The Poppy Seller
The poppy seller stands near the Rotunda.
He vends his paper flowers as before.
He wears a small red poppy in Remembrance
of heroes fallen in our nation’s wars.
The people pass as if he’s’ non existent,
more interested to buy well watered beer.
The Veteran feels the sting of their indifference-
Upon his grizzled cheek I spy a tear.
I cannot, will not also pass in silence
I stop and donate something at his stall
He stammers thanks, but he needn’t thank me-
more fitting that I thank those who gave all.
They who owed us nothing gave us everything.
We, their debtors, balk to pay our share.
And still the poppy flourishes in Burgundy,
past living memory, as a wordless prayer..
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Related quotes
Bullets and Poppies
Bullets were flying
and soldiers were dying
as crimson poppies
swayed in the breeze,
beyond the trenches
beyond the green leas
in the fourteen-eighteen war
'the war to end all wars'
but these words sadly
failed to please.
The poppy's the emblem
and sorrowful hearts in sympathy
wander back to Flanders Fields
where thousands of comrades
were shamefully killed.
Golden the archives,
with names of the heroes...
and the poppy still sways
in the breeze, because
wars will never cease.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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To Remember
To remember those people who risked their lives
To show appreciation, to show we care
To save our country, they gave their lives
For their families it was like a dreaded nightmare
To support those soldiers and wear a poppy
To give some money, and not be soppy
To wear a poppy and remember that first day poppies grew, that one day it was sunny
Do you remember why
Why we wear a poppy for a couple of days
To show we remember and to show our gratitude is high
To do that, doesn’t pay
So to remember
To be silent
For a couple of minutes
Doesn’t pay
It just shows gratitude
For that one sad day
Holly Up On Poppy
Holly up on poppy
Canter never stop
She has escaped from the world
Where they bake beautiful girls
Holly up on poppy
Trotting to the top
She talks and banners unfurl
Their secrets crayoned in swirls
Everyday i
Have to pluck up
Courage to look her in the eyes
The eyes of storms
Anyway i
Love to watch her
Ride and play the alchemy
That love performed
Laughing
Holly up on poppy...
Everytime i
Look at my watch
Im reminded we are poor
In hours per day
Every second
Spent with her
s a bulging wallet overstuffed
With angels pay
Laughter!
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the Trenches
I snatched two poppies
From the parapet’s ledge,
Two bright red poppies
That winked on the ledge.
Behind my ear
I stuck one through,
One blood red poppy
I gave to you.
The sandbags narrowed
And screwed out our jest,
And tore the poppy
You had on your breast ...
Down - a shell - O! Christ,
I am choked ... safe ... dust blind, I
See trench floor poppies
Strewn. Smashed you lie.
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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Poppy The Fairy
Upon a bank beneath a tree
Beside a trickley brook,
Upon an upturned nutshell I saw a fairy stood.
I offered her a sandwich and asked of her, her name?
“Poppy Bell”, she quick replied, and “This ham is rather tame, ”
I thought this oh so curious as in the bread was game.
I took the fairy home with me for a cup of tea,
“Would you like one lump or two? ” Said she “I will take three! ”
I’d never known a fairy take three sugars in her tea.
So filled to brim with sandwiches and tea up to her head,
That little Fairy Poppy Bell dozed off upon my bed
At lunchtime she was snoring loud by teatime she was dead!
It may have been the sandwiches; it may have been the bed,
It may have been the sugared tea that to Poppy’ I fed,
I’m not sure what it really was that made that fairy dead.
I quickly took a shoebox -
After taking out the shoes,
And in it I placed Poppy on her everlasting snooze.
I went back to the trickley brook,
I stood beneath the tree,
And there I buried Poppy with her sugars - One, two three.
No sooner had I buried her,
That on that very bank
The reddest little Poppy grew and bowed to me in thanks.
I picked the little Poppy
All red and bright and new,
And now I always wear it upon my favourite shoe.
It was a short time later
Whilst rambling through a wood,
That on an upturned nut shell I saw a fairy stood.
I offered her a sandwich and asked of her, her name?
“Poppy Bell! ” she quick replied,
“It’s me! I’m back again.”
poem by John Thomas
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Do We Remember Them?
We remember our fathers
They remember their sons
Who fought long battles
And paid with their lives
We remember the glories
We have forgotten the pain, ,
of the widows and orphans,
of those who will never return again.
We remember the machinery
With which battles were fought
But the names of the fallen
Are all but forgot.
We remember, we say
With the crimson petalled poppy
And silence at eleven
On Remembrance Day
But of all the boys and men
Who fought wars large and small
Paying dearly with their lives
Do we really remember them, at all?
9 Nov 1986
poem by David Harris
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Armistice Day, remembrance
For all the sacrifice of life,
For the orphans and widowed wives,
For all the questions asking why,
For the sorrowful heartfelt cries,
Honour fallen who played their part,
With monuments that stand in hearts,
Honour the brave and show support,
In silence where they fill our thoughts,
For all that past countrymen gave,
For the freedoms that brave acts saved,
For all that soldiers overcame,
For the war veterans and those maimed,
Marked by the eleventh hour,
And a sea of poppy flowers,
Marked in the month of November,
By every soul that remembers.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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That Poppy in the Snow
i was walking in the snow
nothing or anything had green
the trees were bear
the water was frozeen
even the wind was still
i was a bit down and low
and the flowing river had stoped
and then i came across a bit of life
i saw a flower sticking out the snow
the flower i saw before me was a poppey
and then i felt rejoysed
my feelings were reborn
because that poppy in the snow
made me relice something
the times when i feel like life has gone
when all hope is lost
and when i feel alone
i remember that poppy in the snow
fighting to servive
it done that and gave colour
wicth is what i try to do now
poem by tom Le Guilcher
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Wear Your Poppy With Pride!
Wear your poppy with pride
Yet with humility
Because so many died
To gain our victory!
The blood they shed declared
Though war is hell indeed
Each noble soldier cared
And knew truth would succeed!
The cost itself was dear
For life cannot be priced.
Their valour knows no peer
Yet all were sacrificed
And though the memory stings
With tales of long gone by
The same old question clings
'Why must our soldiers die? '
Each war seems so forlorn
So void of wisdom still
Yet leaders shout with scorn
'The time has come to kill! '
Beware when men breed hate
For peace is not their aim
Each one will meet his fate
And own his share of blame!
When war is in men's hearts,
It's time to kneel and pray!
We know that when war starts
It's just like Judgment Day!
In peace, men find their rest
In war, they find their grief
In peace, men find they're blessed
In war, they find their wreath
So think of what it cost
For many soldiers died
Though many lives were lost,
Wear your poppy with pride!
copyright, Denis Martindale.
Royal British Legion: poppy-dot-org
poem by Denis Martindale
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Poppy Brown and I
We've spent a lot of time together
Poppy Brown and I,
Sitting by the window-ledge
Staring at the sky;
Keeping silent vigil watching
Up and down the street,
Passing many moments, Listening for her feet.
We've spent a lot of time together
Poppy Brown and I,
Playing out the hours
Passing slowly by;
Keeping silent company,
Quiet as the moon,
Waiting for our loved one,
Hoping she'll come soon.
We've spent a lot of time together
Poppy Brown and I,
Loving at the window-ledge
Waiting by and by;
Keeping silent vigil,
Playing out the night,
Looking to each other,
A kiss and then a fight.
We've spent a lot of time together
Poppy Brown and I,
Waiting out the hours
Willing them to fly;
Keeping silent company,
Our mutual request:
The imminent arrival of
The one we love the best.
(Written 28th March 2006)
poem by John Carter Brown
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Be Loyal To The Royal!
When the Royal British Legion
Began its ministry,
There was no quick completion,
No finished certainty.
Instead, there was a battle,
That went from war-to-war...
When souls were sold as chattel,
Possessions, nothing more...
Yet men weren't born for ditches
And pain and grief and mud...
For each soul has its riches
Beyond each dropp of blood.
Each man still has a family,
In Heaven or on Earth...
That's why we wear the poppy,
Remembrance has its worth.
The noble know their value,
They don't need preaching to.
They know what men have been put through.
Each had his job to do...
Yet charity still beckons us,
A duty to perform...
Beyond the thoughts we can't discuss,
Beyond the raging storm.
The welfare needs of others
Are here this very day.
If helping's not above us,
Then God will lead the way...
Support the Legion's service now
In sacrificial love.
By simply asking who and how
Is really not enough...
There's so much more that's left to do
Beyond the where and why.
The biggest question mark is YOU...
Don't pass the Legion by.
Remembrance isn't once a year,
Observed and then dismissed.
Remembrance isn't just a tear
Or tears if griefs persist.
Remembrance is a lifetime
In which to do our best.
It's 'Buddy, can you spare a dime? '
And not how well you're dressed.
It's offering a helping hand...
Like others have before...
For all across this noble land
Are hearts still marked by war...
poem by Denis Martindale
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In The Poppy Field
Mad Patsy said, he said to me,
That every morning he could see
An angel walking on the sky;
Across the sunny skies of morn
He threw great handfuls far and nigh
Of poppy seed among the corn;
And then, he said, the angels run
To see the poppies in the sun.
A poppy is a devil weed,
I said to him - he disagreed;
He said the devil had no hand
In spreading flowers tall and fair
Through corn and rye and meadow land,
by garth and barrow everywhere:
The devil has not any flower,
But only money in his power.
And then he stretched out in the sun
And rolled upon his back for fun:
He kicked his legs and roared for joy
Because the sun was shining down:
He said he was a little boy
And would not work for any clown:
He ran and laughed behind a bee,
And danced for very ecstasy.
poem by James Stephens
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The risky job
Barley sown,
Barley is harvested.
Poppy sown,
Poppy is harvested.
A child sown,
Harvest is unpredictable,
The most risky job.
27.03.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Prestige Of The Poppy
Behold my form, my humble guise, my fragile fashioned grace.
Look deep within the giver’s eyes, some noble hopes to trace.
November’s here and folks look back to what heroes have bought.
They stood as one as things looked black, courageous as they fought.
Not all survived the grief-filled times. Not all returned scot-free.
Not all were able to pen rhymes of utmost misery.
I’m just a poppy, nothing more. I spilt no dropp of blood.
I didn’t wince with pain through war... nor turn the foul flood.
I didn’t march across the fields, nor swim against the tide
And yet I’m loved by each who yields a conscience still inside.
Think not that I, if human, too, could idly watch death grin.
For as a man, I’d join the few that knew that they must win!
I’d take up arms against the foe! I’d train and fight so brave!
For deep within my heart I’d know, a free world I must save!
Think not that I could turn and run and let the children down,
Nor unborn babes hid from the sun be born to wear a frown.
I’d fight for freedom, live or die! Regardless, come what may!
Because I’d know, that even I, must face God’s Judgement Day!
I’d not despise the souls that prayed as they stayed home instead.
I recognise a conscience weighed, yet blood weighs more once bled!
So buy a poppy... show you care! Give generously with love!
For every poppy that folks wear is seen by God above...
Poem by Denis Martindale © November 2003.
Royal British Legion: poppy-dot-org
poem by Denis Martindale
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Paper
Hold the paper up to the light
(some rays pass right through)
Expose yourself out there for a minute
(some rays pass right through)
Take a little rest when the rays pass through
Take a little time off when the rays pass through
Go ahead and mis it up...go ahead and tie it up
In a long distance telephone call
Hold on to that paper
Hold on to that paper
Hold on becuase its been taken care of
Hold on to that paper
See if you can fit it on the paper
See if you can get it on the paper
See if you can fit it on the paper
See if you can get it on the paper
Had a love affair but it was only paper
(some rays they pass right through)
Had a lot of fun, could have been a lot better
(some rays they pass right through)
Take a little consideration, take every combination
Take a few weeks off, make it tighter, tighter
But it was never, it was never written down
Still might be a chance that it might work out (if you)
Hold on to that paper
Hold on to that paper
Hold on because itll be taken care of
Hold on to that paper
Dont think I can fit it on the paper
Dont think I can get it on the paper
Go ahead and rip up, rip up the paper
Go ahead and tear up, tear up the paper
song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spring (Double Rondelet Triolet)
With a deep touch,
The red poppy awakes the grass.
With a deep touch,
Red wants green's vibration so much,
The sun awakes the sky's watch glass.
The sky vibrates like a string bass,
With a deep touch.
The red flowers bloom in the Spring
When the time of the green grass comes.
The sky vibrates like a bass string.
The red flowers bloom in the Spring.
I see the nature's purest swing.
The wind searches his bongo drums,
The red flowers bloom in the Spring
When the time of the green grass comes.
I see His love
Like a white lily among thorns.
I see His love
Like in clefts of the rock, a dove.
When red flower its grass adorns
And her dead Winter, Spring mourns,
I see His love.
Shadows are inlaid in color
When red poppy awakes the grass.
When the land is multicolor,
Shadows are inlaid in color.
When the cuckoo is a caller,
The sun awakes the sky's watch glass.
Shadows are inlaid in color
When red poppy awakes the grass.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Maids In May
Three maids there were in meadow bright,
The eldest less then seven;
Their eyes were dancing with delight,
And innocent as Heaven.
Wild flowers they wound with tender glee,
Their cheeks with rapture rosy;
All radiant they smiled at me,
When I besought a posy.
She gave me a columbine,
And one a poppy brought me;
The tiniest, with eyes ashine,
A simple daisy sought me.
And as I went my sober way,
I heard their careless laughter;
Their hearts too happy with to-day
To care for what comes after.
. . . . . . .
That's long ago; they're gone, all three,
To walk amid the shadows;
Forgotten is their lyric glee
In still and sunny meadows.
For Columbine loved life too well,
And went adventure fairing;
And sank into the pit of hell,
And passed but little caring.
While Poppy was a poor man's wife,
And children had a-plenty;
And went, worn out with toil and strife
When she was five-and-twenty.
And Daisy died while yet a child,
As fragile blossoms perish,
When Winter winds are harsh and wild,
With none to shield and cherish.
Ah me! How fate is dark and dour
To little Children of the Poor.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Aristocratic War
The Aristocratic War.
A lone burgundy poppy, amongst the weed on
verge of the lane remembers World War 1,
few wars- this so romantic English war- are as
well recorded. Verdun and stinking mud, many
poems written (not that verses ever stopped
the juggernaut of war.) Plinths and cenotaph,
statues of generals -covered in bird droppings-
astride bronze horses, in every town. Lest we
forget that this is the only war where the upper
classes died, on the battlefield, in equal numbers
as the common soldier. and that, I suspect, is
why it is so well documented.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Jungle Line
Rousseau walks on trumpet paths
Safaris to the heart of all that jazz
Through I bars and girders-through wires and pipes
The mathematic circuits of the modern nights
Through huts, through harlem, through jails and gospel pews
Through the class on park and the trash on vine
Through europe and the deep deep heart of dixie blue
Through savage progress cuts the jungle line
In a low-cut blouse she brings the beer
Rousseau paints a jungle flower behind her ear
Those cannibals-of shuck and jive
Theyll eat a working girl like her alive
With his hard-edged eye and his steady hand
He paints the cellar full of ferns and orchid vines
And he hangs a moon above a five-piece band
He hangs it up above the jungle line
The jungle line, the jungle line
Screaming in a ritual of sound and time
Floating, drifting on the air-conditioned wind
And drooling for a taste of something smuggled in
Pretty women funneled through valves and smoke
Coy and bitchy, wild and fine
And charging elephants and chanting slaving boats
Charging, chanting down the jungle line
Theres a poppy wreath on a soldiers tomb
Theres a poppy snake in a dressing room
Poppy poison-poppy tourniquet
It slithers away on brass like mouthpiece spit
And metal skin and ivory birds
Go steaming up to rousseaus vines
They go steaming up to brooklyn bridge
Steaming, steaming, steaming up the jungle line
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dream's Treat
As I walked in the street,
I met a beggar, asking for some money.
I gave him a few pounds and went on.
As I walked in the street,
I met an old man, asking for directions.
I gave him a few roads he had left to go.
As I walked in the street,
I met a Poppy Appeal fundraiser.
I gave him a few pounds and then a 'Thank you! '
As I walked in the street,
I met a preacher asking, 'Are you saved? '
I gave him a handshake and I said, 'Amen! '
As I walked in the street,
I met the Saviour, Lord Jesus, my friend!
I gave Him everything, my heart and my love...
When I awoke from the dream,
I could still remember the face of Jesus...
It took ages to draw and paint, but it's done...
Every time I pray at home, I gaze at His face.
I call my picture, 'The Master Peace'...
Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
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