Booklets or Boldness
For the book of legends, for a gracious volume,
For a blessed pad in mind,
I pose a lesson for the humanity,
A little stress on the graveness to be a silent issue.
The armour is worn and fed by the knights of gashing blood,
Their loss is like a waste, but not at all for me,
Due to duty being as it is.
Helmets will keep away the sages from a servant of war,
For they can not read at all now, only can it fight and wait?
A group of lovers finds the laughing soldier a misery
For he has no books.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Related quotes
The Unknown Soldier
Wait until the war is over
And were both a little older
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Unborn living, living, dead
Bullet strikes the helmets head
And its all over
For the unknown soldier
Its all over
For the unknown soldier
Hut
Hut
Hut ho hee up
Hut
Hut
Hut ho hee up
Hut
Hut
Hut ho hee up
Compnee
Halt
Preeee-zent!
Arms!
Make a grave for the unknown soldier
Nestled in your hollow shoulder
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Bullet strikes the helmets head
And, its all over
The war is over
Its all over
The war is over
Well, all over, baby
All over, baby
Oh, over, yeah
All over, baby
Wooooo, hah-hah
All over
All over, baby
Oh, woa-yeah
All over
All over
Heeeeyyyy
song performed by by Doors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Books
Books take me to a place like no other
When I'm reading no one else madders
All my problems go away and it's just my books and me.
Books I like that word but when I read
My mom and dad and all my brothers and sisters go away
And I'm left there with no one but a book.
And then I pick it up and the word isn't so empty any more
It's full again. Like when you're a kid and your mom or dad
Come home after a long trip without you and you missed them
And then you're crying, laughing and happy all at the same time.
That how I get with a book I just found.
Happy because it's by my favorite Author but yet sad because
The book ended with questions still in my head.
And laughing because it was funny at one point in the book.
I love that felling when I pick up a book.
How do you fell when you pick up a book?
Happy, sad, a funny felling? You tell me please come on now don't be shy.
poem by Alley Rodriguez
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Soldier Boy
Oh won't you tell me, my soldier boy
What did you do to make them send you off to war
Why did they send you to that alien place
With all their lies, and all that mud across your face?
It nearly broke my heart, my soldier boy
You were my one and only son, my pride and joy
I kept your letters to read and read
I'll keep them safe until the day that you are freed.
And I believe in you no matter what they say
The time will come, you'll see I'm right
When all the fools are made to see the light of day
Together we will win the fight, my soldier boy.
I heard their whisp'rings, my soldier boy
Their secret schemes and plans, I knew their every ploy
And with the loaded gun ready to misfire
I took my case to that authority much higher.
It's nearly over now, my soldier boy
I'll see you soon my flesh and blood, the real McCoy
No need for letters, to read and read
I'll meet you presently, it's true now, you take heed.
And I believe in you no matter what they say
The time will come, you'll see I'm right
When all the fools are made to see the light of day
Together we will win the fight, my soldier boy.
My soldier boy
My soldier boy.
(Song lyric)
poem by John Carter Brown
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He Was Lucky
The old man
leaves his house, carries books.
A German soldier snatches his books
flings them in the mud.
The old man picks them up,
the soldier hits him in the face.
The old man falls,
the soldier kicks him and walks away.
The old man
lies in mud and blood.
Under him he feels
the books.
poem by Anna Swirszczynska
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Time
Another Winter gone and bleak
In contrast to your skin, warm and sleek
Spring is dawning
Leaving me lonely, another year, a warning
Summer soon to come
Sun warming, body is done.
Another Autumn on the run
Love not waning like the sun.
Without your love!
On the wings of a dove,
my heart has fled.
The real me almost dead
My soul dark as sinter
Come Spring, Summer, Autumn or the deepest of Winter.
Your name is beauty
Your orders, my duty.
Stay away I hear you sigh
Wipe my eyes, a tear I cry
Of the words we spoke
I read and choke
So tense they were
My mind does stir
Of passions we evoke
In these words we spoke
From books I read
In my mind, a seed
To music I listen
Until my eyes do glisten
In films I see
A lovers look, a plea
But a heart so broken
A lovers life, just a token
Your back you turned
And this I learned
But for your Lord
I would have taken up a sword.
To fight back the horde
My back not as broad
My pen not as strong
I did you much wrong
The words that I write
Now cut down and smite
My silence is my fight
To give you what's right
Silent words in my mail
On a boat that's set sail
In your land of freedom
I need to redeem them
RG/NB
poem by Robert Green
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Soldier's Ghost
I bled for you - would you for me?
I blessed a skin in blazing fuel
Then took a bullet in a duel of
‘He or I to Die.'
I often question ‘Why? '
Do you?
My country was my life to give -
Would you for country cease to live?
Sinking in a mire of death,
You have no choice -
So while you're still alive,
Rejoice!
I cried in failure - did you care?
And as I waned, were you aware of
What I did -?
Fighting for my country while you hid
Behind your comfort back at home?
Still relaxed?
My wife and child are fading at the tomb.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier soldier soldier war
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
war war war war war war war war war war war war
war war war war war war war war war war war war
war war war war war war war war war war war war
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Eyewitness
Adapted from Chretien de Troyes
'Le Conte du Graal le Roman de Percival
and the birds fell strangely silent before the Angels came
approached him through the forest
and he at a boyish game
then five Knights fully-armed came on at a walking pace
and the noise of wood on iron resounded in that place
how the branches of oak and hornbeam crashed against their shields
and lances striking armour as the horses twist and wheel
and he heard their hauberks jingling as still they weren't to be seen
then they came into the clearing and he saw it as a dream
their bright and shining helmets scarlet and purest white
and the gold and blue and silver and the sun was dazzling bright
and he cried 'God have mercy' and a sign of the Cross he made
and one of the Knights came forward, said 'Do not be afraid '.
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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The Romance Of A Book
Reading a book, you're hit by romance,
No matter the subject matter,
You can read and read,
And every book is different,
Some stories are more pleasant than others,
While some are funny, but most are serious,
For the romance of a book,
Is in everyone's heart,
No matter their age or height,
Whether male or female:
It is all relative and I devour,
Each and every book,
I can read the classics,
Or even a heart-warming romance,
I just get through so many books,
I love every storyline,
Not so much the gory parts,
But the cleverness of the fictional detectives,
And those rock stars that roam the stage,
For a book is something that will never age,
No matter how many years on the shelf,
And stories can be shared with everyone else,
Yet everyone has their own views,
And books can be lifting when they're feeling blue,
For people have been reading fiction for centuries,
But, of course, not all books are fictional:
There're the historical books, interesting,
Even if a reader is just passing through,
And we can all learn something from the history books,
And let's not forget the autobiographies:
Many a man and woman fascinating,
Having lead unique lives and having had special loves,
And there is a romance to these people,
For they walked the same earth as everyone else,
Yet brought something strange and special to the world,
Like a scientist making a new discovery,
Or a rock star penning a hit song,
And all these things are which make books belong,
I haven't met anyone yet who finds books boring,
Because books are not boring: they are fascinating,
Unique, special, strange, romantic and enjoyable,
And every reader's dream: like hitting 'play' on a record,
For this is the romance of a book.
poem by Paula Glynn
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I Belong To The Past/ My Mind Is An Old Mind
I BELONG TO THE PAST/ MY MIND IS AN OLD MIND
I belong to the past-
My mind is an old mind-
Books not tweets,
Songs which sing
Not rages which talk.
My mind is an old mind-
I live in the long readings of distance days-
When lost in books
I dreamed life
Greater than any I had yet known-
I belong to the past
My mind is an old mind-
I have lived many many years
And the book of my own life
So much less than what I read of others
And dreamed for myself once-
I belong to the past
My mind is an old man
Yet like a fool
I still believe
Some day somehow once
There will be
The book of my life
Others will read.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Soldier
Am a soldier at war
I have never seen violence
Because when I fight there is still
Silence
I have no weapon except
My heart it doesn't fire
Zinc bullets it only fires
Pink feelings
Am a soldier at war
Fighting for my other leg
For if am not successful
I will fall
Am a soldier that shows
True colours I fight with
Passion for I don't need
A camouflage suite to hide
Am a soldier that doesn't
Salute but holds on to his
Heart with no malice pollution
Am a soldier at war with
A warm heart but fighting
Against ice cubes
Am a soldier fighting for
A nocturnal issue which is
Replacement
Am a soldier that doesn't
Listen to any sergeants
Commands only my heart
shall give me an order
Am soldier fighting for
THE LOVE OF MY LIFE
poem by Atlay Mwenifumbo
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An Irish Airman Forsees His Death
I KNOW that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My county is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Young British Soldier
When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier ~OF~ the Queen!
Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .
First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .
When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .
But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You ~must~ wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .
If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .
Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .
If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .
When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .
When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .
When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .
If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier ~of~ the Queen!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Age Of Chivalry
Back in the days of old
when knights were bold
who with a sword or lance
in armour sought romance.
It was the age of chivalry
long ago in man’s history
when to fight for a righteous cause
one did gain considerable applause.
It was mainly for show, love and glory
they deemed themselves being worthy
to capture the heart of some fair maiden
which was the most desired prize laden.
Oh, they would strike heavy blows
on all of their opponents and foes
in a one to one combat defying death
as crowds watched with abated breath.
Yes, it was far back in those days of yore
that courage and strength came to the fore
where there was this life and death struggle;
such issues at hand the knights would juggle.
And in fighting for their country, faith and king
noble impressions on people’s minds would ring
that even through the ages are held in high esteem
those knights in shinning armour do now all seem.
There are many legends based on their heroic exploits
a legacy of tales which have been told with much adroit
highlighting aspects of human wisdom related to virtue and vice
and the lessons to be learnt are those of goodness and sacrifice.
History usually repeats itself time and again
as it often happens a situation comes when
we’re asked to do something for a just cause
and acting with chivalry we shouldn’t pause.
poem by George Krokos
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0234 The Book To The Reader
The book said:
I serve you. And
as you take from me, I
give myself to you; even
before you begin
to read me.
I note how gently
you pick me up from
where you laid me down,
pausing just before you touch me; and
I feel your mind surrendering
with relief all other matters which
weigh down the mind; as one
who sheds his clothes and dives
into cool, clear water on a sunny day
and when you begin to read me, I
feel your hands, not gripping me but
sensing the film of air between
your hands and my cover; the lovely
detachment of a shared love; you
respect me for my outer self as
you respect what I have to give
and when you put me down,
you put me down so tenderly,
first looking for the perfect place
to leave me; with, I sense,
an inward sigh of satisfaction, gratitude, but which
meets the sigh of parting; like
the parting pause of lovers
and, like lovers who have grown old together,
we put out of mind the passing sigh of
yet a different kind; that one of us one day
will be – not the first, that’s easy – but
the second one to go… that’s
the eternal test of love: loss to be measured
against gratitude, the final laying down
on the altar, of the book of life
all this I appreciate;
did you too know this? are we not
fortunate in each other, you and I?
said the book.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Fallen Soldier
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home.
Trickling Down His Face A Tear,
Forgetting How It Feels To Fear
Death And All It's Fate And Glory.
Now It's Here, No Need To Worry.
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home
He's One Of Those They'll All Forget;
The Life He Lived, The Goals He Set,
The Ones He Loved, The Ones Who Wait
To See His Nearly Forgotten Face.
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home
Now Breathing's Just A Waste Of Breath
And Living's Just A Waste Of Death
As He Searches For A New Address;
A Brand New Home Free Of Loneliness.
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home
Lying Motionless On The Ground,
The Battle Raging All Around.
For Now He Is Not All Alone.
This Fallen Soldier Is Welcomed Home.
poem by Branden Hidalgo
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An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
poem by William Butler Yeats from The Wild Swans at Coole (1918)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fine Children
The fine weather is passing over our heads
As the day is finer than one soldier and one liar.
The lines of the page are a book,
As the book finds new meaning everyday.
This thunder-and-lightning happened overnight,
Due to old age and the lingering of the night.
My knights are out there in the hectic pleasure,
This is pleasing to the old art of repose,
For the generals play fine music when present.
One day we pass and splendidly pass,
For success mattered to the old children.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Irish Soldier
The Irish soldier, cast for fight,
Stood to his arms at dead of night,
Watching the east, until its ray
To the battle--field should show his way;--
Soldier, soldier, soldier brave,
You will fight though they call you slave,
And though you but help a bandit hand
Uncheck'd to kill in your native land.
The soldier thought on his chance of doom--
How the trampled sod might be his tomb--
How, in evening's dusk, his sightless stare
To the small pale stars might upward glare;--
Soldier, soldier, soldier brave,
You will fight though you think of the grave--
Though it yawn so near you, black and chill,
Honor and courage man you still.
And o'er his solemn brow he made
The Christian sign, and humbly said--
``Your prayers, good saints, if I should fall;
And for mercy, O Lord, on you I call!''--
Irish soldier, soldier brave,
You will fight, although you crave
The prayers of the saints your own to aid,
And the sign of the cross on your brow have made.
The morning broke--the bugle blew--
The voice of command the soldier knew,
And stern and straight in the van he stood,
And shouting, he rush'd to the work of blood;--
Irish soldier, soldier bold,
Thousands lay round you, crimson'd and cold--
But over their bodies you still fought on,
Till down you sank as the day was won.
And the Irish soldier now hath come,
Worn, and wounded, and crippled, home,
The hated, and slander'd, and scorn'd of those
Who safely slept while he faced their foes;--
Irish soldier, soldier bold,
In your native land you now are told
'Twas traitor--blood on that field you lost,
For you call'd on the saints, and your brow you cross'd!
poem by John Banim
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The Writer and The Soldier
The Writer and The Soldier
By
Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
The writer writes a sad lament for the love that he lost long
ago,
The soldier mourns the loss of a fellow slain long ago.
The writer has lead and ink on his hands,
The soldier has blood on his.
The writer can wash away the pigments and with them his
memory’s go, but the soldier can only wash the blood on his
skin; he can not wash the blood on his heart nor
The memory’s in his mind,
Burned into his mind with canon fire and the cries of
His falling comrades.
Oh,
When the two meet, they give to each other much needed gifts;
The writer gives the soldier understanding and a few happy
tales to think of when tears try to strike him down,
And the soldier gives the writer a new sad lament to write, and
a new meaning to the word friendship.
Written August 14,2008
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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Second Hand Books
Books! Books! Books! There are so many different designs.
There are some which, by the author, are personally signed.
Some books have pages with gilt edges, which look all posh.
Some have nice pictures on their covers, which are embossed.
Some books have hard covers, while some have soft.
Some are all dusty, where they’ve been kept in the loft.
Some books have fancy covers; some just have plain.
Some have suffered mishaps, and are now all stained.
Some books are all dog-eared at the corners of their pages.
Some have gone yellow, where they’ve been around ages.
Inside some books, there can be seen a pencilled name;
Someone, who once, on this particular book, had a claim.
Some are obviously well read; their spines are all creased.
From out of a book, amazing adventures can be unleashed.
Some books have pages which are spoiled or a bit torn.
Some have covers which are grubby and look well worn.
Some just have text, while others also include illustrations.
Some are former prize winners; once the toast of the nation.
There are books by famous authors, as well as the lesser known.
Some are former library books which, to the public, were loaned.
There are romances, poetry, classics, sci-fi, humour, and histories;
Gardening, cookery, travel, thrillers, manga, and murder mysteries.
In wooden bookcases, the books are categorised, and are neatly lined.
In a second hand bookshop, you just never know what you may find.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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