Anzac Day 2005
Each time Anzac Day returns
I listen to the history
Solemnly reflect
On the deeds and outcomes
And usually shed a quiet tear
Mourning the losses
The massive sacrifices
And the futility,
Chill at the Last Post
Choke with pride
And whisper under my breath
The Ode of Remembrance
Hopefully connecting
To the spirit of Anzac
To nation, to history
To personal feelings
Of a debt accepted
But its full magnitude unimaginable,
A generation discounted by conflict
A cost too high,
And yet I seek to live its essence
With resilience, honesty
And dogged determination.
poem by Danny Draper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Anzac
Anzac! And war's grim storm . . .
The scream of a pass'ng shell
Torn earth, and - a quiet form . . .
'Pass, comrades. All is well.'
Nay, but his spirit lives; be very sure.
Year follows year, and earthly things depart;
But what he dying, gave us shall endure
Now and for ever in the nation's heart.
Now and for ever; tho' the flesh be gone,
Still shall that Spirit bid us, 'Carry on!'
Anzac! The mounds increase;
Marking where soldiers fell . . . .
Earth's healing scars; and peace.
'Sleep, comrades. All is well.'
And be full certain that they do but sleep,
Who, falling, yet were well content to find
Fit sanctuary in the hearts that keep
That spirit and that memory enshrined.
High on Gallipoli, lights that once shone,
Again flame o'er the ocean: 'Carry on!'
Anzac! The tramp of marching feet . . . .
The toll of a passing-bell.
Bowed heads along a city street . . . .
'Pass, soldier. All is well.'
Pass, soldier. When your dwindling ranks grow small;
When, one by one, old comrades you shall greet;
When the last, lonely veteran's footfall
Goes echoing adown this city street,
Still may that Spirit, tho' all else be gone,
Cry to our sons: 'Australia! Carry on!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Twenty-Fifth Of April
THIS day is Anzac Day!
Made sacred by the memory
Of those who fought and died, and fought and live,
And gave the best that men may give
For love of Land. It dawns once more,
And, though on alien sea and shore
The guns are silent all,
Yet we with pride recall
The deeds which gave it immortality.
Great deeds are deathless things!
The doer dies, but not the deed,
And, when upon that fateful April day
Our Anzacs, throwing all but love away,
Gave life and limb for Honour's sake,
With Freedom tremblingly at stake,
They lit a beacon-light
Imperishable, bright,
That evermore the Nation's soul shall heed.
Not Peace, not Peace alone
Can make a nation great and good
And bring it that full stature, strength, and grace
That fit it for an age-enduring place
In men's regard. Through storm and strife
It runs to sweet and noble life;
For through its veins there runs
The valour of great sons
Who died to give it stately nationhood.
This day is Anzac Day!
Made sacred by the thrilling thought
Of those who proved their souls, it reappears;
And thus 'twill dawn, and dawn through future years
Till Time our petty deeds efface,
And others, dwelling in our place,
Tell o'er, with tongue and pen,
The glorious tale again
Of how on beach and crag the Anzacs fought.
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Anzac Square: What The Digger Said
Said the Digger: 'Soon forgot! Soon forgot, the deeds of war.
Better so, may be. . . Why not?
Beauty fades and laurels rot;
Last year's roses are no more.
Fame?' the one-armed Digger said,
'What of glory when you're dead?'
'Stone and brass,' the Digger said. 'Stone and brass: tho' these endure,
Marble flaunting o'er my head
Would be dead, as I'd be dead.
How may any man be sure
That the hearts of men shall hold
Memories of tales once told?
This alone I surely know: earth I am, and earth shall be,
Only Mother Earth can show,
When I go where all men go,
Aught of this that had been me.
Mother Earth, once stained so red,
She must know,' the Digger said.
'Would you raise, in braggart heaps, stone, cold stone, to mark the fame
Of full many a man who sleeps
Where the earth of Anzac keeps
Guard o'er legions lacking name
Plinth and pillar reared to show
Pomp and pride they cannot know?
'They ask no portentous pile, boasting to a heedless sky,
Stirring men a little while,
Subject, then, for sigh or smile,
Not for this do soldiers die,
With our passing let Pride be,
All we ask is Memory:
'Memory of such fair worth as a fighting man may claim,
And a plot of hallowed earth
In the city of our birth:
Earth that bears a hallowed name.
Let it be envisioned there:
Anzac worth in Anzac Square.
'Memory,' the Digger said. 'If so be the city judge
Soldiers worthy, who have bled.
Worthy of her love, the dead,
Shall the city, then, begrudge
One wide acre of her soil
For who saved the whole from spoil?
'Here, it may be, by God's grace, our son's sons may sit at last,
In the People's market place,
Knowing truly, as they trace
Memory of me long past,
'Tis enshrined forever there:
Anzac worth in Anzac Square.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Anzac Day
Patriotic men and women from sixty down to sixteen
Rode proudly on their horses in the famed Anzac green
Followed by the women of the Red Cross in their renowned white and red
On this day every April they honour the war dead.
Up to the war memorial where a large crowd stand around
And at the front of the congregation old 'Diggers' to be found
Old veterans of World war 2 they show their years in gray
Their war medals pinned to their lapels their bravery on display.
A lone bugler played the last post to honour the war dead
And an old man who was standing near i saw him bow his head
And tears were trickling down his face his thoughts were far away
Some noble men who were his friends in foreign Country lay.
We are gathered here this morning the ageing speaker said
To commemorate true heroes our great and brave war dead
They made the ultimate sacrifice and at a young age they did die
And we have them in part to thank for the freedom we enjoy
For our soldiers who died in foreign wars for their souls let us pray
It's only to remember them that we have Anzac day
Their bones may lay in foreign fields but in history they survive
And the spirit of the Anzac is still very much alive.
He thanked the old war veterans who marched in the parade
How can we thank you enough for the sacrifice you've made
You risked your lives in cause of peace 'we salute you today'
You noble men who won the war in Country far away.
He thanked the red cross women the finest in the Land
And the bugler who played 'The Last Post' and the six piece marching band
And the horse riders dressed as Anzacs in the famed faded green
And he asked the band to finish up by playing 'God save the Queen'.
And the band played 'God save the Queen' but not 'Advance Australia Fair'
And i who doesn't believe in war could only feel aware
That in Britain they don't play the Australian anthem when they honour their war dead
Was it for Britain or Australia that young Aussie blood was shed? .
The horse riders dressed as Anzacs in the famed faded green
And the bugler played the last post and the band played 'God Save The Queen'.
And a war veteran spoke of Aussie war dead their bones in Europe lay
At least they are remembered still on every Anzac Day.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Don't Feel Sorry Anzac Day Is Over
I don't feel sorry Anzac day is over enough of talk of war for one more year
I did not attend the ceremony at the war memorial their tired old speeches I did not wish to hear
I do not wish to belittle their glory but their sameness I find boring just the same
They pass their torch to the young generation who to the war drums march on towards their fame.
Why don't they leave the young to make up their own minds instead of brainwashing them in such a way
To poor refugees who flee for their lives from the war zones more respect we all ought to pay
I am frowned upon as not a decent person as I do not attend the ceremonies on Anzac Day
But than to grow old as a false patriot I'd prefer for to grow old and gray.
The big headline news of the morning was as you guessed it was yesterday's big Anzac Day parade
I can understand of war veterans of why so much of a big fuss of them is made
Such occasions are used by the Politicians as to power they so desperately try to cling
It means more votes for incumbent Parliamentarians when the praises of old war veterans they sing.
I feel very happy Anzac Day is over by such occasions I for one don't feel inspired
Too much of anything can become boring and of war and of war heroes I've grown tired
Why should I wish for to leave my bed at daybreak for to go and watch a silly war parade
I'm tired of hearing of war and of war heroes and far too many last posts have been played.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Barack Hessein Obama II- The President
the wisdom of time foretold that a principle man....
will lead a powerful nation in this centuries
a man with full of charisma, with a vigor of its own.....
will stand a midst, all adversities... equip with virtues
and a heart that respect to all.
a man with a vision of change and courage to win.....
the voice of the majority. a dream that calls for
unity and harmony among people who seek for....
freedom and liberty..... the essence of America
all nation of the world rejoice.... for the spirit of GOD
has listened to the echo of peace..... await in the end.
all race have to stand, singing their own
national anthem.praising God with song....
for the Lord thy God is worthy to be praised.
the world today had witness, the change....
the course of history, a history of its making
the emerging charismatic and a visionary man....
Barack Obama.....will lead a great nation to its
glory again
poem by Antonio Liao
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Be Honest is To Slowly Kill Yourself
Slitting my throat
Listen to me as I choke
Being the fool again
Stop pretending
Why do you lust the one thing you can't have?
Why do I do the right things?
Honesty kills me
I lie on the inside
But on the outside, I'm always true
Slitting my throat
Listen to me as I choke
No holding back no more
The words will hit the floor
Please indulge in my sobriety
Pass it around
Let us stop being angry and violent men
Defend what we hold dear
Sacrifice everything for it
Slitting my throat
Listen to me choke
I'm damned as damned can be
The evil is all around me
It engulfs me
Forever in darkness
Under a moonlit sky
So again I ask why?
Time to step back an pray
Slitting my throat
Listen to me as I choke
This is something I didn't need
It was from falling and hitting to many branches down an old oak tree
This is where it ends for me
Sorry its history and forever it will be
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Written In Red!
Pages of history of man kind
Are written red,
Those who thought their blood,
As blue as sky or as blue as deep ocean,
Wrote the pages in Red and every page is full of bloodshed!
Hungry people weep for even glass of water,
And even for that they had blood to shed,
Innocent plants or innocent grass die,
When two elephants fight for supremacy!
They never care how many innocent may die!
Great heroes are made on the number of men they despatch to hell,
Saying patriots have heaven in their fight!
They are heroes like matadors at the cost of blood of an innocent bull!
Otherwise they are as you and me except that cruelty,
Men the made several men to shed blood, in the name of woman,
May it be sita, may it be Padmini
Or may be Helen of Troy,
All men were treated like toys
By a that a few mad boys,
To have their woman back,
Or defend their action,
All religions have their history written in red,
May it be books that are from God,
Stained with red, God signed it with blood,
Put the rubber stamp of quality with bone and flesh,
Every nation is having its own fountain of blood shed!
power hungry need only to shed crocodile tears,
Or just present awards and reward,
Those who safeguard
and died to save them!
May it be Ashoka, may it be Idi Ameen
or may be Churchil, or may be Gandhi,
Or may Lincoln or Changez Khan
Only they were famous due blood shed!
May it be history of continent or that sub continent
Only a story written in blood, On human skin and with bones as pens!
May it be any ' -ism ' or may
Politics in spain or Britain,
Equally dangerous are these..
Power or woman,
Ambition or nation,
Whether terrorist or counter terrorist venture
Police or politician,
Every history of massive wealth,
Or a piece of land
Religion or culture, blood is That red ink with pages of history is written only in red!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hello, Death
Hello; I am Death.
Listen to me as I speak
As though you think there is an option
There is none, as your life is what I seek.
You can be the top of your world
The master of all you survey
Have your name known around this world
But that is nothing, you are mine at any day.
As with the touch of my finger
Or a glare from my eye
All you owe and known is gone,
When I command it, your body will die.
Hello; I am Death
Have you came to fear me yet
Have you seen your life pass you by
terrible is your life, and your soul is that debt.
The people you used and hurt
The swears and lies that you spoke
Laughing when others where in despair
I think by those words, I will let you choke.
You will then dance in your misery
As you reflect the past of your deeds
With every gasping breath I will laugh
Then my words you will finally heed.
Hello; I am Death
Listen to me as I talk
My voice will be the last for you to hear
As you take, your very last walk.
I will laugh with every step that you take
As just to remind you of your past,
And the wrongs that you did to others
Forever, I promise that pain in you will last.
And then the moment before you die
And your soul is full of regrets
I want to watch you beg for mercy and life,
BUT, I wont listen; as I am DEATH.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
One Ancestry
One race...one ancestry
One place...one history
The importance of all these -
The start of you and me
Our family is like branches of tree
Some remain in Palompon, Leyte
A place where we can feel and see
Our great ancestor's merits and bravery
Others grow in different lands
Yet, our roots remain as one.
Each of our lives will always be intertwined
The breathe we take
The blood that flows through our veins
Is like a song that will never change.
A tear in my eye
With a heart full of pride
And that I cannot hide.
As I'm so blessed to be a part of history
A history that will be remembered and treasured
Not only today but on the next generation..
All of the information
Gathered from the past
Through your help & coordination we made it at last!
So, thank you for all you do,
I appreciate it and that's true!
poem by Amor Olorvida
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Black History Month
In January...
There they are making history.
In February...
There they are making history.
In March...
There they are making history.
In April...
There they are making history.
In May...
There they are making history.
In June...
There they are making history.
In July...
There they are making history.
In August...
There they are making history.
In September...
There they are making history.
In October...
There they are making history.
In November...
There they are making history.
In December...
There they are making history.
But...
It's nice to know
The shortest month of the year
Was chosen to celebrate
The great deeds of African-Americans!
However...
It is those LEAP YEARS,
That really have the blacks jumping for joy!
Note: 'Black History Month' along with other
works of interest can be found in...
*'MindPrints from Untouched Places-VOL I'*
~Now available online at a PC near you~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
It is the great advantage of free societies that we creatively adapt to challenges, without the direction of some central authority. Self-correction is the secret strength of freedom. We are a nation with a history of resilience and a genius for renewal. Right now, one of our worst national problems is a deficit of confidence. But the cause of freedom justifies all our faith and effort. It still inspires men and women in the darkest corners of the world, and it will inspire a rising generation. The American spirit does not say, “We shall manage,” or “We shall make the best of it.” It says, “We shall overcome.” And that is exactly what we will do, with the help of God and one another.
quote by George W. Bush
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
A Poem On Obsequies To A Tear
I with utmost care
Place this tear
On the funeral pyre
Don't look down
Upon a tear shed
Don't you see
Its heart still throbbing?
Its eyes beyond your grasp?
The tear still pulsating
And its breath filling the lungs?
It has many tales to recount
Connecting you to me
And us to him, her and them
Come, pay you respects
Before the pyre is lit
Before another tear is shed
And placed on the pyre.
poem by Indira Babbellapati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Three Kinds of People
The books of my history
Begins with comedy
And end with tragedy
“Son”, do you know this
Spontaneous?
If you don’t know
Don’t mind
Your father will tell you.
There are three kinds of people
But the history knows only two
The first are foxy foxes
Who do right things and
Great good deeds
They stand at the top of history
The second are mad dogs
Who do wrong things and
Great evil deeds
They stand at the bottom of history
The third are piggy hyenas
Who are neither wise nor foolish?
Who cannot do right or wrong?
The history doesn’t know them
They have no chapter in history book
Can you choose among them for
Your inspiration and if you
Can heed my advice
The foxes are the best stars
To stick to.
poem by David Aoloch Bion
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
They're Our National Treasure
If there's one thing in life which will start a war,
It's conflict between the young and old,
Let's stop and reflect and start asking what for,
These disputes can and do leave us cold.
I observed an old guy the other day,
As he was carrying out a menial task,
When I offered assistance he said, no way,
I'm grateful but there's no need to ask.
What a stubborn Old Git I thought to myself,
He's just bitter because he is old,
It's not my fault he's been left on the shelf,
His attitude did leave me cold.
Then I thought to myself, what would I be like,
If I ever reached the same age,
No more football or stunts on my bike,
That notion placed me in a rage.
Like me he must have been young and fit,
Yet this old guy I was trying to deride,
I knew by his actions his fire I had lit,
He was showing me he still had his pride.
This got me thinking about why we fight,
The reason we are so far apart,
Generations divided by who's wrong or right,
To bridge this divide we must start.
There's so much our Elders know about life,
Yet their knowledge we choose to ignore,
Our attitude towards them can cause so much strife,
They're our mentors they should not be a chore.
Yet in truth they know more than you or I,
They've been round the course a lot longer,
We forget they were young that we cannot deny,
Why don't we try make our relationships stronger.
We must have a truce and evaluate each other
Both our groups have so much to give,
Our differences we know can and do smother,
We must learn to live and let live.
This works both ways, they can be the same,
Saying their time was more respectful than ours,
In life generations go through much the same,
We have weaknesses but we also have powers.
It's our turn next so don't ever forget,
Respect as a gift must be earned,
We owe all our ancestors a massive debt,
Without them what would we have learned.
It's a fact of life that we become more skilled,
Each generation improves on the last,
Thanks to our Elders future dreams are fulfilled,
Only our memories remain in the past.
The reason for this fact is plain to see,
Our forefathers did their job well,
Skills they've given us you'd have to agree,
Is the reason we can now excel.
No group in history has ever got it just right,
Fact is we will all make mistakes,
That's how we learn to make things right,
By distinguishing the real from the fakes.
If we'd treat each other with more respect,
Our differences we could make disappear,
If on each others attributes we tried to reflect,
Then both parties would have nothing to fear.
We all need each other we know that is true,
Living in harmony would give both parties pleasure,
Without our Elders what would we do,
in truth,
‘' They're Our National Treasure ‘'
History is Bunkum
History is Bunkum
History is often written by the victor
A web of deceit woven by the writer
To glorify the deeds of his master
And decry the good deeds of the loser:
His name is vilified
His good deeds set aside
His just cause demonised
Only the winner is glorified
History is father and mother of lies
Fabrications the writer describes
Leaving us an account after his demise,
A legacy that hopefully fools and survives
The passage of time testifies to its credibility
Self-interest confers on it the seal of authenticity
It is then paraded as the voice of truth and sanity
But we all know it is mostly hot air and vanity.
poem by Isam Hussain
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The History of Now
The recording of culture is history;
but our culture is more than that.
It's the world of human action,
and the myths we make of the fact.
The recording of history is culture,
but our history is more than that.
It informs a hidden agenda.
Unconscious of motive we act.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
It's only the present that exists as endowed.
It's the history of now. The moment - KAPOW!
That knocks you right over and muddies your brow.
Through the prism of language, we know what we know.
We carry our baggage and stories of woe.
Victor and vanquished pride cannot budge,
the dead weight of hatred and ancestral grudge.
We fight our good fights with our hand on our heart;
the music is swelling as loved ones depart.
As sheep to the slaughter, the script cannot chart,
a course more ignoble: the propagandist's art.
The recording of history is culture,
but our culture is more than that.
More than the great individuals,
the scholars so love in their tracts.
The recording of culture is history;
but our history is more than that.
Not simple dates or statistics,
the full horror and gore still attracts.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
A strange contradiction that makes sense somehow.
It's the history of now, a mystery and shroud.
The past and the future: best fiction allowed.
poem by David SmithWhite
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Only Small Ray
Only a small ray can pass
No one can make trespass
It is living hell and severe punishment
For patriots it is called banishment
How much sacrifice one has to make?
Whose interest is in jeopardy or at stake?
How much humiliation you undergo as slave?
Is there any great abuse and intruder can give?
I took to arms for holy cause
There was complete lull and pause
As if freedom spirit was dying or seen no where
No one could think of taking up arms and dare
Scores of comrades lost their lives in ensuing struggle
There was no law and order as if prevailed in jungle
It was more of insult and complete hell
Nothing was acceptable except the isolation in cell
I don’t remember how many were pushed behind bars?
It was even feared many more might have been pushed very far
Yet we had kept high spirit with burning of freedom lamp
We wanted it to achieve through peaceful means and stamp
I would hear cuckoos and sparrows sweet voice
Though it was reaching to me with faint noise
I had high hope of bright day with promises
When birds could freely sing we could not afford to miss
It was clear in mind that we would be lost in history pages
History would be with full of errors and cleverly managed too
But that was misconception at this time and I was forced to rethink
It was very much advisable to risk life and prefer to sink
The freedom and independence is not won without sacrifices
It has lost its charm during process with disappearance of old faces
New generation may takes us to new zenith with no tall promises
But keep high tradition and values with no more visible lapses
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The History Teacher
Woman!
Where exactly
Did you put me
In the women's history?
Am I History?
Or a part of it?
And for how long you are lacking me in;
Between
Your History,
Women's History, and
Your archives?
Does time make sense to you
As a History teacher or
As a History professor?
Cause', History, buying time, and rejuvenation
Are for emperors.
Are you making me
An emperor?
Or a Faeroe?
If so,
How precise your are?
And if you can't feel my present presence
how possibility could you feel me through your archives?
poem by Atef Ayadi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
History why do we care
History
a famous person dies
History
a war rages
History
a new invention
History
a building opens
History
what happens if something happens to me
is that history?
no....
So why do we care.....
poem by Andrea Thepoet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!