COLLEVILLE SUR MER (D Day + 50)
The day is hot, no hint of a breeze
As I kneel down on ancient knees
At the grave of you, most brave,
who died in Omaha’s first wave.
Our mother never did recover
from losing you. Like many mothers.
she, ever after, hid the scar.
Poor recompense is a gold star.
Rows of crosses on the plain
Each bears a date, a rank, a name.
Lives ended by the chance of war.
None will see their home once more.
Was your sacrifice in vain?
One tyrant fell, but more remain
The Reich that fell now better known
as the common market Euro zone.
Europe’s Jews gained a respite
From Hitler’s hate and krystalnacht
Yet soon the surging Moslem tide
May again erupt in genocide
My grandson helps me to my feet.
and steadies me with his strong arm.
The Medal of Honor on my chest
belongs, in truth, to these who rest.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Scarring up my Knees
As I sit here by your bedside son I trace the scars on my knees.
My scarred knees is like a GPS to your soul.
You see the very first scar I got for you is the day I found out your mom was going have you.
I fell to my knees and I thank God for blessing me with a child.
The next scar came when you were born.
I fell to my knees with tears in my eyes thanking God for not just blessing me with a child but a son.
The day you took your first step, I got on my knees and asked the Lord as you step to please walk with you.
And son when that stray bullet hit even as you lied there in your blood I fell to my knees and prayed to God saying; “Lord I don’t want him to leave me now but if you his heavenly father is calling him home let him know his earthly father loved every moment we shared.”
Now God did not call you home that day and you still here with me so until you open your eyes I’ll be scarring up my knees.
The Swagman's Rest
We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave
At the foot of the Eaglehawk;
We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave
For fear that his ghost might walk;
We carved his name on a bloodwood tree
With the date of his sad decease
And in place of "Died from effects of spree"
We wrote "May he rest in peace".
For Bob was known on the Overland,
A regular old bush wag,
Tramping along in the dust and sand,
Humping his well-worn swag.
He would camp for days in the river-bed,
And loiter and "fish for whales".
"I'm into the swagman's yard," he said.
"And I never shall find the rails."
But he found the rails on that summer night
For a better place -- or worse,
As we watched by turns in the flickering light
With an old black gin for nurse.
The breeze came in with the scent of pine,
The river sounded clear,
When a change came on, and we saw the sign
That told us the end was near.
He spoke in a cultured voice and low --
"I fancy they've 'sent the route';
I once was an army man, you know,
Though now I'm a drunken brute;
But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave,
And, if ever you're fairly stuck,
Just take and shovel me out of the grave
And, maybe, I'll bring you luck.
"For I've always heard --" here his voice grew weak,
His strength was wellnigh sped,
He gasped and struggled and tried to speak,
Then fell in a moment -- dead.
Thus ended a wasted life and hard,
Of energies misapplied --
Old Bob was out of the "swagman's yard"
And over the Great Divide.
The drought came down on the field and flock,
And never a raindrop fell,
Though the tortured moans of the starving stock
Might soften a fiend from hell.
And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave
When he went to the Great Unseen --
We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave
To see what his hint might mean.
We dug where the cross and the grave posts were,
We shovelled away the mould,
When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare
All gleaming with yellow gold.
'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk
That ran from the range's crest,
And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk
Is known as "The Swagman's Rest".
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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On This Cold Day
(In Memoriam)
They fell. One by one, heroes fell
On their blood against cold, harsh stones
Last words pled for the masses’ weal
Their death justice alone atones
Compelled into reluctant graves
Bodies lost, but never their quests
With zeal they lived for why they died
Peace and justice - our common pride
Terror reigns in these trying times
Do we blaspheme their sacrifice
With muted cries and cowardice
Or do we confront greed and lies?
One lesson learned from their bloodstream
Lives are worth losing for our dream
On this cold day we honor them
With warm courage, none less fitting
The air’s grim stillness, let us fill
With voices strong, unwavering
United, steadfast, we fulfill
The quest for freedom. Let us sing!
-10 December 2005
poem by Cheryl L. DaytecYañgot
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Song
WHEN the warrior returns, from the battle afar,
To the home and the country he nobly defended,
O! warm be the welcome to gladden his ear,
And loud be the joy that his perils are ended:
In the full tide of song let his fame roll along,
To the feast-flowing board let us gratefully throng,
Where, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.
Columbians! a band of your brothers behold,
Who claim the reward of your hearts' warm emotion,
When your cause, when your honor, urged onward the bold,
In vain frowned the desert, in vain raged the ocean:
To a far distant shore, to the battle's wild roar,
They rushed, your fair fame and your rights to secure:
Then, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.
In the conflict resistless, each toil they endured,
'Till their foes fled dismayed from the war's desolation:
And pale beamed the Crescent, its splendor obscured
By the light of the Star Spangled flag of our nation.
Where each radiant star gleamed a meteor of war,
And the turbaned heads bowed to its terrible glare,
Now, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.
Our fathers, who stand on the summit of fame,
Shall exultingly hear of their sons the proud story:
How their young bosoms glow'd with the patriot flame,
How they fought, how they fell, in the blaze of their glory.
How triumphant they rode o'er the wondering flood,
And stained the blue waters with infidel blood;
How, mixed with the olive, the laurel did wave,
And formed a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.
Then welcome the warrior returned from afar
To the home and the country he nobly defended:
Let the thanks due to valor now gladden his ear,
And loud be the joy that his perils are ended.
In the full tide of song let his fame roll along,
To the feast-flowing board let us gratefully throng,
Where, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.
poem by Francis Scott Key
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War Song
Remember the Glories of Brien the Brave
Remember the glories of Brien the brave,
Though the days of the hero are o'er,
Though lost to Mononia and cold to the grave,
He returns to Kinkora no more.
That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd
Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword,
To light us to victory yet.
Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint
Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of slavery there?
No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,
That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,
Than to sleep but a moment in chains.
Forget not our wounded companions who stoood
In the day of distress by our side;
While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,
They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died.
That sun which now blesses our arms with his light,
Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain; --
Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,
To find that they fell there in vain.
poem by Thomas Moore
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A Nativity
1914-18
The Babe was laid in the Manger
Between the gentle kine --
All safe from cold and danger --
"But it was not so with mine,
(With mine! With mine!)
"Is it well with the child, is it well?"
The waiting mother prayed.
"For I know not how he fell,
And I know not where he is laid."
A Star stood forth in Heaven;
The Watchers ran to see
The Sign of the Promise given --
"But there comes no sign to me.
(To me! To me!)
"My child died in the dark.
Is it well with the child, is it well?
There was none to tend him or mark,
And I know not how he fell."
The Cross was raised on high;
The Mother grieved beside --
"But the Mother saw Him die
And took Him when He died.
(He died! He died!)
"Seemly and undefiled
His burial-place was made --
Is it well, is it well with the child?
For I know not where he is laid."
On the dawning of Easter Day
Comes Mary Magdalene;
But the Stone was rolled away,
And the Body was not within --
(Within! Within!)
"Ah, who will answer my word?
The broken mother prayed.
"They have taken away my Lord,
And I know not where He is laid."
. . . . .
"The Star stands forth in Heaven.
The watchers watch in vain
For Sign of the Promise given
Of peace on Earth again --
(Again! Again!)
"But I know for Whom he fell" --
The steadfast mother smiled,
"Is it well with the child -- is it well?
It is well -- it is well with the child!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Other Olympians
The Diver leapt off the high board
but missed the water and hit the floor
then his team-mate went and did the same
so the judges gave them a nil score.
The Cyclist set off in his opening heat
but he got a puncture half way round
when he was given a replacement bike
he fell off it hitting his head on the ground.
The Boxer said he'd win the Gold Medal
but in the first round got knocked out the ring
he ended up lying prone amongst the spectators
and a week later he still can't recall a thing.
The Javelin thrower said he felt really good
and he would beat the opponent from Denmark
but his Javelin got caught by a gust of wind
and it ended up outside the arena in the car park.
The Weightlifter raised the bar above his head
but his legs suddenly wobbled and turned to jelly
he ended up collapsed lying on the stage in a heap
with the heavy weight sitting perched on his belly.
These are the other Olympians who never win a medal
but they go out there and just try their best
just like the unlucky Gymnast who's shorts fell down
leaving him standing there in just his vest!
poem by Kevin Halls
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In Long Rows
Millions and millions of crosses
standing in long rows.
Standing as a testament
of man’s inhumanity to man.
Their ages range low to high,
all casualties of a war
in which they answered
their counties call.
Their kin are long dead now,
but the crosses all bare a name
of someone who had they lived
might have gained fame
in another game.
However, here they lie
where the pretty flowers grow
after giving up their life
for their country.
Some are remembered
even to this day
for their acts of courage
others knew so well.
The others are just names
carved in memorials somewhere
as falling in a battle on a foreign soil.
All of them had a life
men, women and child alike.
A life they should have lived
and lived it to the full.
Now all they remain
is names on crosses
standing in long rows.
22 January 2008
This is for all those whose lives have been stolen in wars throughout the centuries.
poem by David Harris
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Skin In The Game
The old man's skin was parchment thin,
his eyes a watery blue.
On his left arm he bore the mark;
his Birkenau tattoo.
The letter 'B' and six numbers
would be with him to the grave.
A permanent reminder
of his time as Hitler's slave.
Two winters spent in Auschwitz-
What God would so design?
It left him gaunt and starving
with no faith in the Divine.
Yet he survived the worst and lived
when all his bunkmates died.
His first wife was dust on the wind
as was their little child.
Now his grandson bears that mark,
the one and very same.
To remind the world Of Hitler's crimes,
He has skin in the game.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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How I Fell
i fell so down
i want to be lied down in the ground
besides the ones i lost year round
i fell like a dog who just got put down
i need a girl to fell my pain
i fell if i had one it would ease my pain
i hate living in a foster home
why can't i live with a family member at home
i want to cry when i have to sleep in a stangers house
i fell so lettle just like a mouse
every day i have to fight to stay free
every day i have to be strong not to weep
i miss not hanging with my family
i got to see them more when i was locked down
i fell so bad right about now
every day that i live alone
i fell so bad
sir loc homes couldn't solve why i fell alone
i miss you guys i mean my family
i can't go on like every thing is dandy
i want to leave this cold cold world
maybe i won't when ii find that special girl
i can't wait to leave this world
please god answer me why didi it have to be me
my sisters went home i got put in a strangers home
i got tooken away from who ever i thought loved me
now they come around wanting to hug me
i can't stand living away from my family
please god help me
i fell so sad, bad and mad
poem by Phillip Dalsing
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Fell
Stars fell on the trenches last night.
Sardines in the mud
Waiting for the light.
Men and boys
Will never see wife or mother again.
Waiting for the whistle
Rum, prayers and rain.
Men fell on the battlefield this morn.
Some lay in the wire
Hanging on their crosses at dawn.
Wives and mothers
Will never see their men again.
Leaders gorge
And drink whiskey
In safety
In warmth
Insane.
poem by Kevin East
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Helps Me Helps You
Look at all the toys I got
Look at all the things I need
Look at all the toys I got
Look at all the mouths I feed
Have I got a wonderful deal for you
What belongs to me belongs to you
I understand what youre going through
I know the point to push you to
My policy helps me helps you
Generosity helps me helps you
Conspiracy helps me helps you
Put you trust in me Ill help you too
Look at all the things Ive done
Look at all the rights I wrong
The means will justify the end
For you to save and me to spend
Cos Ive got a great idea you see
What belongs to you belongs to me
I know just what you wanna do
I know how I can get there too
Hypocrisy helps me helps you
Democracy helps me helps you
Ideology helps me helps you
Put your trust in me Ill help you through
(hirst/moginie)
song performed by by Midnight Oil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To The Thirty-Ninth Congress
O PEOPLE-CHOSEN! are ye not
Likewise the chosen of the Lord,
To do His will and speak His word?
From the loud thunder-storm of war
Not man alone hath called ye forth,
But He, the God of all the earth!
The torch of vengeance in your hands
He quenches; unto Him belongs
The solemn recompense of wrongs.
Enough of blood the land has seen,
And not by cell or gallows-stair
Shall ye the way of God prepare.
Say to the pardon-seekers: Keep
Your manhood, bend no suppliant knees,
Nor palter with unworthy pleas.
Above your voices sounds the wail
Of starving men; we shut in vain
Our eyes to Pillow's ghastly stain.
What words can drown that bitter cry?
What tears wash out the stain of death?
What oaths confirm your broken faith?
From you alone the guaranty
Of union, freedom, peace, we claim;
We urge no conqueror's terms of shame.
Alas! no victor's pride is ours;
We bend above our triumphs won
Like David o'er his rebel son.
Be men, not beggars. Cancel all
By one brave, generous action; trust
Your better instincts, and be just!
Make all men peers before the law,
Take hands from off the negro's throat,
Give black and white an equal vote.
Keep all your forfeit lives and lands,
But give the common law's redress
To labor's utter nakedness.
Revive the old heroic will;
Be in the right as brave and strong
As ye have proved yourselves in wrong.
Defeat shall then be victory,
Your loss the wealth of full amends,
And hate be love, and foes be friends.
Then buried be the dreadful past,
Its common slain be mourned, and let
All memories soften to regret.
Then shall the Union's mother-heart
Her lost and wandering ones recall,
Forgiving and restoring all, —
And Freedom break her marble trance
Above the Capitolian dome,
Stretch hands, and bid ye welcome home!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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I Hate That I'm Sad
i hate that i'm angry
i hate that i yell
my self on the ground
from your world i fell
i hate that i cry
i hate that i'm lost
my self all alone
but at what cost
i hate that i cut
i hate that i bleed
my self through the times
i thought i would need
i hate i take pills
i hate they control
my self from all feeling
givin up my whole
i hate that i drown
i hate that i've known
my self in the tub
my grave, my home
poem by Sean Steward
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It Came With The Threat Of A Waning Moon
It came with the threat of a waning moon
And the wail of an ebbing tide,
But many a woman has lived for less,
And many a man has died;
For life upon life took hold and passed,
Strong in a fate set free,
Out of the deep into the dark
On for the years to be.
Between the gloom of a waning moon
And the song of an ebbing tide,
Chance upon chance of love and death
Took wing for the world so wide.
O, leaf out of leaf is the way of the land,
Wave out of wave of the sea
And who shall reckon what lives may live
In the life that we bade to be?
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Gold Medal Blues
Please hide the newspapers-and turn off the news.
Please, nobody talk. I’ve got the gold medal blues.
No radio talk show can cure what I got.
Why couldn’t Sid hit the post with that shot?
America’s team gave it their best
We beat those Canadians on the first test.
We out skated the Swiss, steamrollered the Finns-
yet only got Silver for all of our wins.
Though we were the home squad it all seemed so wrong
The crowd in attendance was booing our song.
They dressed all in red, waved the maple leaf flag
One fan looked like Celine Dionne in drag.
Luongo, their goalie, was playing at home
While he made basic stops he did not look that strong.
The American goalie did more to impress
With grace under pressure- no hint of distress
J.P. Parise’s boy gave us some hope
with time running out it was tied like a rope.
But sudden death hockey well deserves its name
Crosby’s second chance shot quickly ended the game
Please hide the newspapers-and turn off the news.
Please, nobody talk. I’ve got the gold medal blues.
No radio talk show can cure what I got.
Why couldn’t Sid hit the post with that shot?
poem by John F. McCullagh
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A Mothers Love
A mothers love is everlasting, forever
A mother and her child will always be together
A mothers love for her child through the smiles and the tears
Will stay strong for years and years
A mothers love will never die
Even if sometimes her child makes her cry
A mother can really reach up high, and touch the sky
When next to her is her child
A mothers love will reach beyond the grave
When a mother is with her child she will always be brave
Two children or one, daughter or son
More precious than the stars above
You can never take a mothers love
poem by Natasha Potter
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Europe's Problem
The Problem of Europe
There is an echo that rumbles in my liberal mind regarding
the Moslem population in Europe. Yes, we must accept them
they are citizens, but they do live in Europe now which has
different culture than the Moslem world. But it appears to me
they want to change a Europe to become like them.
The first generations of Moslems who came here were happy
to escape poverty and repressing regimes, however it is
the new generation who feel they are not being accepted…
but they are. Europe needs the energy and thrift the Moslem
youth brings as long as they don’t try to fit Europe into
an unreal sharia state that never existed other than in the mind
zealots. So my liberal mind is confused, I will bend for their
religious needs, but I will not live their repressed life, to be
straitjacket into religious rules I find objectionable.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Few, The Brave
As proof of our remembrance, we lay a flag by each and every grave;
With perpetual solemnity, we ensure that it shall always wave
Under the free skies of the land that they and our forebears created:
For God, Duty and Country-they never hesitated
To serve with Honor and Valor for a higher purpose;
All gave some, and some gave all-all, in service
To a most grateful nation, which must always remember,
Whether on a Summer morn in May, or a blustery one in September:
If not for their bravery, indeed, their sacrifice, we'd not be free!
Surely, if I did not take time to pause, I'd not be me-
Because I stand under free skies, and make my very own choices
All because, even from hallowed graves, they provide us voices
In all we do, see, hear, touch, and feel.
No one may blind or mute us, and steal
This freedom away-we will fight as fiercely as they
Should any try-and would rather die than give it away.
This is how we need honor them, each and every day:
To live as they would have, in each and every way.
They did not die in vain, they perished as noble defenders
Of Liberty at all costs, in a world of raucous pretenders.
Their Valor was as uncommon as they were brave;
Due this Gallantry, Freedom and Democracy were saved
From the depths of tyranny, and totalitarian subjugation-
Not the cornerstones upon which to build a nation!
We, the 'many', need always appreciate 'the few, the brave':
Their sacrifice ensures that the flag shall always wave!
-Maurice Harris,29 May 2012
poem by Maurice Harris
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Defence of Fort McHenry (Stars and Stripes Forever)
O! say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there -
O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream -
'Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havock of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash'd out their foul foot-steps' pollution,
No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand
Between their lov'd home, and the war's desolation,
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the power that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto - 'In God is our trust! '
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
poem by Francis Scott Key
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