Business Of War
The Business of War.
In this clearing in the woods so full of butter coloured flowers
I know there is a mass grave underneath, a forgotten war,
bones of the nameless that died for a cause that was not theirs,
but they were loyal and when told to fight and they often died,
many never knowing why. At the edge, of the yellow field,
there are pale poppies the dead have no more blood to offer.
I think of Afghanistan, poppies there are more deadly, I wonder
if western soldiers who lost their life in a cause that is unclear,
will get their own graveyard and have their crosses there,
in a Moslem country, tended to with fresh flowers, but go easy
on the poppies. The skeletons under my feet, died because of
salt that, once upon a time- before oil- was big business, but I’m
sure the soldiers were told lies about nationality and freedom.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Related quotes
Poppies
Poppies they say adieu, goodbye,
men fought, yet did not want to die,
Poppies were tossing, waving free,
as war took lives so poignantly.
Poppies upstanding, boldly grow,
youth enlisted but did not know,
Poppieswould represent such pain,
that they would never forget the slain.
Poppies beautiful, fresh and new,
All one bright colour, flawless hue,
Poppies petals see where they land,
upon a face, an arm or a hand.
Poppies vibrant, stunningly red,
softly surround each silent head,
Poppies fragile, dainty and neat,
guard the space around their feet.
Poppies carpeting the hard ground,
where the marching of boots resound,
Poppies whose wind blown seas of blood,
captured them like a mighty flood.
Poppies tell of their dreams long lost, ,
we hear their names, we count the cost.
Poppies bring tears as we recall,
our loved ones parted from us all.
Poppies they say goodbye, adieu,
men fought for me, they fought for you.
Those tossing poppies, waving free,
mean remembrance to you and me.
Copyright. Ernestine Northover
poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Song Of Poppies
I love red poppies! Imperial red poppies!
Sun-worshippers are they;
Gladly as trees live through a hundred summers
They live one little day.
I love red poppies! Impassioned scarlet poppies!
Ever their strange perfume
Seems like an essence brewed by fairy people
From an immortal bloom.
I love red poppies! Red, silken, swaying poppies!
Deep in their hearts they keep
A magic cure for woe--a draught of Lethe--
A lotus-gift of sleep.
I love red poppies! Soft silver-stemmed, red poppies,
That from the rain and sun
Gather a balm to heal some earth-born sorrow,
When their glad day is done.
poem by Virna Sheard
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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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A War to End War.................
Where poppies used to grow
Now a theatre of muddy war.
Hear England’s best did bleed
To seed the earth with death,
Upon the killing fields;
And shell shocked men did quake
With each blaze of cannonades that
Shook the already savaged ground.
Here sad corpses lay unburied;
Never to see homeward shores
But to lie discomfited, lost;
In the cold discolured earth.
A war to end war?
No, so here we are again,
Our soldiers bravely die.
Lost in another foreign field
Where opium poppies grow.
poem by Paul Brookes
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Poppies
Seeing poppies growing in the wild,
Takes me back to when I was a child.
We’d often go for walks on a Sunday,
And often spot poppies along the way.
My dad’s hand I would tightly hold,
As I spied the poppies bright and bold.
Because I was young and very small,
The poppies seemed to be so very tall.
There was a field full of them, which I adored.
By their appearance, I never ever grew bored.
The large field where the poppies once grew,
Soon made way for a factory, shiny and new.
True to say, it was only empty waste ground,
But it was our little haven, which we found.
I think they should have left the field alone,
So as, through it, other people could still roam.
I know everyone nowadays talks about progress,
But there are times, when it’s not always for the best.
When they cleared that large patch of waste land,
That stunning view became something very bland.
To me, they are a flower which brings much cheer,
As they remind me of times, which I hold so dear.
Now, when I spot poppies growing here and there,
They remind me of the days, when I had little care.
That riot of colour. That sea of red:
That vision is still there in my head.
I can still picture it in my mind’s eye,
And recall those days of times gone by.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Half Mass
american soldiers were slaughtered
on a military base today.
by an arab american officer
who held everyone at bay.
and for these departed soldiers
all of america will pray.
but a question was put to me
and i was'nt sure just what to say.
if they are flying the american flag
at half mass for those who died today
what about the ones who've given their lives
to protect the american way?
why should we fly the flag at half mass
just for those who died at FORT HOOD.
it should be for all soldiers
and they would argue if they could.
keep our flags at half mass for all
that put their lives at stake.
there will be many more that we will honor
and their families at their wakes.
we should also put a yellow ribbon
on our red, white, and blue
until our soldiers come home
and this fighting is finally through.
poem by Louis Rams
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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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I Wonder.
In Flanders Fields red poppies grow.
But long dead warriors lie below.
Their rotted bodies nourishing
The scarlet poppies flourishing..
As if to draw attention to.
The graves of men who never knew.
That they would not see their homes more
But here they lie for evermore.
In Flanders Fields lost heroes lie.
In unmarked graves beneath the sky.
Far from the which gave them birth
They add their substance to the earth.
Which Belgian farmers cultivate.
Selected randomly by fate.
There can be few survivors left
But those of us who choose to go
To Flanders where the poppies grow.
All make the trip to show respect
Numbers dwindling as you'd expect.
There's very few now left to go.
To see the scarlet poppies glow
The numbers grow less day by day.
When they are called they must obey.
Rejoining those who went before.
The men who fell in the Great War.
I wonder will poppies still grow
When there's no one left to go.
Monday,25 June 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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We Are Told
We are told that we have got freedom yet not freedom to do as we like
There are places we are not allowed to walk in or where we cannot ride a push bike
Which means that our freedom is so called since we cannot even walk where we please
Ours is such a limited freedom we are not as free as a breeze.
Without a passport we cannot travel to another Country and that is for a limited time
And if we overstay our visa that is a deportable crime
By the Immigration Department of Government by a Government not blessed with a soul
There is a name for such a practice 'tis known as population control.
Young men in wars fought and died for freedom but was it for freedom they died?
When their Government leader told them they were fighting for freedom to the young and naive troops he lied
They fought for the glory of their leader and risked their lives on a foreign shore
They were used as pawns in a deadly power game just that sad to say nothing more.
We are told that we have got freedom though we have to be careful with the words we say
And if our speech on it has got restrictions then what is freedom anyway?
Young men fought and even died for freedom at least that's what we are made to believe
By so called patriotic politicians people who are known to deceive.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Prince's Progress (excerpt)
"Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate.
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
"Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
"Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
"We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
That used to be so brown.
"We never heard her speak in haste;
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.
"You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread."
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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A Soldiers Family
Today we lost another soldier, I do not know
His/her name.
Today we lost a soldier, I don’t know
From whence he/she came.
This was a soldier fighting in a war
As so many other soldiers had done this before.
It matters not what country the soldier is from.
For they no longer fight for country, but for each other.
All beliefs, religions, and honors are blown in the wind.
For war is not a joy, it is but a sin.
Once the soldier is gone, the family must live to carry on.
Wondering if it’s all been in vain
And if there was anything to gain.
The pains and the memories the families must bear
And with each other these they share.
A smile, a joke, a laughter, or two
These were the things they shared with you.
A love story or a relationship gone bad
These were the things that made them happy or sad.
A mother who inwardly cries
For it is so hard to say good-bye.
Nine months in her stomach, then tending
And caring for them and watching the child grow
This is what every mother knows.
A soldiers life is lost, but it’s not just any soldier you see
For this is the one that came from the father and me.
Yes! My child was a soldier and on the battle front they died
Trying to protect the freedom for you and I.
But let us mourn for all soldiers, for they are comrades
Who fought side by side, until the moment that they died.
It matters not if they are classified as the enemy
Death on all sides, there are so many.
They cry for their children, the same as we
And their hearts they do bleed.
If we as parents and family would be united as one
We would have these governments” under our gun”.
Until that day- we will always be “ a soldiers family”.
poem by Louis Rams
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The Sowing
Upon the wind sheltered hillside,
the sharp tang of metal and the sting of salt air lay
over a field of blood-red poppies, no Flander's Field.
At years fall, fields of rape roll like waves,
in the harshness of winter-sleet, stray boulders bow;
like the backs of mothers, daughters sowing.
Their nails torn, ragged and bleeding.
They bleed by the moon, and son upon the field.
No white crosses mark their passing.
For hundreds of years, and crops of rape, barley and wheat;
small hands, soft hands, and soft thighs bleed.
They bleed daughters, and sons.
They birth the fields and in the fields by consent or rape;
unadorned by silver stars or purple hearts.
Today, as May's sun wakes the blood blasted pasture,
each precious dropp blooms…..a heroines acknowledgement
the poppies yield.
poem by Deborah Guzzi
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Bride Song
From 'The Prince's Progress'
TOO late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loiter'd on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leap'd,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now there are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seem'd never soft to her,
Though toss'd of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks
That used to be so brown.
We never heard her speak in haste:
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.
You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Battle field musings
Battlefield musings
I am aware that thousands lie beneath the soil below the sky
I listen to their silent cry. Why were we sent to fight and die?
They came from every walk of life and briefly trained to join the strife.
In the Great War to end all wars. Convinced they fought in freedoms cause.
The men of God the padres lied, they said that God was on our side
That he would grant them victory but they were wrong quite obviously.
The tides of war ebbed to and fro. It was impossible to know.
Which side if either was ahead. The quick were fewer than the dead
Young soldiers by the thousand died in the name of national pride.
Eventually it was agreed that the Germans would concede.
But was it worth the sacrifice. There is no answer satisfies
The myriads who fought and died. The truth is that their leaders lied
Now poppies grow in Flanders fields where the dead increase the yield
of crops the local farmers grow. We can’t pretend we do not know
There are no winners in a war, a lesson we choose to ignore.
We only pay lip service to, a fact we know too well is true.
Saturday,16 October 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Poppies
Some scarlet poppies lay upon our right.
He watched them through his periscope all day.
He watched then all the day; but in the night
They seemed to pass away.
They came again much redder with the morn’
And still he gazed, and strangely longed to roam
Among their savage splendour in the corn,
And ponder on his home.
But when the charge was done, they found him
there
Deep in the redness, where he’d made his stand,
With withered poppies in his twisted hair,
And poppies in his hand.
poem by Leon Gellert
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I Dreamt, I Dreamt Of Poppies
I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
Growing wild in yonder field
They were blooming red and wonderful
Like a dancer, laced and frilled
Fluttering in the sunshine
Like waves of autumn grain
Or a rolling sea…majestic
As a queen in summer reign
I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
What a glorious display
In a blaze that flamed the skyline
Of a desert far away
I couldn't see the reason
Yet, they flourished in the sand
When all around was barren
In this brutal foreign land
I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
Like a ribbon drawn in blood
A slash on the horizon
In a soulless evil flood
The sky was dark and eerie
And smoke had filled the air
The atmosphere, chaotic
With shouting everywhere
I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
In a garden by a stream
The blooms were bold, were beautiful
More vibrant than a dream
Aside a marble stone
Where hand to heart I wept
For the soul that lay in slumber
Beneath the sod he slept
poem by Leria Hawkins
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The Graveyard In The Sky
Dad's, mothers, grandmothers, grandfathers, brother, sisters, aunt, and Uncles died at their home here on earth some time ago
And then they were all buried in the graveyard in the sky
But their in the sky nobody steals the grave in the graveyard
Also there are trees in the graveyard in the sky and flowers inthe garden
But the road that takes to the graveyard in the sky is paved
And sometimes you will see the memonights in their horse carriages Passing by
poem by Aldo Kraas
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The Graveyard In The Sky Ii
Dad's, mothers, grandmothers, grandfathers, brother, sisters, aunt, and Uncles died at their home here on earth some time ago
And then they were all buried in the graveyard in the sky
But there in the sky nobody steals the grave in the graveyard
Also there are trees in the graveyard in the sky and flowers inthe garden
But the road that takes to the graveyard in the sky is paved
And sometimes you will see the memonights in their horse carriages Passing by
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Time Heals all
when my brother had a bad car crash and nearly died
i was told to give it time
time heals all
one after another my four grandparents died
i was told to give it time
time heals all
when a mates brother hung himself
i was told to give it time
time heals all
when my friend turned her back and distroyed my life
i was told to give it time
time heals all
when i got epilepsy and lost peoples trust
i was told to give it time
time heals all
when i got depressed and lost control of my life
i was told to give it time
time heals all
i gave it time
but i'm not healed
so when dose time help
when do people stop relying on time
and get off there butts and help
cause time dosen't heal all on its own
In Flanders Field
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
poem by John McCrae
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