Waterloo Day
THIS is the day of our glory; this is our day to weep.
Under her dusty laurels England stirs in her sleep;
Dreams of her days of honour, terrible days that are dead,
Days of the making of story, days when the sword was red,
When all her fate and her future hung on the naked blade,
When by the sword of her children her place in the world was made,
When Honour sounded the trumpet and Valour leapt to obey,
And Heroes bought us the Empire that statesmen would sell to-day.
England, wanton and weary, sunk in a slothful ease,
Has slain in her wars her thousands, but her tens of thousands in peace:
And the cowards grieve for her glory; their glory is in their shame;
They are glad of the moth in her banners, and the rust on her shining name.
Oh, if the gods would send us a balm for our sick, sad years,
Let them send us a sight of the scarlet, and the sound of the guns in our ears!
For valour and faith and honour--these grow where the red flower grows,
And the leaves for the Nation's healing must spring from the blood of her foes.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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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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Grieve England
Grieve, England, and hang your head
in utter shame,
as the tale of your inhumanity
rings to this very day.
Grieve about your fallen brave, England,
for no glory did your heroes bring
back from the battlefields of South Africa,
where they killed children
who did not want to betray
the whereabouts of their fathers.
What glory shines
in pillage and rape
and how does lament ring,
with the utter destruction
of farmsteads of a nation?
Grieve about the soulless slaughter, England,
of most of a nation’s women
and children in your cruel concentration camps,
where you fed glass mixed with meal
and let thousands of the innocent die of pestilence.
Cry, England, and hang your head
in utter shame,
as the tale of your inhumanity
rings forever more.
[Reference: => To the Anglo-Boer war where thousands of innocent woman and children died in British concentration camps.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Song For Peace And Honour
TO THE QUEEN
LADY and Queen, for whom our laurels twine,
Upon whose head the glories of our land
In one immortal diadem are met,
Embodied England, in whose woman-hand
The sceptre of Imperial sway is set,
Receive this song of mine!
For you are England, and her bays grow green
To deck your brow, your goodness lends her grace,
And in our hearts your face is as Her face;
The Mother-Country is the Mother-Queen.
We, men of England, children of her might,
With all our Mother's record-roll of glory,
Great with her greatness, noble by her name,
Drank with our mothers' milk our Mother's story,
And in our veins the splendour of her fame
Made strong our blood and bright;
And to her absent sons her name has been
Familiar music heard in distant lands,
Heart of our heart and sinews of our hands,
England, our Mother, our Mistress and our Queen!
Out of the thunderous echoes of the past
Through the gold-dust of centuries we hear
Her voice, 'O children of a royal line,
Sons of her heart, whom England holdeth dear,
Mine was the Past--make ye the future mine
All glorious to the last!'
And, as we hear her, cowards grow to men,
And men to heroes, and the voice of fear
Is as a whisper in a deaf man's ear,
And the dead past is quick in us again.
Her robe is woven of glory and renown,
Hers are the golden-laden Argosies,
And lordship of the wild and watery ways,
Her flag is blown across the utmost seas:
Dead nations built her throne, and kingdoms blaze
For jewels in her crown.
Her Empire like a girdle doth enfold
The world; her feet upon her foes are set;
She wears the steel-wrought, blood-bright amulet
Won by her children in the days of old.
Yet in a treasury of such gems as these
Which power and sovereignty and kingship fill
To the vast limit of the circling sun,
England, our Mother, in her heart holds still,
As her most precious jewel, save only one,
The priceless pearl of peace--
Peace plucked from out the very heart of war
Through the long agony of strenuous years,
Made pure by blood and sanctified by tears,
A pearl to lie where England's treasures are.
O peaceful English lanes all white with may,
O English meadows where the grass grows tall,
O red-roofed village, field and farm and fold
Where the long shadows of the elm-trees fall
On the wide pastures which the sun calls gold
And twilit dew calls gray;--
These are the home, the happy cradle-place
Of every man who has our English tongue,
Sprung from those loins from which our sires have sprung,
Heirs of the glory of our mighty race!
Brothers, we hold the pearl of priceless worth:
Shall Peace, our pearl, by us be cast aside?
Is it not more to us than all things are?
Nay, Peace is precious as the world is wide,
But England's honour is more precious far
Than all the heavens and earth.
Were honour outcast from her supreme place
Our pearl of Peace no more a pearl would shine,
But, trampled under-foot of cowards and swine,
Rot in the mire of a deserved disgrace.
Know then, O ye our brothers over sea,
We will not cast our pearl of Peace away,
But, holding it, we wait; and if, at last,
The whole world came against us in array,
If all our glory into darkness passed,
Our Empire ceased to be,
Yet should we still have chosen the better part
Though in the dust our kingdoms were cast down,
Though lost were every jewel in our crown
We still should wear our jewel in our heart.
So, for our Mother's honour, if it must
Let Peace be lost, but lost the worthier way;
Not trampled down, but given, for her sake
Who forged of many an iron yesterday
The golden song that gold-tongued fame shall wake
When we are dust, in dust:
For brotherhood and strife and praise and blame
And all the world, even to our very land,
Weighed in the balance, are as a grain of sand
Against the honour of our English name!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Henry Bartle Edward Frere
Bend down and read-the birth, the death, the name.
Born in the year that Waterloo was won,
And died in this, whose days are not yet run,
But which, because a year conceived in shame,
No noble need will christen or will claim.
And yet this dead man, England, was Thy son,
And at his grave we ask what had he done,
Bred to be famous, to be foiled of Fame.
Be the reply his epitaph: That he,
In years as youth, the unyielding spirit bore
He got from Thee, but Thou hast got no more;
And that it is a bane and bar to be
A child of Thine, now the adventurous sea
All vainly beckons to a shrinking shore.
Therefore, great soul, within your marble bed
Sleep sound, nor hear the useless tears we weep.
Why should you wake, when England is asleep,
Or care to live, since England now is dead?
Forbidden are the steeps where Glory led;
No more from furrowed danger of the deep
We harvest greatness; to our hearths we creep,
Count and recount our coin, and nurse our dread.
The sophist's craft hath grown a prosperous trade,
And womanish Tribunes hush the manly drum:
The very fear of Empire strikes us numb,
Fumbling with pens, who brandished once the blade.
Therefore, great soul, sleep sound where you are laid,
Blest in being deaf when Honour now is dumb.
poem by Alfred Austin
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The Men Who Man Our Batteries
The men who man our batteries,
The men who serve our guns,
They need not honeyed flatteries,
For they are Britain's sons!
They go, when Duty speeds them,
Wherever bullets fly;
Wherever England needs them,
When Duty bids, they die.
The men who man our strongholds,
Or march to yonder field
Where Valour against Wrong holds
A realm that scorns to yield,
From Chiltern Hills or Grampians
May pour their living tide,
But all are England's champions
And all are England's pride.
And, lo! how the abhorrence
Of sceptred crime can join
The Thames and the St. Lawrence,
The Liffey and the Boyne.
For England need but ask aid
Where'er her branches grow,
And like a leaping cascade
It thunders on the foe.
Our cheery sailors, lapt in
The maiden sea's light sleep,
From commodore and captain
To all who man the deep,
They hear around their bed nought
But echoes of their fame,
And well they man the Dreadnought
Who dread not aught but shame.
And whether calmly harboured,
Or when the rocking State
Lurches to port and starboard,
They sail the seas of Fate;
With everlasting laughter
They luff to wind and rain,
Aforetime and hereafter
The men who man the main.
The men who man Great Britain,
And fight for royal George,
On battle's anvil smitten
Leap mightier from the forge:
Like oaks in Orkney's rough spring
They flourish torn and blown,
For all are Honour's offspring
And all are England's own.
The men who man this nation,
And sow her fame abroad,
They ask not acclamation,
They need not England's laud;
And when too late it finds them,
And falls on lifeless ears,
Where yon red tempest blinds them
They need but England's tears.
Yet, while the storm grows vaster
Around them and above,
In triumph or disaster
They shall not lack our love --
They who to Glory's fanning
This streamer have unfurled,
The men whose joy is manning,
The men who man the world!
poem by William Watson
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I Respect Them
I respect them though the last post for them will not be played
And never in their honour will there be a parade
And yet their anthem for peace to my ears sounds so sweet
Those peace loving peace marchers who walk along the street.
They march on in their thousands up to the City Square
Their dream is for a peaceful World a common goal they share
And yet in their honour never a peace memorial day
The people who glorify war always seem to have their way.
Not seen as heroines or heroes medals they don't have to show
And few of their life stories would wish to read or know
They only wish to make peace with those known as the foe
And from their efforts only the flower of peace can grow.
Unsung heroes and heroines is how they seem to me
They only march for a better life and a World of war that's free
They only wish to send some positive energy in the balmy evening air
To the negative and lesser enlightened in the bigger World out there.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Song Of Trafalgar
LIKE an angry sun, like a splendid star,
War gleams down the long years' track;
They strain at the leash, the dogs of war,
And who shall hold them back?
'Let loose the pack: we are English bred,
We will meet them full and fair
With the flag of England over our head,
And his hand to keep it there!'
So spake our fathers. Our flag, unfurled,
Blew brave to the north and south;
An iron answer we gave the world,
For we spoke by the cannon's mouth.
But he who taught us the word to say
Grew dumb as his Victory sang,
And England mourned on her triumph day,
And wept while her joy-bells rang.
Long hour by hour, and long day by day,
The swift years crept apace,
The patient, the coral-insect way,
To cover the dear dead face.
O foolish rabble of envious years,
Who wist not the dead must rise,
His name is music still in our ears,
His face a light to our eyes!
Bring hither your laurels, the fading sign
Of a deathless love and pride;
These cling more close than the laurels twine,
They are strong as the world is wide:
At the feet of Virtue in Valour clad
Shall glory and love be laid,
While Glory sings to an English lad,
Or Love to an English maid.
Wherever the gleams of an English fire
On an English roof-tree shine,
Wherever the fire of a youth's desire
Is laid upon Honour's shrine,
Wherever brave deeds are treasured and told,
In the tale of the deeds of yore
Like jewels of price in a chain of gold
Are the name and the fame he bore.
Wherever the track of our English ships
Lies white on the ocean foam,
His name is sweet to our English lips
As the names of the flowers at home;
Wherever the heart of an English boy
Grows big with a deed of worth,
Such names as his name have begot the same,
Such hearts will bring it to birth.
They say that his England, grown tired and old,
Lies drunk by her heavy hoard;
They say her hands have the grasp of the gold
But not the grip of the sword,
That her robe of glory is rent and shred,
And that winds of shame blow through:
Speak for your England, O mighty Dead,
In the deeds you would have her do!
Small skill have we to fight with the pen
Who fought with the sword of old,
For the sword that is wielded of Englishmen
Is as much as one hand can hold.
Yet the pen and the tongue are safe to use,
And the coward and the wise choose these;
But fools and brave were our English crews
When Nelson swept the seas.
'Tis the way of a statesman to fear and fret,
To ponder and pause and plan,
But the way of Nelson was better yet,
For that was the way of a man;
They would teach us smoothness, who once were rough,
They have bidden us palter and pray,
But the way of Nelson was good enough,
For that was the fighting way.
If Nelson's England must stoop to bear
What never honour should brook,
In vain does the tomb of her hero wear
The laurel his brow forsook;
In vain was the speech from the lips of her guns,
If now must her lips refrain;
In vain has she made us, her living sons,
Her dead have made her in vain.
So here with your bays be the dear head crowned,
Lay flowers where the dear dust lies,
And wreathe his column with laurel round
To point his fame to the skies;
But the greenest laurel that ever grew
Is the laurel that's yet to win;
Crowned with his laurels he waits for You
To bring Your laurels in!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Best School of All
It's good to see the school we knew,
the land of youth and dream.
To greet again the rule we knew,
before we took the stream.
Though long we've missed the sight of her,
Out hearts may not forget:
We've lost the old delight of her,
We keep her honour yet.
Chorus:
We'll honour yet the school we knew
The best school of all
We'll honour yet the rule we knew
Till the last bell call
For working days or holidays
And glad or melancholy days
They were great days and jolly days
At the best school of all
The stars and sounding vanities
That half the crowd bewitch.
What are they but inanities
To him that treads the pitch?
And where's the welth I'm wondering,
Could buy the cheers that roll
When the last charge goes thundering
Towards the twilight goal?
Then men that tanned the hide of us,
Our daily foes and friends,
They shall not lose their pride of us,
However the journey ends.
Their voice to us who sing of it,
No more its message bears,
But the round world shall ring of it,
And all we are be theirs.
To speak of fame a venture is,
There's little here can bide,
But we may face the centuries,
And dare the deepending tide;
for though the dust that's part of us,
To dust again be gone,
Yet here shall beat the heart of us,
The school we handed on!
We'll honour yet the school we knew
The best school of all
We'll honour yet the rule we knew
Till the last bell call
For working days or holidays
And glad or melancholy days
They were great days and jolly days
At the best school of all
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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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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Glory Days
I had a friend was a big baseball player
Back in high school
He could throw that speedball by you
Make you look like a fool boy
Saw him the other night at this roadside bar
I was walking in, he was walking out
We went back inside sat down had a few drinks
But all he kept talking about was
Chorus:
Glory days well they'll pass you by
Glory days in the wink of a young girl's eye
Glory days, glory days
Well there's a girl that lives up the block
Back in school she could turn all the boy's heads
Sometimes on a friday i'll stop by
And have a few drinks after she put her kids to bed
Her and her husband bobby well they split up
I guess it's two years gone by now
We just sit around talking about the old times,
She says when she feels like crying
She starts laughing thinking about
Chorus
My old man worked 20 years on the line
And they let him go
Now everywhere he goes out looking for work
They just tell him that he's too old
I was 9 nine years old and he was working at the
Metuchen ford plant assembly line
Now he just sits on a stool down at the legion hall
But i can tell what's on his mind
Glory days yeah goin back
Glory days aw he ain't never had
Glory days, glory days
Now i think i'm going down to the well tonight
And i'm going to drink till i get my fill
And i hope when i get old i don't sit around thinking about it
But i probably will
Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture
A little of the glory of, well time slips away
And leaves you with nothing mister but
Boring stories of glory days
Chorus (repeat twice)
Assorted all rights, oh yeahs, come on nows, hoots, etc til fade
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stanzas Written On The Road Between Florence And Pisa
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
O Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
The Gardener
WITHIN this garden space are set
Sweet mignonette and violet,
Sunk in rich mould; at dawn and night
Their leaves dew-wet.
Who set them in the kindly loam
Lies buried 'neath the clover-foam
Of alien meadows, far away
From his loved home.
If it be glory thus to pass
For Honour's sake, and 'neath the grass
Red-wounded lie, then he, in truth,
Great glory has.
Yet, blossoms that he loved and set! —
Sweet mignonette, sweet violet —
Not Honour's self, nor Glory's crown,
Can stay regret.
'Twixt bud of leaf and fall of leaf,
Why should Fate in an hour so brief
Wreck flower and flower, and nurse alone
The cypress — Grief?
He is not gone — not all of him;
For trees have memories; leaf and limb
Shall breathe his name, and grateful flowers
At twilight dim.
For like these blooms, he left behind
Some fragrance, subtle and refined —
A memoried sweetness that shall haunt
Tree, flower and wind.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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What Shall I Do For the Land that Bred Me
What shall I do for the land that bred me,
Her homes and fields that folded and fed me?—
Be under her banner and live for her honour:
Under her banner I’ll live for her honour.
CHORUS. Under her banner live for her honour.
Not the pleasure, the pay, the plunder,
But country and flag, the flag I am under—
There is the shilling that finds me willing
To follow a banner and fight for honour.
CH. We follow her banner, we fight for her honour.
Call me England’s fame’s fond lover,
Her fame to keep, her fame to recover.
Spend me or end me what God shall send me,
But under her banner I live for her honour.
CH. Under her banner we march for her honour.
Where is the field I must play the man on?
O welcome there their steel or cannon.
Immortal beauty is death with duty,
If under her banner I fall for her honour.
CH. Under her banner we fall for her honour.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Last Post
THE day's high work is over and done,
And these no more will need the sun:
Blow, you bugles of England, blow!
These are gone where all must go,
Mightily gone from the field they won.
So in the workaday wear of battle,
Touched to glory with God's own red,
Bear we our chosen to their bed!
Settle them lovingly where they fell,
In that good lap they loved so well;
And, their deliveries to the dear Lord said,
And the last desperate volleys ranged and sped,
Blow, you bugles of England, blow,
Over the camps of her beaten foe --
Blow glory and pity to the victor Mother,
Sad, O sad in her sacrificial dead!
Labour, and love, and strife, and mirth,
They gave their part in this kindly earth --
Blow, you bugles of England, blow!
That her Name as a sun among stars might glow,
Till the dusk of time, with honour and worth:
That stung by lust and the pain of battle,
The One Race ever might starkly spread,
And the One Flag eagle it overhead!
In a rapture of wrath and faith and pride,
Thus they felt it, and thus they died;
So to the Maker of homes, to the Giver of bread,
For whose dear sake their triumphing souls they shed,
Blow, you bugles of England, blow,
Though you break the heart of her beaten foe,
Glory and praise to the everlasting Mother,
Glory and peace to her lovely and faithful dead!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Trafalgar Day
LAURELS, bring laurels, sheaves on sheaves,
Till England's boughs are bare of leaves!
Soon comes the flower more rare, more dear
Than any laurel this year weaves--
The Aloe of the hundredth year
Since from the smoke of Trafalgar
He passed to where the heroes are,
Nelson, who passed and yet is here,
Whose dust is fire beneath our feet,
Whose memory mans our fleet.
Laurels, bring laurels, since they hold
His England's tears in each green fold,
His England's joy, his England's pride,
His England's glories manifold.
Yet what was Victory since he died?
And what was Death since he lives yet,
Above a Nation's worship set,
Above her heroes glorified?--
Nelson, who made our flag a star
To lead where Victories are!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Warning
Virtue is Virtue, writ in ink or blood.
And Duty, Honour, Valour, are the same
Whether they cheer the thundering steps of Fame
Up echoing hills of Alma, or, more blest,
Walk with her in that band where she is least
Thro' smiling plains and cities doing good.
Yet, oh to sing them in their happier day!
Yon glebe is not the hind whose manhood mends
Its rudeness, yet it gains but while he spends,
And mulcts him rude. Even that sinless Lord
Whose feet wan Mary washed, went not His way
Uncoloured by the Galilean field;
And Honour, Duty, Valour, seldom wield
With stainless hand the immedicable sword.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Glory Days Glory Days
Glory days glory days
I feel so good
Because I am alive again during this brand new day that my beloved God Gave to me alone
And I say thank you to God for giving me this brand new day
That I am starting to enjoy it very much
Glory days glory days
I am not a handsome men either
But also I am not a millionaire
Because women loves money and power
And women is more down to earth than men
Also women loves to show their feelings and affection
But men doesn't do that
And I believe that men is much rharder on them selves than on the Women
Also I want to say that I am happy being me
poem by Aldo Kraas
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I'll Fly Away
Some glad morning when this life is o'er
I'll fly away
To a home on God's celestial shore
I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, oh glory,
I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah, by and by
I'll fly away.
--- Instrumental ---
When the shadows of this life grow have grown
I'll fly away
Like a bird from prison bars has flown
I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, oh glory,
I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah, by and by
I'll fly away.
--- Instrumental ---
Just a few more weary days and then
I'll fly away
To a land where joy shall never end
I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, oh glory,
I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah, by and by
I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, oh glory,
I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah, by and by
I'll fly away...
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Those Glory Days
Those glory days...
Come to be lived and meant for seekers of adventure.
Those glory days...
Do not support the liniment impotent people.
Those glory days...
Will not be felt that way for those who are in pain.
The ones complaining everyday and that remains the same.
Those glory days...
Come to be lived and meant for seekers of adventure.
Those glory days...
Do not support the liniment impotent people.
Those glory days...
Are for those who reach and seek an energy.
The ones who stand up straight to get up off of their knees.
The ones not looking for someone to convince and please.
The ones who choose to live their lives happily in ease.
Those glory days...
Do not support the liniment impotent people.
Those glory days...
Will not be felt that way for those who are in pain.
The ones complaining everyday and that remains the same.
Those glory days...
Do not support the liniment impotent people.
Those glory days...
Will not be felt that way for those who are in pain.
The ones complaining everyday and that remains the same.
Those glory days...
Are for those who reach and seek an energy.
The ones who stand up straight to get up off of their knees.
The ones not looking for someone to convince and please.
The ones who choose to live their lives happily in ease.
Those glory days...
Do not support the liniment impotent people.
Those glory days...
Do not support the liniment impotent people.
Those glory days...
Do not support the liniment impotent people.
Those glory days...
Will not be felt that way for those who are in pain.
The ones complaining everyday and that remains the same.
Those glory days...
Do not support the liniment impotent people.
Those glory days...
Do not support the liniment impotent people.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Angry Poem, Because So Many Flags Are At Half Staff
The wreaths are piling up on the curb. Coffins line streets swept and stainless. Some one asks why, there are murmurs in the crowd. I am beyond curiosity, tired of the story that begins with Blood and ends in Glory. Glory, worshiped in the streets, feared in our hearts. Glory, bought with sin, greed and the end of innocence. Glory, balm for the living because the dead do not need soothing. Glory, an epithet hammered into gravestones. Glory in death -wrap that lie in a flag and praise it to heaven. We are false prophets and our blessing has cursed the dead with the Blood sacrifice.
Blood is paid for with youth, salvation, faith -everything, all they have and ever will. Blood is given (taken) in our name and we can only offer up sorrow, prayers, songs, statues. Blood should bring guilt, shame, truth, but we deny, deny, deny, and deny the abomination we have become. 2,000 suicides,3,000 dead,130,000 killed,6 million murdered,60 million casualties... the numbers do not lie. And we will go on counting the dead while rain polishes their headstones smooth.
So do not ask me why so many flags are at half staff. I will not give you the answer you want to hear. I will not mock the dead with vainglorious praise, Glory Glory Hallelujah! They are the mothers, fathers, sons and daughters who paid the price of Blood and I will honor them with the truth.
poem by Ronald Shields
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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