Decorations
My only medals are the scars
I've won in weary, peacetime wars,
A-fighting for my little brood,
To win them shelter, shoon and food;
But most of all to give them faith
In God's good mercy unto death.
My sons have medals gleaming bright,
Proud trophies won in foreign fight;
But though their crosses bravely shine,
My boys can show no wounds like mine -
Grim gashes dolorously healed,
And inner ailings unrevealed.
Life-lasting has my battle been,
My enemy a fierce machine;
And I am marked by many a blow
In conflict with a tireless foe,
Till warped and bent beneath the beat
Of life's unruth I own defeat.
Yet strip me bare and you will see
A worthy warrior I be;
Although no uniform I've worn,
By wounds of labour I am torn;
Leave the their ribbands and their stars . . .
Behold! I proudly prize my scars.
poem by Robert William Service
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Old Fighting-Men
All the world over, nursing their scars,
Sit the old fighting-men broke in the wars--
Sit the old fighting-men, surly and grim
Mocking the lilt of the conquerors' hymn.
Dust of the battle o'erwhelmed them and hid.
Fame never found them for aught that they did.
Wounded and spent to the lazar they drew,
Lining the road where the Legions roll through.
Sons of the Laurel who press to your meed,
(Worthy God's pity most--you who succeed!)
Ere you go triumphing, crowned, to the stars,
Pity poor fighting-men, broke in the wars!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Hide Me In Your Wounds
Hide Me In Your Wounds
By your wounds, I am healed
Healed in running away from internal strife
In giving up when there is still something to give
Your precious wounds gave me the love
When I wanted to give love
And the beauty and receiving grace instead of misfortune
By your wounds, I am healed
I am a survivor, a winner
I sing a new song in my heart
I witness the breaking of a new dawn each day
By your wounds I am healed
I believe that any storms in my life shall pass
And live my life one day at a time
By your wounds, I am yours
To teach, to guide, to revive and to forgive
I have forgiven myself, as I have forgiven others who caused me pain
Thank you Jesus..for those wounds
And hide me forever…
poem by Meggie Gultiano
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Unable To Admit It
Accept your wounds and scars?
To forgive and forget the fact,
That upon me they have been afflicted?
No love that deep will I ever have,
For anyone who believes I can be left...
With tears wept to then leave me,
Grieving over 'their' pain and anguish.
Accept your wounds and scars?
To forgive and forget the fact,
That upon me they have been afflicted?
What makes you think to you I am addicted?
What has you convinced,
A relationship with you makes sense?
I've long been healed from your abuses.
Accept your wounds and scars,
To leave imprinted on my mind when you please?
You just don't get it do you?
When I said I loved you...
Nothing in that confession shared,
Said anything about abandoning the love I have for myself.
You are the fool unable to admit it...not me!
There is nothing about you that has stayed with me to crave.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Soldier
The soldier, he has many battle scars.
But there's only a few, others can see.
The wounds, they did not kill him,
They made him who he was called to be.
Although some of his battles were easy,
Through each of his battles he died.
The pieces, which were his true enemy.
Were the pieces that did not survive.
When the soldier, he goes into battle,
He must know who his enemies are.
They are the ones that would harm another,
And make the soldier, seem like he, was the star.
It is only once you discover the enemy,
The march to victory, then can begin.
For the war that the soldier is fighting.
Is the battle he fights from within.
In each of us there is a soldier.
And each day, we fight the good fight.
For the ones who walk into victory,
Are the ones who find their true light.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Sincere Thanks
Sincere thanks to the Africans who,
Made us proud at the Beijing 2008 Olympic Games;
For there their talents were exposed to the world.
Thanks to Kenya who got the total of 14 medals:
Made up of 5 Gold medals,5 Silver medals and 4 Bronze medals.
Thanks to Ethiopia who got the total of 7 medals:
Made up of 4 Gold medals, a Silver medal and 2 Bronze medals.
Thanks to Zimbabwe who got the total of 4 medals:
Made up of a Gold medal and 3 Silver medals.
Thanks to Cameroon who got a single Gold medal,
Thanks to Tunisia who got a single Gold medal,
Thanks to Nigeria who got the total of 4 medals:
Made up of a Silver medal and 3 Bronze medals.
Thanks to Algeria who got 2 medals:
Made up of a Silver medal and a Bronze medal.
Thanks to Morocco who got 2 medals:
Made up of a Siver medal and a Bronze medal.
THanks to South Africa who got a single Silver medal,
Thanks to Sudan who got a single Silver medal,
Thanks to Egypt who got a single Bronze medal,
Thanks to Mauritius who got a single Bronze medal,
And tanks to Togo who also got a single Bronze medal.
You've really made Africa proud and we do thank you all!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Shes Got Medals
Shed walk through the door and shed set up the drinks on the house
She played a good game of darts, and the men slapped her back
And never took her out
She wore a trenchcoat khaki
Her hobnail boots were full of holes
Shes got medals
Her mother called her mary, but she changed her name to tommy, shes a one, oh
She went and joined the army, passed the medical
Dont ask me how its done
They sent her to the front line
Fighting for her countrys name
Shes got medals
She got very tired of picking up girls
Cleaning her gun and shaving her curls
Then the enemy dropped a bomb
Survivors there were none
People say that when the moon is full and all the stars have gone to bed
You can see her ghost but thats a lie because the naughty woman isnt dead
She deserted on the previous morning
Replaced her uniform with dresses silk and green
Called herself eileen
Came to london town
Now shes settled down
Shes got medals
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life And Feeling
like a soldier im in war
my enamy is life and feeling
the hole i dug next to my trench
is where i shall lye my feelings
and lye myself in the end of the battle
i took shots at life and feeling
my whole exsistance
the battle i am loseing
crouched in my trench
as rain, tears and pain are falling
heavily drenching me
my scars lay up my arms
showing where my blades have slit
life and feelin take another effective shot at me
hitting me in the hearts
i am bleeding bad but i wont give up the war
till the enamys are difeated
the wounds are bleeding as so much pain fills me up inside
i am fearless of the battle and fait i may suffer i am alone
with only myself fighting with all my might
i hate to tell myself i am loseing
but i dont know if i can win im dying to quick
poem by Sandy Vanity
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Gift of Knowledge
Desks of understanding can never replace
The books of amazing nature, the real
Relishing designs that cost a lot of knowledge.
Destroy our men from the goodness of learning,
Good is their prize of joy, the force of days
That reveal a prize, and more prizes.
The medals I deem essential are golden,
Like forming wet puddles in the ground,
Over a reason my puddles are heard, the medals.
Knowledge is perfect, is exact in rests and seizures,
But we are old forms, resting bones from all exercises,
From bandages and wounds contrived by the wounded.
Understanding is the present of the heart
To a wounded man of brilliance.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Two Veterans
Side by side near the road they stand
Like grave old men grown wise with years,
Veterans twain in this forest land,
Marching together, hand to hand,
Sober as ancient seers.
Gnarled and bitten and scarred and bent,
Sap run sluggish and youth all spent,
They lift spare limbs to the heartening sky,
World-worn and weary, yet loth to die.
They had known the bite of the blunt stone axe
(Wounds like warrior's long healed scars)
When they hid the quarry of hunting blacks,
Ranging the forest with eyes on the tracks
That led to these lusty spare
Spars grown old ere the spoilers came
To give this forest to blade and flame;
Too old to profit that ruthless greed
Which their likelier kinsmen went to feed.
For eight score summers the winds that blow
Down thro' the forest have worked their will;
For eight score winters storm and snow,
Frost and fury have bowed them low;
Yet stand the veterans still,
By the side of the road where the cars run down
With their transient freights to the mushroom town;
And they lift spare limbs to the deathless sky,
World-worn and weary, yet loth to die.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Say not the struggle nought availeth
Arthur Hugh Clough
1819-1869
a glosa
Say not the struggle nought availeth
the labour and the wounds are vain.
The enemy faints not nor faileth.
As things have been, things will remain
Say not the struggle nought availeth.
though we must battle constantly.
Exposed to light the darkness fadeth
for those who have the eyes to see.
The labour and the wounds are vain
the human heart resilient
in time will overcome the pain.
This truth becomes self evident.
The enemy faints not nor faileth.
We have to trade them blow for blow
.Although his malice he sustaineth
he dare not let his terror show.
A things have been, things will remain
the fight goes on continually.
Despite the hardship and the pain
in time we’ll claim the victory.
05/04/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Pitching Away Bales Of Daily Nonsense
My scars and wounds,
You will never see.
A pain to relive...
Is not for me.
And it is not that I heal quickly.
Sharing that process,
Is something I do not believe.
Why should I wear my heart on my sleeve?
To prove my life has not been struggle free.
My scars and wounds,
You will never see.
A pain to relive...
Is not for me.
There is no reason for you or me,
To validate something we both can agree...
No one familiar with digging out of ditches.
Or pitching away bales of daily nonsense,
Is going to be doing that without a bruise.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Wised Up
I'm the one
Whose paid
The price
The scars that healed
Are mine
Other wounds
Are open sores
Self-inflicted
Or otherwise
Too painful
To be scabbed over.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Not Yet Down
I have wounds too,
Like you do.
Some just take too long
To heal they hurt
For many years,
The pain they birth
Have dried my tears.
I have scars too,
Perhaps you do.
Seems Life's battles -
They do not end
All these struggles
Where Lessons lend
Insight and some truth
There lies the fruit.
I am tired and weary
Like you, maybe.
And yet I find
Strength to punch back
One more time
In Life's Ring
Stand up
And fight!
Till I'm black and blue
But
Not
Down.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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John Brown
John brown went off to war to fight on a foreign shore.
His mama sure was proud of him!
He stood straight and tall in his uniform and all.
His mamas face broke out all in a grin.
Oh son, you look so fine, Im glad youre a son of mine,
You make me proud to know you hold a gun.
Do what the captain says, lots of medals you will get,
And well put them on the wall when you come home.
As that old train pulled out, johns ma began to shout,
Tellin evryone in the neighborhood:
Thats my son thats about to go, hes a soldier now, you know.
She made well sure her neighbors understood.
She got a letter once in a while and her face broke into a smile
As she showed them to the people from next door.
And she bragged about her son with his uniform and gun,
And these things you called a good old-fashioned war.
Oh! good old-fashioned war!
Then the letters ceased to come, for a long time they did not come.
They ceased to come for about ten months or more.
Then a letter finally came saying, go down and meet the train.
Your sons a-coming home from the war.
She smiled and went right down, she looked everywhere around
But she could not see her soldier son in sight.
But as all the people passed, she saw her son at last,
When she did she could hardly believe her eyes.
Oh his face was all shot up and his hand was all blown off
And he wore a metal brace around his waist.
He whispered kind of slow, in a voice she did not know,
While she couldnt even recognize his face!
Oh! lord! not even recognize his face.
Oh tell me, my darling son, pray tell me what they done.
How is it you come to be this way?
He tried his best to talk but his mouth could hardly move
And the mother had to turn her face away.
Dont you remember, ma, when I went off to war
You thought it was the best thing I could do?
I was on the battleground, you were home . . . acting proud.
You wasnt there standing in my shoes.
Oh, and I thought when I was there, god, what am I doing here?
Im a-tryin to kill somebody or die tryin.
But the thing that scared me most was when my enemy came close
And I saw that his face looked just like mine.
Oh! lord! just like mine!
And I couldnt help but think, through the thunder rolling and stink,
That I was just a puppet in a play.
And through the roar and smoke, this string is finally broke,
And a cannon ball blew my eyes away.
As he turned away to walk, his ma was still in shock
At seein the metal brace that helped him stand.
But as he turned to go, he called his mother close
And he dropped his medals down into her hand.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The scars inside will not heal
There is noubt different than being raped
and being pushed down mentaly.
except that the wounds also bleed inside.
The mental scars will not heal.
They do not fade.
There was no difference between being raped
and being run over by a lorry
except that afterwards the sicko asked if you enjoyed it.
As if it were a game.
And still the scars have not healed.
There is no difference of being raped
and going head first through a top floor window.
except that afterwards you are not afraid of hights.
but of half the human population.
And still the scars linger on with the pain.
They do not fade.
Fear of rape is a storm brewing.
Never towalk out alone
when I see a man coming towards me.
All the fears reopen.
And all there is to do is run for dear life.
This scar will not go it will not heal.
Never to open the door to a knock
without the fear has he found me.
What if its him.
All of the fears hold me back.
The scars do not fade they will not heal
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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In These Poems That We Write
these are the wounds of the heart
let your fingers pierce that part
blood drips from a wounded heart
pain gleaming against the light
time has not healed the wounds
you can hear the screaming sounds
these are the wounds of my heart
we are not many miles apart
we share the wounds of the heart
in these poems that we draft
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A consonant of a pallid soul
When I touch the scars of last year's wounds
Really I get a consolation,
And I think of the next year approaches very soon
Without an invitation?
Those wounds were healed by the nature
But the new winds who knows?
May pierce and reunite to make them fresh.
I touch the lonely heart with my palpitate palm
And feel a different beat,
But I cannot change my sorrowful song friend,
Though you provide a pleasant music
Because it's my panache.
* The unseaworthy Soulship must be rigged properly to the Windswept.
[ A diary from the Seabed]
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Ways to Leave, Reasons to Leave
Pills, blade gun
ways to leave
Hurt, fate, not worthy
Reasones to leave
Lies, love, life
nothing to live for
no one to love
all of it, lies
Pills, blade, gun
Ways to leave
Hurt, fate, not worthy
Reasons to leave
Blood, scars, hide
Fire, scars, no problem
Food, smaller, its who I am
Ways to leave
Pills, blade, gun
Ways to leave
Hurt, fate, not worthy
Reasons to leave
Blood, crying, death
Torture, crying, gone
Questions, crying, done
Pills, blade, gun
Ways to leave
Hurt, fate, not worthy
Reasons to leave
No chance
Last life
No trys
The End
poem by Rosetta Dove
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Who Wins in War?
Who are the winners in every war?
The ones who start the war, for sure.
They are the ones who sit at a desk
and devise their devious plan
to cash in on the death of boys,
this time in afghanistan.
Now the winners walk away proud
with regalia on their chest.
The heroes that thrive on war
surely must have been blessed
for they continuously salute in military style
as they walk among the rank and file.
I say 'take off your medals
and join the boys who kill.'
The medals won't protect you then
you'll be where the blood does spill.
As a result you'll ask the question
'Who are the winners in every war? '
It's those white shirts behind desks
that started the war.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Scars
We all have scars.
Some visible and some hidden to the world.
We sometimes try to hide the physically scars because we think it is ugly,
but really having scars is not a bad thing.
It reminds us we can heal and get through the bad times both physically and mentally when we are ripped or torn apart.
So embrace you scars and keep on healing.
For healing and battling is a part of life.
Let people see your scars and how strong you are by healing.
poem by Christina J. Williams
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