My Cloud white and five-point stars
join royal blue and strips of red,
stitched into a familiar pattern,
folded and temporarily put to bed.
The first time up the pole, crisp
edges flap and crack in the breeze.
Frosty air and rain pelts my sides
as I stiffen with winter freeze.
The sun burns through bones
and fades my vibrant hues
while wind-force snaps me about
to give me tattered shoes.
Until the last sigh, I give all
who view my face, bluff with hope,
a rousing sound of freedom's ring
before the slackening of the rope.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
My country is home,
I have no fear.
My country is home,
and I am here.
Copyright © Lilith Rodriguez | Year Posted 2014
The poor lad was sixteen when they kidnapped him
They took him from England to Ireland but the boy did not sin.
His father was a Deacon and his grandfather was a Priest
Who would have thought this would have started
The St Patrick’s Day’s once yearly feast.
A feast back in tradition that was of bacon and beans
Not only has that changed, but the colour has from blue to green
Patrick did escape his capture; he said God told him he must.
He returned to England where he took his confessor into his trust.
He studied to be a priest and then set back off to Ireland
He was a clever man; he taught and held up in his hand…
A piece of shamrock, to us the three leafed clover
A teaching for the trinity and he won lots of them over.
Upon his death on Patrick’s day the feasting and drinking does begin
The wearing of the green and there is a little bit of sin
The pubs were closed at one time, to stop the Irish fun
But now it has spread worldwide so Happy St Patrick’s everyone.
Contest entry for: An Irish Poem
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2013
The giants aren't hefty
The possess small stature
And great brains
With the heart of Gold
The giants are not assaultic
They fight peacefully
Without shedding of blood nor brouhaha
Yet they get whetever they desire
The giants are generous
They leave their houses
For shadows under the tree
While others enjoys their possession
The giants are skinny
Though weak and powerless they seem
They do great exploit
And am a skinny giant
Copyright © Olorunsogo David | Year Posted 2013
A true Canadian through and through
Proud to call Canada my home
Wouldn't change it for a million bucks
And I'm certain I'm not alone
Us Canadians will stick together
When it comes to promoting our land
A wonderful model for others to follow
As we lovingly offer our hand
A diverse and multicultural society
Inviting those from around the world
To make this land their new found home
As Canadian flags they unfurl
Some might consider me overly bias
And possibly they could be right
But have good cause to promote this land
It shines like the stars at night
A true Canadian through and through
Proud to call Canada my home
© Jack Ellison 2013
Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2013
Concrete, steel, glass, and dust,
we watched three thousand die.
Then there was no longer trust,
only fear when we would fly.
Our cozy world gone in a flash.
We'd never be the same.
Routine flight to horrific crash.
A jihad was proclaimed.
Souless zealots on native soil,
a scourge not seen before.
American blood began to boil
as we were shaken to the core.
While the cowards knelt in mock prayer,
we stood defiant and rebuilt.
Such lonely souls in disrepair
found the power not to wilt.
Though a decade's gone the pain's still fresh,
from an ache we know so well.
We paid the price in human flesh,
but they'll settle up in hell.
Copyright © James Nichols | Year Posted 2012
Flower in People’s Heart
Arrested! Contained! Remanded just the body
The iron heart will never, never surrender
The tip of the people's arrow for democracy
Flower in heart will blossom over dictators!
Copyright © Xaysouvanh Phengphong | Year Posted 2014
When Marbles Fall
Happy are the children on the wall of time
Playing marbles by the castle keep
Soldiers watch them secure that they won’t climb
But become bored and fall to sleep
The children are not children at all
But spies that cry for freedom
They slay the soldiers in a modest brawl
The king is next to fall to lose his kingdom
Fate takes the king with a confidant to towers top
Spies follow them to that end
It is there where all of this must stop
The king must die but first his friend
Marble in this upper room is splendid
King marvels for one last time his acquisitions
Too bad right here and now he must end it
To simply die without his royalties permission
Created 7/12/14 for- Not Just Any Old Quatrain contest
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014
Why is Canada so very special to me
There are ever so many reasons
It's the land of my birth, the place I call home
A country blessed with four seasons
Winter in Canada with it's blanket of snow
Unmatched for beauty and splendour
The cold clean air as we take a deep breath
The thrill of outdoor adventures
As we curl up in front of a cozy warm fire
Overwhelmed by a magical feeling
We sense the sweet glow of love and devotion
Which sends our dear hearts a-reeling
Then spring arrives with a feeling of renewal
After winter’s long cozy nap
The birds sing out loudly, spring has arrived
No longer burdened by wooly hats
The jolly old sun seems so much warmer now
Blossoms soon raise their wee heads
Bumble bees buzz from flower to flower
Sipping nectar from each colourful bed
Then summer arrives, the sweetest time of the year
The hillsides are alive and in bloom
Sweet romance is foremost on everyone's mind
All the world's lovers are in tune
Those warm summer days are over too soon
August warns us of what's just ahead
With nature's brilliant colourful explosion
Of yellow, orange, crimson and red
It's the end of a cycle and the start of a new one
This wonderful country we live in
How fortunate we are to call ourselves Canadians
As a new cycle once more begins
© Jack Ellison 2015
Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2015
As I walk this graveyard somber
Of a country shorn of life
Its gravestone reads, in the distance yonder
Stabbed by debt’s dagger knife
Our Founding Fathers, like demigods
Of a past enlightened age
Founded this nation, with musket rods
And writings on a page
We the people, it was writ
Must perfect a union young
With stinging wit, this daring script
Was a rock at Britain slung
A golden republic, been thrown at our feet
They challenged us to keep
From democracy’s thieves, from subtle deceit
From apathy, and ignorant sleep
Have we kept our gold? No! It was packaged and sold!
By politicians - absentee dads!
How would our Fathers feel, if they could be told
That their children lost what they had?
Our Fathers would be, trifle a doubt
A hallowed kin troubled by din
Troubled by noise, the screams and the shouts
Of a country dying from within
With ethics abandoned, a sickness has crept
A plundering, gluttonous sin
These pitiful states, with mountains of debt
Belong in no handbook of hymn
Youth, why slave for a wage
To be took by taxation’s rake?
Why seek to be caught, in misery’s cage
For worthless currency’s sake?
Prepare instead, for the coming collapse
When Liberty staggers, stumbles and hurls
This nation, struck by a venomous asp
Expires, in agonied curls
Copyright © David von Rudisill | Year Posted 2013
Forced down onto the thick mud
the stench of this rotten blood
Determined for this to be surreal
My fate would change if it were real
My life begins anew In my head
From the time mother put me to bed
Father took me to my first Yankee’s game
Where I was inspired by their fame
To keep the kids soundly in bed
My blood, I fear, I must shed
Not knowing whether I would live or die
the anguish is consuming my thigh
The pain is slowly dying out
my destiny is nothing but a doubt
Laying on the red infested loam
Guadalcanal, you are my last home.
Copyright © Jorge Torres | Year Posted 2013
I was born on October the 23rd, 1921, in the town of Winfield,
In Kansas, but moved to Greensborough in North Carolina,
When I was 14 with my father’s work, where I still am settled,
But when Pearl Harbour broke I was at Uni, with my own agenda.
But I knew I’d be invited to participate in the global conflict,
So I returned to Greensborough from Michigan very eager,
As I was an engineering student interested in a planes’ interdict,
So in April on the 28th 1942 I was examined to be an aviator.
I did my pre-flight training at Maxwell Fields in Montgomery,
In Alabama, then onto primary training at Avon Park in Florida,
Then basic training at Bush Field in Augusta, Georgia, a priority,
And then completed advanced training at Turner Field, Georgia.
My training was on the B-26 Marauder bomber in Louisiana,
At Barksdale Field in Shreveport, and I was sent overseas then,
Becoming part of a replacement bomber crew in 1943 September,
And ended up in the 554th Bomb Squadron, democracy to pen.
It was located in Essex County England at Great Dunmore,
Where I began flying combat missions every day for eight or ten,
Then a break, then flying again way back in February 1944,
But later we were expected to fly twice a day to stay the fen.
Then, at the end of May 1944, we’s not to plan on much sleep,
And on the night of June the 6th were were awakened true,
At about 2:30am we had to dress and go eat, ourselves to keep,
Throughout the Normandy bombing so as the Nazi’s to sue.
We had to complete the mission regardless of cloud over,
Pitch dark and raining we were dispatched for take off,
None of us were used to flying at night, just wanted cover,
It was a terrifying experience, one that I’d never heard of.
We got into formation 6000 feet over England, my 45th mission,
Going south in eight combat groups heading for Utah beach;
We got down to level, between 800 and 900 feet, our commission,
And dropped two bombs just as an enemy aright did screech.
I remember exactly the time, it was 6:22, so we went back
Over the Channel: we’d sustained damage but no deaths, no losses;
Things were ok, because I think the German’s were off track,
They were terrified of us, the many ships and planes, the bosses.
I was a prisoner of war in Germany for nine and a half months,
In Stalag Luft I, Barth, until we were liberated by Russia righteous,
And I spent forty years in engineering with its bolts and cloths,
But I still haven’t matched the thrill of those missions precarious.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2016