A Whispered Tale
I’d heard fool-heroes brag of where they’d been,
With stories of the glories that they’d seen.
But you, good simple soldier, seasoned well
In woods and posts and crater-lines of hell,
Who dodge remembered ‘crumps’ with wry grimace,
Endured experience in your queer, kind face,
Fatigues and vigils haunting nerve-strained eyes,
And both your brothers killed to make you wise;
You had no babbling phrases; what you said
Was like a message from the maimed and dead.
But memory brought the voice I knew, whose note
Was muted when they shot you in the throat;
And still you whisper of the war, and find
Sour jokes for all those horrors left behind.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Lines On The Old Man's Face
Definitive lines on his face
Convey the pathos of his life
One can see the painful trace
Of anguish cutting as a knife.
His unshed tears locked up inside
Stifled grief that left him torn
Eyes in blank stare try to hide
A father's sorrow yet unborn.
The years have not been very kind
Each day he ached for lost company
His beloved son they could not find
These last days leave him a memory.
War is cruel, unmerciful is Fate
For heroes are the dead and the lost
The lines on his face now sadly state
'My son had paid such a great cost.'
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Suicide in the Trenches
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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If She Were You
Well, everytime I try to love another
I never know exactly what to do
Id like to tell her just how much I want her
And I could find the way if she were you
Her eyes may shine for me and not another,
Her lonely arms reach out to hold me too,
She wants to take your place and be my lover
And I could make her mine if she were you
I never knew how much I cared about you
Till your memory made me a lovesick fool
When she speaks to me I hear you sweet voice calling
When I close my eyes your face comes into view
I remember how it hurt when I was falling
And I could fall again if she were you
I never knew how much I cared about you
Till your memory made me a lovesick fool
She wants to take your place and be my lover
And I could make her mine if she were you
Yes, I could make her mine if she was you
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Soldier
I see it on the news.
Stories of soldiers being killed.
I always prayed that it's not you,
I wish I knew that you were safe,
I don't think that I can handle your death,
You are my soldier, and you
Mean everything to me….
The bombs exploding, I pray that you aren't hit.
That would cause my world to end.
I needed you in my life.
I pray that you would come home soon.
I know it was your dream
To be a soldier, protect the innocent
Tell me this, is it worth dying for?
Who is the enemy you are fighting?
Dead scared child with a gun?
Made me see that this war is useless
There is no hero, only a grief in a war
I wish war would end soon….
For you to come home, I missed you
I barely do anything these days
My heart stops, when I hear the door bell
Afraid to see a soldier on my door step
Telling me my worst fear, not seeing you live
Just heard the news of soldiers being killed.
I prayed that it was not you, my soldier.....
poem by Dush Swaranga
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Santa's Soldier
'Twas the night before christmas
in a war over seas
a soldier said a prayer
by his bed on his knees
He said 'I don't wanna be here
but i can not leave
Lord please let my family
have a great christmas eve'
This soldier I speak of
Will Have Christmas alone
all that he has
is a package from home
Inside of the package
was a great surprise
it was a picture of his family
he wiped the tears from his eyes
His wife left a note that said
we are all alone
the kids miss their daddy
please hurry back home
his six year old daughter
gave a teddybear to her dad
along with a note
that said this will help when you're sad
The soldier picked up his gun
and went back out to work
and then he noticed a kid
that looked like he was hurt
the soldier said
'What's the matter kid, what is your bother? '
the kid responded by saying
'They just shot my father.'
The soldier said
'I've got something for you, to make you less sad'
Then he pulled out a teadybear and said
let this remind you of your dad
The soldier went on his way
to continue to fight
and said 'Merry Christmas to all
and to all a good night'
Fathom the Hell, the Pain and Suffering
Let's sit think of everything that a soldier goes through,
Fathom the Hell, the pain and suffering that they endure
so much has been given and taken or sacrficed for me and you.
then think of the biggest thing that was not taken, but kept safe and guarded, is our enemies from returning to our shore.
Yes, they have come home feeling the mental stress and pain,
But to some of our not so kind citizens they think and say, ' just leave them be,
By helping or babying them they have nothing to gain.
Hell, do you think they want our sympathy. '
This is where we all should take a stand against anyone with those points of views,
To tell them that know we might not agree to support the war,
But, when it comes to supporting our Heroes, there is nothing better else to choose.
the only thing that our hero's want, is to be accepted and supported nothing more.
There is a old saying, it could be by any service: Band of Brothers,
The saying can be simply explained is that we do not leave our brothers behind.
Let's motivate and surprise our Heroes as they come home, they are welcomed more than any others.
hopefully we can ease their adaption back to this way of life as an easier find.
By Frank Pulver
SSgt/USMCR
May 18,2011
poem by Frank Pulver
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When I'm Killed
When I’m killed, don’t think of me
Buried there in Cambrin Wood,
Nor as in Zion think of me
With the Intolerable Good.
And there’s one thing that I know well,
I’m damned if I’ll be damned to Hell!
So when I’m killed, don’t wait for me,
Walking the dim corridor;
In Heaven or Hell, don’t wait for me,
Or you must wait for evermore.
You’ll find me buried, living-dead
In these verses that you’ve read.
So when I’m killed, don’t mourn for me,
Shot, poor lad, so bold and young,
Killed and gone — don’t mourn for me.
On your lips my life is hung:
O friends and lovers, you can save
Your playfellow from the grave.
poem by Robert Graves
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A beautiful Gul
Gul, Gul, Gul
You are so beautiful
Gul is flower in garden
I noticed it all of sudden
I found her up in the morning
Her rosy face simply shining
Bright eyes stared as if inviting
Was it for passion igniting?
It was magnetic pull
There prevailed natural lull
Still moon remained in circle and full
I was not worried about attack from bull
I was totally mesmerized
The things were not to be summarized
It did make magic and surprise
This was something new and very good prize
How could she be in my domain?
She should not be away and remain
Totally indifferent and only in dream
How to bring her in pure love stream?
How many thoughts just crossed the mind?
How all of sudden I was able to find
She must be elegant and very kind
I was brought in sense by flow of wind
It made me to think in another direction
What will be her move and next action?
Will she be angry as hostile reaction?
As she was hailing from wealthy section
I could still read lines on her face
I was definitely for her in race
I want her to be on my side in any case
She must fall in line and not make memory to erase
This is what I consider as cherished dream
I don’t want to loose her and cry with scream
She may not opt for simple person
She may be compelled by any reason
I never knew morning breezes are so cool
They can’t push you to look like fool
It is freshness of flowers that is brought
One understands it and it is never taught
Soon her reddish face was about to disappear
There was so much pain to bear
I could see her murmur but couldn’t hear
She must be thanking me as dear
She engulfed me through the day
I had dreamed of very good way
Alas! I could offer her rose flower
My gesture would have been the best answer
the mind does develop reactive feeling
it is natural to go for it without thought killing
What will happen even if we get total failure?
It will enrich you and make the way very sure
She was almost there with hands on her eyes
I could only stare at her and could not ask why?
She utter few words in my ears for acknowledgement
It was now my turn to make positive movement
Gul……flower
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Messenger
She rose up in the early dawn,
And white and silently she moved
About the house. Four men had gone
To battle for the land they loved,
And she, the mother and the wife,
Waited for tidings from the strife.
How still the house seemed! and her tread
Was like the footsteps of the dead.
The long day passed; the dark night came.
She had not seen a human face.
Some voice spoke suddenly her name.
How loud it echoed in that place,
Where, day on day, no sound was heard
But her own footsteps. 'Bring you word,'
She cried to whom she could not see,
'Word from the battle-plain to me?'
A soldier entered at the door,
And stood within the dim firelight;
'I bring you tidings of the four,'
He said, 'who left you for the fight.'
'God bless you, friend,' she cried, 'speak on!
For I can bear it. One is gone?'
'Ay, one is gone!' he said. 'Which one?'
'Dear lady, he, your eldest son.'
A deathly pallor shot across
Her withered face; she did not weep.
She said: 'It is a grievous loss,
But God gives His belovèd sleep.
What of the living-of the three?
And when can they come back to me?'
The soldier turned away his head:
'Lady, your husband, too, is dead.'
She put her hand upon her brow;
A wild, sharp pain was in her eyes.
'My husband! Oh, God, help me now!'
The soldier heard her shuddering sighs.
The task was harder than he thought.
'Your youngest son, dear madam, fought
Close at his father's side; both fell
Dead, by the bursting of a shell.'
She moved her lips and seemed to moan.
Her face had paled to ashen gray:
'Then one is left me-one alone,'
She said, 'of four who marched away.
Oh, overruling, All-wise God,
How can I pass beneath Thy rod!'
The soldier walked across the floor,
Paused at the window, at the door,
Wiped the cold dew-drops from his cheek
And sought the mourner's side again.
'Once more, dear lady, I must speak:
Your last remaining son was slain
Just at the closing of the fight,
'Twas he who sent me here to-night.'
'God knows,' the man said afterward,
'The fight itself was not so hard.'
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Instant Messenger
Its gonna be ok
I cant afford another day
At 50 bytes per second
Ive never seen your face
Ive never heard your voice
But I think I like it
When you instant message me
With a promise
I can feel it
I can tell youre gonna be
Just like me
My eyes are gonna strained
My heart is feeling pain
At 50 beats per second
Ive never seen your eyes
Ive never heard your lies
But I think I like it
When you instant message me
With a promise
I can feel it
I can tell youre gonna be
Just like me
Just like me
You tell
You tell
You tell my name
song performed by by Muse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Sentry
We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime
Kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour,
Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb.
What murk of air remained stank old, and sour
With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men
Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den,
If not their corpses. . . .
There we herded from the blast
Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last.
Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles.
And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping
And splashing in the flood, deluging muck --
The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles
Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck.
We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined
"O sir, my eyes -- I'm blind -- I'm blind, I'm blind!"
Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids
And said if he could see the least blurred light
He was not blind; in time he'd get all right.
"I can't," he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids
Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there
In posting next for duty, and sending a scout
To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about
To other posts under the shrieking air.
Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed,
And one who would have drowned himself for good, --
I try not to remember these things now.
Let dread hark back for one word only: how
Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps,
And the wild chattering of his broken teeth,
Renewed most horribly whenever crumps
Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath --
Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout
"I see your lights!" But ours had long died out.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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They Are All Gone
they were all here, and they were my only brothers
although they are all gone, they will forever dwell in my memory
in the presence and in the absence of all the others
they wrote into hearts a message, compiling the pages of their short lives and stories
To my late beloved brothers, your memory lives on
poem by Sicelo Sithole
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Just A Simple Soldier
He was getting old and paunchy,
and his hair was falling fast,
As he sat around the Legion,
telling stories of his past.
Of a war that he had fought in,
and the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies,
they were heroes, everyone.
And though sometimes to his neighbors
his tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened,
for they knew whereof he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer,
for old Bob has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer,
for a soldier died today.
He won't be mourned by many,
just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary,
very quiet sort of life.
He held a job and raised a family,
quietly going on his way,
And the world won't note his passing,
though a soldier died today.
When politicians leave this earth,
their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing
and proclaim that they were great.
Papers tell of their life stories,
from the time that they were young,
But the passing of a soldier,
goes unnoticed, and unsung.
Is the greatest contribution,
to the welfare of our land,
Some jerk who breaks his promise,
and cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow,
who in times of war and strife,
goes off to serve his country
and offers up his life?
The politicians stipend,
and the style in which he lives,
Are sometimes disproportionate,
to the service that he gives.
While the ordinary soldier,
who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal,
and perhaps a pension, small.
It's so easy to forget them,
for it is so long ago,
That our Bob's and Jim's and Johnny's,
went to battle, but we know.
It was not the politicians,
with their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us this freedom,
that our country now enjoys.
Should you find yourself in danger,
with your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out,
with his ever waffling stand?
Or would you want a soldier,
who has sworn to defend,
His home, his kin, and country,
and would fight until the end?
He was just a common soldier,
and his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us,
we may need his type again.
For when countries are in conflict,
then we find the soldier's part,
Is to clean up all the troubles,
that politicians start.
If we cannot do him honor,
while he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least lets give him homage,
at the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline,
in the paper that might say,
'OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
FOR A SOLDIER DIED TODAY.'
poem by Summer Sandercox
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Dial 8
On a sea of nails in self doubt
I push this feeling further into this sound.
In all this failing i could never hide
The truth of pain that left me broken on the inside.
We are the future, We are the lie
Trapped in holy innocence we only wish to thrive
We are the nightmare buried deep in your mind
We are the travesty sweetened with your pain.
Alive, Alive, but Barely Alive.
Alive, Alive, but Barely Alive.
Shepherds spreading death
Dragged outside shot in the head.
Holy maimed again.
Dragged outside shot in the head.
A million faces in a bloody shroud
I hear their voices calling me to put you down.
Covered in blood, drowning in my hate
I covered my eyes, I covered your eyes
I covered my eyes.
We are the cancer eating at your mind.
We are the ministries for all of your crimes.
Shepherds spreading deaht.
Dragged outside shot in the head
Holy maimed again.
Dragged outside shot in the head
Dragged outside shot in the head
Holy maimed, holy maimed again.
song performed by by Velvet Acid Christ
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Voice
Safe in the magic of my woods
I lay, and watched the dying light.
Faint in the pale high solitudes,
And washed with rain and veiled by night,
Silver and blue and green were showing.
And the dark woods grew darker still;
And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;
And quietness crept up the hill;
And no wind was blowing
And I knew
That this was the hour of knowing,
And the night and the woods and you
Were one together, and I should find
Soon in the silence the hidden key
Of all that had hurt and puzzled me -
Why you were you, and the night was kind,
And the woods were part of the heart of me.
And there I waited breathlessly,
Alone; and slowly the holy three,
The three that I loved, together grew
One, in the hour of knowing,
Night, and the woods, and you -
And suddenly
There was an uproar in my woods,
The noise of a fool in mock distress,
Crashing and laughing and blindly going,
Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress,
And a Voice profaning the solitudes.
The spell was broken, the key denied me
And at length your flat clear voice beside me
Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.
You came and quacked beside me in the wood.
You said, 'The view from here is very good!'
You said, 'It's nice to be alone a bit!'
And, 'How the days are drawing out!' you said.
You said, 'The sunset's pretty, isn't it?'
* * * * *
By God! I wish - I wish that you were dead!
poem by Rupert Brooke (1909)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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All the Jokes
All the jokes have already been told
And so instead, we tell jokes about how
All the jokes have already been told
But these new jokes aren't very funny
In fact, they're actually kind of sad
So instead we tell jokes about how
All the new jokes aren't very funny
In fact, they're actually kind of sad
Because they remind us about how
All the jokes have already been told
But these jokes get old very quickly
So we make up new jokes about how
The jokes about the new jokes about how
All the jokes that have already been told
Are starting to get quite old
But after a while, once these jokes
Have gotten quite old themselves
We sit and listen to the silence
And wonder about the past, and how
All the jokes have already been told
Then suddenly, out of nowhere
Somebody comes up with a joke
That had been forgotten long ago
But is so funny we can't even breathe
So we roll on the floor, gasping for air
poem by Derek Ouyang
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A Subaltern
He turned to me with his kind, sleepy gaze
And fresh face slowly brightening to the grin
That sets my memory back to summer days,
With twenty runs to make, and last man in.
He told me he’d been having a bloody time
In trenches, crouching for the crumps to burst,
While squeaking rats scampered across the slime
And the grey palsied weather did its worst.
But as he stamped and shivered in the rain,
My stale philosophies had served him well;
Dreaming about his girl had sent his brain
Blanker than ever—she’d no place in Hell....
‘Good God!’ he laughed, and slowly filled his pipe,
Wondering ‘why he always talked such tripe’.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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The War Winners
The war winners always write the war history and as for those in war who have known defeat
They never do know of adulation and with a sad ending they meet
Arrested and tried for war crimes and executed for crimes against humanity
The victorious war leaders are feted as heroes though they seem no less guilty to me
Than those who are known as war losers in war far too many do die
And that the victorious of war crimes not guilty in truth of course only a lie
How can the one who order the bombings that killed thousands of people be seen as one quite free of taint
When they are guilty of mass murder and a murderer cannot be a saint
Why do we make heroes of villians two wrongs never do make a right
Though the winner is always the hero that's how it is in every fight
And the war dead with tears are remembered and the war mothers weep for their dead
Though their dead children helped to win the war and good things of them have been said.
The war winners write the war history that's how it is and it will always be
But history itself keeps repeating of war will we ever be free
If the victorious war leaders were not treated as heroes and for their war crimes arrested and tried
We may not have had war in the first place and so many young people may not have died.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Original Wrapper
The last shot should've killed me
Pour another drink
Let's drink to the last shot
And the blood on the dishes in the sink
Blood inside the coffee cup
Blood on the table top
When you quit, you quit
But you always wish
You knew it was your last shot
But when you quit, you quit
But you always wish
You knew it was your last shot
I shot blood at the fly on the wall
My heart almost stopped
Hardly there at all
I broke the mirror with my fall
With my fall - fall - fall
Fall - fall - fall
Gimme a double
Give yourself one too
Gimme a short beer
One for you too
And a toast to everything that doesn't move
That doesn't move
But when you quit, you quit
But you always wish
You knew it was your last shot
When you quit, you quit
But you always wish
You knew it was your last shot
Whiskey, bourbon, vodka and scotch
I don't care what it is you've got
I just want to know that it's my last shot
My last shot
I remember when I quit pretty good
See this here's where I chipped my tooth
I shot a vein in my neck and I coughed up a quaalude
On my last shot
My last shot
But when you quit, you quit
But you always wish
You knew it was your last shot
When you quit, you quit
But you always wish
You knew it was your last shot
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Street Of Dreams
I heard the sound of voices in the night
Spellbound there was someone calling
I looked around no one was in sight
Pulled down I just kept on falling
Ive seen this place before
You were standing by my side
Ive seen your face before tonight
Maybe I just see what I want it to be
I know its a mystery
Do you remember me on a street of dreams
Running through my memory
On the street of dreams
There you stood a distant memory
So good like we never parted
Said to myself I knew youd set me free
And here we are right back where we started
Soemthings come over me
And I dont know what to feel
Maybe this fantasy is real
Now I know I see what I want it to be
But its still a mystery
Do you remember me on the street of dreams
Running through my memory
On the street of dreams
You are on every face I see
On the street of dreams
Solo
Tell me have you always been
On the street of dreams
Will we ever meet again my friend
Do you know just what it meand to be
On the street of dreams
Never know just who youll see do ya
On the street of dreams
You can be who you want to be oh yeah
I can hear you calling me
I can feel you haunting me
Haunting me
song performed by by Rainbow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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