Ex-Patria
The beginning of the end of our Canadian winter;
The ending of a British winter,
And their gentle spring ahead of ours.
I always think about these overlapping seasons,
In the forty-four years I have lived in Québec.
Yes, Québec and all its solitudes:
I, too, felt solitary within the class system
in the England I had left behind.
I was twenty-two when I turned my back on it;
I simply left it all behind, vowing I'd forget everything
But the friends whom I loved.
I left behind familial ties,
Home-grown attitudes,
And closed minds;
I felt relief, like discarding
A heavy winter overcoat In spring.
I packed my old school trunk -
It carried the label of my new address -
MONTRÉAL
As I had no residence yet.
So I set off to a country
I knew nothing about,
A country that patriots
Alluded to with derision
As my 'Going to the Colonies'.
Said with such contempt.
Nevertheless, on a damp November day
I boarded the 'Empress of Canada'
Steaming from the docks at Liverpool.
The gusty gales tossed its mightiness
Into a mere toy ship bobbing on the crest
Of each tempestuous wave.
Lurching starboard, then aft, then port,
In the turgid, cold Atlantic cod-infested waters.
I left with absolutely no regrets,
Without a single pang of conscience.
I left behind the injustice and humiliation
Of my turbulent teenage years spent
Incarcerated in a convent boarding school
Run by horrible nuns - but not entirely,
For the dreadful feelings lingered
And haunted me like ghosts.
When I left,
I didn't know anything about
'That' and 'This-ness',
Only that I was happy to go.
My friends were excited for me
And we said our goodbyes,
At first giggling like silly schoolgirls,
Then sobbing into our linen handkerchiefs.
The others I cared not about.
I left them slumbering contentedly
In their all-familiar places -
Like cats who curl their lips
And preen their fur, and sleep
In sunbeams on a carpetted floor.
Yes, they were much like that -
Occasionally prowling,
Testing their predatory powers,
Maiming a few nesting birds
And their young,
Just for the fun of it.
I left them all sleeping
Underneath their ancestral
Counterpanes in their cozy
Corner of England,
Oblivious to my absence.
It seemed as if a raging storm
Had shorn through the thickness
Of my girth,
Leaving part of me
Still rooted in the ground -
Dislocated, defenceless;
The stump that remained,
More an amputation
Than a dis-settlement.
Yes, later when they woke,
And found me gone,
No doubt they judged me
Not in absentia, but ex-patria;
A deserter of the realm,
A place where the venerable words
Of the brave Horatio Nelson
(Viscount, no less) rang out:
'England expects every man will do his duty'.
But I ran, ran out on them all
That day in November nineteen sixty-two,
Not as they supposed for want of a moral code,
But because I cherished and wanted to save
The one I had.
One so deeply implanted within my British heart
It made me feel ashamed that the English
Still perpetuated a system that took away
Dignity and self respect.
That denied equality of man.
Why had I gone?
They later wrote:
But never stopped to think
My young, impulsive pulse
Was racing,
Or that my tenuous frame
Trembled for adventure,
Wanting to taste and sense
Other lands, other peoples;
To venture westward
Through the endless.
Undulating prairie plains of wheat,
To the turquoise lakes,
The mountains, springs and rivers.
To see the grizzly bears,
The buffalo, the caribou
In their natural habitat:
To recapture 'Hiawatha'
Underneath the giant red-woods of the West -
I, Minnehaha, Laughing Water.
Yes, I wanted to see the tepees
The totem poles and the Indians
Coined 'Red' by the British
To separate them
From the Colonial Indians
They ruled on the other side
Of the world.
For 'There's a flag that waves o'er every sea,
No matter when or where;
And to treat that flag as aught but the free
Is more than the strongest dare.
For the lion-spirits that tread the deck
Have carried the palm of the brave;
And that flag may sink with a shot-torn wreck,
But never float over a slave.
Its honour is stainless, deny it who can;
And this is the flag of an Englishman'.
I had dreams of travelling further
To other foreign shores,
To continue on to Billa-Bong Land
Where the swagmen swaggered
Their metal cans.
Where girls were called 'Sheilas'.
Where, in the outback, the only shade
Was under the sparse eucalyptus trees;
The aborigines standing tall
and watchful standing
On one leg day and night
Under darkening, purple skies;
Or went on their walk-abouts,
Mystical,
Proud,
Where the narrative poems
Of 'Banjo' Patterson and Henry Lawson
Came alive.
Part of me was an easily frightened child,
Running like a deer from the dark shadows
Following me;
and part a very curious child,
Impatient to see wild plants and flowers
Other than the perfumed rambling roses
Of my homeland.
I wanted to embrace the space.
In deserts, where there were cactii and sand,
Mystical in its imagery.
Spears of marram grass,
Broken and bent,
Yet anchored to the dune,
Whipped by the whistling desert winds,
Drawing concentric circles in the sand,
Scribing perfect arcs,
Better than a schoolboy's compass.
Where the malleable landscape
Offered little escape,
Where there were soft,
Distant undulations,
Wriggling plains,
Golden-blue ribbed sand,
Where there were patterns
Of different kinds -
Some like braided trails,
or grains of wheat.
Yes, I admit I had intended to go back,
Unexpectedly, the plan changed.
I married for better or worse,
Then stayed in this courageous land.
But in a short time I became
A prisoner of a nasty marital war
I neither enlisted for nor understood.
One day my spirit simply broke,
My hopes and dreams dissolved,
My soul shrivelled up with all the cruelties
To which I was exposed.
After the break up of my marriage,
I settled in a little village called
Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue in Québec.
Close by the St. Lawrence river.
I raised three very brave children,
Now long grown up:
And now with children of their own,
And I, Nokomis, with sheer joy,
Sit and hear their dreams, their tales -
I, so proud of their loving parents
Who overcame it all.
In my sixtieth year, I took
the Oath of Citizenship,
Swearing allegiance to our Queen,
Now so proud to be Canadian:
To live in this laid back,
Egalitarian land.
My restless spirit finally content,
Free to enjoy the many gifts
God has given me.
Great freedom, space.
It took me time to understand,
To realize there really was a plan.
My heart accepts it to be so,
That I am finally content
Just to be.
Sometimes plain words alone
Without poetic phrases,
Are better able to express
Emotional states of being.
This is one of these.
In fact, simplicity.
poem by Philippa Lane
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Related quotes
Young Henry
Air -- "Drummer Boy of Waterloo"
Young Henry was as faithful boy
As ever stood on the American soil,
And he did enlist, without a doubt,
When the rebellion was broke out.
He was his parents' only son,
And only child he was but one,
That was a girl aged seventeen,
Henry called her his May Queen.
Young Henry said, "Dear sister May,
What do you think my friends will say?
For now my name is on the roll,
And I down south will have to go."
"I hear my country's call," said he,
"For all her sons of liberty,
And I, forever, will prove true
To that dear old flag, red, white and blue."
"I love my father and mother dear,
I leave you, May, their hearts to cheer;
When I am gone, pray do not mourn
If I should never return home."
His sister then to him did say,
"My only brother, blithe and gay,
Our country calls, calls from afar;
May God protect you through the war."
Their father hearing all was said,
It made his noble heart grow sad;
"My children, I love both of you,
And yet I love my country, too."
"My son, if I was young again,
I never could at home remain,
And see my native land, now free,
Dissolved and made in slavery."
Young Henry left his father's home,
And left his friends for him to mourn,
A captain of a little band,
He marched away from Michigan.
In the battle of Fredericksburg,
Above the battle roar was heard,
"Fight on! fight on! brave boys," he cried,
"I am shot and wounded, and must die."
They placed his head upon the grass,
So he could see his brave boys pass;
"Go tell my father, Henry's slain
To keep him from the rebel's chain."
They dug his grave beneath that spot,
They wrapped him in his soldier's coat,
And while the battle drums they heard,
They laid him low at Fredericksburg.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Love Letters From Syur
Roses are red
violets are blue
I'm thinking of you
If only you knew
The stars are like dreams,
painted across the sky
put their for you and I
and if only they could describe
The way you make me feel
How I wish these dreams were real
Or how you got me head over heals
But remember
You were the one who walked away
and left me on that cold winter day
Just left me to freeze away
On that cold winter day
Oh what a beautiful way
To start my day
as to see your face
In this horrible place
This place we all call home
Were I am left alone
With no one to call my own
Life like this is pretty tough
But just to see you is enough
but just remember
You were the one who walked away
and left me on that cold winter day
Just left me to freeze away
On that cold winter day
I'll fight away your fears
I'll wipe away your tears
For now until the end of time
If that's what it takes for you to be mine
And until then I'll sit here
Waiting for you my dear
Cause all you gotta do is simply say
Lets go back in time before that cold winter day
that cold winter day
poem by Jorge Rolon
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Stranger In A Strange Land
Was many years ago that I left home and came this way
I was a young man full of hopes and dreams
But now it seems that all is lost and nothing gained
Sometimes things aint what they seem
No brave new world no brave new world
Night and day I scan horizon sea and sky
My spirit wanders endlessly
Until the day will dawn and friends from home discover why
Hear me calling rescue me
Set me free, set me free
Lost in this place and leave no trace
Stranger in a strange land
Land of ice and snow
Trapped inside this prison
Lost and far from home
One hundred years have gone and men again they come that way
To find the answer to the mistery
They found his body lying where if fell that day
Preserved in time for all to see
No brave new world no brave new world
Lost in this place to leave no trace
What became off men that started
All are gone and souls departed
Left me here in this prison
So all alone
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So Here I Am
There you are, here I am
Holding back, what I wish to say again
I can do it, but I can't seem to find the words
So I keep to myself, so sheltered
And once you leave, they come right back
But I don't have the courage to state the fact
Because I don't want changes to be
And I don't want you different towards me
So I kept, it to, myself
I knew what I wanted us to be
But I kept, it to, myself
And held it in when I wanted to speak
So here I am.
Now we're 16, at a party, of a friend of mine
You are here, and I wanted to say it, this time
But then I saw her, she kissed you
That struck deep; I broke in two
So I stayed there, all alone
And lost my chance to say it before you took her home
And once you left, they come right back
But I don't have the courage to state the fact
Because I don't want changes to be
And I don't want you different towards me
So I kept, it to, myself again
I knew what I wanted to say, everything
But I kept, it to, myself again
And held it in when I wanted to speak
So here I am.
Now we're 23
And I’m in the back row, of your wedding
Cause I didn't want anyone to see, the tears that I cried-
Not for her, but for you and me, and what we should be
Should I object? Make my move?
But by the time I made up my mind, the whole thing was through
And once you left, they come right back
But I didn't have the courage to state the fact
And I didn't want to confuse your wedding day
But I can't stand to watch you walk away
So I kept, it to, myself
I felt some hope, of what we could be
But I kept, it to, myself
And held it in when I wanted to speak
So here I am.
Now we’re 40, and look how big your kids have grown
Sometimes as I hug them, I still wish they were my own
And I still feel that light still burning; maybe it's not too late
But then I look into the eyes of your family, and I don't want to make a mistake
And once you leave the feelings come right back
But I didn't have the courage, to state the fact
Because I don't want to ruin, your family
And I don't them to think less of me
So I kept, it to, myself
I felt some hope, of what we could be
But I kept, it to, myself
And held it in when I wanted to speak
So here I am.
Now we're 70, and your great grandchildren are born
And I can see your face, through everyone
And sometimes when you're on your porch, I still want make a move
But I just stay inside, like an old ladies supposed to do
And once you leave, the feelings come right back
But I didn't have the courage, to state the fact
Because I don't want to ruin, your family
And I don't them to think of me differently
So I kept, it to, myself
Wishing I hadn't taken so long to believe
But I kept, it to, myself
And held it in when I wanted to speak
So here I am.
Now we're 90, and I'm at your funeral
Oh how these years went by so quickly, it's hard to believe you're gone
And I'm infuriated with myself, for not acing fast
And upset, because I never took that chance
So finally to the grave, I am able to say:
Now that you're gone, the feelings come right back
I now have to courage, to state the fact
But I am too late, waited too long
To take the chance, I dreamed upon
And I’ve I kept, it to, myself
Wishing I hadn't taken so long believe
I’ve kept, it all to, myself
And held it in when I wanted to speak
So here I am, without you
Sleeping these nights alone
So here I am, without you
Wishing, I would have came forward
So here I am.
And you're no where, to be seen
So here I am, without you
Missing you desperately
Now I'm at my funeral, on my way, to heaven
On my way to God, and still wishing for that blessing
And right when I walk in, through those pearly golden gates
You're right where I wanted, and finally I get my chance to say
And now we're here, the feelings came right back
I now have to courage, to state the fact
Because now you're here
And now I'm here
And I'm no longer, keeping this to myself
Because I've waited my whole life just to tell you how I felt
So here I am, with you
No longer, sleeping these nights alone
So here I am, with you
Proud that I finally came forward
So here I am.
poem by Sugar Bear
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Shifting Sand
Do you see that post a-stickin in the sand?
Just the point of it a-poking thro' the sand?
Me and Madge put in that fence.
Yes! We should have had more sense!
We was young, you see, and didn't understand.
Twenty years come next November we began;
There was nothing here but scrub when we began --
Sold the farm on 'Dingo Flat,'
And put all we had in that!
Into blasted shifting sand and 'Take-all pan.'
This here paddick--which? Why where you're standing now
(Oh! it was one, tho' you wouldn't think so now!)
Well, we grubbed it, nice and neat,
And we gut it in with wheat;
And we didn't reap enough to feed the cow!
In the early spring the sand began to shift ---
In a 'Norther' have you ever seen it shift?
Well, it all went in a night,
Not a blade was left in sight
When we come to look next morning at the drift!
Round the back there, by them stunted pepper-trees;
Hardly anything will live here but them trees.
Madge is lying there, asleep,
With the sand above her, deep:
Deep and loose enough to sink you to the knees!
Many other things are buried on the land,
Things you can't get back from any kind of land,
Youth and hope, and tears and sweat,
Wasted work and vain regret,
In the sneaking, creeping, greedy, shifting sand!
poem by Charles Henry Souter
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A Summary History of Lord Clive
About a hundred and fifty years ago,
History relates it happened so,
A big ship sailed from the shores of Britain
Bound for India across the raging main.
And many of the passengers did cry and moan
As they took the last look of their old home,
Which they were fast leaving far behind,
And which some of them would long bear in mind.
Among the passengers was a youth about seventeen years old,
Who had been a wild boy at home and very bold,
And by his conduct had filled his parent's hearts with woe,
Because to school he often refused to go.
And now that he was going so far away from home,
The thought thereof made him sigh and groan,
For he felt very sad and dejected were his looks,
And he often wished he had spent more time at his books.
And when he arrived in India he searched for work there,
And got to be a clerk in a merchant's office, but for it he didn't care;
The only pleasure he found was in reading books,
And while doing so, sad and forlorn were his looks.
One day while feeling unhappy he fired a pistol at his own head,
Expecting that he would kill himself dead;
But the pistol wouldn't go off although he tried every plan,
And he felt sorry, and resolved to become a better man.
So Clive left his desk and became a soldier brave,
And soon rose to be a captain and manfully did behave;
For he beat the French in every battle,
After all their foolish talk and prattle.
Then he thought he would take a voyage home to his friends,
And for his bad behaviour towards them he would make some amends;
For he hadn't seen them for many years,
And when he thought of them he shed briny tears.
And when he arrived in London
The people after him in crowds did run;
And they flocked to see him every minute,
Because they thought him the most famous man in it.
And all the greatest people in the land
Were proud to shake him by the hand;
And they gave him a beautiful sword because he had fought so well
And of his bravery the people to each other did tell.
And when his own friends saw him they to him ran,
And they hardly knew him, he looked so noble a man;
And his parents felt o'erjoyed when they saw him home again,
And when he left his parents again for India it caused them great pain.
But it was a good thing Clive returned to India again,
Because a wicked prince in his territory wouldn't allow the british to remain,
And he resolved to drive them off his land,
And marched upon them boldly with thousands of his band.
But the bad prince trembled when he heard that Clice had come,
Because the British at the charge of the bayonet made his army run;
And the bad prince was killed by one of his own band,
And the British fortunately got all his land.
And nearly all India now belongs to this country,
Which has been captured by land and by sea,
By some of the greatest men that ever did live,
But the greatest of them all was Robert Clive.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Flag Song
Dear flag! Old flag! O, the blue and white,
Floating in the years long gone,
How our pulses beat,
Mocking at defeat,
Following the standard on.
Proud flag, New flag, purple and the gold
Shouting past the legions go,
Carried onward fleet
Knowing no retreat,
Flouting at the winds that blow.
Old flag, New flag, colours of the sky
Gleaming as the seasons roll,
Morning's blue attire,
Sunset's purple fire,
Golden braid on eve's dark stole.
Clear voice, young voice, ringing through the school,
Fluting in the sweet time flown,
Youth so debonair,
May not linger there,
Youngsters are to grey men grown.
Old school, kind school, fostering the weak,
Never brighter days have shone,
Boys from evil stayed,
Gallant men are made,
Following the Standard on.
poem by Frank Samuel Williamson
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0038 Why I'm ashamed of being British
It was so easy being a British child
in the 1930s:
everything was – or so it seems to memory’s
selective mind - so ordered:
how old was I, when I stopped
raising my school cap
(‘Don’t just touch it, Michael;
lift it! ’) to, not just staff at school,
but anyone to whom my parents talked
or who had talked (‘My, hasn’t he grown! ’
as if this was some personal achievement) to me,
or more likely, over my head, as I
shifted from foot to foot,
trapped in a grown-up world
of politenesses; which however
my mother loved and rightly
as one now raised in her station
from being polite to customers
in grandma’s terrace front-window shop
where homemade cooking was the income
now that the cotton dust had got to grandpa's lungs;
but now the wife of a man retired
at thirty-eight, stone-deaf…
The history books at school were slender – since
we’d won every war – or if some foreigners thought
we hadn’t, it had all the same brought out great courage,
incredible bravery which was a lesson to us all,
fortitude and leadership and deeds
‘ surpassing the call of duty’. We’d even
won wars in places which technically weren’t ours,
called The Empire; over which we ruled
because we did it better than the natives;
because we were born to rule..
And we were taught by haunted heroes who’d fought
in the war to end all wars – the PT instructor
had a face like camouflage, white, greenish, brown and red,
where he’d been mustard-gassed; our heroes
were still close to us, although
they didn’t talk about it much. That was
another lesson in how to be British.
Geography was happy natives
(only the National Geographic Magazine
photographed their tits, and then only if brown)
moving export crops, balancing trade
and the occasional water-pot – which was always full.
And the sun never set on those red bits on the map
which were the British Empire…
How easy it was to be proud of being British,
and to take for granted
that gift of birth, our birthright
which, unearned, we would seek
to earn anew by living up to it..
But then, haven't all of us, by some
trick of space-time unexplained by Einstein,
lived, as a child, in better times – or at least,
if any didn’t, we never heard of them;
or if we did, it was because the missionaries
were putting all that right, if we just simply
put a penny or two in their box, and here’s a flag to pin
on your jacket like some painless medal..
* * *
So, no more nostalgic trips now down that memory lane;
let’s start from now and work backwards
on why I’m currently ashamed, after all these golden years,
to be British; and despite
all that there is left of those things of magnificence –
fair play, free speech, freedom itself,
not yet quite worn away
I’m deeply ashamed this week
that three British subjects,
despite Habeas Corpus, Magna Carta, and the rule of law,
were handed over – and in irons –
without due process of laws promptly promulgated
by reason and humanity; and
if they did indeed steal a million each on paper
yet never charged here, where it occurred,
we can guess that it’s because
such unearned money is
the game of all financial deals,
in City circles, as in other countries…
I’m deeply ashamed as of last year,
that after a history of ‘responding to a request’
and just defence of the oppressed,
we made a pre-emptive strike
in the oily name of exporting democracy
while our governments at home
confuse democracy with ‘spin’; we are the spun
in the woven lies of history.
We have dirtied the name of democracy.
I’m deeply ashamed, as of this decade,
that we have found no way
to enable our uncontrolled immigrant population
to feel as proud of being British as are
Americans of being American;
ashamed that politicians
put party over conscience;
ashamed that – yes, young and old alike -,
we have lost respect for others
both in action or the lack of it;
that ‘neighbour’ is now a mere
geographical location;
that we apologise for or demean our religious sense
in a world where those we fight
are more religious than are we;
and last of all, I’m ashamed
that one day soon we may become
ashamed of being British.
(Please read Tara McHale's poem on the same theme, it's a group effort - or add your own!))
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Brave Page Boys
Air -- "The Fierce Discharge"
In the late rebellion war,
Grand Rapids did send out
As brave and noble volunteers
As ever went down south:
Among them were the brave Page boys --
Five brothers there were in all;
They enlisted and went down south,
To obey their country's call.
John S. Page was the eldest son --
He went down south afar,
And enlisted in the Mechanics,
And served his time in the war.
Fernando Page the second son;
Served in the Infantry;
He was wounded, lost both his feet
On duty at Yorktown siege.
Charles F. Page was a noble son --
In sixty-four did enlist,
And in the same year he was killed
In the fight of the Wilderness.
This brave boy was carrying the flag,
To cheer his comrades on.
He fought in the Eight Infantry;
Now he, brave boy, is gone.
'Tis said of this brave soldier boy --
'Twas just before he died --
Stood the flag standard in the ground,
Laid down by it and died.
The friends that loved this noble boy,
How sad were they to hear
Of his death on a battle field;
His age was twenty years.
James B. Page was a fine young man --
He went in the artillery;
He served his time with all the rest,
To keep his country free.
Enos Page the youngest brother --
Made five sons in one family,
Went from Grand Rapids, here.
His age was fourteen years --
When Enos Page went from his home,
He was only a boy, you know;
He stole away from his mother dear,
For he was bound to go.
She followed him to the barracks twice,
And took him home again;
She found it was no use -- at last
With friends let him remain.
In Eight Michigan Cavalry
This boy he did enlist;
His life was almost despaired of,
On account of numerous fits,
Caused by drinking water poisoned --
Effects cannot outgrow;
In northern Alabama, I hear,
There came this dreadful blow.
How joyful were the parents of
Those noble soldier boys,
There was one missing of the five,
When they returned from war.
The one that carried the Union flag
Lies in a Southern grave,
The other brothers came back home
To Grand Rapids, their native place.
poem by Julia A Moore
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March of Memories
Left, right - left, right . . .
We march today for memories (the grizzled Digger said)
Memories of lost dreams and comrades gone ahead
Comrades bloody war took, dreams that men have slain
(Left, right - left, right . . .) Not ours to dream again.
There was Shorty Hall and Len Pratt, Long Joe and Blue,
Skeet and Brolga Houlihan, and Fat and me and you:
Bright lads, the old bunch; eager lads and keen
That first day we marched down thro' this familiar scene.
Dreams were ours, and high hopes went with us overseas.
(Left, right - left, right . . . ) And now 'tis memories.
We march again for memories (the grizzled Digger sighed)
Memories of lost mates, of foolish hopes that died.
First, Shorty got his issue on the beach at Sari Bair.
(Left, right - left, right . . .) The vision of him there
Brought the dawn of disillusion. I needed little more
To blood me to the butchery, the filthiness called war.
Shorty, like a limp rag, slung there anyhow,
Sprawling on the warm sand like I can see him now.
Always was a merry mate, a rare lad for fun.
(Left, right - left, right . . .) And Shorty, that was one.
We march today for memories; and they come crowding fast
As each year adds another page to the story of the past.
Pratt went west at Mena Base; raved of home and peace.
(Left, right - left, right . . . ) His was a kind release.
For a Lone Pine shell-burst got him; and he was less than man.
'Twas a sniper's bullet bore the name of Brolga Houlihan.
We called him Happy Houlihan, the man who took a chance.
Then the Reaper paused and plotted for the rest of them in France -
Except Long Joe, the luckless, a youth ill-shaped for war.
(Left, right - left, right . . .) And Long Joe was four.
We march today for memories. Little else had we
When we marched home as veterans. Blue and you and me.
For Skeet went with a night raid, and none came back alive.
(Left, right - left, right . . .) So Skeet, he tallied five.
Five gone and four to fight; us and Blue and Fat,
Who vowed he was too big to hit; but a whizz-bang settled that.
Yet Fat was lucky to the end - an end that held no pain.
All hell erupted where he stood; and none saw him again.
And Blue marched, and you marched, and I, a war-torn three.
(Left. right - left, right . . . ) Marched with memory.
We march again with memories (the grizzled Digger spake)
One year? Ten years? How soon shall we awake
To glorious reality? For lately it would seem -
(Left, right - left, right . . .) - we march within a dream.
Where Shorty is, and Blue is, and Happy Houlihan,
That seems the only real land, with rest for weary man.
For Blue went out three years ago; and cruel slow to kill
Was the war-god, the grim god who claims victims still.
But you and I, old Digger friend, will soon march with the rest.
(Left, right - left, right . . .) In the Army of the West!
Today we march with memories, and years dull the pain.
But God help the young 'uns, mate, if they must march again,
(Left, right - left, right . . .) For the young must ever dream.
But we march with memories, and ghosts go at our side -
Len Pratt and Long Joe, whom men say have died.
And you walk like a ghost, mate; you do not turn to hear.
Or is it - Did the boys say you passed last year?
Out of this tangled dreaming has your troubled spirit flown?
(Left, right - left, right . . .) And I march alone.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The prisoner of his conscience (Story Poem)
He was very poor and he married a rich woman
So he got money but he became a very sad man
She couldn't have children, even it wasn't his game plan
One day he saw a widow walking down the street ''It's later'
He told her calmly and begun to discuss about life with her
He didn't know why he suddenly felt to touch her so tender
He understood her when she confessed her cried coeur
Saying that she had three grown children and she was very poor
And she had to work as housemaid at a loudmouthed boor
She was in pain and he felt that and to help her was his concern
He wanted to take care of her family asking nothing in return
He thought never to dishonor her acting as a father to her children
He begun to understand how unhappy was the woman he loved
When he left her for another one and she became so grieved
He asked her to talk about his feelings for her and she approved
He wanted to divorce to marry her and take care of her needs
Certainly he wanted to become an adoptive father of her kids
To make her the mother of his future children he made a bid
His wife didn't agree to divorce but he left her on her demand
He took the widow and went to find their soul in a far away land
His wife got crazy and she killed herself they found her on the sand
He went to her funeral to see her last time without annoyance
He begun to scream releasing something deeper and fierce
Without his wish releasing the prisoner of his conscience.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Tim Tebow Poem = America, Freedom & Our Flag
America, the abundant, the place I was born
I'll cherish till the day I die.
Where the bones of past heroes lie buried in the ground
Who loved her the same as I.
Her mountains are so tall they reach for the sky
With prairies where the green grasses grow.
There's billions of trees where wild birds nest
With creatures that flourish below.
That blue gold called water with which we are blessed
As raindrops or crystallized snow;
Changes to rivers and fresh water lakes
While the winds of our seasons blow.
There's the haunt of a whistle from a lonely freight train
Racing on ribbons of steel
With the harvest of farms and from the factories
Balanced in a box on a wheel.
Some cities have buildings a hundred stories tall
Structures of concrete, glass and steel.
A statue in a harbor, a present from France
Describes how, inside, we feel.
That flag on the moon with red and white stripes
Proves America's dreams come true.
A country of heroes who line up to protect
The past, the present and the few.
FREEDOM
In their new uniforms
The young march off
Not knowing who shall return.
With a proud devotion
They brandish their flag
Leaving loved ones to wonder and yearn.
May we all be buried
By all of our children
Is an ancient tribal prayer.
They're so easy to lose
But so hard to forget
Such a burden for a parent to bear.
The taste of victory
Shall soon be forgotten
But never that which was lost.
For those rows of white headstones
In peaceful green fields
Make it easy to tally the cost.
America has survived
All attempts to destroy
Knowing the cruelty of war
And we who remain
Must help keep her free
For those who can march no more!
OUR FLAG
Our flag is fabric wove of thread
Carried by heroes live and dead.
She stands for justice and courage too
With her colors; red, white and blue.
For all who serve her, there'll be cheers
For any who die, there'll be tears
For all who love her, honor will prevail
Any who harm her, shall suffer and fail.
How many moms have cried before
As they sent their children to war?
How many dads have not returned
Because our freedom must be earned?
Wars were waged where brave men died
As patriots fought side by side.
Our flag is still the pearl of Earth
Because of those who prove her worth.
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The Flag
See the glorious stars and stripes,
Floating over there;
See how gracefully they wave
In the summer air.
We love to see that starry flag,
Wave in peace with ease,
And its colors, red, white and blue,
Unfurled to the breeze.
God grant that flag may ever wave
O'er our native land,
Where sons of freemen are united
In a happy band,
To celebrate the glorious Fourth,
The day we should adore;
Hail each anniversary day,
Now and evermore.
Our fathers fought beneath that flag
In the days of yore,
To gain their freedom from British laws,
Which they could not endure.
The cry was then for liberty,
On land and on sea;
They gained the glorious victory --
Our country now is free.
The land of Columbia's sons,
To-day is filled with joy;
Every heart should beat as one,
In the blessings we enjoy.
We should love our native land,
Where our fathers died,
We should keep the country free --
The early pilgrim's pride.
See the glorious stars and stripes,
Waving over there,
See the starry emblem, friends,
Floating in the air.
Proud it waves o'er our land,
Where it has waved for years,
May every freeman greet that flag
With three rousing cheers.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Canadian born
We first saw light in Canada, the land beloved of God;
We are the pulse of Canada, its marrow and its blood:
And we, the men of Canada, can face the world and brag
That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
Few of us have the blood of kings, few are of courtly birth,
But few are vagabonds or rogues of doubtful name and worth;
And all have one credential that entitles us to brag--
That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
We've yet to make our money, we've yet to make our fame,
But we have gold and glory in our clean colonial name;
And every man's a millionaire if only he can brag
That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.
No title and no coronet is half so proudly worn
As that which we inherited as men Canadian born.
We count no man so noble as the one who makes the brag
That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.
The Dutch may have their Holland, the Spaniard have his Spain,
The Yankee to the south of us must south of us remain;
For not a man dare lift a hand against the men who brag
That they were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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My Son
You were once a live wire and full of beans,
with burning desires and endless dreams.
But you always wanted that little bit more
and a soldiers life appealed for sure.
Opportunities to see the world and have a career
was enough to tempt any young pioneer.
You soon made friends and settled in
and enjoyed the life of soldiering.
You did your tours and won a stripe,
but the killing part you didn’t like.
Seeing women and children covered in blood,
and comrades dying did you no good.
When you returned from Afghanistan
you came back a different man.
You tossed and turned in your sleep,
and shouted to God, your soul to keep.
You said you carried the smell of death
inside your nose and upon your breath,
and that you could never go back again,
and face the horrors that caused you pain.
But you did return to those theatres of death,
but not as the boy I knew when you first left.
The realities of war had scared your soul
and your spirit of life was the heavy toll.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Let the Spring Winds Blow
Who divided the rivers and mountains
Forty-five years ago, hearts were torn, blood flowed
Standing and waiting, turning to stone looking at my homeland
The cries of anguish are no longer heard No fertile land for the trees to grow, no water to float the ships
No flight in the sky, where did it go
Known long ago, Korea was the rising sun of the East
Everywhere, tall trees, clear waters, blue skies To roam everywhere, to greet everyone
But that was yesterday
Spring comes to other countries, where everyone can travel
But winter snow blocks the path to my homeland Following year to year, people and seasons come and go
I am waiting, why are the spring winds not blowing
Winter is long and cold but spring must come
The seeds are waiting to bloom Spring has arrived, let us join hands
Let us plant trees on the mountains
Let us sail our ships on the rivers
Let us fly far into the sky
poem by Michael I. Byun
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Spring Is Gone
As the coldness creeps closer
The bitterness begins to grow
The sun left us alone
Now that spring is gone
The air grows heavy
The frost eats up my skin
Flowers died on this ongoing trend
Winter has finally come
The Moon gain power over the day
He puts the sun to shame
The trees will lose their souls
Winter has a heavy toll
I am reaching for the sky
For the stars that will always shine
And wish on a shooting star that spring
Will awaken and come back to save me
Death rules this time of year
And drifts away
Living souls shall shed a tear
Winter is filled with sorrow
The sun will never shine
Upon whom winter wrath, will be taken
Everyone will be forsaken
On this oak pine
Spring left our world
Leaving us for freedom
We didn't treat spring right
We don't have the right to keep her
Winter has given us the punishment
And we shall take it
poem by Elisha De La Rosa
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The Flag of the Free
'Tis the streamer of England - it floats o'er the brave-
'Tis the fairest unfurled o'er the land or the wave;
But though brightest in story and matchless in fight,
'Tis the heralds of Mercy as well as of Might.
In the cause of the wronged may it ever be first-
When tyrants are humbled and fetters are burst:
Be 'Justice' the war-shout, and dastard is he
Who would scruple to die 'neath the Flag of the Free!
It may trail o'er the halyards-a bullet-torn rag,
Or flutter in shreds from the battlement-crag;
Let the shot whistle through it as fast as it may,
Till it sweep the last glorious tatter away.
What matter! we'd hoist the blue jacket on high
Or the soldier's red sash from the spearhead should fly:
Though it were but a riband, the foeman should see
The proud signal and own it-the Flag of the Free!
Have we ever looked out from a far foreign shore,
To mark the gay pennon each passing ship bore;
And watch'd every speck that arose from the foam,
In hope of glad tidings from country and home?-
Has our straining eye caught the loved colours at last.
And seen the dear bark bounding on to us fast?
Then, then have our hearts learnt how precious can be
The fair streamer of England-the Flag of the Free!
poem by Eliza Cook
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The Spirits of Our Fathers
THE SPIRITS of our fathers rise not from every wave,
They left the sea behind them long ago;
It was many years of “slogging,” where strong men must be brave,
For the sake of unborn children, and, maybe, a soul to save,
And the end a tidy homestead, and four panels round a grave,
And—the bones of poor old Someone down below.
Some left happy homes in old lands when they heard the New Land call
(Some were gentlemen and some were social wrecks)
Some left squalor and starvation—they were soldiers one and all,
And their weapons were the cross-cut and the wedges and the maul.
(How we used to run as children when we heard the big trees fall!
While they paused to wipe their faces and their necks.)
They were buried by our uncles where the ground was hard to dig
(It was little need for churchmen that they had),
And they sobbed like grown-up children, for their hearts were soft and big.
And the myrtle and the ivy, and the vine-tree and the fig—
And the heather—and the shamrock, where th’ mother kept the pig,
Waited vainly for the Grand Australian Dad.
The spirits of our fathers have belts and bowyangs on
(Oh, Father! do you live again and know?)
Strapped riding pants and leggings parched and perished in the sun,
And love-belts “worked” by sweethearts ere the digging days were done,
And the cabbage-tree that went out with the muzzle-loading gun
That was carried round the cattle out beyond the furthest run
Where the brave exploring drovers used to go.
The spirits of our fathers, they rise from every grave
(Each side the line that Burke and Leichhardt crossed),
And where still in “settled districts” ghastly Bush-lost madmen rave
(While the grim search parties, haggard, struggle hopelessly to save)
Till the spirit timber beacons and the spirit waters lave,
And no spirit of a father has been lost.
The spirits of our fathers, they rise from level sand
(Like an ocean where an ocean used to be),
Out where Heaven’s grandest ’lectrics light the Never Never Land
With the glorious hope and promise that the Bushmen understand
When the rain and grass are coming till the desert-plain is grand,
And the drought-divorced Australian meets his soul.
Listen! There’s the word that’s spoken when no other soul seems near,
And the one who hears is sober, calm and sane,
And the name called, amongst many, when the called alone can hear—
Words by lone huts and in prison, speaking comfort, hope and cheer—
And the Warning, not admited to each other, calm and clear—
Then the fathers of a nation speak again.
There are spirits of our fathers in the theatres to-night
(And the places where rich sons of settlers go),
And a half-dressed daughter shivers, and a tailored son turns white,
For the heritage world-squandered, and the Land put out of sight,
And that awful thirst for Nothing that they bought with their birthright
And a haggard mother’s spirit bending low.
There are spirits of our fathers by the pleasant South Coast roads
Where motor cars of sons of stockmen go,
In the wealth robbed from Up Country, oh, the shame of it is black!
And the laugh and giggle ceases and the car swerves and turns back,
’Tis the old dad, smiling grimly, with arms folded by the track,
And the shades of horse and swagmen that they know.
There’s the flagship of the First Fleet rising grimly on the tide
(Out by Watson where the motor, launches go),
And the features known to many of our families of pride—
But the launches veer like seabirds, veer and turn and circle wide
From the shadow of a free ship where the waiting liners ride
And pale faces of brave emigrants look sadly o’er the side—
Boys and girls who were our parents long ago.
There the word said in the Senate by the patriot unafraid
(Senate where the comic fatmen never mind)
And the tissue starts and wakens, summons “Haw-haws!” to its aid,
But the honest men sit upright who were wearied of tirade.
And a nation’s aims are furthered! and a nation’s law is made—
For the spirit of a father stands behind.
poem by Henry Lawson
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For the Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old,
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
poem by Laurence Binyon from The Times
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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