Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership




Husband History Poems | Husband Poems About History

These Husband History poems are examples of Husband poems about History. These are the best examples of Husband History poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Quatrain | |

Good Tidings

It's twelve days before Christmas, Love, and I am sitting here,
the hearth fire is burning bright, but on my cheek they're tears.
I hold the conch shell to my ear and call for you my dear.
Out across the briny deep a tempest cries beware.

The entry hall is full of garland, pine, spruce and mistletoe
The mirrors are all draped with ribbons, the brass all aglow
I hold the conch shell to me ear and stare out at the snow
remembering our last parting, I begged you not to go.

"Captain" said I "can you not see you take my heart from me?"
In his hand I placed a lock of hair, and a mustard seed.
He handed me a pearly conch shell from the Isle of Capri,
and bid me listen for his love song from the Southern Sea.

For twelve days, I've climbed stairs to the widows walk on high,
I clasp the token to my chest and search the sea near-by
So sad, yet sweet the mermaids sang, they of sailor's gone by.
They sang in sympathy, a song of longing with breathy sighs.

The cliff fires burn so bright now, he's coming on the tide.
The church bells are ringing now, soon they'll at anchor lie.
Had he heard me, had he called, had it been a dream I scryed?
T'was Christmas Eve and in the snow, he's landing with the tide.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Couplet | |

The Homeplace

Here further down the hillside slope
Down close to the creek with hope

My husband bought a house, land
Fenced in and made many plans

Subdued the land to cow pasture
And planted a garden, fruit trees sure

Fathered another child to call him sir
The creek seemed to like the stir

Enjoyed the children for a little while___
Loved them so that it made her smile

Today she loves grandchildren the same
No girls there are in frills ___tame

The creek keeps on flowing to the sea
The land is mostly stripped of trees


(This is my adaptation of Robert Frost's poem "The Birthplace".  I hope that it does not insult 
his work.)

Copyright © Sara Kendrick

Details | Quatrain | |

Average Age 19

Once again, the powers that must
In rise again in what we trust
An overseas conflict, another war
Just what in the hell are we fighting for

Families are asking, Korea has just passed
Generations again reft, how long will it last
A country in need, to rebuild again
Flags at half mast, in wind and rain strain

Once again into war, sent by the Washington Post
To send back reports to hit home the most
Military observers were the first to be sent in
Another chapter of man entering existing sin

I'm witnessing our ariel power, Lam Son 719
US planners determine their incursion, saying all will be fine
Along the Mekong River, we'll carpet bomb their supply trail
Tons of munitions and napalm, this spread surely cannot fail

Many sorties are being flown, for the wounded and the dead
Whilst Nixon and his cronies, aren't thinking with their heads
The news of losses has reached me, nineteen have been killed
Eleven missing, fifty nine wounded, more American blood spilled

Seven fixed wing aircraft, more sons in action loss
Whilst back at home more protests, fading the dyeing's gloss
To to this job that I do, I was never prepared for this
To witness such bloody scenes, and ignore that life is bliss

How can I write about a soldier, whose name I'll never know
Killed at nineteen years old, his family he'll never see grow
Or even explain to his parents, when carried from the AH-1
His body bullet riddled and limp, when lifted it bloodily run

I never went back to the theatre, called the Vietnam War
Having witnessed the wanton killing, what were we fighting for
This colonial conflict that started, us on the side of France
So many came back as strangers, many to live in trance





James Fraser's entry into the contest " WORLD OF WAR: VIETNAM "


Copyright © James Fraser

Details | Narrative | |

How I Snagged Joe (and the rest is history)

Hot August, 1974, I was back for my second year at college,
having just settled into a new place at Anita Apartments,
right next to the guys’ apartment complex called Tanner’s.
My first night, we answered a knock at our door.
Steve Dietrich, a friend of my roommate, entered our apartment,
but my eyes went immediately to the younger man with him.
That would be his brother Joel, there for his first year at BYU.
My first thought was this: How shy he is, so reserved. . . but so adorable.
He was tall and thin and cute as the dickens.
They stayed for just a while, and by the time they left,
I’d formulated my big plan:
 to get to know this boy Joel (who everyone just called Joe).

There was to be a parking lot dance that weekend,
and so I waited expectantly, hoping all week 
 to catch a glimpse of this boy I’d found so attractive,
but no matter how often I strolled past his apartment,
my opportunity for a “chance encounter” never occurred.

The night of the dance arrived and I was right there,
all decked out in my colorful tight top with bellbottoms,
long luscious lashes curled and pink frost lipstick applied.
When I caught sight of Joel, he was slow dancing with some girl.
A blonde with glasses, she was rather plain and smaller than me.
I was not pleased to see her with Joe, and I thought to myself:
Hmmmm, who does she think she is? I saw him first, 
and he is NOT going to stay with her tonight.

As they danced, I fixed my eyes on him, 
my beautiful, long-lashed, sultry green eyes.
He looked up and saw me then. I must have taken him by surprise
because I did not lower my gaze. 
I wanted him to know that he was going to be mine,
so I willed him with my gaze to break away from that blonde
and come to me.
And so he did. .  the rest is history.

Beside me at this moment, lying on our bed, watching TV,
is the man who today bears little resemblance to that 
very young man I met 35 years ago.
I turn to him and ask, “Do you remember the VERY first time you saw me?”
He replies, “I don’t know; a parking lot dance?”
Well, at least he came close. . .

For Frank Herrera's Contest: Love Story

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich

Details | Couplet | |

Marble in Columns on Green

On a slope graced with green
White marble stands in proud salute

For beneath these engraved pillars of memory
Lie the resting places of heroes

A solitary green fir looks down
As if sheltering the lost and the taken

So many names, from all walks of life
A father, brother a girlfriend or wife

On a sunny day, they glow radiant like their lives
On a dull day, they stand out against the greys

For the living, life goes on 
Tomorrow is another day

Copyright © James Fraser

Details | Rhyme | |

holokauston Page 1 of 2

Around that table, picture the scene
Self appointed leaders if you know what I mean
What were the topics on the Agenda that day
The Jewish race is about to pay

Who gave the right for this decision that's made
Who has the right to cleanse and degrade
To decide who lived, to decide who dies
Another chapter, I still wonder why

They came in the day they came in the night
Women and children pulled out of sight
Herded aboard like cattle and sheep
Many a family awoke from their sleep

Dazed and confused as they are taken away
Where will they be at the end of the day
From their warm houses and their warm beds
What must be going through their heads

As they travel through days and through the night
Up ahead, they see lots of lights
They depart the trucks and board the train
Their faces scared under the strain

Asking questions from family and others
Generations, sisters and brothers
Why are we here, where are we going
Windowless carriages with no way of knowing

We come to a stop, soldiers aplenty
Towers and wire, topped with sentries
What can this place be they have taken us to
As we head to large gates as they shuffle us through

Families separated, herded in file
Women and children, not one did smile
Taken to rooms where our heads were shaved
Is this the way humans behaved

Clothes discarded, as we enter the shower
No signs of water no signs of power
Doors slammed as we are all crammed in
History will recall this evil of sins

As we stand in the dark, chanting Jewish faith
Can hear the voices can't see the face
Noises above, do the showers start
The event has begun that tells us Humans apart

Questions and sighs, as walled vents show daylight
Some thing is falling then their slammed tight
A strange aroma starts to fill the air
As all around are screams of despair

Twenty minutes have passed and the quietness is rife
Two thousand people, two thousand lives
Pellets called HCN, or Hydrogen Cyanide
Contribute to this Genocide


http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php

Copyright © James Fraser

Details | Rhyme | |

holokauston Page 2 of 2

After the quiet we all have to go
Dragged and carted by the Sonderkommando
To be dumped in pits covered by lime
A race to dispose by it's Human slime

Auschwitz, Buchenwald & Dachau slaughtered
Many a son, many a daughter
Experiments on children women and men
Some aged 90, many under 10

In 45, their end was near, how many alive would reappear
As Russians, British and US troops
Chased the Hun to their German roots
Each camp reached showed it's sordid past
Where millions of me, were massively gassed

In Auschwitz, to this present day
Birds don't fly, no animals play
The reminder is all for there to see
Those terrible days what happened to me

It's 1948, our Nation is born
From histories past, populations torn
To all who survived I wish you well
And our new born world, called Israel 


http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php

Copyright © James Fraser

Details | I do not know? | |

A Story My Mother Told Me

someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband 
who was in exile at the time...

in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...

the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...

one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...

a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...

This was in the mid-1970’s...

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...

and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...

hope...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Lyric | |

Come Lie With Me

Come lie down.
Beside me 
there’s no other.
Push my firm words
inside your head, 
my hard love,
‘cause tough love 
crack tough skull.
You’re revolving on the rim.
Come,
come down to me, 
a stream of knowledge.

A woman was here.
Inside my head
I hold books.
She went with bungalow 
and children.
Children are children; 
like monkeys they mimic 
Her every step painted in vivid green.
Come, 
come lie down.
Beside me my story is. 
The truth 
is never a tale 
spilled from sweetened lips. 

Come, 
come down here, 
come lie down.
Beside me 
there is none 
that can whisper this chronicle, 
my chocolate story – 
bitter-brown  – 
composed with blood and feather pen.
Sculpted in her head is 
her post-colonial self.
Come taste of the wine I’m poured.
Come, come,
come lie with me.

Copyright © Earle Brown

Details | Elegy | |

Poem written near a Cemetery 2 of 2


Poem written near a Cemetery  2 of 2
On 13th February 2012

But nowhere in that cemetery I could find,
Flowers smiling on any Stone, Tomb or grave,
Whatever big may have been,
The status of those, who were buried there, 
With or without any pomp and show.

Some of these yester year stars, 
Were laid here with a simple stone, 
Standing as a symbol of their death, 
Without telling their simple stories and 
And without telling much about their lores, 

I came back again after searching a lot,
On the grave of this noble soul, 
The small flowers were still busy in,
Swinging and dancing, 
On the stone of Sophia Rees. 

Those wild little yellow flowers,
Had called me from a distance,
Perhaps to convey the story, 
Of this unknown noble soul.

I counted those tiny yellow flowers 
They were six only all swinging in the air, 
To find on whose stone they were blooming,
I started reading,
The faint and dim stone lines,
Where the engraved letters had lost their ink,
Wiped away by the passing of time.

But the first three lines, 
Made me to stand on my toes, 
I could read very clearly,
In the clear upper lines it was written, 
“Sophia Rees Owen 31 years old 
left this world on 27th November 1834, 
Leaving her husband and six children. 
She was a sincere friend and 
Truly attached wife and Most devoted mother”.

Something told me silently in my mind, 
Why on this grave only,
The Nature had bloomed,
A bunch of smiling and dancing flowers, 
This unknown lady of yester years 
Was perhaps a noble and kind hearted soul.

May be Sophia was a lover of Nature,
May be a Poet, a Philosopher, a Painter or 
May be she was a wonderful Singer,
Who wanted to sing some beautiful songs,
But before she could have tuned her instruments,
Was called by the God in Heaven. 

What a strange thing it was, 
To come and to watch in that graveyard,
Those little flowers and the grave of Sophia Rees, 
Which I had noticed unknowingly,  
From across the boundary,
While I was passing on the road.

These lines are my homage to that noble soul,
Who is  spreading her smiles even to this day,
As if through these flowers, 
She was singing some of her most dear song.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 13& 14th Feb 2012
“Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen”
“In the memory of Sophia Rees Owen 
The beloved wife of H T Owen Esqr. 
Of the H C Civil Service, who died on the 27th 
Nov.1834 aged 31 years 11months and 18days.
Leaving her husband and Six children to lament 
Her loss. She was a sincere friend, a truly 
Attached wife and a devoted Mother...

Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor

Details | Rhyme | |

The Old Plane Graveyard

My husband drives the highway past the old plane graveyard.
Permission to visit once a dream, now his reward.
He drools, as he studies the bounty before him, to take.
First the one that comes closest, but none he will forsake.
He smiles as he watches the sun glint off the metal shapes.
He will climb around slowly with his measuring tapes.
To see in the cockpit he would give his right arm.
But needs it instead to draw the fuselage with all it’s charm.
He grunts and he groans as he crawls upon it’s length.
He’ll count the rivets later, after he takes a drink.
Then back he’ll go to examine some more.
There’re switches and gadgets, and baubles galore.
He’s never been happier as he stares at the planes.
To disturb him now would truly be a shame.
He lithely runs between each and every plane.
And he spouts about symbols and phrases hard to explain.
He imagines them flying, as only he could.
Piloting the planes would be better than good.
Occasionally his head pops up as he does research by the ton.
He looks like a gopher as he searches hither and yon.
Finally exhausted he will pack up his gear.
Now he’ll do research on the computer to make it more clear.
He’ll know each it’s history. It’s date and it’s year.
Even whoever commanded it, plus their bombardiers.
The faces he’ll research to go with the names.
And emblems he’ll find that once adorned this old plane.
His friends from his club will go oh and then ah.
Then they’ll ask him to share with modelers, one and all.
By computer the details will spread the world before dark.
It will travel to people in every terrain, no matter how stark.
And modelers will smile as they build a new plane.
With details, and beauty, and history explained.
Now officially remembered with a new life for the old.
People now made happy will remember stories so bold.
I end my refrain with a history newly rediscovered.
An old plane’s life brought back, now on a modelers’ magazine cover.

Contest: Impress Me III
Motif: Historical.  Carol Eastman and Hubby

Copyright © Carol Eastman

Details | Bio | |

A-M Docherty

Anna-Marie
Mother, poet, crafter, friend
Daughter of Margaret and Robert
Lover of husband Craig, sons Ben and Michael
Who feels pain, love and priveledged
Who fears pain, hurt, unknown and drops (of type where land falls away)
Who would like to see friends overseas and things that remain unseen 
like life after death and answers to ghostly/spiritual beings
Resident of Pembrokeshire, Wales, UK
Docherty

Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty

Details | Dramatic Verse | |

The White man

He was young,
Had his guns on his hip.
Walkin the streets,
With a cigar on his lip.
The town folk were scared,
They knew what he could do.
They have seen what he done,
To a chosen few.
The leather he wore,
Was stained from the powder of his gun.
A sign of the battles,
That the slinger had won.
A family moved in,
That no one knew.
A white man,
And a wife that was sious.
The young man decided,
The lady would not survive.
Because of her color,
She would die.
In the street,
In the middle of town,
This is where the slinger,
Where he gunned her down.
The white man,
Anger in his eyes,
Decided to give the slinger,
A surmise.
Leave this town,
Be gone by noon at best,
Or feel a bullet from my gun,
Deep in you'r chest.
The slinger smiled,
I am too fast,
You are an ole man,
You'r time has past.
You'r time has come ole man,
Take you'r stand,
But I tell you now,
Better have a fast hand.
When the smoke cleared,
The slinger lay on the ground,
With the white man,
looking down.
The slinger had just one last request,
How did you learn to shoot that way?
The white man answered,
I'm the son of Doc Holiday.


Copyright © Charles Ruble

Details | Free verse | |

A True Credo Of Love

(To All Who Believe It Can Be Achieved)


Caucasoid, Mongoloid,and Negroid
Colour the conscience progression 
of Man's ethical Truths...
The cultural aggressions of violence
and ignorance must end!
Extend your heart, hand and life
Towards the Precious Don of Honour...
Freely, keeping the sincere
Brotherly Creed


 

Comments:  Brothers and Sisters it is time that we stand up and let the Love of God in, after 
all we are all one in the same under the skin, so why not give it a grand try... One Love and 
Many Blessings in Him Always, Adell

Copyright © Adell Foster

Details | Free verse | |

Widow's Peak

Her name is now a legend 
Before her name was feared
The lady Henrietta 
Lean close and lend an ear

They say her status started
One night long time ago
She found her husband cheating
With the girl she knew next door

Her mind did snap
Her heart grew cold
With a knife she stole their souls
Cut the beating heart away 
Ate flesh when cold

Within her veins flowed the blood
Of the one who done her wrong
Gave her everlasting life
Her age in death was old

But one small thing that should be said
About the spell she cast
That beauty would always be her guide
In death she looked her best

Word spread quickly through the town
Where Henrietta lived
About the spell she cast the night
Her husband committed sin

Women came to ask for help 
To change their husband’s ways
For they had also messed around
Now love for them had strayed

With each one she gave the spell
Steps to end their grief
Now in the town such beauty found
In women who’s husbands cheat

With new found beauty each started life
Fresh and young again
And if the man they loved did cheat
Revenge was sweet again


Many many years went by
And soon the town was gone
Towards the end all that was left
Were women who were scorned

But in woods outside the town
In a placed called Widow’s Peak
You find plots of all the ones
Whose death came from a cheat

So this story lives today 
If you doubt then ask around
For the one you love and share a life
Could be a widow from that town

All men beware all women ask
Before you start your cheating
In every city and every town
A Widow’s Peak is forming

Believe me if you will or not
In the end you’ll heed the warning
Just let the one you love find out
To Widow’s Peak you’re going

Copyright © Joshua Vick

Details | Free verse | |

marking time....to my friends on poetry soup.- the Lord helped me fight death and won.

i don't want to be just marking

time.  i died on november 20,

2008, during surgery.  i was

on a vent when i awakened 

december 2, 2008....my sisters'

birthday. what made me llive

i'll never know.  i know there

are things to do on this side

of death.



i have no time for marking time.

i have a stupid bag hanging from

my side now.  i am supposed to

"get comfortable with it".  well

that was a laugh.

that was a laugh until i thought

of the people that had these

things with no hope of ever

getting away from them.



i am so lucky.  14 days i laid

on a vent, then 22 more.

i came home 3 days, 



then 


i had
great pain in my chest...
.
well this is great i said,

a pulmonary emboli, 15 more

days, three days home.



then back to e.r. blood pressure

too high.  this bought me 

4 more days in e.r.



i am home now and finally 

have spent 19 days home.

i feel every pain and i feel

every time that i feel good



yes, i am never marking

time again.....there is

something about fighting

for your life and your sanity

that straightens things out.



i don't recommend it but

i wish i could let your hearts

know what i know.

janetta

Copyright © janetta harrington

Details | I do not know? | |

Crazy in love

Another day, another beginning,
I begin the morning chanting,
Hoping that repeating my wish,
It would come true.
 
I sit at the sun-bathed breakfast table,
Remembering the times you sat across with a grumble.
The other times when you would put yours arms around me,
As I set the morning spread.
 
I walk into our memories-filled bedroom,
I remember as I put on your favourite perfume,
The first time you carried me across the threshold,
We were so in love, the newly-wed couple.
 
But I also remember the shadowed memories,
When you would hit me disregarding my pleas.
The times you would turn away in bed,
Refusing to speak to me, pretending to be a statue.
 
I dress in your favourite colours,
And take in a bit of one of your liqueurs.
Hoping it will give me the strength I need,
To face you, my husband, my weakness, the love of my life.
 
I walk out, closing the door behind me,
Wondering in what mood will you be,
I think of the times you'd say you're sorry,
The times you'd say you love me.
 
Times when you'd reach out and touch my cheek,
You'd say you miss me, that you're growing weak.
You want to come back home,
You'd say you're ready that you're okay.
 
I feel my eyes tear up as I think of the worse,
Times when you'd scream yourself hoarse,
When you'd pull my hair and tell me to get out,
Ending up in me running out crying.
 
Yet I come back every day,
For the better days I pray.
Sometimes we would sit staring into each others eyes,
Other times you would act like you don't know me.
 
But I cant help coming back to you,
Returning to the pain no matter what you do.
Sometimes I'm sure this is true love,
Other times i hate you for what you've done to me.
 
On some bad days I swear I'm never coming back,
The days when you hit me blue and black.
On good days I swear I'll never leave you,
The days you whisper sweet things and hold me tight.
 
Nevertheless i come every day,
Hoping everything will soon be okay.
The nurses stare in wonder, they don't understand,
This mad love in the psychiatric ward.
 
- Miliya Parveen

Copyright © Miliya Parveen

Details | Heroic Couplets | |

Cold Journey

The old draught horse with weary hooves will slog
through wet snow pulling hard and breathing fog

and he glides still near farms and fields where we
dream warm of home and fireside's reverie

The motion lulls--my anxious thoughts depart.
We wander, but we know the way by heart

For I was caught by night, but moonlight shines
o'er hoarfrost-painted flowers on the pines 

It's nearly silent, daylight's din is gone
save padding fox feet, snow break, night bird’s song

Far down the path I know where you will wait
with arms outstretched to draw me through the gate

Copyright © Debra Robillard

Details | Free verse | |

Shadowed Path

Thru a shadowed path, down a shadowed lane
Two lovers walk, the moonlight to gain.
The beauty of the walk is as beauteous as their love,
Shared thru a kindness, a reverence, and the touch of a hand.

A meadow comes into sight to eventually espy
Mists swirl in mystery as they begin to walk by.
But a fragrant rose pulls them, their attention drawn 
Thru the gates of an old house they gently begin forth

Who in love lived here long ago, now unseen?
What trials, what future, had they seen?
Their love built a life, and of course this home
Would that their lives could be so generously strewn.

Two lovers that lived so very long ago
And thru the years were repeatedly, celebrated so.
Now, two more have come as the man goes on bended knee
He picks the rose and delivers it up with a ring

He has bought this old house, a glorious old thing
To inspire her to wife, to repeat once more, an old beautiful dream
May the tale of this house and the old love it has seen
Inspire a new couple to a great life once again.

Copyright © Carol Eastman

Details | Cinquain | |

Baby

Baby
Smallest Human
Cooing And Kicking Fun
Parents Favorite Gem of Their Love
Infant

Copyright © Marie Harrison

Details | Quatrain | |

Oh Dear What Can the Matter be?

“She’s pregnant. Oh my God!”
“I’m going to be a father!” He beams.
“What will we call him honey?” He says.
“What have I got myself into…her chest heaves.

Day after day as she grows, he works, this father to be.
“Honey, careful now!” He lends a hand as she sits down.
“Careful,” she sighs. “Shoulda thought of that…”
and her labor begins with a scream.

Hour after hour in pain …”My wife.”
Hour after hour he paces his life.
A squall from the far room and in rushes he.
“I’m a father!” He preens. “Honey? What will his name be?”

Up honey looks, no smile…so abashed
“Honey,” she says. “We have a fine lass…..”
Crestfallen he stammers. Eyes caste to the wall.
“It’s alright.” He says “We can have more………..”

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Rhyme | |

BARRETT AND BROWNING Runaway Lovers

RUNAWAY LOVERS

Sat Ba Barret restless in her room
Drinking death in dark and gloom
Tragedy seemed her last name
Despite the books that were her fame
Letters reached her by the score
But one kissed paper touched her core
Robert Browning made her wild
Exuberance flared—she was a child
A woman forty –heart on fire
Now she had but one desire
A partner for her life she sought
Her father raged—her brothers fought
And so she, in the dead of night
Began a journey—love’s mad flight
They wed with maid and cousin there
And off they sailed like on a dare
Tossed her frail and lifelong curse
Dared the gods to do their worst
She won the man and mated prize 
Found her reflection in his eyes
First night was a burst of tears
Maid was sent to soothe her fears
Downstairs help was all a twitter
Certain Ba was dry and bitter
Old maid and a cripple lass
With intellect none could surpass
Now she’s wed and this first night
What would happen—tup or fight?
Footmen bet on Browning luck—
Old maids were like sitting ducks
But when they saw dawn faces glow
Even shallow hearts did throw
A prayer that heaven smile on them
Such naked love sang out ‘Amen’.

Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop

Details | Free verse | |

The soldier, the war, and I

The soldier, the war, and I


Today I am home and thinking to my self..
What would I be doing if I had a soldier coming home to me and my family?
What would I be doing if I was the soldier looking to going home to my family?
And then, I look back at all the years passed since this last war..

Many children have grown to become men, Others have grown to become soldiers
Where would I be if I had gone to the war and fought for my country?
Where would I be if I had gone and came back safely?
Where would I be if I had not gone at all because I was not qualified to go?
Would I be with my family or in a hospital injured?
Would I be standing proud, and laughing with my friends and family?
Or would I be dead, as I never got to come back?

Today I am home and thinking to myself..
Thinking of all of those brave soldiers, children still
Who are out there, suffering.. And some ill

Today I am home and thinking to myself..
How many woman are crying because of their gone loved ones
How many men are crying for their loved and missed ones
How many children are fatherless or motherless, or both!

And at the end I stop. I think no more..
I am grateful for the things I have, 
I am grateful for the people who surround me...
And I am sure grateful to never have gone to a war; yet, 
I sure appreciate the thoughts, courage, life, and suffering
Of all of those who have been touched by it.

Copyright © Thoubert Larus

Details | Free verse | |

Her First Try

She is a fine cook 
It didn't come by chance
She was trained by her family
She practiced day and night

She had to learn to cook
For many in her life
Her husband was particular
And she was a dutiful wife

She told us all a story 
Early in martial bliss
She made a beautiful cake
Spent hours creating it

She waited in anticipation
To feed her only man
A chocolate spearmint cake
She thought would be grand

Her husband was so excited 
To dare take a bite
She looked at him with hope
That it was a delight

Instead his look was sour
His eyes closed tight
He said this cake tastes lousy
Not another bite


Copyright © Jennifer Marie Oliver

Details | I do not know? | |

They Left so Abruptly

They Left so Abruptly

(for the countless South Africans, of all colours, who dedicated their lives for freedom and democracy)

the valiant ones
countless
many known
many more nameless

the truest sons and singers
husbands and poets
lovers and wives
daughters and farmers
workers and sisters
brothers and friends

they left so abruptly
with quiet pride
steely courage
gentle dignity

they left so abruptly
leaving us our tomorrows
brighter
hopeful
filled with promise

they left so abruptly
so that we may breathe
the breath of liberty
the air of freedom
the warmth of justice

they left so abruptly
leaving with us their parting gift

freedom
inkululeko
swatantrata
liberte
azadi
vhudilangi
libertad

they left so abruptly
yet we remember them all
today
in the days that slipped away
and in the many more that we await

they left so abruptly
yet they remain
hewed into our memories
etched in our consciences
engraved in our hearts
they left so abruptly
and yet they endure
with us
within us
now and forever more

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Free verse | |

I don't remember or crave

I remember when, we would yakkety-yak, so many hours on the phone.
Feeling so almighty, not wanting to end our conversations.
My every brain-work, was always you. 
Your name, kept going threw my mind.

Now, we never talk.
We email each other like strangers. 
Then, not everyday.

Our lives have changed so much. 
To the point, were our friendship isn't there.
My heart doesn't skip a beat anymore.
Instead, it seems to beat, very slow.
Causing physical pain, as I hold my chest.

Now!

I don't like hearing your name or seeing it spelled.
Remembering when, we would crave to see each other.
Hold each other, so much.
Not wanting to be apart.
Always laughing and smiling.
Eating has one.
Remembering, the stare we had.
We couldn't keep our eyes off our flesh.
Our nights, seemed lonely without our touch.

Now!

We don't crave, or see each other.
We never laugh or smile.
We never eat together.
Now our hands don't touch.
The sad part is, I could care less.
Care less on wanting it back.
I don't miss it or need it.
For it's you, I can thank.

You gave me the strength, to leave you.
You gave me the strength, to forget about you.
You gave me the strength, to erase our memories.
All , because you gave up.
Gave up on, our touch.
Gave up on, our smiles.
Gave up on, our laughter.
Gave up on me.

Me!

Your wife!
 
	

Copyright © Delilah Ventura

Details | I do not know? | |

Going Fast

Caught with glances past
Holding memories going fast
Faces lost pasts caught
I am sorry but I have no memory 
Of any times with you

As good as you look
Your only a odd felt hook
And what we had is now only you
As I open a new book
You would be some thing new

Yes I remember
But theres nothing that I feel
Here to remind me, nothing now here to do
I have nothing but pains for the memory
Your not even a fact or a smell
So untill you are actually bold
I will count you as cold
Some where in a dream I can't hold

Copyright © Courtney Courtney

Details | I do not know? | |

American Heart

America resides within the heart of all Who believe in freedom, choice, voice and opportunity Deny, not, the display of pride within yourself Or else you’d deny pride in this land of the free America, more than land, it’s home to you and me Some dare tread, take arms against and try to squash All that America ever stood for, which is evident to all They fear the freedom, strength and all that’s offered As they know, against us, they would never stand tall And for all their attempts, America makes them fall This 9-11, let us not focus on terrorist actions But, on those Americans lost, that still live in our hearts Remember and honor them by living the American dream Exhibiting the ideals and always doing our part Showing all, America has muscle but lives through its heart

Copyright © Michael Degenhardt

Details | Free verse | |

Little Red

Full Moon Brimming 
On A Hungry Wolf
Fire still burning 
Words are not enough

Red Riding Hood,
You stopped me where i stood.
The basket you held, looked so good,
I enticed...And you fell... 

In the woods... safe and sound
We could not believe what we had found
Me in denim... and you it lace

We understood, each other so very well
Full moon brimming over with light
Gazing into the eyes of the other

The twin to me, I did see, in You.
Be careful with my heart, my love.

My running shoes are unlaced for now,
So lean back and enjoy the ride.
Embrace all the laughter, our lives allow.

rlm

Copyright © Robert Long Mellott

Details | Rhyme | |

617 Squadron " The Flight Home "

Brave men brought together
To fly the bombers
To hamper the power
 
Enlistment their will 
To serve the free
All humble men 
As history will see
 
Hearts shaking
On this white knuckle ride
Hero's them all
Side by side
 
Outbound flights
Planes lost
Their families and friends
Count the cost
 
Target reached
Heavy flak
How many of them
Will make it back
 
They turn for home
Chased by the Hun
Machine guns ripping
Flesh so young
 
Wounded they slump
Bullet ridden
Bloodied bodies
Sodden
 
The coast of England up ahead
Welcomes the live
And will remember the dead
 
Distant engines
The airfield hears
Crippled planes
Grow near and near
 
Families gather as they fly over
Did their loved ones
Pass the cliffs of Dover
 
Ambulance, tenders
Race to the scene
Pieces of man
Their life no longer a dream
 
Carried in care 
Blanketed shroud
Dads and sons
Did their country proud
 
The airmen who walked out
Turned and looked to the sky
This mission by men
As they wonder why
 
Pain and suffering 
For the right to be free
As the future has thanked
As we look back and see.
 
 
Dedicated to all who served, to allow us to write and read.
We can fire our words, but they will never make us bleed.


http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php

Copyright © James Fraser