Indian Givers
Brave young soldiers give legs and arms
To roadside bombs, with no end in sight
While Uncle Sam asks for re-up refunds
Send collectors to VA to give them fright
ROTMS
(The government has gone too far by requiring wounded veterans to repay all or part of their sign up bonus under the threat of sending bill collector goons to their homes or the very hospitals where soldiers are being treated)
poem by Ray Lucero
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Related quotes
The soldiers fought
The soldiers fought a fight, and went for us,
They went not thinking of themselves, and no fuss;
Some were injured. Yet in such agony they fought,
And some carried back to safety, while the enemy was sought.
Those soldiers were so very brave, fighting in our place,
Marching altogether, In order and without grace;
They never knew if they'd get back home at all,
All they did was fighting to win, the problem wasn't small.
And a lot of those brave soldiers, lost arms and legs, it's so,
But some very brave soldiers, where they died we don't know;
And this is why the legacy, we remember them, at set of sun,
And thank all these brave soldiers, for the good that was done.
poem by Margaret Haig
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My buddies (a reply to Boris Slutsky)
All young white men at a time
was forced into the military, into war
or had to serve a three year jail term
and most of my buddies came home,
but some did not:
Parachuting into a enemy camp
there was one close friend that died,
the other three I hardly knew
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
seven hundred and fifty
enemy SWAPO and Cuban casualties
and on one patrol one close buddy
stepped on a landmine
were blown up and no one else was hurt,
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
the enemy that had lost
little lest than a full platoon.
In Angola when we met enemy armour,
turned FAPLA / Cuban divisions
under Soviet leadership into junk
I saw a Ratel armoured car
that was trapped in a landmine field
that had been shot out
with the holes
were enemy tank projectiles went in
and every one inside was burnt, incinerated
if not blown to bits, turned into ash
and it had been only one of eleven
armoured cars
and troop carriers that was lost
some of only thirty-one soldiers dead
but there was pain that flashed through me
when I saw it
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
four thousand seven hundred and eighty five killed
on the Cuban/FAPLAN side,94 tanks
and hundreds of enemy combat vehicles destroyed
and now no one thinks
of the sacrifice that all of these soldiers made,
of the hundreds of thousands
of returning citizen force soldiers
who were nuts, bomb happy
with post traumatic stress syndrome
or whatever you want to call it
as to the government it is
an incidental small thing,
that happened in a distant past
as if the ex-soldiers are non-existing,
even seen as apartheid criminals by some.
[References: Buddies here used as name used in the South African Defence Force for comrades. Ex-soldiers here used instead of war veterans, as in African circles the word war veterans has got a new derogatory meaning connected to it. My Comrades by Boris Slutsky.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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True Heroes
There at my feet my comrade lies
as though he were but fast asleep.
Death came and took him by surprise.
All soldiers know that life is cheap.
As does each politician.
Whose lies persuade young men to go
and sign on as a fighting man.
Because they are too young to know.
Their country’s leaders are not wise.
Although they all profess to be
They all refuse to recognise
in war there is no victory.
Except the claims which death will make.
That he has added to his score
the lives he’s taken and will take.
In this and any future war.
It has been so through history.
Old men send young men to die
and praise them for their bravery
Although they lie and know they lie.
Dead heroes are of little use.
Of course we praise their memory.
It takes a brave man to refuse
to go and face the enemy.
Though some accept they will not kill
but tend wounded where they can
They are prepared to use their skill
to help not harm their fellow man.
01/05/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Let's Remember Those Soldiers
Let's remember those soldiers
No matter alive or dead
Hold them dear to our hearts
And keep their memories in our heads
Let's remember those soldiers
As they fight on foreign lands
And pray they make it back home
Because it is all up to Gods hands
Let's remember those soldiers
And the hell they are going through
Praise them when they get home
For all they've done for me and you
Let's remember those soldiers
And their families they left behind
Should you know some of these families
Try and treat them a little more kind
Let's remember those soldiers
They are fighting for our rights
Before you go to sleep tonight
Say a prayer for them tonight
Let's remember those soldiers
And let them know that we care
But for the grace of God
We might be the ones over there
Let's remember those soldiers
And let's wish them all the best
May they all make it back home
So we all can get some rest
Let's remember those soldiers
Even ones from wars of the past
Though some are dead and gone
Let's make sure their memories last
Let's remember those soldiers
And docs and nurses in those camps
Taking care of the wounded
Let's put their faces on postage stamps
Let's remember those soldiers
And not just count them as a loss
For they are truely the ones
That pay the ultimate cost
wrote 3/7/2008 by Norman Hale Jr.
poem by Norman Hale
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Soldier (not really a poem)
the american revolution was fought witha new breed of soldier.
this country was founded on that soldier.
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines calls the coward
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines call when they need help
because these soldiers dont miss.
these soldiers are trained harder than the most elite frontline man
these soldiers are tought to kill their enemy before there enemy sees them.
these soldiers are the ghosts in the night,
these soldiers are the wind in the day
these soldiers are everywhere.
these soldiers are the bush next to u.
these soldiers are the the tree across the field.
these soldiers are the lump of snow in the flat plain.
these soldiers are snipers.
snipers are the reason we are free.
snipers stop the enemy before the enemy gets close to u,
poem by Joshua Decker
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These Bombs
German soldiers at my backyard,
Russian soldiers at my backyard,
American soldiers at my backyard,
The world's soldiers at my backyard,
And like cultures at different places;
But, history is all about life.
What is your name? !
'My name is St. Louis';
What is your mission?
'My mission is to see to the peace in this world';
What is your vision?
'My vision is to conquer the world with love'!
'One head, two eyes, two ears';
'One nose, two legs, two hands';
'And, to tell the people what the future will be like'.
Soon a bomb will blast omewhere! !
Soom many people will be killed;
And like the cultures of these people around me,
For, they are always after destruction than peace.
To others, sex is like a chewing gum to them;
To others, wars are like a laughter to them;
And now, this world is preparing for war and we are running out of time!
But tell me, which of you have no past in this world?
However, some of you are still working hand-in-hand with Satan the Devil.
These bombs are falling on us today,
These bombs are killing us today,
And hatred is leading mankind to destruction!
Because, some people are really working hand-in-hand with Satan the Devil.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Along The War Avenue Of honour
Along the war Avenue of Honour a plaque to a dead soldier nailed to every tree
Brave young men who died in battle their reward for their bravery
They died in the war said to end all wars in the killing fields of World war one
But many wars since and far too many bloody battles and peace in the World not yet won.
Wars started by silly ageing men who send the young for them to die
Ageing men who themselves will die of old age and their twilight years they will enjoy,
ageing males heroes of their people we honour cowards as heroes one might say
The young men will go to war for them and the young men with their young lives pay.
The war supposed to end all wars long over almost nine decades since have gone by
But many wars have been fought since then and war pilots dropp their big bombs from the night sky
But suppose that's what will always happen when we give all of our power away
To silly and ageing male war men who with hair dyes cover their gray.
Along the war avenue of honour long dead soldiers names on every tree
Young noble men who died in battle far from homeland and family
In what was to be the war to end all wars yet we don't have much wisdom to show
For the loss of so many fine young men well over eight decades ago.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Someone earlier made a remark about losing 500 soldiers and 2,200 wounded in Iraq. Those soldiers were sent there by the vote of Sen. Lieberman, Sen. Edwards and Sen. Kerry. I think that is a serious matter.
quote by Howard Dean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Soldiers who are not afraid of guns, bombs, capture, torture or death say they are afraid of homosexuals. Clearly we should not be used as soldiers; we should be used as weapons.
Wilting And Weak
Do not step on soldiers who mightily maraud the weak,
Who are the soldiers? What is their command?
These soldiers marry into fellowship and youth,
Knights roam the country in search of young help.
These are the band of soldiers, legions of rope
And murdered by the cruel and wicked, the iron men.
Then do not step onto the rainbow to awaken us,
For the light is serene, and severe in strength.
Steps along the way guide the old and young alike,
A path has generated due to aging of the flowers
That disburden the height of society.
Follow the marching group and flowers wilt
In a way you agree, the wilting goes on and on.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Young Man
Written by james young
Lead vocals by james young
People say with age there comes experience
But as soon as you are born you start to die
Older men are chosen to speak wisely
But call the child to the sacrificial rite
Who can we get to win the fight?
Young man!
Who can we get to make love all night?
Young man!
Who do we send away to die?
Young man!
I heard a lonely woman cry for a
Young man!
The fire bombs in distant lands are burning
Jarring every synapse in your soul
Life and death are a meaningless profession
Tomorrow brings a horror yet untold
Who can we get to win the fight?
Young man!
Who can we get to make love all night?
Young man!
Who do we send away to die?
Young man!
I heard a lonely woman cry for a
Young man!
Young man!
Young man!
Come home my son
We'll give you a rest
Welcome my son
We'll give you the best
Time's stowaway
The young man
Short are the days
Of the young man
Young man!
Young man!
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Giving Thanks
We are to give thanks once more
so let us not forget our poor
and our proud soldiers in this ruthless war,
Let us give thanks for.....
Our sickness and our health,
America's over-abundance and our great wealth,
Thanks for revealing our stealth
as we continue to strengthen ourselves.
To my precious family and friends,
may the fences we mend,
for only good wishes I send
and Thanks for you once again.
poem by Cindy Thacher
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(ballad) If I could...
If I could.....
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
If I could
I'd bring our soldiers home..
i would bring them safe and sound
home again on American ground
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home.
If i could
I'd make this world free
If i could
I'd make this world free
no cold and hungry children
no pain or poverty...
if i could
I'd make this world free.
If i could
i'd bring or soldiers home
if i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
I'd bring them safe and sound
Home again, on American ground
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home..
If i could
i'd change nine one one
if i could
I'd change nine one one
I'd give anything to change
the damage that's been done
if i could
I'd change nine one one...
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
If i could
I'd bring our soldiers home
I'd bring them all safe and sound
home on American ground
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
if i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
poem by Connetta Jean
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Beware The Pen
Raise your daggers raise your guns,
Rant and rave and burst your lungs
Chant on highest mountain top
Seal the roads make traffic stop
Shoot to kill as you think right
Blast with bombs in deep of night
Spread all rumours in your favour
Win each battle stop and savour
Preach to all converted lands
Shoot unless they show their hands
Send the soldiers brave and true
To do the dirty work for you
All things equal in your world
As long as it's your flag unfurled
Make your mark as you see wise
Grow your empire in the skies
Just one thing before you go
Something that you need to know
If but one pen is left to write
You may lose this fiercest fight
For pens the rank of soldiers swell
Such written words of courage tell
A victory cant be assured
The pen is mighty... not the sword.
poem by Dave James
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In Joy & Sorrow
Oh girl we are the same
We are young and lost and so afraid
There? s no cure for the pain
No shelter from the rain
All our prayers seem to fail
In joy and sorrow my homes in your arms
In world so hollow
It is breaking my heart
In joy and sorrow my homes in your amrs
In world so hollow
It is breaking my heart
Oh girl we are the same
We are strong and blessed and so brave
With souls to be saved
And faith regained
All our tears wipe away
In joy and sorrow my homes in your arms
In world so hollow
It is breaking my heart
In joy and sorrow my homes in your arms
In world so hollow
It is breaking my heart
In joy and sorrow my homes in your arms
In world so hollow
It is breaking my heart
In joy and sorrow my homes in your arms
In world so hollow
It is breaking my heart
And my homes in your arms
And it is breaking my heart
My homes in your arms
And it is breaking my heart
song performed by by H.i.m. (his Infernal Majesty)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dirge For Two Veterans
THE last sunbeam
Lightly falls from the finish'd Sabbath,
On the pavement here--and there beyond, it is looking,
Down a new-made double grave.
Lo! the moon ascending!
Up from the east, the silvery round moon;
Beautiful over the house tops, ghastly phantom moon;
Immense and silent moon.
I see a sad procession,
And I hear the sound of coming full-key'd bugles; 10
All the channels of the city streets they're flooding,
As with voices and with tears.
I hear the great drums pounding,
And the small drums steady whirring;
And every blow of the great convulsive drums,
Strikes me through and through.
For the son is brought with the father;
In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell;
Two veterans, son and father, dropt together,
And the double grave awaits them. 20
Now nearer blow the bugles,
And the drums strike more convulsive;
And the day-light o'er the pavement quite has faded,
And the strong dead-march enwraps me.
In the eastern sky up-buoying,
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin'd;
('Tis some mother's large, transparent face,
In heaven brighter growing.)
O strong dead-march, you please me!
O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me! 30
O my soldiers twain! O my veterans, passing to burial!
What I have I also give you.
The moon gives you light,
And the bugles and the drums give you music;
And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,
My heart gives you love.
poem by Walt Whitman
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A Patriot
I do not wear a uniform
Nor a helmet on my head
I never carry a weapon
Or have seen my brothers bled.
I never stand at attention
Nor have I marched in line
I never fought for freedom
As what I own is already mine.
I do not salute any man
I humble down only to GOD
So I walk my own separate path
Whether at home or even abroad.
I wear no stripes upon my arms
There are no medals upon my chest
As I am just a civilian
Nothing more, and nothing less.
I know my national anthem
Whenever it is spoken or even sung
And tears still come unto my eyes
As proudly my head is hung.
Inside my soul their is a torch
I will be a patriot until the day I die
And I too will walk those proud lines
While still with pride for my flag I will cry.
I have never fought in a war
But I have passed our soldiers graves
I give thanks to the country that I live in
And to those soldiers, I give my praise.
poem by Randy McClave
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Wounded Knee Creek
Crazy Horse, War Chief of the Sioux Indians of the North American plains, was murdered by white soldiers on September 5th,1877. He was 35.
Soldiers from Fort Robinson came smiling
Pretending friendship to Crazy Horse
Offering the Sioux a lasting peace treaty
But only if the War Chief returned with them.
Trusting lies of those who never honoured any treaty
Crazy Horse rode unarmed into the fort
They barred the gates and held him by the arms
While private William Gentles bayoneted him twice.
Parents of Crazy Horse came to the fort
Took away the body of their warrior son
Secretly buried his majestic heart
At a place called Wounded Knee Creek.
American history records the Indian nations were finally defeated by white soldiers at a place called Wounded Knee Creek on December 29,1890. But it was a massacre. The Indians had surrendered. They were unarmed prisoners when the soldiers opened fire.300 men, women and children were killed.4 men, and 47 women and children survived.
poem by Colin Ian Jeffery
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The Little Homes
We have heard the cheering, brothers,
We have heard the martial peal;
We have seen the soldiers marching
And the glint of sun and steel.
We have heard the songs, the shouting;
But, while forth the soldier roams,
Who has heard the weeping, brothers,
In the Little Homes?
We have seen the gay processions
And the careless, laughing crowds.;
We have seen the banners waving
Out against the peaceful clouds;
Yet, while colors proudly flutter
Over noble spires and domes,
Who has seen the mourning, brothers,
In the Little Homes?
From the Little Homes that nestle
Where the smiling fields sweep wide,
From the Little Homes that huddle
In the city, side by side,
They have called the eager fighters
Men who went with smiles and cheers;
Pride of wives and pride of mothers,
Choking back the tears!
Women of the little homesteads,
Women of the city slums,
They are waiting, ever waiting;
And the sound of muffled drums
In some stricken Home is echoed,
Where grey Grief is guest to-day.
And to-morrow? Nay, the others
Still must wait - and pray.
What the Little Homes shall suffer,
What the Little Homes shall pay
Must be more than sturdy fighters,
More than women's grief to-day.
In the years that follow after,
Be our battles won or lost,
In the Little Homes, my brothers,
They shall pay the cost.
They shall pay the cost of glory,
They shall pay the price of peace,
Years and many long years after
All the sounds of battle cease.
When the sword is sheathed - or broken
When the battle flag is furled,
Still the Little Homes must suffer
Over all the World.
Have you seen the old grey mothers
Smiling to the ringing cheers?
Have you seen the young wives striving
Bravely to hold back the tears?
Have you seen the young girl marching
By her soldier-lover's side?
Have you, seen our country's women
All aglow with pride?
Then, shall we think shame, my brothers,
To give thanks upon our knees
That the land we love should hold them
Wives and mothers such as these?
Women who still hide their sorrow
As their soldiers march away,
Turning brave and steadfast faces
To the light of day?
Oh, the Little Homes are Cheerful
Little Homes that know no pride
But the pride of sacrificing
Loved ones to the battle tide!
They are many, many brothers,
And their sacrifice is great.
Shrines are they and sacred places,
Where the women wait.
Aye, the Little Homes are holy
At the closing of the day,
When young wives must face their sorrow,
When grey mothers kneel to pray,
Facing, all alone, dread visions
Of the land the soldier roams,
Then God heed the sobbing, brothers,
In the Little Homes.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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