Long poem by
James Clark | Details |
It was a dry, dusty day when I saw the wheelbarrow, with long handles made of dark wood.
The wheel is struggling as it carries its burden, but it manages the job that it should. The man pushing appears to be crying, his eyes all puffy and red. It’s time to move on, but I wait, I wait for him to reach me instead. The wheelbarrow has a dark green cover, such a sickly, metallic sweet smell underneath, such a heavy lump in my throat, “don’t lift the cover!” but regardless, I pull back it back to see.
The first thing to strike me, such a tiny hand, tiny fingers all bent into a fist, and an inch below there in my big gloved hand, the smallest most delicate wrist. Her face is held together by bright orange thread, her eyes are searching the stars. Her crown should still be there, on that beautiful head, where she lays, crumpled up inside her Dads cart. I put back the cover, swallow hard and just stand there, my head, Jesus Christ I can’t think, my pounding heart tearing itself apart inside my trained body, at this beautiful little angel in pink.
Her father, his eyes screaming toward me sobs gently, silent rage and yet deafening shock. Why can’t I bring myself to look into this man’s eyes, oh Lord, grant me some breath that I may talk. To say sorry, to ask why, to just speak in his tongue, to show him that I really care. I realise that I could never find words, I’ve no such tragedy to compare.
I walked away from the blue wheelbarrow, thinking that I could leave it behind. But every night as my daughter hugged me, that wheelbarrow crashed into my mind. Whenever she cried my stomach went tight, when she laughed those dark clouds disappeared, whenever she told me she loved me, I knew that I had nothing to fear, but yet so much. The wheelbarrow changed me forever, drank me to illness, and brought my whole life to the edge. I couldn’t switch off from that sweet smell, and I couldn’t explain that to friends.
I will never forget, such a small wrist in my hand, such beautiful soft lips kissing the sky. Such a pretty pink little dress, though stained red with blood, those clear and lifeless brown eyes. I wish that I had asked for her name, what to call that three year old victim of war, so small and so beautiful with those innocent eyes, my body aches that I can’t wish so any more.
If I could explain to people, about my demons, in one image to make them understand. I’d draw that blue wheelbarrow with the green cover on top, and that sweet delicate wrist in my hand. Two days after the wheelbarrow I became a Father and to my comfort, for the rest of my life I will know. No matter how often the wheelbarrow returns, I have my daughter, here for me to hold.
Long poem by
Leonora Galinta | Details |
It’s already been three years now since you passed away,
Yet, those mem’ries of you are alive, in my heart you’ll forever stay;
Every time I think of you, I smile with pain,
And wish that I can see and hug you once again.
My childhood years with you were so much fun,
I can’t recall any moment when you hit me with your hand;
You always took care of me with so much love,
‘Til I dreamt of Jesus on his bike, showing Himself like you-a loving Dad.
You were a very loving father who sacrificed everything,
When mom was away for work, you crossed rivers if I get sick;
You’d played the biggest role in my grade schooling,
You’d always fetched and brought me to school through biking.
I remember when you asked my teacher’s permission,
I was sick and I couldn’t attend my Kindergarten Graduation;
My teacher didn’t agree for I’ll be given an honor,
Wrapped in blanket, you brought me up on stage to pin my ribbon.
From my secondary to college life,
You gave your financial, moral and spiritual support and guide;
You’d honed your house-painting skills and you became well- known,
A big help for mom and your three children’s education.
December 2010 to January, 2011 was the happiest moment for me,
You and mom visited me in a place so far away,
A happy reunion of only four (with your sis/my aunt) but I was so happy
We enjoyed your natal day… I never thought that was your last, Daddy.
You went back home and suddenly you got sick,
No matter how everyone climbed a mountain, you’d a remote recovery;
Despite the pain of losing you as my eyes blurred with tears,
I finally let you go to God, in Him you’ll find the most soothing relief.
Today is your death anniversary and I’m writing my poetry,
To express how much you are missed my ever dearest daddy;
I offer you flowers and candles on the altar where I’ve placed your photo,
Through my prayer to God, I’ll send my loving messages to you.
Dear God, please tell my dad that I dearly love and miss him so much,
Hug him for me and through the breeze, please send me his loving touch;
Among the most beautiful flowers in heaven, please pick one for me,
Give it to him- a symbol of my great love and forever he’s my best daddy.
Feb. 27, 2014 5.20pm
A poem requested by my relatives for my dad’s Third Year Death Anniversary on this March/14. He was 64 when he died. It was sent back home through mail and will be read by my 11-yr. old niece on his memorial service day at church.
>>Pls. click about this picture. TYSM
Long poem by
charlie Pelota | Details |
I look down from heaven, and what do I see?
A body on the battlefield that looks a lot like me!
Body parts are missing:there's blood everywhere...
The scene is so ghastly, that I can only stare.
Now the memory returns...I freely gave my life,
In a fight to preserve Democracy for my children and my wife.
Walking with my service buddies when I spotted the grenade,
And I quickly dove upon it! What a price I paid!
Next I see my military funeral with people gathered all around.
The mournfull sound of TAPS as they lay me in the ground!
Then the crowd is all dispersing from the cemetary fast.
Workmen cover me with dirt, and top it off with grass.
At least all is quiet now; no sound of bursting shell!
That man was right on target when he said"War is hell."
Advances; patrols; and skirmishes make for quite a fuss.
The object- kill the enemybefore he can kill us!
So now it is Memorial Day-and I wait patiently,
To see if anyone comes around to remember me.
I see the flagsand flowers,placed on graves so near.
Yet no one visits me. I'm alone again this year!
Surely my family hasn't forgotten the sacrifice I made-
Or has their desire for freedom slowly begun to fade?
Well, I guess they've got ball games and picnics--and yet
Someone's coming toward me in uniform! A vet!
He stops and ponders thoughtfully, as he reads my stone;
"Although I did not know you, you shouldn't be alone".
With a quivering voice and a tear in his eye,
He continues,"Thanks for being there". (I too want to cry!)
"Its true I fought my own war, and no bullet took my life,
But America's stilll great ,due to your sacrifice.
And I am truly thankful for everything you did,
Even though,when you lost your life, I was just a kid.
But I've met your buddies;those whose lives you saved,
So I brought a flag and flowers to lay upon your grave.
No greater love has any man,than to die for his friend.
And ifyou were a Christian, you entered Life at the end!
Your family may have forsaken you, and forgotten where you lay,
Yet as a brother Christian, I'll greet you in that Day.
Until then,Know you're appreciated because you did your part.
Thank you service buddy-from this grateful heart"
As he rose to leave ,I thought with a smile,
Those words of gratitude make it all worthwhile.
Yes, I was a Christian, and now I'm with my Lord.
See ya later service buddy! Continue steadfast in His Word!
Charlie Pelota HSLP 5-29-2002
Long poem by
Daniel Cwiak | Details |
I was thinking about liberty this past Memorial Day,
How the freedom won by others is here for us to stay.
It wasn't just the stroke of a pen that made men free,
But the hard and difficult sacrifices, that gave us Liberty.
We broke the allegiance to a king so far away,
Pulled together as a nation, that has survived until today.
We've fought against our own brothers to make slavery die,
We still are healing from those wounds, with every racial cry.
Like other nations bent on their empire's expanse,
We have fought to that tune and made other men dance.
But our stance has been true though all the horrors,
Especially when we sent our boys to the "War To End All Wars".
The world thought it worked and it did for awhile,
But tyranny and evils will not end with only a smile.
Another generation of men to freedom's call,
And the flag with 48 stars then, was needed by all.
Even after the victories we had an uphill fight,
The evils among us would not take flight.
So Freedom and Liberty have to be won each day,
By those who survive the battle's fray.
Not only the soldier is in that battle you know,
Each one of us, has that same burden to tow.
For if we are to remain free in this great land,
"Liberty and Justice for ALL" must go hand in hand.
When we know of wrong being done,
It is our duty to help, as Freedom's citizen.
Not just with lip service which continues despair,
But get in the trenches, and Liberty repair.
It is the hard won fight that brought us this far,
The hard won victories of goodness and care.
Have we forgotten who we are and from whenst we came?
The words of "Freedom and Liberty" would not be the same.
Except that a few men had the willingness to forego,
Their fortunes, their lives, and to their posterity bestow.
That Freedom and Liberty should come to all in this land,
Can we do less, to keep to their plan?
Someone once said, "It's not easy being me."
It is harder still to live in the land of the Free.
Where we enjoy our Liberty and Freedom to choose,
Yet, how often have we let it be abused?
Vote...if you want to keep your Liberty,
Vote...if you want your children to be Free.
It is in our right to vote that we have won this prize,
Do not let its light be dimmed by "I don't need to..." sighs.
For men the world over have we sent our own to save,
For Freedom and Liberty - and The Home of The Brave!
Long poem by
Scribbler Of Verses | Details |
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom:
Solomon Mahlangu was trained as an MK soldier with a view to later rejoining the struggle in the country.
He left South Africa after the Soweto Uprising of 1976 when he was 19 years old, and was later chosen to be part of an elite force to return to South Africa to carry out a mission commemorating the June 16th 1976 Soweto student uprising.
After entering South Africa through Swaziland and meeting his fellow comrades in Duduza, on the East Rand (east of Johannesburg), they were accosted by the police in Goch Street in Johannesburg.
In the ensuing gun battle two civilians were killed and two were injured, and Mahlangu and Motloung were captured while acting as decoys so that the other comrade could go and report to the MK leadership.
Motloung was brutally assaulted by the police to a point that he suffered brain damage and was unfit to stand trial, resulting in Mahlangu facing trial alone.
He was charged with two counts of murder and several charges under the Terrorism Act, to which he pleaded not guilty.
Though the judge accepted that Motloung was responsible for the killings, common purpose was argued and Mahlangu was found guilty on two counts of murder and other charges under the Terrorism Act.
On 15 June 1978 Solomon Mahlangu was refused leave to appeal his sentence by the Rand Supreme Court, and on 24 July 1978 he was refused again in the Bloemfontein Appeal Court.
Although various governments, the United Nations, International Organizations, groups and prominent individuals attempted to intercede on his behalf, Mahlangu awaited his execution in Pretoria Central Prison, and was hanged on 6 April 1979.
His hanging provoked international protest and condemnation of South Africa and Apartheid.
In fear of crowd reaction at the funeral the police decided to bury Mahlangu in Atteridgeville in Pretoria.
On 6 April 1993 he was re-interred at the Mamelodi Cemetery, where a plaque states his last words:
‘My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom.
Tell my people that I love them.
They must continue the fight.’
Mahlangu died for a cause!
The Struggle Continues…
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
Long poem by
Timothy Hicks | Details |
I write this for you far too late it seems.
That the day would come, the sun would set on you
was always just a bad dream, I'd conjure in my head,
late at night while laying haphazardly in my bed.
Of course I found it to be true
and it left me speechless through and through.
You were a friend to me and a Man of God.
You were tired of standing still, so you got off your log.
And when you announced you were joining the army
I was indifferent. I didn't beam with pride, nor preach against it.
I was a pesky mouse with a million things to say, but stayed quiet.
Just what in the world could I do
that would ever compare to the Greatest Sacrifice?
We can't even sit down and talk about it
that's what they mean by the Ultimate Price.
Just how in the world do I honor thee
when I'm convinced so thoroughly
America was in the wrong?
I wish at times I could be like a sheep
and tag along.
Hold my head up high
and see the good ole red, white and blue
waving majestically in the sky.
But I can't just ignore what my heart is telling me.
It's not about taking the day-off and having a barbecue.
It's not about kicking up your feet, basking in the heat.
I respect that full-heartedly.
But with the range of emotions I'm feeling currently
I can't even shed a tear,
it just wouldn't do these feelings justice.
For it is without shame and without prejudice
I mourn the loss of anyone,
not just someone close to me.
I can't put a price tag on lives,
it's just not how I see things.
It's a lie what they tell you, digging doesn't
always get you gold, just grimier dirt.
When someone goes we all point fingers,
but in the end it's only hurt that we feel.
It's a long grieving process, but in explicable ways
some of us just won't ever heal.
Oh how I wish to grab Uncle Sam's shoulders,
screaming, "Wake UP!
We've played your game, but enough is enough!
In the name of God, stop this charade!
How dare you turn a blind eye to so much blood..."
But alas, now is not the time for that - today I'm just sad
when I think of all the life you could have had.
All I know is that on May 4th, 2013 war took her course
and swallowed up one of this world's last great remaining stars.
It's a comfort to me, however minuscule,
that I see your smile on the faces of many,
so you can't be all that far.
Long poem by
Leon Enriquez | Details |
Stillness feels deep here in these halls;
Silent vistas offer relief;
Death brings sure sleep at curtain call;
Cold agendas in grief's sad brief.
Long passageways and rows and rows;
Lonely sailings to unknown shores;
The dead don't say what yonder grows;
We the living wish we knew more.
Our visit here to greet the dead,
To pray for souls to rest in peace;
Let kinship steer fate's sure parade;
We feel the hold, the dead at ease.
Each niche a tale of life now flown;
Each face once walked this earthly plain;
Now silence trails lost bygone moans;
Now stillness talks where no voice gains.
Memorial day for our lost kin;
A prayer fond, a mindset still;
Whispers now stay for peace within;
Stroll by this lawn, mourning hearts feel.
With soul and heart, talk to the dead;
We know they hear our inner voice;
Life circle parts beyond all dread;
Cycles endear sound grace and poise.
Brief tablets speak where words now fail;
Deeply attuned with wise intent,
Each mounts a peak beyond the veil:
Feel hint and tune frame lost content.
As shadows fall in the last light,
We take a stroll here first and last;
Live sweet and gall with new-found sight;
Life's on a roll in feast or fast.
The dead remind that life goes on;
The grim reaper awaits each soul;
Discern the find here and beyond;
Soon each sleeper will circle whole.
Sunlight now fails, winds of change blow;
Horizons pale, lost of sure breath;
Death's icy gale fills each hollow;
And thus soul sails to greet kind death!
Here by this route where hallways meet,
All thoughts and deeds return to rest;
Death is time-out for two-way street;
Each cycle seeds soul journey quest.
We take our time to simply dwell,
Observe and know time here is brief;
Heed love's fond chimes to live life well;
Then candle blows with joy not grief.
Now once again, we carry on
To weather all, to live our best
With poise laid plain, feel once upon
A time that call to feel love's quest.
Our prayers laid, our kinship made,
We take our leave in heartfelt calm;
Feel love repaid in succinct trade;
Forsake this grief with cheery psalm.
28 Mar 2014
(Dedication: For my late mother on her birthday
anniversary, born 28 March 1927.)
Long poem by
Carol Eastman | Details |
On Memorial Day I am haunted and flooded with so much grief.
My Mother lies next to my Grandmother and they next to my Great Aunt.
My Fathers name is there, too, but blessedly he’s not there yet.
Such great memories are restored as I look at each stone.
Once again I’m a rambling child with no kids of my own.
I remember the safety they afforded me, and all the treats and their love.
All their little sacrifices they gave, when I was still too young to know.
Why did I chase after a kitten when Grandma was so close by my side?
A simple tug on her skirt and she would of hugged me and smiled with pride.
Why was I discovering butterflies, when my Great Aunt was close there too?
She made the best pies EVER from scratch while I played in another room.
Why did I take Mom for granted… when as a child she gave me so much?
What I wouldn’t give for her gentle touch… and another soothing hug…
And Grandpa lies by Grandma… he was always repairing something or by her side.
And now there are all my aunts, uncles, and cousins that are all scattered around.
They made Christmas my favorite time as their talk and laughter rang out.
They’d laugh, talk, and enjoy each other’s company, as I’m sure now they do.
I can’t imagine them in any other way, than at my Grandma’s on those wonderful
We’d sit down to a holiday feast with everyone all around and it all seemed like play.
Were they then thinking of others that they knew from long ago?
As I walk around the graveyard picking out old friends, I remember their wistful
They did the same each year, as they talked about the past even back then.
Perhaps its time my stone goes there, though I’ve a few more years to go.
That will help my children when it’s also my time to go…
And surprisingly it makes me feel I’m not leaving the older family alone.
It’s like a kiss, and a tug on a skirt to leave that something behind.
It’s a promise… they’ll be remembered until it too, is my time…
Until then I’ll bring my children and tell stories from long ago…
One day a year can’t be too much since it’s memories that I bestow.
And they all simply add up to the life that I have known.
Long poem by
Linda Etling | Details |
Dedicated to all those who lost Sons and Daughters to war
It's Memorial Day today
I hear the bands uptown
I'm sure there are many flags
Hung all around
Soon the BBQ will fill the air
Friends and family will come
Many will laugh and celebrate
This day means only fun
Oh to me this day means not the same
For they came knocking at my door
With news that changed our life forever
On my knees I dropped to the floor
They said my son has died in battle
That he was brave to the end
He died for God and Country
Be proud when sorrow begins
A strong and honored man he was
He loved this country so
He happily gave his life for her
If only all would know
He saw the value of freedom
He stood bravely against the foe
I still see his smile and feel his Hugs
he'd go back again I know
Our boys feel love and strength inside
In the uniform that they wear
They would proudly do it all again
Because for you they care.
There are no words that we can say
describing these women and men
No amount of gratitude is enough
To show the love within
For they wear their uniform with honor
We all need to stop and pray
Each time we see them say THANKYOU
And may God Bless them along the way
The last full measure of Devotion
My son gave to each one of us
As many many others have before
In their strength we must trust
We too must be dedicated to this land
To keep this country free
For freedom isn't free at all
For my son this I plea
Turn back to God oh mighty Nation
may all dedicate their life to you
May all who live here love Her
And stand for freedom too
Don't give in to the Devil
Don't turn your back on God
One Nation indivisible
Oh my son died for the land you trod
Be strong in your love for Her
Make it a great land again
Turn your backs on evil
For it's her people that need faith again
So today when you're having fun
In the joy of all you do
Step back a moment and say a prayer
For our children who give their life for you
Linda Sue Etling
Copyright © 2010 by Linda Sue Etling All Rights Reserved
Long poem by
Cheryl Chandler | Details |
From the past days of old.
At Seventh Street & Florence Avenue.
Vehicles in pristine finished.
Bragging Rights Mint Condition.
Proudly rolled by in a yearly tribute.
Very close behind did the present.
Spanking brand new, Virgilina's, VA.
Town's first responders debut their life-
saving vehicles of rescue.
Summer Fest proudly displayed.
Awesomely colored painted fine cars.
Including trucks and plowing tractors.
The drivers and passengers.
Cheerfully waived tossing smiles and candy.
I watched so many of the children laughing.
Enjoying themselves while playfully.
Scrambling to grab all and as many.
Of the tossed free candies.
So very comforting it was to see.
Neighbors, visitors, friends and family.
Standing side by side
In such a loving comradely.
History and our future.
Embracing one another.
In supreme harmony.
Refreshing the supportive celebration.
Veterans from old world wars of our past.
Keeping close in step were our gallant;
soldiers of wars in our present time.
Today's events were also in celebration.
Of the soldiers whom honorably.
Transitioned to a much peaceful home.
This was a very lovely quick get away.
Cotton candy, home made ice cream.
Scenie's Old-fashioned Peanut Brittle.
Freshly squeezed lemonade.
How fortunate to meet Ms Marion Woods.
Author of Uncle Jerdon's Farm Children' Book.
Thanks to my cousin Natarsha.
I am experiencing a very lovely.
Memorial Weekend Holiday.
My Uncle Joe Lassiter our beloved Veteran.
His daughter and my cousin Andrea Miller.
Stood in the longest line waiting patiently.
For what I learned was the town's best.
It's evening now I sit here as one.
Within this blissful time in nature.
Pleasantly at peace.
Relaxed taking in the beauty.
Of this picturesque piece of land.
On on this lovely day.
I joyfully have a writing instrument.
Very close at hand.