Without Just Cause.
My maiden aunt had little chance.
Because the man she was to wed
Was one of those who fell in France
listed as missing presumed dead.
Her happiness a casualty
which never figured in the news
She had to face reality
a future which she did not choose.
She was condemned to life alone
Because so many young men died
all chance of motherhood was gone.
She bore her fate with stoic pride.
She helped to raise her sister’s brood.
Her husband too unfit to go.
She mothered them as best she could
the only joy she’d ever know.
She was a treasure left unclaimed
a mother she would never be.
Only the Great War could be blamed
for many women’s misery.
She lived to see a ripe old age.
She died in nineteen forty one
just long enough to see the stage
prepared for another one.
Another war to end all wars
Just as the first Great War had been.
To her it was a hopeless cause
she saw the slaughter as obscene.
Young men will answer to the call
but womenfolk are left behind
To mourn their menfolk when they fall
A fate that’s very far from kind.
I think that she was glad to go
she knew from hard experience.
What other girls would come to know
when sorrow takes up residence.
20-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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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
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Aunt Tabitha
THE YOUNG GIRL'S POEM
WHATEVER I do, and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that is n't the way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago)
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.
Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice!
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice
And besides, I forget half the things I am told;
But they all will come back to me--when I am old.
If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;
She would never endure an impertinent stare,--
It is horrid, she says, and I must n't sit there.
A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,
But it is n't quite safe to be walking alone;
So I take a lad's arm,--just for safety, you know,--
But Aunt Tabitha tells me they did n't do so.
How wicked we are, and how good they were then!
They kept at arm's length those detestable men;
What an era of virtue she lived in!--But stay--
Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?
If the men were so wicked, I 'll ask my papa
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma;
Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows?
And what shall I say, if a wretch should propose?
I am thinking if Aunt knew so little of sin,
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been!
And her grand-aunt--it scares me--how shockingly sad
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!
A martyr will save us, and nothing else can;
Let me perish--to rescue some wretched young man!
Though when to the altar a victim I go,
Aunt Tabitha 'll tell me she never did so.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Mangan
Arguably the greatest poet old Ireland has seen
'Twas he penned the poem known as 'Dark Rosaleen'
In eighteen forty nine in his mid forties in poverty he died
Though true genius of him never can be denied
The great James Clarence Mangan Ireland's National bard
His journey through life was to say the least hard
He lived as he died in abject poverty
Yet one could not name many poets as great as he
From consumption and poor diet and neglect he died very young
For him no State funeral and he was unsung
Despite his hard life it seems a remarkable feat
That so many great poems the great poet did bequeath
To Ireland and it's people though he died just past his prime
As one of the poor souls of the Dublin of his time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Would He Even Know Me Now?
The past is full of shades and shapes
Of people, come and gone,
'Whatever happened to so and so, '
We say, when the mood is on;
But closer still, our parents live
In the warmth of our hearts and minds,
And my father often returns to me
To haunt my quiet times.
How do you deal with a love so deep
That it tears your life apart?
The day that he left, he took a piece
Of my ever caring heart,
He died, and so did I that day,
But I couldn't even cry,
A loss so great to a fickle fate -
I wept, though my eyes were dry.
Though that was twenty years ago
I remember in every way,
He'll always be just the way he was
On that final, desperate day;
But I have changed, I'm older now
And life has never been kind,
The years have indelibly traced their path
On my face, my body and mind.
My father knew me way back when,
A child, a teen, young man,
I hovered around the forty mark
When he left in the Lord's great plan;
But one thing worries my troubled mind
And it haunts my thoughts somehow,
If we were to pass on the street today
Would he even know me now?
5 March 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Blood relation is a myth
Mother died young; who will bring me up?
Tears flowed..
Mother died old; a great relief so soon.
No tears.
Sister died young; who will bring her kids up?
Pity flowed.
Sister died away, having eloped with a man.
No pity.
Blood relation must be burdensome.
25.12.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Roman Doll
(In a Museum)
How an image of paint and wood
Leaped to her life with a love's control,
Struck the chords of her motherhood,
Passionate little mother-soul!
Fair to her sight were the stolid eyes,
Dear to her toil the robes empearled.
She crooned it the ancient lullabies,
She gathered it close from the outer world.
They watched together, as Nero's pyres
Fed the haze of a hundred fires.
Me in her fresh young arms she bore.
See, I am small,
Only a doll.
But I keep her kiss forevermore.
Long and lonely the toy has lain.
One by one into time's abyss
Years have dropped as the drops of rain.
Yet the cycles have left us this!
O red-lipped mother, O mother sweet,
Today a sister has heard you call,
I saw her weep o'er the crumbling doll.
She knew, she knew! You had lived and smiled!
You had loved your dream, little Roman child!
Me in her fresh young arms she bore.
See, I am small,
Only a doll.
But I keep her kiss forevermore.
poem by Eleanor Agnes Lee
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Shes Gone Now
Now she has died.
She took her own life.
She didnt want to go on.
Thats why she left without a goodbye.
She couldnt tell you.
You'd of made her live.
But its all to late.
She always knew her fate.
Her life in the end was full of hate.
She does not wish to mourn.
She didnt want misery to be born.
Shes gone now
shes dead cold and gone
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Take A Chance
You take a chance and try your best
and hope things turn out right.
But the outcome from the chance you take
is not within your sight.
Do you refrain from trying
and sit still dying
because you're afraid of failure?
This has become the bane of many
and dreams are left behind.
Life itself, is a chance you know
and never will you find
anyone that knows their future.
It's as if we all are blind.
Take a chance, Give it all you've got.
Get up every day and try.
If and when you reach old age
you won't have to sit and sigh.
'If only I had taken a chance,
If only I had tried
maybe that dream from long ago
would never have died.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Departed Souls
Men and women close to us, die each day and return to dust.
And for some who pass away, many can only hope and pray,
That they too, knew The Way, before they had died that day,
If Christ was not upon their heart, on that day they did depart.
The return to dust we all face, is a way to life by God’s Grace,
Through belief in His own Son, who died a death for everyone.
While they had lived in this life, they could see truths of Christ,
In the lives of many of those, who believed in Christ, who rose.
A choice must be made by all, to avoid death, from Adam’s fall,
To accept the love of Calvary, and He who died for you and me.
We need to share with everyone, Eternal Truths of God’s Son,
Men and women, girls and boys, so they can make the choice.
For there’s no time after men die, to lift up prayers into the sky,
To alter choices men had made, before bodies have been laid,
God has given man ample time, to change a heart and a mind,
It’s when men don’t believe, the Spirit of Truth that they receive.
Friend it is God’s ultimate desire, that no man perish in the fire,
But instead receive Eternal Life, through His Son Jesus Christ.
We must let loved ones know, they make a choice where to go,
When they leave this earthly state, eternity is not chance or fate.
Men need to make a determination, in regards to their salvation,
To trust in God’s saving Grace, before they ever leave this place.
No family will have to grieve, knowing in Christ they did believe,
So those left can rest assured, they died knowing Christ as Lord.
(Copyright ©01/2007)
Butterfly
A caterpillar had the feeling
That change was coming
That time was stealing.
To embrace the metamorphosis
It wove a cocoon around its chest
And choose our wall to take its rest.
The young are thoughtless, often cruel
And I was no exception.
I would have destroyed it but
for Frankie’s intervention.
Frankie lived in the corner house
He was older and quite wise.
He taught me that this green cocoon
would change into a butterfly.
He bade me watch, he had me wait
to see the wonder taking shape.
We saw the Monarch first take wing
once caterpillar, now a King.
Several summers passed us by.
I still lived but Frankie died-
He was just eighteen, Young and brave
A landmine put him in his grave.
He died just before Saigon’s fall
His name’s inscribed upon the Wall
Corporal Frank Evangelista Junior,
beloved by mother and mourned by sister.
A terrible loss when Frankie died-
He might have been a butterfly.
(The incident with the Butterfly happened in 1960. Lance Corporal Frank Paul Evangelista jr.USMC died during the Vietnam war when a landmine blew up his jeep. I recall he died in March of 1969, but I altered the time lines slightly(using my poetic license) .. Had he emerged from the experience of war, he may have proved to be a great man.)
poem by John F. McCullagh
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William Upson
Air -- "The Major's Only Son"
Come all good people, far and near,
Oh, come and see what you can hear,
It's of a young man, true and brave,
Who is now sleeping in his grave.
Now, William Upson was his name --
If it's not that it's all the same --
He did enlist in the cruel strife,
And it caused him to lose his life.
He was Jesse Upson's eldest son,
His father loved his noble son;
This son was nineteen years of age,
In the rebellion he engaged.
His father said that he might go,
But his dear mother she said no.
"Stay at home, dear Billy," she said,
But oh, she could not turn his head.
For go he would, and go he did --
He would not do as his mother bid,
For he went away down South, there
Where he could not have his mother's care.
He went to Nashville, Tennessee,
There his kind friends he could not see;
He died among strangers, far away,
They knew not where his body lay.
He was taken sick and lived four weeks,
And oh, how his parents weep,
But now they must in sorrow mourn,
Billy has gone to his heaven home.
If his mother could have seen her son,
For she loved him, her darling one,
If she could heard his dying prayer,
It would ease her heart till she met him there.
It would relieved his mother's heart,
To have seen her son from this world depart,
And hear his noble words of love,
As he left this world for that above.
It will relieve his mother's heart,
That her son is laid in our grave yard;
Now she knows that his grave is near,
She will not shed so many tears.
She knows not that it was her son,
His coffin could not be opened --
It might be some one in his place,
For she could not see his noble face.
He enrolled in eighteen sixty-three,
The next day after Christmas eve;
He died in eighteen sixty-four,
Twenty-third of March, as I was told.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Casualty
(bliss)
Driving home I was miles away
When I thought that I saw your face
Late at night, a lightning flash
Put reality in its place
I never saw the warning signs
til it was too late
Im a casualty
A victim of my own circumstance
A casualty a hopeless case
That never stood a chance at all
I never knew what hit me
Like somebody put out the light
I was going crazy
Couldnt tell if it was day or night
I must have lost direction
A simple hit and run
Chorus
Out of control on a one way street
Feeling myself beginning to slide
Out of my head too blind to see
That you were there just for the ride
Living this life in tragedy
Why did this happen to me
Chorus
I never stood a chance
Im a casualty x3
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Super Human
There once lived a great man,
That redeemed the hopes of all human.
He gave up everything,
For us to have something.
He was rejected,
For us to be accepted.
He was stressed,
For us to be blessed.
He was laboured,
For us to be favoured.
He was neglected,
For us to be celebrated.
He was condemned,
For us to be redeemed.
His life was destroyed,
For our lives to be restored.
His heart was sheltered,
For ours to be gathered.
He was agonised,
For us to be recognised.
He was disrespected,
For us to be respected.
He went through misery,
For us to have a long lasting victory.
In all reality,
He made us a celebrity.
He was punished,
For us to flourish.
He was abused,
For our enemies to be confused.
He suffered for a while,
For us to be able to smile.
He was tortured,
For us to have a great future.
He took away all atom of sickness,
Bringing to us much joy and happiness.
He sacrificed himself,
For us to be ourselves.
He died bearing the burden of our inequity,
For the betterment of the world of humanity.
poem by Stanley Oguh
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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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Torturous
In April - quite some time ago - her
mother died in a sea of flames, but
the wound is still raw, she cannot
forget how little time they spent
together
In April last year her partner died in an
accident that left her knee injured for
life; this April brought the death of his
mother also - my child, the only thing
left is trying to
Load the dice on your behalf, impossible
to know the cause of your torturous route
through a tragic life - by visualising future
happiness in meditation, I'm trying to
enlist the help
Of universal forces and love - to attract more
prosperity and joy for you; take shelter with
us as a safe refuge - start to focus on visions
that will lead to fulfilment of dreams…
****************************** ***
Carine's partner Nico died on 29 April 2011
and we have received word that his mother,
Katinka, died this morning 4 April 2012 -
and Carine's own mother Leonie also died
in April quite a few years ago - April has
become such a scary month for her; the
only recourse left for her stepmother is
to pray for her future happiness…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Long Ago
I loved a maiden, long ago,
She held within her hand my fate;
And in the ruddy sunset glow
We lingered at the garden gate.
The splendor of the western skies
Lay in a halo on her hair.
I gazed with worship in her eyes,
And deemed her true and knew her fair.
'Good night,' I said, and turned away;
She held me with her subtle smile.
I saw her red lips whisper 'stay,'
And so I lingered yet awhile.
'I love you, love you, sweet!' I said,
She laughed, and whispered, 'I love you.'
I kissed her small mouth, ripe and red,
And knew her fair, and deemed her true.
'Twas very, very long ago,
And I was young, and so was she;
My faith as love was strong, for oh!
The maid was all the world to me.
But as the sunset died away
And left the heavens cold and blue,
So died my dream of love one day.
The maid was only fair,
not
true.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Access Denied
Ofttimes enwrapt in reverie
I have a distant memory
but I cannot be sure it’s true
Of my mother who I barely knew.
She died so very long ago.
There is so much I do not know
I only know what I’ve been told
and that recedes as I grow old.
Although I try I can’t recall
her face: bring it to mind at all.
I feel I should be able to
but there is nothing I can do.
Sometimes I wake to find I’ve wept.
But I can do nothing but accept.
That time’s erased the memory
of the face I long to see.
Some faded photographs remain
which I look at, try to regain.
The memories I have repressed
It may be that it’s for best.
I was so young when mother died.
My wants and needs were satisfied.
By father and the family
and I grew up quite happily.
Would mother have been proud of me?
I she’d lived long enough to see.
The man her little boy grew into.
My mother who I barely knew.
Then I remember guiltily
my mother lost much more than me.
The grandchildren she’d never know
the chance to see her children grow.
But I still pursue selfishly
that one elusive memory.
That’s buried somewhere deep inside
A need that can’t be satisfied.
Perhaps because I’m growing old
and only have what I was told
to remember mother by.
I know I’ll fail but I still try.
24/07/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Grieving Mother
The grieving mother litres of tears have shed
Since she found her lone child in the garage dead
From a rope tied to a steel beam by the neck he hung
To die for some it never is too young.
His first anniversary he died this day last year
And why he choose to end his life the reason not even clear
His father left her for another before their boy had reached the age of one
And on her own she had to raise her son.
In his eighteenth year he choose his way to die
That life can be cruel is surely not a lie
He did not live for to cast his first vote
And he did not even leave a suicide note.
From her the grief of loss it has not gone away
Today for her another tearful day
Single in her forty sixth year with her cross of grief to bear
'Tis true indeed that life can be unfair.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Dark Victory 11/11/18
The Bells ring out great Peals of joy.
The war is won, Great Albion.
It merely cost a million dead,
a generation lost and done.
To you, fate tendered victory sweet,
to the Germans, a bitter peace.
There, fatherless boys, abed, asleep,
plot revenge for their deceased.
In the Wilfred Owen house;
no alloyed joy to meld with sorrow:
That day they learned their son had died
They'll dress the house in Black tomorrow.
His mother knew before word came,
she had a sense her son was gone.
That he'd be among the last to fall
for the glory of Great Albion
He fought almost unto the end,
dying in the war's last week.
When Mortal flesh and bullets meet
Poets are silenced when machine guns speak..
There is a pathos in his fate,
dying in the last week of war
Like the man who sailed the Ocean deep,
only to drown in sight of shore.
The poet Wilfred Owen, died in an attack on a German Machine gun nest on 11/04/1918, one week before the Germans sued for peace. His parents received word that their only son had died just as the Church bells were rung to celebrate the Armistice. Albion is a archaic name for Great Britain
poem by John F. McCullagh
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How Mother Made Us A Home
our navels were cut
and they were tied
on one of the strong
walls of this house
where we were born
and since then
mother takes pride
about our missing
a home that where
ever we are scattered
by fate we always come
back and feel and fill
what is missing inside
us.This is home.
This is where mother
died and father too
and the rest of us
shall also be buried
here when we finally
die. This is country.
This is life and
This is death. This
is our meaning and
This is where we shall
always be forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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