Bullets and Poppies
Bullets were flying
and soldiers were dying
as crimson poppies
swayed in the breeze,
beyond the trenches
beyond the green leas
in the fourteen-eighteen war
'the war to end all wars'
but these words sadly
failed to please.
The poppy's the emblem
and sorrowful hearts in sympathy
wander back to Flanders Fields
where thousands of comrades
were shamefully killed.
Golden the archives,
with names of the heroes...
and the poppy still sways
in the breeze, because
wars will never cease.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Related quotes
Killers All?
Now bugle boy what do you blow
Your trumpet pressed to your dead lips
I sound recall to let them know
this is the end of their hardships
They came as boys but died like men
From factories farms and mean back streets
They will not see their homes again
The brave young men whom death defeats.
They answered to their country’s call
And donned their Khaki battle dress
And shipped to France where they would fall
by thousands in the wilderness.
Created by the shot and shell
turning the battlefield to mud.
Which drowned young soldiers where they fell
and drenched the earth with their hearts blood.
Now poppies blow in Flanders fields’
The soil enriched by dead men bones
which has increased the harvest yields.
The poppies act as their headstones.
So many died and were not found
their fate unknown, No man could say
Their bodies melded with the ground
but we remember still to day.
The slaughter and the sacrifice
The useless waste of human lives.
They were prepared to pay the price.
Though a small band of them survives.
Each passing year their numbers fall
Old age more sure than shot and shell.
Soon there will be none at all
who endured that living hell.
The war to end all wars they said
You will be home by Christmas tide
Instead of that most would be dead.
Involuntary suicide.
We honour those who bravely died
a generation of young men.
The best of breed on either side.
But still we go to war again.
The world has never been at peace
since the war to end all wars.
I don’t believe that wars will cease
as long as there are warriors.
Who think they can enforce their will
on other men by force of arms.
It seems that killing is a skill
Which can seduce men with its charms.
16-May-08
http: //blog.myspace.com./poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Poppy Seller
The poppy seller stands near the Rotunda.
He vends his paper flowers as before.
He wears a small red poppy in Remembrance
of heroes fallen in our nation’s wars.
The people pass as if he’s’ non existent,
more interested to buy well watered beer.
The Veteran feels the sting of their indifference-
Upon his grizzled cheek I spy a tear.
I cannot, will not also pass in silence
I stop and donate something at his stall
He stammers thanks, but he needn’t thank me-
more fitting that I thank those who gave all.
They who owed us nothing gave us everything.
We, their debtors, balk to pay our share.
And still the poppy flourishes in Burgundy,
past living memory, as a wordless prayer..
poem by John F. McCullagh
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In the Trenches
I snatched two poppies
From the parapet’s ledge,
Two bright red poppies
That winked on the ledge.
Behind my ear
I stuck one through,
One blood red poppy
I gave to you.
The sandbags narrowed
And screwed out our jest,
And tore the poppy
You had on your breast ...
Down - a shell - O! Christ,
I am choked ... safe ... dust blind, I
See trench floor poppies
Strewn. Smashed you lie.
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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I Wonder.
In Flanders Fields red poppies grow.
But long dead warriors lie below.
Their rotted bodies nourishing
The scarlet poppies flourishing..
As if to draw attention to.
The graves of men who never knew.
That they would not see their homes more
But here they lie for evermore.
In Flanders Fields lost heroes lie.
In unmarked graves beneath the sky.
Far from the which gave them birth
They add their substance to the earth.
Which Belgian farmers cultivate.
Selected randomly by fate.
There can be few survivors left
But those of us who choose to go
To Flanders where the poppies grow.
All make the trip to show respect
Numbers dwindling as you'd expect.
There's very few now left to go.
To see the scarlet poppies glow
The numbers grow less day by day.
When they are called they must obey.
Rejoining those who went before.
The men who fell in the Great War.
I wonder will poppies still grow
When there's no one left to go.
Monday,25 June 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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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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In Flanders Field
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
poem by John McCrae
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To Remember
To remember those people who risked their lives
To show appreciation, to show we care
To save our country, they gave their lives
For their families it was like a dreaded nightmare
To support those soldiers and wear a poppy
To give some money, and not be soppy
To wear a poppy and remember that first day poppies grew, that one day it was sunny
Do you remember why
Why we wear a poppy for a couple of days
To show we remember and to show our gratitude is high
To do that, doesn’t pay
So to remember
To be silent
For a couple of minutes
Doesn’t pay
It just shows gratitude
For that one sad day
A Blooming Shame
Still fields of scarlet poppies blow
on long abandoned battle fields.
The bones of dead men hid below
will feed their roots increasing yields.
The few survivors are now all dead.
Rejoined the comrades that they knew.
So we remember in their stead.
The many who salute the few.
Now Patch is dead he was the last
veteran who survived the war
A living relic from the past
who lived a hundred years and more.
There�s no one left who can recall
the muddy trenches and the gas.
The pain of seeing comrades fall.
He watched the long years slowly pass.
He never sought publicity.
He was a very private man
but became a celebrity
The last surviving veteran.
Each year the scarlet poppies grow
On Flanders Fields abundantly
The countless dead who lie below
Have earned their place in history.
By foolish useless sacrifice
They gave their lives to end all war
I think they paid to high a price.
The world is as it was before.
Men are still killing other men
but now much more efficiently
Each year we fail to learn again
the lessons taught by history.
There are no winners in a war.
There never was nor will there be.
But men will fight for evermore.
It�s human nature seemingly.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Generally speaking
The guns fall silent and the dead
lie quietly they’ve played their part.
The night hour’s pass heavy with dread
at first light the big guns will start.
The sound of the artillery
will fill the silent skies again.
Eroding further bravery
of the war weary fighting men.
The brave young men on either side
are doomed to die face down in mud.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
Their dug outs do but little good.
A shell burst may not kill just maim
The lucky ones are those who die,
they are the winners in this game
when thick and fast the bullets fly.
Opposing sides move to and fro
to capture trenches they’ve just left.
For no good reason that they know
obeying orders quite bereft
of any sign of sanity.
The generals are safe behind the lines
Unlike the vast majority
who fight to fulfil their designs.
Lions by donkeys badly led
Young men by the thousand died.
A foreign field their final bed
because good sense was not applied.
In Flanders fields the poppies grow.
The soil enriched by their hearts blood
What have we learnt we did not know?
Nobody won Nobody could.
There are no winners none at all
except perhaps the carrion crows
They dine well when the soldiers fall
as mighty nations come to blows.
Survivors return home broken men
with small support and little praise.
Until they’re needed once again
when countries their new armies raise.
Another war to end all wars.
We do not learn from history
For men can always find a cause.
Why this should be a mystery.
18-Feb-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Do We Remember Them?
We remember our fathers
They remember their sons
Who fought long battles
And paid with their lives
We remember the glories
We have forgotten the pain, ,
of the widows and orphans,
of those who will never return again.
We remember the machinery
With which battles were fought
But the names of the fallen
Are all but forgot.
We remember, we say
With the crimson petalled poppy
And silence at eleven
On Remembrance Day
But of all the boys and men
Who fought wars large and small
Paying dearly with their lives
Do we really remember them, at all?
9 Nov 1986
poem by David Harris
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Poppy The Fairy
Upon a bank beneath a tree
Beside a trickley brook,
Upon an upturned nutshell I saw a fairy stood.
I offered her a sandwich and asked of her, her name?
“Poppy Bell”, she quick replied, and “This ham is rather tame, ”
I thought this oh so curious as in the bread was game.
I took the fairy home with me for a cup of tea,
“Would you like one lump or two? ” Said she “I will take three! ”
I’d never known a fairy take three sugars in her tea.
So filled to brim with sandwiches and tea up to her head,
That little Fairy Poppy Bell dozed off upon my bed
At lunchtime she was snoring loud by teatime she was dead!
It may have been the sandwiches; it may have been the bed,
It may have been the sugared tea that to Poppy’ I fed,
I’m not sure what it really was that made that fairy dead.
I quickly took a shoebox -
After taking out the shoes,
And in it I placed Poppy on her everlasting snooze.
I went back to the trickley brook,
I stood beneath the tree,
And there I buried Poppy with her sugars - One, two three.
No sooner had I buried her,
That on that very bank
The reddest little Poppy grew and bowed to me in thanks.
I picked the little Poppy
All red and bright and new,
And now I always wear it upon my favourite shoe.
It was a short time later
Whilst rambling through a wood,
That on an upturned nut shell I saw a fairy stood.
I offered her a sandwich and asked of her, her name?
“Poppy Bell! ” she quick replied,
“It’s me! I’m back again.”
poem by John Thomas
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When Life Is Gone
When life is gone
No one remains in this place
Till the end of time
When life is gone
The world will be a desolate wasteland
Where only the dead remain
To soil the green fields of love and light
Forever green
When life disappears
The dead remain
The fields run red with blood
Of wars gone past and wars to be
The fields are green all is gone
All is dead
The fields are gone
The world is gone
poem by kelly Martini
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Wear Your Poppy With Pride!
Wear your poppy with pride
Yet with humility
Because so many died
To gain our victory!
The blood they shed declared
Though war is hell indeed
Each noble soldier cared
And knew truth would succeed!
The cost itself was dear
For life cannot be priced.
Their valour knows no peer
Yet all were sacrificed
And though the memory stings
With tales of long gone by
The same old question clings
'Why must our soldiers die? '
Each war seems so forlorn
So void of wisdom still
Yet leaders shout with scorn
'The time has come to kill! '
Beware when men breed hate
For peace is not their aim
Each one will meet his fate
And own his share of blame!
When war is in men's hearts,
It's time to kneel and pray!
We know that when war starts
It's just like Judgment Day!
In peace, men find their rest
In war, they find their grief
In peace, men find they're blessed
In war, they find their wreath
So think of what it cost
For many soldiers died
Though many lives were lost,
Wear your poppy with pride!
copyright, Denis Martindale.
Royal British Legion: poppy-dot-org
poem by Denis Martindale
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In The Poppy Field
Mad Patsy said, he said to me,
That every morning he could see
An angel walking on the sky;
Across the sunny skies of morn
He threw great handfuls far and nigh
Of poppy seed among the corn;
And then, he said, the angels run
To see the poppies in the sun.
A poppy is a devil weed,
I said to him - he disagreed;
He said the devil had no hand
In spreading flowers tall and fair
Through corn and rye and meadow land,
by garth and barrow everywhere:
The devil has not any flower,
But only money in his power.
And then he stretched out in the sun
And rolled upon his back for fun:
He kicked his legs and roared for joy
Because the sun was shining down:
He said he was a little boy
And would not work for any clown:
He ran and laughed behind a bee,
And danced for very ecstasy.
poem by James Stephens
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War and Peace
Wars cannot give a lasting peace;
Wars cause much hatred and ill-will;
Wars are futile and costly too;
Wars break existing peace with ease!
Wars cause deep wounds of hearts and minds
–That can’t be healed except by time;
Wars lead to loss of lives untold
–That cannot be ever regained.
Wars serve to foment more troubles;
Wars make the world more insecure;
Wars shift the balance of powers;
Wars do not solve the world’s problems.
Love only solves great differences;
Love only bonds the earth’s peoples;
Love only brings peace with much ease;
Love is the key to global peace.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 8-29-2008
poem by John Celes
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Toy Soldiers
Soliders
Standing tall and proud
Marching in the rain
Brave and corageous
Facing what I don't know I could
Yet still knocked down
Our toy soliders
Bullets and guns
Death spelled in red
Dying for what?
Hopeless wars that will continue
Even as our toy soliders are knocked down
They get back up again
Trying the end meaning less killings
Our toy soldiers
poem by Autumn Winds
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The Seven Seas
Spindling ablutions,
The catastrophe of the weathers above the ways
Out in the make-believe of an ultimately beautiful day:
The frenzy of kites stolen away from
Little boys,
Who know so few words as never as yet to have
Surrendered to the loquacious avenues that birth the
Fraternity of sea horses:
Poppy seeds in the air, making an illusionary breakfast,
Cantankerously up from their low birth,
Gossiping their tranquilities over the low flying airplanes,
And their majesties:
Demigods who float on the breeze, in a woebegone
And yet innumerable sisterhood all over the seven seas.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Blanche
Breeze! brisk breeze! that movest with the morn!
Breeze! lithe breeze! that creepest through the corn!
Breeze! O breeze! that fannest the forlorn!
Oh linger by the lattice of sweet Blanche of mine!
Breeze! coy breeze! that loiterest for noon!
Breeze! true breeze! that hast a tryst with June!
Breeze! kind breeze! I beg of thee a boon!
Oh peep in through the lattice of poor Blanche of mine!
Breeze! fleet breeze! that goest with the day!
Breeze! dear breeze! that hastenest away!
Breeze! breeze! breeze! I beg of thee to stay,
And breathe upon the pillow of pale Blanche of mine!
Breeze! night-breeze! that wailest on the wold!
Breeze! lost breeze! that wanderest in the cold!
Breeze! dread breeze! oh flit not by the mould
Which shelters what is left me of lost Blanche of mine!
poem by Alfred Austin
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Battle field musings
Battlefield musings
I am aware that thousands lie beneath the soil below the sky
I listen to their silent cry. Why were we sent to fight and die?
They came from every walk of life and briefly trained to join the strife.
In the Great War to end all wars. Convinced they fought in freedoms cause.
The men of God the padres lied, they said that God was on our side
That he would grant them victory but they were wrong quite obviously.
The tides of war ebbed to and fro. It was impossible to know.
Which side if either was ahead. The quick were fewer than the dead
Young soldiers by the thousand died in the name of national pride.
Eventually it was agreed that the Germans would concede.
But was it worth the sacrifice. There is no answer satisfies
The myriads who fought and died. The truth is that their leaders lied
Now poppies grow in Flanders fields where the dead increase the yield
of crops the local farmers grow. We can’t pretend we do not know
There are no winners in a war, a lesson we choose to ignore.
We only pay lip service to, a fact we know too well is true.
Saturday,16 October 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Floral Poems of Delight
A famous poet and artist
~~Cicely Mary Barker~~
born in London eighteen ninety-five
died in London age seventy-eight
produced a very beautiful book
~~The Flower Fairies~~
Unable to attend school because
of ill-health, Cicely worked from
home, taught by a Governess...
A copy of this book was given to
me on my fifth birthday, and was
a first introduction to floral poems.
My young life was absorbed with
Flower Fairies...the Song of the
Poppy was my favourite. I recall
the words until this day. I am sure
that Cicely Mary Barker would be
delighted to see her Poppy Flower
poem brought to light after so
many years...and I quote:
The green wheat's a-growing
The lark sings on high
In scarlet silk a-glowing
Here stand I.
The wheat's turning yellow
Ripening for sheaves
I hear the little fellow
who scares the bird thieves.
Now the harvest's ended
The wheat fields are bare
But still red and splendid
I am there.
by C.M.Barker
Many thanks to the one and
only...the Late Poet and Artist
Cicely Mary Barker.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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