Long poem by
Jamie Walker | Details |
July Twenty Eight
The year, 1914
The War which we feared
It began, something we could not foresee
This date, still haunters me
To this very day
Those bewailing screams
And those traumatic scenes
Words to do not to justify
The violence I've seen
Those images cemented in my brain
I still have those vivid dreams
From what took place
That no matter how much gin
I drink it will not go away
I pray for forgiveness for my sins
For those i killed in the war
My families even more distraught
This carnage i couldn’t bare
A pray to him up here, make it back from the war
I shed blood sweat and tears for my brothers
Living in pure darkness for so many years
Barbaric injuries that cant be Unseen
Blind to the cold war's corruption
And the overwhelming destruction
The hellish scenes, the smell of death
The air breathed in and breathed out
Men bleeding out, guts open on show
From the broken torsos
I tried i to heal him
Whilst in the mist of the battlefields
I cant see him breathing
Tranquility masks over him
Hes close to leaving
Hes dying right next to me, I blamed me
We were meant to be a team
He went charging out ahead of me
He was only young, he was was like my son
The fight with death that was the battle
A brave soul but looking back at him
Was the darkness of gun barrel!
I failed him as his sergeant
And as his farther!
I couldn’t look at his broken carcass
And my pain bleeds
Eternal may he rest in peace
That day will be remembered with me
Taken to my grave
Trapped in hell my tombed sealed
But I'm still awake
My eyes still twitching, they flicker
I'm itching to put the gun
To my temple and pull the trigger
To ease the pain emotionally and physically
Get out of this hell hole instantly
We cant we have more love and peace!
7 million civilians deceased
Bodies piled up in a heap
My gun wound though my leg
Reminds me of my narrow escape of death
As i stick my fingers in pulling out the bullet
Through sheer will power and adrenaline i manged to do it
As the blood oozes I'm losing too much
When we it stop
It ensues blood
My life flashes I'm doomed
Must I stop thinking I'm a useless solider
I still have both my arms
In my holster,
Bomb blast off just over my platoon
My brothers fatal wounds
From there firearms
Bleeding out hes dying in my arms!
And theirs nothing i can do!
Go for cover dragging my brothers limbless body out fast
From the depths of despair
Muddy helmet and bloody chest
My impulse to pull my trigger to revenge my brothers death
I clench my gun and come out screaming out of my trench
I wake screaming
My nightmare isn’t real
Gulp the vodka, numb the pain
The same nightmare again!
Night after night day after day!
I can still smell the scent of rotten-ting flesh
The only thing the war promised was death!
A minute silence for all those
Who died 4 years ago wont
Bring those broken souls home
But with restore some hope
This war has finally fished today the date
11th of November Nineteen Eighteen
A date that we be forever remembered
But even more traumatic than fortitude
Was returning home too
Loved ones and breaking the there bad news!
She asks you how did he die?
You say peacefully, you lied
We both know its not true
R.I.P Private Mathew Blue.
Copyright © Jamie Walker | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Frederick Moore | Details |
Memories of a Green Beret
“Where have all the soldiers gone, Long time passing,
Where have all the soldiers gone, Long long time ago,
Where have all the soldiers gone,
Gone to graveyards, every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?"
(an old anti-war folk song from the 60's)
Ho Chi Mihn Trail....'68
Ten warriors camouflaged in wait
Prepared to deal a grisly fate
Hunkered down in jungled hell
Assured they've set the ambush well.
In silence they lay upon the route
When 'Charles' walks in…. he won't walk out.
A cacophony of fire and screams
Laid down with deadly skills, this team;
With claymore mines and booby traps
Left fifteen fragged and torn or zapped.
A trail once quiet, now instead,
Was piled with black pajama'ed dead
A kill zone full of empty life,
From M16 and combat knives.
Metallic smells of blood and gore….
Back to the bush, fear to the core;
On the run, escape, evade
This area where the trap was laid.
Bust thru brush at breakneck speed
Thru swamp and bramble, cutting reeds.
They're on your ass, their voices near
Being captured is your highest fear.
If you're caught you won't survive.
They'll disembowel you, flayed alive.
Your final screams, heard near and far,
The price you pay for what you are.
In time you finally get away,
But it was the VC's judgment day
Praise God we lived, is what you pray.
Old memories of a Green Beret
As on and on this game of chess,
Your mind starts crumbling with the stress.
More bloody trails and bloody hunts
And soon gone thirteen bloody months.
You pack for home and say a prayer
For those you know that's still back there.
The sights and smells flash on and on
Though fifty years have come and gone.
They steal your brain and steal your calm
Sometimes you think you're back in 'Nam.
And still today played o'er and o'er
Are vivid flashbacks of the war:
Young warrior's lives, gone much too soon
Dying moans and pumping wounds
Flashing guns in hot fire fights
In wet and frigid jungle nights.
Camps attacked in human waves
Death piled high in bulldozed graves
Fear like ice picks in your brain
Comes with horrid scenes and pain
Prisoners tossed from chopper flights
Blood smeared chaplains give last rites
Green bags filled with body parts
Images not for faint of heart
Fear that drives you up the wall
Soothed by weed and alcohol
Village kids all blown apart
Blood and guts served 'a la carte '
Air support with steel and flames
Dog tag heaps with buddies names
Rot gut beer, Saigon whores
Seeping rotten jungle sores
Now, most are gone, long died away.
While others here are silver gray
Their comrades gone, now mostly dead,
They fight the fight still, in their heads
Late of night, in sleep they shout.
"Medic here, he's bleeding out.
Call in support--lay down some fire,
God help us all, they're in the wire."
I pen these words and I decree
They were ten times best what I could be.
My praise and prayers I'll not detract
For the many who never made it back.
From long ago and far away........
These memories of an old Green Beret
Author's Note: to all my old comrades, MANY WHOM never made it back
...De Oppresso Leber....rest in peace old friends-- Sergeant First Class Frederick Moore
, 6th SF, 7th SF, and 46th SF Thailand......
Copyright © Frederick Moore | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
John Posey | Details |
November 19, 2001
Dear Doc and Doris,
It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you. I believe it was some years ago at the Sims reunion. That was several years before we moved here to Florida after my retirement.
I talk to Dorothy and W. D. fairly often and got your address from them a couple of months ago. I also have a recent picture of you that was taken at Mike’s funeral in Marlow.
I suppose it was something about that picture that caused me to begin reflecting on when I was a kid in Cameron many years ago. We lived down below the railroad tracks there just south of the jailhouse. I was just a kid 6 or 7 years old. Then later we moved to Houston where Dorothy and Daddy went to work in the shipyard. I remember during those years thinking often of my cousin Carl Sims and his brother Melton Sims who were far away fighting the war against the Germans in Europe. I still have pictures of you somewhere showing you in your uniform. Doc, I remember how proud I was to tell everyone about my cousins in the army and how I wanted to grow up and be a soldier and fight the Germans.
In the last couple of years those memories have been revisited with the release of the movies “Saving Private Ryan” and even more recently, “Band of Brothers.” Having never experienced the horrors of war, I look upon these two movies as the most realistic presentation of wartime action ever made. Even at that, I’m sure they haven’t portrayed what it was really like.
Doc, I write you now having much more hindsight than when I was an impressionable kid. But the years have not robbed me of the pride I have in calling you my hero. I think of those years when I was but a child and you, a young soldier. I remember how excited I was to hear any news about my cousins in the army. And I remember the sadness in hearing of Melton being killed in action.
Though time has painted a different picture for each of us, those things that linger in our memory can still be seen through the eyes of a child and a young soldier. I look at that recent picture of you and still see my hero. I see a young soldier in uniform and feel the same pride well up inside a young kid in Cameron.
Doc, I wanted you to know these things. I could have kept them hidden inside my heart and never told anyone. But, they are mine to do with as I please. And I choose to send them to you and Doris with the love I have for you. As Christians, we know that the love we are sharing in Jesus Christ will be eternal. I believe the respect and admiration I hold you in for what you did will also last forever.
Maybe we will get back to Texas one of these days. If so, I hope to have the time to come by Mexia and see you. If not, who knows, someday a kid may tug on the sleeve of a young soldier. The young soldier might turn to find a freckle-faced kid, joyful in the presence of his hero.
Doc, if not before, I’ll see you in Glory. I send you respect and most of all, love.
With eternal admiration,
Copyright © John Posey | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Terrance Upham | Details |
Wicked Romancer a provocative Prince of fanatics in the dramatics of fashionable word's.
Giving orgasms of mind unique one of a kind pleasures of my rhythms in rhymes.
Mesmerizing feelings of exquisite emotions written in every line unique prisms of brilliance & elements of resilience relevance to my intelligence.
Poetically staggers with sharpest poetic swagger.
Whispers of my rhymes philosophize & hypnotize delinquent eyes with provocative lies undercover an in disguise.
Measures of legislations failed litigations an hesitations of my provoking seductive imagination.
Adjudication of a provoking provocative artist with abstract crimes my words slinging dope rhymes standing in felony profiling lines.
Broadcasting smears of ink's future place's somewhere in time.
Provoking another crime in establishing adicitts of a fanatical mythical rhyme rewinding seconds of time in history's mysteries puzzles of the past.
Prophet smearing every mythical line proportions of monumental rhymes.
My rhymes stimulate eccentricities in personalities aesthetically pleasing and teasing giving orgasms of mind with pleasurable word's action's of my verbs.
My rhymes scour & devour discombobulated ambiguities of pathetic fairy tales tasting stale as I prevail.
Complexities of my dynamics in words whale & impale on world's monumental scales.
Forget Princeton Harvard and Yale & f*** the Prince of Wales & all his small details.
Philosopher’s soft caressing words in philosophies the economy of efficiency in exquisitely unique wizardtrii.
Echoes of my whispering words give harmonies to life's tranquility qualities of virtue's in equality.
Times destination is a destiny of universal fate of the universe's humanity in which all mankind shares.
Dynamic depths of fathoms are Phantoms of my complexities in unique abilities.
You can't conceal and you must reveal feelings & emotions written in every line the economy of every word efficiencies in designs of my written rhymes.
Discombobulated ambiguous lines of pathetic fairy tales my rhymes twist and burn leaving your ashes in an ern.
Universal dexterity in ambidextrious configurations of unique twin inline designs is complexities of dynamics aesthetics of life's beauty's.
Wicked romancer aesthetically pleasing and teasing the unique pleasures of an architect in the aesthetics of love’s romance.
Aesthetically pleasing to the mind sweet silhouettes of divine beauty's succulent poetry.
®O?N~§ € £ F€º
Pen's Broadcasting Brilliance
21st century's Poet
? #poet #poetry #poem?
Copyright © Terrance Upham | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Su Ben | Details |
-Thinking of Iraq Ware Veterans on Veterans Day-
The day after the terrorists attacked our country, I joined the military and was deployed to Iraq. I fought in the desert far away from my sweet home defeating terrorists because it was the nation’s call that I must listen to and to comply with.
I witnessed many brave men and women fall in the battlefield. All those fallen heroes’ wishes were, without exception, our nation’s peace and freedom.
And that’s why, though the people may think or say:
you cannot fly in the air without wings; spirit can soar in the air without wings however. That’s why, though a soldier’s both wings burned to ashes under scorching sun in the battlefield where Babylonian might once maneuvered their chargers freely, rising a cloud of dust; gliding high in air above the highest ridge of Whitney, standing tall in the Pacific Cordillera with no wings spread;
you cannot swim against the current without fins; the soul is able to go up the river with no fins nevertheless, and that is why, in order to spawn the pride of our nation’s virtues for future generations to come and preserve, a soldier is swimming upward against shallow rapid current in a tributaries of Mississippi with fins blasted off by a roadside bomb along the bank of the River Tigris;
you cannot run through the prairies with cracked hooves; you can swiftly maneuver yourself even in a cross-wind if you have a will, and that is why, a solder gallops on a high ground of the Appalachian Plateau with the hooves blown off by a bombshell from a flaming cars to quench her thirst which, comes from bitter feeling left in the battlefield because of a mission unaccomplished, from water wells up in Lake Tear of the Clouds that pours into River Hudson;
you cannot walk holding loved one’s hand without a body; keen desire of the dead who perished in a battlefield, and now lying under the ground pillowing a tomb stone, can come back and live in the loved one’s heart, and that's why a man with dust covered military fatigues is walking behind his sweetheart stepping fallen leaves on a path in the forest by his home town, he whispers affectionately when she turns back and looks at him sadly with tearful eyes, “I love you.”
I am sitting in a wheel chair, watching proudly fluttering Star and Stripes through a hospital ward window. I salute the flag with great respect. I recite the nation’s anthem, the Star-Spangled Banner, with pride and joy.
Copyright © Su Ben | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
gregory boyer | Details |
A FOREIGNER ASKED THIS QUESTION OF ME
“WHERE CAN I IN U.S. FIND SOLDIER TO SEE?”
HIS ENGLISH WAS BROKEN, BUT CLEARLY RECEIVED
YET, HOW COULD I BEST EXPLAIN WHAT I BELIEVED
THE ANSWER I GAVE TO THIS QUESTIONABLE TASK
SURPRISED HIM ACCORDING TO WHAT HE HAD ASKED
I SAID, “AN AMERICAN SOLDIER WAS MORE….
THAN SOMEONE ENLISTED OR SENT OFF TO SHORE”
“AN AMERICAN SOLDIER HAS MORE TO BE SEEN….
THAN A MAN OR A WOMAN IN CAMOUFLAGE GREEN”
HIS QUESTION HAD MADE ME LOOK DEEPER WITHIN
BECOMING AWARE OF HOW BLESSED I HAD BEEN
I POINTED MY FINGER AROUND SO HE’D SEE
THAT ALL THOSE AROUND US WE’RE SOLDIERS TO ME
INCLUDING THAT SMALL CHILD NEXT DOOR PLAYING BALL
THAT PERSON SALUTING THE FLAG STANDING TALL
THAT FATHER AND SON OUTSIDE PLAYING TOGETHER
THAT MOTHER AND DAUGHTER EMBRACING EACH OTHER
THAT DOCTOR OR NURSE SHOWING CARE TO THE ILL
THAT ELDERLY VETERAN-QUIET AND STILL
THAT CASE WORKER HELPING THOSE WITH SPECIAL NEEDS
THAT MINISTER PRAYING FOR ALL TO BELIEVE
THAT BANKER AND POSTMAN WHO WORKS ALL DAY LONG
THAT ARTIST AND SINGER WHO PAINTS US A SONG
THAT SINGLE MOM DOING THE BEST THAT SHE COULD
THAT TEEN WHO CONTINUES TO LIVE LIKE HE SHOULD
THAT AMERICAN IMMIGRANT LEGALLY HERE
THAT MAN IN HIS WHEELCHAIR YEAR AFTER YEAR
THAT PROTESTER MARCHING AND SHOUTING HIS VIEWS
THAT SPOKESPERSON GIVING THE SIX O’CLOCK NEWS
THAT CHRISTIAN WHO’S KNEELING AND PRAYING ALONE
THAT MOTHER OR WIFE WORKING DAILY AT HOME
THAT WOMAN WITH CANCER IS ALSO A FIGHTER
THAT WIDOW WHO CLINGS TO HER MEMORIES TIGHTER
THAT MERCHANT THAT SELLS US OUR FOOD AND OUR OIL
THAT CHILD BEING BORN ON AMERICAN SOIL
THEY ALL ARE AMERICANS DOING THEIR PART
AND IN SOME SMALL WAY THEY ARE SOLDIERS AT HEART
I ENDED MY TALK BECAUSE HOW HE WAS STARING
AS IF WITH CONFUSION AT WHAT I WAS SHARING
HE THEN, IN HIS CUSTOM, STOOD STRAIGHT WHILE HE NODDED
LOOKED AT ME AND QUIETLY-SOFTLY APPLAUDED
I THEN SHED A TEAR WHEN HE SPOKE THIS TO ME
“AN AMERICAN SOLDIER IN YOU I CAN SEE”
HE WALKED AWAY AND APPEARED TO HAVE FOUND CLOSURE
WHILE I STOOD THERE PRAISING GOD FOR THE REAL SOLDIER
THAT REAL ONES NOW SERVING RIGHT HERE AND ABROAD
I STAND AND SALUTE YOU AND LOUDLY APPLAUD
TO THOSE WHO ARE SERVING AND THOSE WHO HAVE DIED
FOR THOSE WHO ONCE SERVED AND REMEMBER WITH PRIDE
THE STRUGGLES OF WAR TO KEEP FREEDOM WON’T CEASE
FOR FREEDOM EXIST WHILE YOU FIGHT TO BRING PEACE
BECAUSE OF YOUR SACRIFICE GIVEN EACH DAY
I’M ABLE TO LIVE IN THIS GREAT U.S.A
THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE IS WHAT SHINES IN YOUR EYES
Copyright © gregory boyer | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Rhoda Monihan | Details |
Kitted out with a uniform, I felt the part,
But the deesire inside is always the art;
I was enlisted as a pilot under training,
And inoculated, vaccinated in yearning.
The medical exam asserted no divinity,
And taught us about our own humanity;
I passed it with flying colours, no probs,
And had confidence in my muscular hobs.
I reported to the Babbacombe squadron,
Lectured to so I took full notes to go on,
On morse, navigation, given a maths gut,
Had to march at 140 paces per minute.
I haven’t stopped talking about the PT,
The physical training that so let me be,
The food, the pilchards, were supplied,
In small, easy open tins for the ride.
I eventually was sent down to Winslow,
Where I learned I’d been selected, quo,
To be trained as a pilot in America,
I could smell it as I saw the panorama.
I got my greys in Toronto, ’twas neutral,
Located in Atlanta, Georgia, my enthrawl,
Where, although wearing civilian disguise,
Were welcomed with cookies and pies.
It was dangerous to live, so if we ever,
Left the base we wore a civilian collar,
But the food was magnificent as gold,
Fried chicken and pumpkin pie to enfold.
I noted with queasiness their last names,
Many of germanic derivation, no games,
But I just got used to it and settled down,
‘Cos it warmed to see the Nazi’s thrown.
We flew with the seat of our pants fine,
Had theory exams but did for some pine;
Accidents do happen, that was expected,
Their deaths no easier than those contested.
Our Meteorology Officer did always pacify,
And after Primary Training for t did classify;
We all moved to Cockrane Field Macon,
For Service Flying Training to button.
Basic Training complete, we found Dothan,
With American Wings we were in the pan,
We returned to Bournemouth as Navvies,
And became instructors with many savvies.
Passed through Gloucestershire to Inverness,
Then Greenham Common nonetheless,
Then posted to France Polish Squadron,
Flying low behind enemy lines, not done.
I was shot down and captured sadly,
Interrogated and taken to die cruelly,
But after liberation became an officer,
In France, where I found out the abuser.
They gave me medals, the Polish nation,
For being at my post, manning the station -
The Polish Gold Cross of Merit, First Class,
And the Polish Air Medal of sparkling brass.
For Remembrance Day 2015
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Robert William Gruhn | Details |
Below is my original post from 2 weeks ago, President Obama has
announced that VA Secretary Shinseki has resigned "voluntarily" from
his position, but let's face the fact the President fired him behind closed doors
so that Shinseki could save face and save Obama from more embarrassment.
Yet, this resignation does not relieve the President from his personal responsibility
for the deaths of these veterans, and in his statements today he did not personally
apologize and ask forgiveness from the families of the dead veterans, this whole situation is criminal, instead, he just railed on about how
wonderful Shinseki was, how much more disgusting can this get? Obama thinks he can just fire the Captain of the sinking ship
and everything will be OK? These crimes against veterans have been blatantly ignored for over 5 years now, and when it comes down to
who is ultimately responsible? Well, Mr. Commander-In-Chief, as Harry Truman said "the buck stops at the President's desk", so you need
only to look in the mirror to see who needs to accept full responsibility for this tragic VA disaster! Mr. President, as you know, my father Albin was President for 36 years of the California AFL-CIO, and before he passed away in 2009 he was a big supporter of your 2008 Presidential Campaign, and I can tell you now, he would be so disappointed with you on this VA debacle. He was not just my father, he was my best friend, and one of the finest human beings I have ever known, let alone probably the greatest champion of all workers in the USA and the world, and I know he would ask you now to take immediate and decisive action to prevent anymore of these terrible acts of neglect to our brave veteran heroes!
Very truly yours,
Robert William Gruhn
(posted 05/15/14) Here Lies Veterans Administration Washington D.C. 2014
This government bureau and its chief secretary Shinseki refusing responsibility.
40 Arizona veterans died while on shameful death waiting list.
Chief saying he's "MAD AS HELL", to senate hearing then doing nothing.
Well, Mr. President, its time to fire your VA chief and apologize for this failure.
These brave veterans have been allowed to die needlessly while on your watch.
You need to get a spine and do what it takes to save any more VETS from this horror.
So, Mr. Commander in Chief Obama, please show us you truly are our LEADER.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn A.R.R.
Copyright © Robert William Gruhn | Year Posted 2014
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)
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Shanity Rain | Details |
America the Free ~ America the Brave ~
Freedom with price Capitalism attacked
the many taken hearts broken still
one World try to rebuild
sadness and tears fall hard with fears
guilt by association many accused still
souls evaporated shattered dreams
tears fall on innocence left with anger
The proud fearless knew the inevitable
policeman fireman many lives lost
grieving does not stop 12 years later
New York city once proud & shameless
refusing to let fears in protecting ours
left in shock still question's unanswered
nothing learned nothing gained
ready to attack many left behind
anger greets denial anger meets rage
unacceptable still refusing new love
wanting days to rewind let us go back in time
acceptance allowing the victims leave in peace
the brave taken young leaving us sadly old
haunting dreams lost spirits dwell
no answers to hate never forgetting that day
Evil entered suddenly unforgiving fate
entering our City we stand with the fallen
How to fix how do we Change
This can be read many different ways ~ This is a poem I am so proud to write ~
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013