leave my life?
Why did you fight that strife?
When you knew what they fought for
Why did you fall in that destructive war?
They say I will learn to love again
But there is no escaping this pain
You knew what might happen from the start
The pain I felt when your life was torn apart
So sleep well, this is my final goodbye, my darling sweet heart
poem by Rebecca Pepper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Proud To Be Loud
Listen up good
I got a lot to say
I know what I want
And I get my own way
I call em as I see em
I dont play by the book
One dose of volume
Thats all it took
Ive seen it, Ive done it
Ive heard it before
Now its my turn
To settle the score
Ill sing it, Ill shout it
Ill say it again
I dont care if they
Never give in cause im
Proud to be loud
Proud to be loud
You know Im proud
Proud to be loud
Well Ive alway believed
In freedom of speech
And Ive always been the one
Who practiced what I preached
Love it or leave it
Ill give you the choice
But itll snow in hell
Before I lower my voice
I live it, I breathe it
I gotta have more
Its full blast
And this means war
The power, the glory
Its callin my name
I wont start to
Play their game cause im
Proud to be loud
Proud to be loud
Im proud to be loud
And Ill never
Turn it down again no!!
Proud to be loud
Proud to be loud
Im proud,
Proud to be loud
song performed by by Pantera
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Just A Simple Soldier
He was getting old and paunchy,
and his hair was falling fast,
As he sat around the Legion,
telling stories of his past.
Of a war that he had fought in,
and the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies,
they were heroes, everyone.
And though sometimes to his neighbors
his tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened,
for they knew whereof he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer,
for old Bob has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer,
for a soldier died today.
He won't be mourned by many,
just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary,
very quiet sort of life.
He held a job and raised a family,
quietly going on his way,
And the world won't note his passing,
though a soldier died today.
When politicians leave this earth,
their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing
and proclaim that they were great.
Papers tell of their life stories,
from the time that they were young,
But the passing of a soldier,
goes unnoticed, and unsung.
Is the greatest contribution,
to the welfare of our land,
Some jerk who breaks his promise,
and cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow,
who in times of war and strife,
goes off to serve his country
and offers up his life?
The politicians stipend,
and the style in which he lives,
Are sometimes disproportionate,
to the service that he gives.
While the ordinary soldier,
who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal,
and perhaps a pension, small.
It's so easy to forget them,
for it is so long ago,
That our Bob's and Jim's and Johnny's,
went to battle, but we know.
It was not the politicians,
with their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us this freedom,
that our country now enjoys.
Should you find yourself in danger,
with your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out,
with his ever waffling stand?
Or would you want a soldier,
who has sworn to defend,
His home, his kin, and country,
and would fight until the end?
He was just a common soldier,
and his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us,
we may need his type again.
For when countries are in conflict,
then we find the soldier's part,
Is to clean up all the troubles,
that politicians start.
If we cannot do him honor,
while he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least lets give him homage,
at the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline,
in the paper that might say,
'OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
FOR A SOLDIER DIED TODAY.'
poem by Summer Sandercox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Be Not Proud
Oh Death be not proud,
Oh Grave be not shallow
For out reaching your darkened hand
And refusing a boy, to become a man.
Oh grave I feel your sting
And Death I hear you sing
From the lives that you do take
From the lives, to you we gave.
Oh grave, be not proud
For taking the little child
For refusing them yet to grow,
Unto the Adults, they'll never know.
Death be not proud
For arriving as a thief
To break the heart and shatter the soul
To only fill it, with your grief.
Death be not proud
Grave be not victorious
Pain be not loud
Sorrow, be not continuous.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shots
Shots
Ringing all along the borders can be heard
Striking out like a venom in the sky
Cutting through the air faster than a bird
In the night.
Children
Are lost in the sand, building roads with little hands
Trying to join their fathers castles together again
Will they make it? who knows where or when
Old wounds will mend?
Machines
Are winding their way along, looking strong
Building roads and bringing back loads and loads
Of building materials
In the night
Men
Are trying to move the borders on the ground
Lines between the different spots that each has found
But back home another scene was going down
In the night.
Lust
Comes creepin through the night to feed on hearts
Of suburban wives who learned to pretend
When they met their dreams end
In the night.
Shots
I hear shots, I keep hearing shots
I keep hearing shots
I hear shots.
Shots
I hear shots, I keep hearing shots
I keep hearing shots
I hear shots.
But Ill never use your love,
You know Im not that kind
And so if you give your heart away
I promise to you
Whatever we do
That I will always be true.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Back Where I Come From
In the town where I was raised
Clock ticks and the cattle graze
Time passed with amazing grace
Back where I come from.
You can lie on a riverbank
Paint your name on a water tank
Miss count all the beers you drank
Back where I come from.
Back where I come from,
Where Ill be when it is said and done,
Im proud as anyone thats where I come from.
We learned in a sunday school
Just who made the sun shine through
I know who made the moon shine too
Back where I come from
Blue eyes on a saturday night
Tan legs in the broad daylight
Tvs they were black and white
Back where I come from
Back where I come from,
Where Ill be when it is said and done,
Im proud as anyone thats where I come from.
Some say its a backwards place
Narrow minds on a narrow race
But I make it a point to say thats where I come from.
Thats where I come from,
Where Ill be when it is said and done,
Im proud as anyone thats where I come from.
Thats where I come from
Im an old tennesseean
I am as proud as any one thats where I come from
Back where I come from
Back where I come from
Back where I come from
song performed by by Kenny Chesney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Of A Parent
They had married at a very young age
At the time they thought it was a game.
They had been together for a long time
and he thought that everything would be fine.
They had lived together for two years or more
And they thought they knew the score.
At seventeen years of age they felt they knew it all
And life was to have a ball.
With part time jobs they paid their bills
Living together was such a thrill.
Not having to worry about a curfew hour
Now ' they had all the power'.
Going out partying every weekend
Not thinking of the money that they spent.
Coming home late at night, being drunk
They would start to fight.
She started feeling some menstruation pain
And from this point on their lives would change.
She went to her doctor to check it out
Pregnant she was - there was no doubt.
Now their eyes opened to the fact
From this point on there was no turning back.
They now had a child on the way
And they could no longer go out to play.
He got a full time job and straightened up his act
And a better position he would have to attack.
He went back to school To get a better education
And to give his wife and child all that he could give
And with both their incomes they would have to live.
She worked for seven months till she
Could work no longer, and to get their house in order.
When she went to the hospital because her time was due
She found out she was having not one but two.
She gave birth to a beautiful boy and girl
He was a diamond and she a pearl.
The most precious babies you'd ever want to see
And he was the proud father - as proud as can be.
They struggled like most couples do
But he was determined to see it through.
She took her children and held them tight
For in their faces she saw their fathers might.
His love so strong for his family
And this is what they all did see.
And the rest is history.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Those Legs That Once Could Run So Fast
Those legs that once could run so fast feel heavy now and slow
He sure is not the man he was some forty years ago
He played football with his young mates he drank till pub closing time
But that was many years ago when he was in his prime,
On looking back the decades time seems to have gone fast
He had his good days one must suppose though nothing seems to last
And time catches up on all of us though some with hair dye cover their gray
But Mother Nature on us all does have the final say,
Forty five years ago he was the hero of the local Football team
In the cup final he kicked the winning goal a boost to his self esteem
By his team-mates he was shouldered from the field of play the cheers for him rang loud
And thinking of his glorious hour still makes him feel so proud
And now at night he sits at home with his ageing and forgetful wife
And time is catching up on him one might say such is life.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Trifler
Death's the lover that I'd be taking;
Wild and fickle and fierce is he.
Small's his care if my heart be breaking-
Gay young Death would have none of me.
Hear them clack of my haste to greet him!
No one other my mouth had kissed.
I had dressed me in silk to meet him-
False young Death would not hold the tryst.
Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy,
Smooth and cold is the bridal bed;
I must wait till he whistles for me-
Proud young Death would not turn his head.
I must wait till my breast is wilted.
I must wait till my back is bowed,
I must rock in the corner, jilted-
Death went galloping down the road.
Gone's my heart with a trifling rover.
Fine he was in the game he played-
Kissed, and promised, and threw me over,
And rode away with a prettier maid.
poem by Dorothy Parker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ballad Of Ira Hayes
(Peter LaFarge)
Gather round me people and a story I will tell
?Bout a brave young Indian lad, you should remember well,
From a tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and peaceful band
Who farmed the Phoenix Valley out in Arizona land.
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till the white man stole the water rights and the running water hushed.
Ira's folks was hungry, their fields grew thick with weeds,
But when war came Ira volunteered and forgot the white man's greed.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
Well, they battled up Iwo Jima Hill, two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again.
And after the fight was over and Old Glory proudly raised,
Among the men who held her high was an Indian, Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
Well, Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land,
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand.
But he's just a Pima Indian, no food, no friend, no chance,
And nobody cared what Ira did and when do the Indians dance.
Well, Ira took to drinking hard, jail often was his home,
They used to let him raise the flag there and lower it just like you'd throw a dog a bone.
And Ira died drunk early one morning all alone in the land he'd fought to save.
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his lan
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The Name Of Freedom...
we give a young man a gun,
and tell him to go kill in
the name of freedom...
we assure him that God is
on his side.
and he goes and kills and
commits atrocious acts of
violence...
and the defense contracts
grow, we secure more oil...
the war machine feeds itself!
this young man comes home to no job,
no real future, limited benefits,
and pretty much no help.
and he has to try to sleep at
night, hearing the cries and
the screams of the dying, of
women and children...
freedom? bullshit!
a license to kill?
who is the murderer here?
the young man put on the altar?
or the faceless ones who sent him?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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