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History Husband Poems | Husband Poems About History

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

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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.


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.)


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


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 "



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


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


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


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.


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)


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


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