Drumbeat Of War
The Drum Beat of War.
Smoke came from the mountain pass troops marched to the border,
general mobilizing declared, the old spoke of wars of yore the young
stopped slouching and looked around for the enemy. Ministers and
king wore uniform, laws were passed against a fifth columnists and
against anyone who had a different opinion than the norm; although
many were arrested no one was tried. War cry had brought order from
the chaos of democratic peace.
The jingoistic fever lasted all summer a good time for marching and
military parades, women wore flowers in their hair ready to kiss loved
ones goodbye. Fall rain, the north-westerly blew cold and war didn’t
happen, leaders congratulated themselves for winning the peace, and as
big snowflakes slowly fell so did our realisation that we open eyed had
marched into an open prison and could no longer travel anywhere, in
our country, without a passport.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Drummer Boy
A drummer boy dressed in white tapped his drum as he passed by my bed,
he never looked at me, and not a word was said.
Tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, was his marching beat.
There was blood from a wound, but he kept to his feet.
As he marched back and forth it looked as though he was going to fall,
but he continued to beat his drum, as he walked through the wall.
On his departure the sound of a bugle was heard above the drum,
whistling rifle shots and cannon fire added to the battle’s hum.
A boy dressed in red and white, blowing a bugle marched passed my bed,
he had suffered a wound, and blood was flowing from his head.
Blowing with all his might I could see the determination on his face,
he seemed to be running out of breath, as he slowly lost the pace.
The drummer boy came up beside him and marched by his side,
the bugle boy stood up straight, and blew the charge as he cried.
Another drummer boy passed my bed followed by two more,
the bugle boy stood and looked ahead, and then fell to the floor.
Several soldiers charged pass, with bayonets fixed for attack,
passing the drummer boy one yelled, “Keep playing and don’t look back.”
With the sound of bullets in the air and shells exploding all around
soldiers charged and fell by my bed to the now distant drumming sound.
It suddenly all went quiet as everyone disappeared through the wall,
except for the drummer boy who played as he stood tall.
Tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum; a much softer beat,
he then looked at me with tears in his eyes, as he faded at my feet.
poem by Orlando Belo
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It took eight parades to say goodbye
It took eight parades to say goodbye
and there were fighters in the sky
and we wore battle clothes
and drove our armour
through the streets
and saluted every time,
that he stood with his hat
clenched to his chest.
We marched with a military band
and everyone had step outs on
and as we passed
the man in the dark suit,
rifles swung up high
to a generals salute
in order to say goodbye
to the commander in chief.
I remember him waiting with his arm
on his chest
and hat pressed there,
while we crossed the border
back from war
and there was something
on his face;
when I saluted
as the Ratel IFV drove past.
[Reference: Ratel IFV=> Ratel Infantry Fighting Vehicle.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Parantha’s Dream
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
The twelve year old boy
Parantha Parapanjani
yearned to be a drummer
in the Royal Indian Army.
Using two wooden sticks
and a biscuit tin so old,
he imitated the drummers
and their drum rolls.
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
A thief stole his drum
leaving him with nothing to play,
but his father’s old tin leg,
stepped in to save the day.
From a string around his neck,
it swung about his waist,
as he practiced with the band
outside the military gates.
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
One day a limping man and boy
walked down the busy street,
as Parantha drummed up
a leg moving kind of beat.
The regimental sergeant major
recognised the sound,
and saw the leg being played,
as it made its way to town.
So impressed was the sergeant
he enlisted the boy in the band.
A new side-drum he was given
and a stick for each hand.
He marched up and down
with his Indian army band,
so proud to be a drummer,
with a stick in each hand.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Military Death
He marched along
to the cadence of the drum.
He clenched his fists
so overcome
with sorrow and grief
and so much pain.
And as he marched
he felt the rain.
It fell with precision
like the tears in his eyes.
For a friend lives
and a friend dies.
When they reached
the final resting place
the final beat of the drum
did erase
all sound but the weeping
and his long deep sigh
as he gave his salute
and said goodbye.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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From A German War Primer
AMONGST THE HIGHLY PLACED
It is considered low to talk about food.
The fact is: they have
Already eaten.
The lowly must leave this earth
Without having tasted
Any good meat.
For wondering where they come from and
Where they are going
The fine evenings find them
Too exhausted.
They have not yet seen
The mountains and the great sea
When their time is already up.
If the lowly do not
Think about what's low
They will never rise.
THE BREAD OF THE HUNGRY HAS
ALL BEEN EATEN
Meat has become unknown. Useless
The pouring out of the people's sweat.
The laurel groves have been
Lopped down.
From the chimneys of the arms factories
Rises smoke.
THE HOUSE-PAINTER SPEAKS OF
GREAT TIMES TO COME
The forests still grow.
The fields still bear
The cities still stand.
The people still breathe.
ON THE CALENDAR THE DAY IS NOT
YET SHOWN
Every month, every day
Lies open still. One of those days
Is going to be marked with a cross.
THE WORKERS CRY OUT FOR BREAD
The merchants cry out for markets.
The unemployed were hungry. The employed
Are hungry now.
The hands that lay folded are busy again.
They are making shells.
THOSE WHO TAKE THE MEAT FROM THE TABLE
Teach contentment.
Those for whom the contribution is destined
Demand sacrifice.
Those who eat their fill speak to the hungry
Of wonderful times to come.
Those who lead the country into the abyss
Call ruling too difficult
For ordinary men.
WHEN THE LEADERS SPEAK OF PEACE
The common folk know
That war is coming.
When the leaders curse war
The mobilization order is already written out.
THOSE AT THE TOP SAY: PEACE
AND WAR
Are of different substance.
But their peace and their war
Are like wind and storm.
War grows from their peace
Like son from his mother
He bears
Her frightful features.
Their war kills
Whatever their peace
Has left over.
ON THE WALL WAS CHALKED:
They want war.
The man who wrote it
Has already fallen.
THOSE AT THE TOP SAY:
This way to glory.
Those down below say:
This way to the grave.
THE WAR WHICH IS COMING
Is not the first one. There were
Other wars before it.
When the last one came to an end
There were conquerors and conquered.
Among the conquered the common people
Starved. Among the conquerors
The common people starved too.
THOSE AT THE TOP SAY COMRADESHIP
Reigns in the army.
The truth of this is seen
In the cookhouse.
In their hearts should be
The selfsame courage. But
On their plates
Are two kinds of rations.
WHEN IT COMES TO MARCHING MANY DO NOT
KNOW
That their enemy is marching at their head.
The voice which gives them their orders
Is their enemy's voice and
The man who speaks of the enemy
Is the enemy himself.
IT IS NIGHT
The married couples
Lie in their beds. The young women
Will bear orphans.
GENERAL, YOUR TANK IS A POWERFUL VEHICLE
It smashes down forests and crushes a hundred men.
But it has one defect:
It needs a driver.
General, your bomber is powerful.
It flies faster than a storm and carries more than an elephant.
But it has one defect:
It needs a mechanic.
General, man is very useful.
He can fly and he can kill.
But he has one defect:
He can think.
poem by Bertolt Brecht
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Too Far From Auntie's Gaze
Auntie said
don't go
too far away
with the mutt
I need to know
where you are
and so you
and the mutt
went down
the metal stairway
and off
into the barrack grounds
at Aldershot
keeping close
to the places
that your aunt
could see you from
and you could hear
soldiers marching
on the parade ground
and the sergeants
bellowing their orders
to the marching troops
and you sensed
the cold air
and frost
on the ground
as you walked
and the mutt sniffed
the earth
and you said
come on mutt
let's go for a run
and off you went
and the mutt followed
and overtook you
its tail wagging
its eyes large
and brown
like pools of chocolate
and lucid like mud
and you raced him
as far as you could
then you had to stop
for breath
and the mutt
stopped too
and looked back at you
its tongue hanging
from the corner
of its mouth
and you looked over
to where your aunt lived
and realised
she wouldn't
be able to see you
from where you were
and the dog didn't care
and the air
was chilling
your lungs
and your tongue hung
in the corner
of your little boy mouth
and the soldiers marched
and marched
and you stood watching
bent over
with your hands
on your knees
and big black birds
called out from the trees.
poem by Terry Collett
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Where is Peace?
Where is the peace within the mind?
Where is the peace within the heart?
Where is the peace within the home?
Where is the peace within the womb?
Where is the peace within the soul?
When leaders brag of peace that’s quite untrue;
And dialogues boast of progress in peace,
And regimes fall so suddenly by coup,
With world in chaos, can man live with ease?
Yes, warring leaders get prizes for peace!
The undeserving get rewarded fast;
They fan the flames of wars that never cease;
The righteous ones on earth can barely last!
The rosary can only give men peace;
The evil can’t escape God’s scourge / disease;
The wicked hearts will have to pay high fees,
When walking upon risky roads like geese.
When young girls turn mothers from early sex,
And lesbian, gay threaten social order,
Ev’n leaders are in political fix
And stay in good and bad twilight border!
When nations rich with lesser people kill
Their unborn babies, without any shame,
God makes their environs and soil quite ill,
For doing sins, without taking the blame!
The living God of life can’t bear such crimes,
As man takes advantage of His kindness;
He ushers forth changes in earthly climes,
And Nature pours her furies ruthlessly!
Just prayer buys God’s mercy immensely;
Just prayer can turn tides in man’s favor;
Just prayer brings to halt wars suddenly;
Just prayer gains God’s sympathy, waiver!
Let mankind offer prayers all the more!
Let fervent prayers heal God’s heart that’s sore!
Let man bring back God into his heart’s core;
Then God will open another new door!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 13-10-2009
poem by John Celes
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When Scarborough Had Land
I remember Scarborough proud Protestant and blue,
With portraits of a Queen near every pew.
No Sunday shops, no music hops, no liquor on display,
Where the Lodges and the Legions marched each Victoria Day.
Where ensigns flew, Union Jacks too, unique uniforms on parade.
A raucous rush of pompous pride by pals from every trade,
As they beat the drum down Danforth Road on the twenty fourth of May,
Out to the country and back by Byng, again on Dominion Day.
Those were loyal times before the war for king and queen and all,
For more than a few, this love did cause, their ultimate downfall.
It did at Dieppe and D-day too like their seniors at the Somme,
They died for king and country; they did it for a song.
And soon they were forgotten, those who fought for king and crown,
Though those lucky to return had saved the country and the town.
They would walk again forever with their flags flying high,
Marching medals of the heroes that no one could deny.
Except the town of Scarborough was down on the drawing board,
And those fields and sheep and meadows didn't fit the grand accord.
No newcomers paid attention as the veterans vied for space,
And their parades of marching medals only had an old-time grace.
And Scarborough changed by day and night from a township to a city,
Old soldiers faded fast and few and no one had much pity.
And the immigrants came in wave after wave from places far and wide,
As the soldiers went to grave after grave with their flags and faded pride.
But still a few survive today and I'm sure they are not pleased.
'bout the changes to the town and how Scarborough had been squeezed,
From a township to a city where no one cared for esprit de corps,
So they amalgamated with Toronto and Scarborough was no more.
And culture clash and bureaucrat and ever changing rules,
Of mandarin and moguls and Tamils dressed in jewels,
While traffic roared and the buildings soared sometimes to sixty stories,
Where women wrapped in saris sashayed in all their glories.
They had lost the town without a fight, those men from long ago.
And everything was centralized; they said to save some dough,
But the authorities had lied again; it was all politically correct,
And no one marched, no flags did fly and no one did protest.
There are sometimes you still can hear it, the distant drone of pipes,
And men in kilts still carry on, just watched by boys on bikes.
They're just a faint reminder now of the many marching bands,
When those with flags and medals marched and Scarborough had some land.
DEC 1ST 2010
poem by James Bredin
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Women In Uniform
Beehive hairdo, 45 on the hip
Patrolwoman Saunders, don't you give her no whip
Took me to the station for a breathtest
then back to the bedroom for some house-arrest
[Chorus:]
Women in uniform, sometimes they look so cold
Women in uniform, but, Oh! They feel so warm
Coming back to London on a 747
Stewardess made me feel like I'm in heaven
Looking up the aisle to see what I could see
She leaned over said; Give it to me
White apron, brown leather shoes
The nurse at the clinic left my heart all bruised
Gave me a massage, sprained my right
Now she takes my temperature every night
[Chorus]
Women in uniform, Women in uniform
Women in uniform, Women in uniform
Commando raid on the Lebanese border
Sergeant Anita, she gives the order
Khaki jacket and a love gun
Baby, I surrender, let's have some fun
[Chorus]
[Solo]
[Chorus]
Women in uniform, Women in uniform
Women in uniform, Women in uniform
Women in uniform, Khaki, white and blue
Women in uniform, coming after you
Women, women, Women in uniform
Women, women, Women in uniform
[Chorus]
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Army, O, My Army!
My Army, O, my army! The time I dreamed of comes!
I want to see your colours; I want to hear your drums!
I heard them in my boyhood when all men’s hearts seemed cold;
I heard them as a Young Man—and I am growing old!
My army, O, my army! The signs are manifold!
My army, O, my army! My army and my Queen!
I used to sing your battle-songs when I was seventeen!
They came to me from ages, they came from far and near;
They came to me from Paris, they came to me from Here!—
They came when I was marching with the Army of the Rear.
My Queen’s dark eyes were flashing (oh, she was younger then!);
My Queen’s Red Cap was redder than the reddest blood of men!
My Queen marched like an Amazon, with anger manifest—
Her dark hair darkly matted from a knifegash in her breast
(For blood will flow where milk will not—her sisters knew the rest).
My legions ne’er were listed, they had no need to be;
My army ne’er was trained in arms—’twas trained in misery!
It took long years to mould it, but war could never drown
The shuffling of my army’s feet in the hunger-haunted town—
A little child was murdered, and so Tyranny went down.
My army kept no order, my army kept no time;
My army dug no trenches, yet died in dust and slime;
Its troops were fiercely ignorant, as to the manner born;
Its clothes were rags and tatters, or patches worn and torn—
Ah, me! It wore a uniform that I have often worn!
The faces of my army were ghastly as the dead;
My army’s cause was Hunger, my army’s cry was “Bread!”
It called on God and Mary and Christ of Nazareth;
It cried to kings and courtesans that fainted at its breath—
Its women beat their poor, flat breasts where babes had starved to death.
My army! My army—I hear the sound of drums
Above the roar of battles—and, lo! my army comes!
Nor creed of man may stay it—nor war, nor nation’s law—
The pikes go through the firing-lines as pitchforks go through straw—
Like pitchforks through the litter, while empires stand in awe.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Coming Wars
Coming War.
The sky is silent no flight overhead except screaming military jets there
are soldiers in the wood, guns at the ready. The dog that follows me on
my walks, took fright and disappeared in the underground. As I walked
past them they ignored my greetings. Deep silence, am I their target?
Vultures in the sky circling about, waiting to hear shots and a possible
meal…Me. A sharp order from an officer and the soldiers marched in
an opposite direction. The dog rejoins me I’m not its owner so it didn’t
feel it had to risks its life for me. The warning of wars coming this way,
sure as thunder and storm.60 years of peace, save Balkans, in Europe
It’s spooky. People of Europe feel it too hence the haste to go back to
their own countries, where they will feel safe huddled together waiting
for the battle that will end the perverted lethargy hanging over us.
When the storm has passed the survivor will feel energized work hard
to build a new Europe; and say: “No more Wars”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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On The Long Road To Pagadian
1979. rough times.
there was this
no man's land.of
rebels
dead bodies
were unaccounted for
on the road to
Pagadian.
we were on the bus.
it was a long travel
north of this
coastal island
the seagulls were
at sea looking
for a catch of
silvery fish
we pass them by
the bus was muddy
and the rain fell
hard on the roof
and we closed the
glass window
afraid to get wet
slowly your weary head
inclined towards
my muscular chest
and rested there
and you began to
sleep soundly and
weave your own dreams
i smelled your soft, black hair
and i saw a beautiful face
with luscious lips
red as a rose in bloom
an inch away from mine
i could have kissed you
without your knowing
a slight touch could have
perfected love
on your cheek
but i didn't.
Now i ask myself
if i ever have any regret
living a longer life in this
world. I have an answer.
it was a long, long travel.
and we at last arrived there.
the rain stopped.
the sun started to shine.
i still ask: why did i not kiss you?
why did i not even ask your name?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On The Civil War On The East Coast Of The United States Of North America 1860-64
Because of the unaccountable spirit of the troops
oh we were marched as we were never marched before
and flanked them off from home. Stupid Meade
was after them, head on to tail, but we convinced
him, finally, to flank, flank, cut off their head.
He finally understood, the idiot, and got a fort
named after him, for wisdom. He probably thought
Lee would conquer Washington from Appomattox
if he, Meade, should march his infantry behind
him, Lee. Ah well, the unaccountable spirit of the troops
triumphed, Meade got his fort, Grant got his presidency,
Sherman got his motto, what was it? War is heck?, Lee got a military school
for the education of young Southern gentlemen, and the Union
Army was taken over by Southern noncommissioned officers
in the wars against the Indians to the west. I know all
about this, I know who won, I served under them
for three hundred and fifty years in World War II,
just long enough not to be called a rookie but a veteran,
and realized the rank and order of my enemies:
first, the West Point officers; second, the red-neck sergeants;
third, the Nazis and perhaps the Japanese. I won
all of these wars as a private soldier, for a while,
and am happy to have done so: without me
Hitler and Hirohito would he ruling the world
instead of America and Russia, but I still will not
drive through Georgia with New York license plates.
poem by Alan Dugan
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Tuba
I was once in a band
in school long ago
when the Poison was big
as their hair
When I was a lad
I played a Golden Tuba
and marched all
over the land
We played in parks
for elderly folks
we played in the gym
for our parents
but mine weren't there
We marched in parades
and my Tuba shined
because I polished it
every day and night
I was so proud of that
Tuba and the sound it
produced that I played
it at home in my room
marching in place
like the whole band
was there
and such pride, such pride
until Dad broke it.
poem by John W. McEwers
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Country Fair
We stood and watched the river flow
We were too young to really know
In the country fair
Oh, in the country fair
We laid out in the long green grass
And never thought that it would pass
In the country fair
In the country fair
On an old, on an old open day
On an old rainshine open day
In the country fair
In the cool night air
In sweet summer time
We counted pebbles in the sand
Sand like time slippin through our hand
In the country fair
In the country fair
On an old, on an old open day
On an old raintrack open day
In the country fair
In the cool night air
In sweet summer time
Hmmm mmmm
On an old open day
On an old
Pinecone open day
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Yellow Daffodil
When I went to school
oh, so many years ago
I remember a girl
who always wore a yellow daffodil.
She wore it in her hair,
spring, summer and fall
and not a day went passed
when she did not wear it at all.
No one knows why she wore it
nor what or whom it was for.
As the years passed
and we went, our separate ways
I often wonder what had became of
the girl who always wore a yellow daffodil.
I hope she had a happy life
with all the things that bring a radiant spring
and that all her dreams came true.
If you ever see a woman
wearing a yellow daffodil
just tell her that this someone
still remembers her from our childhood spring.
18 September 2009
poem by David Harris
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War and Peace
'There is in this world that eternal battle'
the General said
'between Good and Evil.
There can be no compromise;
each nation needs living space
and those who follow Evil
will not hesitate
to take yours
and that means,
some of the time,
War.
War is the ultimate expression
of Evil vs. Good
and inevitable.'
Peace spoke:
War is for those who profit from War
and every war ends in Peace
and diplomacy,
Why not skip the destruction and killing
save human lives
and go straight to the Peace?
Nation-State spoke:
Ah, you Peace forget War
is more than the interval between
the Peace
because War decides which people
will be free
and which people will be oppressed.
Peace you misunderstand;
soldiers fight to preserve their country-mens' lifestyles
their families
and those five dollar lattes.
Ah, indeed in War and Peace
someone wins
and someone loses' Nation-State said.
Peace spoke:
Well, Nation-State, that used to be true
but not anymore.
Nuclear holocaust has no winners,
only losers.
A radioactive planet
where no one can live
for a thousand years
is not victory
but massive defeat for everyone.
.
Nothing to celebrate.
You '
Peace said
to the General
'cannot fulfill your main mission
which is to protect the population.
The foe you fight can blow up
all of their nuclear weapons
and the fall out will drift and kill
the rest of us
without even an attack.
You soldiers have to learn new tricks.
You can't really protect us.
All that is gone. You have to retire that side-gun
and sit at the diplomat's table.
'Peace 'Peace said'
has come to depend upon successful social ecology
and restraining those who would have us kill ourselves
in order to preserve our lives.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Broremann’s War
Spring,1945, German troops in his town were walking about not
carrying arms, they spoke to the locals in a friendly manner.
Looking back it was peace before the peace. Near Broremann's home
there was a tall house occupied by old non- commissioned officers,
middle-aged men in their thirties with children, gave the kids
chocolate and sweets (after the war the building was taken over by
Mormons) .
British troops arrived, put a canteen in a disused fish factory,
the German troops had surrendered. Broremann got white bread
with spam from the British. The Germans left by train; many
of the town´s people came to wave goodbye, there was no
dislike against the common soldiers, wrath was directed at the
local Gestapo who had betrayed their country by being crueler
than the enemy and by sporting rimless Himmler glasses.
Years later Broremann met a docker in Hamburg who had spent
five war years in his town. They drank together and declared
it had been a peaceful war.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Soldier Blue
A soldier blue once walked past me
With flag and gun for all to see
Shouts i hurrah for you are brave
Our King and country you will save
But as he marched i noticed that
Beneath his hardened soldiers hat
An empty stare that held the thought
Of all the horrors battle brought
He marched a line so straight and true
With comrades also dressed in blue
A sense of pride we all could feel
As on they marched from toe to heel
But as they disappeared from view
Their colours flying proud and true
Thought i of soldier blue once more
His stare that told the truth of war.
poem by Dave James
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Marvelous Toy
When I was just a wee little boy.
Full of health and joy.
One Christmas morning I received
A marvelous little toy.
A wonder to be hold it was
Many colours bright.
And the moment I layed eyes on it
It became my heart's delight.
It went "zzzip" when it moved,
"Bopp" when it stopped,
"Brrr" when it stood still.
I never knew just what it was
And I guess I never will.
The first time that I picked it up.
I had a big surprise.
For right on it's bottom
Were two green buttons
That looked like big green eyes.
I first pushed one.
And then the other.
And then I pushed on its lid.
And when I set it down again
This is what it did.
It went "zzzip" when it moved,
"Bopp" when it stopped,
"Brrr" when it stood still.
I never knew just what it was
And I guess I never will.
It first marched left.
Then marched right
And then marched under a chair.
And when I looked where it had gone
It wasn't even there.
I started to cry.
My daddy laughed.
He knew that I would find.
When I turned around my marvelous toy
Chugging from behind.
It went "zzzip" when it moved,
"Bopp" when it stopped,
"Brrr" when it stood still.
I never knew just what it was
And I guess I never will.
Well, the years have passed
Too quickly it seems.
I have my own little boy.
And yesterday I gave to him
My marvelous little toy.
His eyes nearly popped
right out of his head.
He gave the squeal of glee
Neither one of us knows just what it is,
But he loves it just like me.
It still goes "zzzip" when it moves,
"Bopp" when it stoppes,
"Brrr" when it stands still.
I never knew just what it was
And I guess I neve
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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