Allow me to be disgusted at the jest
and your halfway happy surprise at the end result
of the missile timed precisely:
Did he just splatter?
And allow me to feel the brunt of the bruising
upon my saddened heart, where for others was felt,
from laughing hard.
Yes, all lives matter
Even the ones who don't bear
our national colors
our political expectations no matter how wrong or right
For just this occasion let us get back to basics:
That was a human
ten fingers and ten toes
perhaps a wife and family to call his own
but do you even know?
Or even care to think
beyond the face of it?
Getting kicks at watching the Live Leaks
of people being blown to smithereens It bothers me
That one should find it amusing
Does it bother You?
---a single tear of blue
is all I'm asking---
Who he was or what he did
what difference does it make?
When life closes the lid
all we have is the acknowledgement:
That was a human A human
What if those pixels on the screen
were all that was left of that man's memory
would you still find it funny?
And yet still we turn to Facebook Enlightenment
with quotations that decorate a sniper in a holy moment ---
"And oh God. One more thing.
Ignore my enemies heathen prayers
and help me send those bastards
straight to hell.
(The amount of "likes" are disheartening
and should be a sin.
Where's the "vomit button" ... ?)
Reading through the comment's section,
like poetry for the juvenile,
and the criminally insane.
No Alka Seltzer No pills
I'm riding this crazy train unprotected
as if I'm dying for a thrill.
Dying ... at the very least.
Queasy at the vertigo of a nation
acting to love and loving to act
they want their plot back)
And have you read empathy such as this?
ROFL, mate! That's classic!
(you have a doggie bag on ya, by chance?
I think I'm gonna be sick)
That was a human
And you call yourself a Man of God?
Yet still feel compelled
to pull back His Grace to your own ends
... that slippery tide
between your fingers
As if infinity could only be stretched so far;
it won't last long my friend,
before you look into that celestial mirror
scared at what you see
Is that me?
Yet still you wear that outpouring of love
on your neck like a trophy
as if you even deserved it.
a single tear of blue just one
can you give it to me, son?
t h a t w a s a h u m a n
And do you even care?
Does it phase you in the slightest?
Or does a coat of arms
give you further reason to divide?
Jesus died for all For all
All that upheld the American flag
as equal to His words.
All who marched to the beat of the drums
drowning out the birds.
All who bravely proclaimed: We are Heading to War!
We are Heading to War!
And all those who never asked: And what for? What for?
Do you feel its beating on your soul?
S h o u l d
I t a l k
s l o w?
(the unwritten verses
you added long ago)
It doesn't even matter now,
because all that remains
is what's been left on the page.
All that remains...
Just four sad words
like hopeless sand
slipping through my fingers
That was a human (or at least it was)
Before Man forgot what he had,
Believing he could do better,
Egging the Almighty to play his game
... back to the drawing board, smirked the Creation
And what about you, Dear Reader?
What will the eulogizer speak
in your honor
when the lights out?
That was a monster
He won't bother you now
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
Father of all bombs when dropped
five times greater than the mother
Where a fallen angel's dance begins
fornicating with matter darkening subjects
through and through dimensions opening a porthole
Acting a tough guy with your orange face
shows little wit as one peace maker
gives a bloody nose to politics to say the least
To this sinful act of heresy that's displayed under lies
in provoking war with the show of strength and power
Blind becomes your weakness
Takes more than courage to grow a backbone
to be humble aggression is by deeds done
under one sign of weakness shows where the insecurity dwells
co written by Liam and Bobby McDaid
our joint opinion on a certain matter our world has become filled with evil slave masters rising to power under mass human sacrifice
Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2017
A young man carrying a green duffel bag
over his shoulder shifts when he walks.
Off to war for our country and flag.
No military knowledge with little talk.
Enemy troops marched across the bridge,
with tanks, and hundreds of machine guns led.
As he sat dug in along and across the ridge,
bullets were zipping right over his head.
The dawn of the morning across the glen;
a plan was thought, bargain it was, the loss
of two companies to stop a million men
and ten thousand vehicles from getting across
Pop, pop pop, of distant sounds and then more,
trading volleys of gunfire with blood and gore
A friend gets killed and he dies to the core,
trembling with raging fire. A Casualty of war
Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2017
I envy the dust, the way it moves all free and careless,
released from it’s sleeping state the thunderous pounds
of late shelling, again endless.
Muffled shouting, through this trench confounding,
Mustard attack, gas mask aside, fingers in fumbling fight
bitter cold night in a field.
No fireside, food to bite
cigarettes to smoke and mates to joke.
last one gone two days ago up one minute then vanished in a puff of smoke.
this place is beyond reality, it’s beyond insanity
fighting for earth no mother walked nor father built.
If they want to fight then bring it to my hills, not this flat wasteland of mud, blood, bones and chills.
We were thrown into this bloody war,
and we wont have our say, like we've never had before.
Taken to the slaughter history will say,
throwing ourselves forward like tidal-waves.
Waves on waves of sacrificial lunacy again and again.
we've taken little ground and this other trench looks bad, worse than ours
doesn't looked heavily manned looks like we lost more man.
What do we gain now? apart from more time in thought.
those withered layers of rotting feverish flesh, one part is fresh
the other pure dread.
captain is shouting, up on my legs
what’s going on...conscious or dead?
Copyright © Paul K K | Year Posted 2016
Carrying with me a
halfhearted smile for the
braver men than I.
The men holding tightly
to past perceptions,
live or die.
Suppose I whispered to 'em
what I've heard through
the metaphorical grapevines.
Suppose I lent a hand.
Would they take it as an opposition,
a criticism perhaps?
Carrying with me the burden of
a thousand dark secrets
and I can't even talk about it.
In the midst of a patriotic funeral.
In the midst of a best friend itching to climb
the first military branch he can find.
To join forces with the Yes Sir, No Sir mentality.
To ride shotgun with the
Everything You Tell Me is True assumption.
And so who am I to question it...
the lowly pawn of this game?
Instead I did nothing
letting it all burst into silent flame
As Open Rebuke gave way
to Secret Love
We said goodbye to the
Olive Branch and the Dove
What exactly are we doing
when we label justifications
to the lapels of the handmade uniforms,
"I will fight for YOUR nation
with a willingness to lay down my life
for a higher cause."
Yeah, freedom isn't free,
but it for sure ain't what it used to be...
Before technology wrapped
it's all encompassing fingers
around society, indeed the tables were turned.
If hostile takeover was your ultimate goal
you didn't need hundreds of thousands of men
fighting for you with heart and soul.
With blades shining, horses galloping,
and sieges laying waste to the villages.
Because of our Lightning Bolt Communication,
and our undying trust for the Order of Things.
Because of our Technological Overkill,
and our eagerness to unravel
the Tapestries of Our Existence.
Because we climbed too damn far this time,
unaware and uncaring of what was Left Behind.
Yeah, you don't need massive armies for your hostile takeover.
Just a few precious people in key positions,
commanding the grunts below you,
with a single pinpointed destiny to DESTROY!
"Yes sir, no sir! We fight for the Good of Humanity, sir!"
But what in the world do I know?
Lacking field experience,
bathing in the never-ending shower
I still carry with me that halfhearted smile;
that relentless indifference for the men
living and dying for the sake of me.
For those that fight for a time way back when
that no longer exists.
I still meander through the metaphorical grapevines,
both craving and hating at what I might find.
Cause I know most won't comprehend it.
I'll be the Judge, the Critic and the Enemy.
I won't dare express such hopeless negativity.
I'll carry with me the burden
of a thousand dark secrets... cause no one is ready
to accept Truth's hand.
I'll keep it to myself and no one else because everyone knows....
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013
Parents so proud
Four sons they raised
From the Highlands of Scotland
In the pre-war days
On their crofts they worked
Morning till night
Unknown to them then
Of a future fight
The Germans have invaded
A country so free
Poland was taken
The world shaken visually
Britain declares war
As our men enlist
To rid the enemy
As the fighting shifts
In a feverish war
Many are dying
To comprehend what for
The four brothers
Sign up to fight
As a mother will pray
Campaigns they fight
In these theatres of war
Never seen before
In their garden at home
On the family crofts
A bed of roses
With petals so soft
Then one day
With a passing glance
A pink rose dripping red
In deathly stance
Their mother turns
To the gate she looks
Telegram in hand
From the postman she took
With trembling hands
She opens with care
Upon reading the message
In tear laden stare
Their eldest son
In Africa was lost
As many many others
Deaths global cost
As she passes the rose
It's pink petals bloom
Her tomorrow's fear grows
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2014
The night shone for the full moon,
Sky brewing a coarse monsoon,
Bolted were windows, locked were doors,
The frequency of death frighteningly soared.
But who was this infant high upon the hill?
He denied the storm and just stood stone still,
Eyes shut like blinds and fingers dug into ground,
Felt he could move no muscle, for was sadly street bound.
Shutting his eyes, arms wrapped tight round
His skinny body, battered and browned
Praying for the sake of friends, family and all
However imaginary, he imagined them call
“Boy, come to us we love you most”
“Our love for you is bigger than the Canadian coast”
“Do not cry, remember our love”
Joining their gaze in the beyond above,
He softly mumbled a song to forget,
The once daily song that was always a duet,
Alone on that hill without any feel,
Of an afterlife he finally accepted, wasn’t real
Tears met the floor, now bathed in yellow light,
As lightning struck him too quick to fright,
Child lay on the floor, dismembered and black,
Though his mouth was smiling and his happiness had come back,
As re-joined with family, head held high,
He waved his tortured existence goodbye.
Hugging his mum and his dad the same,
Somehow put an end to the incessant rain,
The natives emerged from their homes, safe and sound,
The boy crying for happiness at the new life he had found.
Soul peering at his body, dead at age eleven,
Holding family’s hands they could finally pass on and join heaven.
The touch of their skin brought old emotion,
Parents who were torn betwixt war and devotion,
A child whom they gave their best shot,
By train to board and bomb to not.
The grave of the boy with the electric crown,
Who carried a burden he couldn’t live down,
Stood proud in the yard of cobbles and stones,
For everyone knew those were a heroes bones,
When you look into the sky on a stormy night,
Remind yourself of the boy’s plight.
As he is the clouds that damper weather,
Out to protect his town, children altogether,
He wanted a life for them around,
That didn’t consist of being mentally wound,
A life that he could never possess,
But he did not bathe in spiralling depress.
Life is sacred, upon that hill,
Those cobbles and stones bring great goodwill,
For the sun only shines on that grassy land,
Still holding marks of the boy’s humble hand,
Some say that the yearly rain,
Is him up above, the tears of a chain.
The chain of the tears shed on that night,
Of the fear and happiness’ conventional recite,
Up above, being tucked under the covers,
Is a little boy with an injury he recovers,
Mother kisses his head and says her goodnight,
Father over bed, comforting a nightmare fright.
Drifting off, the boy could hear,
A little rhyme to calm his fear,
“Boy, come to us we love you most”
“Our love for you is bigger than the Canadian coast”
“Do not cry remember our love-“
The young man rose slowly in his bed,
Opened his eyes and smiled as he said
Copyright © Nichola Vincent | Year Posted 2014
Some said they lost all hope;
Some did, you saw it in their eyes:
That little light
That shines so bright
Became dull and disappeared.
Some became bitter, some wise,
Some couldn't cope.
That small white
Flicker, once bright,
Slowly went out.
So often that is what I see
In eyes, even on TV,
and I recognise,
For I was there.
I was where
I did despise
What back then became of me.
With everything taken away,
Including your humanity,
And nothing remains
But empty shell,
And too tired for complaints.
This terrible insanity
Of war, how some people play
With others as if simple pawns
On a chess board.
With hands high,
To move at will.
I still have no reply,
And have no vocal chords
Left to speak up... When will it dawn
On them we're human entities!
Where oh where is my identity...
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
There's more to life than living
Its all about the love & kindness to others given.
We are born as one not as two
So who you become is upto only you.
We will meet with others along lifes way
& how we treat them is how kindness will repay.
Before the lord when in death we do become
Where we will meet pure judgment in deaths succumb.
So remember in life to be your best
Even so when you are put to its hardest tests.
For you shall reap in all you so
When to your graves your buried 6ft below.
This is wherr your body remains
But your spirit rises into the heavens where its
Copyright © | Year Posted 2016
The Old Salt was a special man who came along in a time
when he was needed most.
A time that is now gone forever.
When men believed and sacrificed, when hero’s walked the earth in mass.
When patriotism was not just a word
by what men lived and judged the worth of each,
a man who lived a life most of us cannot comprehend.
An era now gone as this warriors tour of duty ends at this station,
and begins anew in the heavenly fleet.
Sail on Sailor into your unaccompanied tour,
we salute you.
What greater honor, that when a man moves forward,
he leaves behind in each of us the best of what he was.
A defender, protector, supporter, victor, a warrior,
the last of the breed from an era when ships were made of wood
and men were made of steel.
The Old Salt has reported for duty that takes him away from us for now.
Those of us who remain behind,
remember, and will continue to remember,
because he now resides forever in our hearts.
As I look up at night, I envision The Old Salt,
a beret draped just above the eye,
as he draws upon his pipe,
quietly he waits.
The guardian of heaven’s gate.
Copyright © Mac McGovern | Year Posted 2010
Fifteen fabulous flapping flags for freedom flew
Fifty fine folks for freedom fought far
Flying fifteen fabulous flapping flags
Fifty fine folks facing freedom fearlessly fought.
Dorian Petersen Potter
Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2015
…the barred and sealed cattle wagons
at the Konzentrazionslager
the faux pas relief
from urine mud faeces sweat and tears
unkempt armpits buttocks best wear
turned to damp rags
reduced to moaning cattle
even the heifer wan straggly limp
…the last quick dab of face powder
the lipstick dried blood tan
the felt hat lying soggy stained
through bellowed haste
on the mudcaked barrack floor
the wampumpeag plucked by the helmeted claw
stabbing on sole-cold cutting cement platform
averting glances on sapped sagging busts
shoulders hunched buckled in
fingers reaching to scratch loins
whose the naughty stench
then the trooped Indian file
stray belongings dumped
in a wasteproduct pile
the once highheeled gait
slumping to a side
from the hips down to a jaggedknee limp
prodding the miasmal mist
the exposed varicose veins
the knotty pubis
the mons veneris
the intimate warts and moles
last year’s Ceasarian stitches
the rump twitched less
the lack lustre sentry gazes
the unmasked leer
the disdainful pursed lips
neither shame nor pudeur
and then the last gangway to nowhere
the Ave-Maria road to Himmelweg
From the privately pub. coll. (re-worked 2016): longhand notes ( a binding of poems), 1999, 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 1999/2016
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
It is not in parades or days
We find the fitting honors.
It is not in displays or ways
We bring our veterans praise.
The highest honors silence knows;
In hearts and eyes and poses.
In hearts that burst with gratitude
And eyes where weeping flows.
In poses where the comrade stands
Stretched tall in firm salute.
They honor others with their hands
Without a word, stand resolute.
In silence lift our veterans.
In honor, stop and remember when
A father, mother, son or daughter
Gave themselves for the brethren.
Silence comes and calls: “at ease”
And comforts loved ones lost.
We too find solace and reprieve
While heaven cares for these.
Copyright © Tom Valles | Year Posted 2015
subtract us humans
but then comes along,
common sense approach
find him alive,
send this boy home
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2016
Spirit broken again
Her spirit was broken again
as the police broke the news!
Her beloved Enrique had just been killed
shot three times,
caught in the crossfire of gang violence
in Toronto's west side.
Helena,35, now was left hopeless, and in despair
how could she care for her 3 children?
You see, Helena was a refugee from war torn Syria. Sadly, she had lost both of her parents about 2years ago, they died when an artillery shell blasted their little apartment in Aleppo. At least they died together in their sleep.
Helena was crushed, obviously,
by the sudden news,
and her spirit was broken.
Her husband, Enrique who was in a settlement camp in Germany, called with the news that he qualified for refugee status and the whole family could start a new life in Canada.
Elated, Helena picked up,
all the little pieces of her broken heart and spirit,
and what was left of her family, and headed for Canada.
Helena and Enrique were so excited to have finished their English course, and Enrique had been working for two months, at a food distribution center in
Brampton. Their new life together as a family had just got started and then this tragedy! Helena was watching the news of a tragic shooting never imagining that it was her husband, who was killed...and then the knock at the door!
God help her!
John Derek Hamilton
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2016
Antipoetic cricket : chalkup the scoreboard
for the Belgium blast victims
if it ain’t this
each gimmick’s a trick
lemme ge’ at ‘im
he go’ oneon me
is one down
for the side
if it ain’t for this
who’d not bowl from the other end
someun’s go’ to bat
someun’s go’ to bat
the score must go on board
the ducks and duck-breakers alike cannot hide
the innings defeat comes after one side fields twice
it ain’t cricket to chalk up a draw
rain or no reign
August 3, 1997 (re-worked from the collection : longhand notes, 1999) © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
Special Action Force, “By Skills and Virtue, We Triumph”....
Hail to you heroes who fought until their last breath!
No fear to face the awaiting door of death.
As you defend and secure our Motherland especially the youth.
At the hour of battle field you gave your best,
As you tactically crawled only to range the said target.
Mike 1, Bingo! Mission accomplished you eliminate the terrorist.
You save not only the innocent citizenry but the whole state.
But at the time of extraction, treacherous rebels pop-out,
From nowhere they came to destroy you mercilessly.
Quite heartbreaking that reinforcement you shout!
But nobody came as you expected them desperately.
We are not callous how you feel that very tragic moment,
When everyone of you is running out of bullet...
When each of you wanted to hear the voices of your love ones in your lowest...
When you brave troopers stand still even blood spurting out and you just fight!
You are but the true heroes that will never been forgotten,
The warriors of elite force that every Filipino now proven.
Betrayal is such a torment, but SAF Family will tactfully proceed,
Because you fallen 44 heroes deserved JUSTICE in the end.
A special breed of men like you will never just die nor fade away,
But like a TAGALIGTAS logo you will be a world significant.
Indeed, you just leave a good trace in the Philippine history,
Salute to all of you fallen 44 SAF heroes and to all full blooded SAF!
MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU!!!
Copyright © Juliet Nicol | Year Posted 2016
(about the two wars)
I gave my life for you,
My grit was your prosperity,
So that you could do.
I swallowed at the task,
Girded myself bravely,
Prepared to have a mask.
When self-awareness engulfed,
And loneliness overcame,
Determination was loved.
I fought a man every time,
I faced the thwarting enemy,
No easy game of mine.
I strove to either succeed,
Or to sacrifice my everything,
But the opposition to impede.
I thought of family and you,
Freedom and liberty,
And the rightness of the two.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015
Memorial Day 2000
Those Left Standing
Written: by Tom Wright
Fashioned of assorted granite stone,
As if in manicured rows;
To friends and loved one's gone,
Their numbers uncontrollable,
For each year it always grows.
Oft times from deep in solitude,
In sadness, I'm reminded,
And at mere sight
Of one small flag;
I swell with pride
And oft by tears am blinded.
Desperately trying in my spirit,
Not to brag.
I, in deepest thought,
On this 2000 Memorial Day,
Am silently taken back
To the place of Flanders Field,
Where neat white crosses
Stand by the way,
As if cloned, among red poppies,
It's only living yield.
I see a Moving Wall
Meticulously chiseled in granite black;
Bearing Viet Nam casualties,
Each, remembered by name;
I think of those yet living,
And about their lack;
As for their treatment,
We all must share some blame.
Once forced to fight a war.
Said by many,
To have been unjust;.
But duty bound to country,
In that land afar,
In God's hands,
Put their lives and trust.
To those of Desert Storm
Having experienced combat days,
I shall endeavor to remember
Those who fell,
Yet baring scars of war in another way;
Those haunted by tormented faces,
Scud Missiles and deaths smell.
Hero's who served,
And gallantly died;
To those I cannot express,
The trappings of my heart;
To those who served,
And returned with pride
Let thanks, gratitude and prayers,
Be my humble start.
Copyright © Tom Wright | Year Posted 2015
How has it dawn on us so soon when we hadn’t even achieved much?
Why has the marketplace ceased to buy and sell so scanty the streets wither away
The clouds becomes more darkened as smokes ascend randomly our fields are on fire
We can feel the rain but it has lost its coldness
I hear more voices than I usually heard
This time of crying and wailing rather than chatting and hailing
chanting and singing songs of war
Dust and gun powders like fog fill the air,
with great rumble the battle rages
The long night tarry on nobody has awakened
Some privileged to pass on to the other side
Total transmission from what we see now
Carcasses litter the streets as we run from pillar to post
Yet not so sure where the lot may fall
Great assets lost in hot zones, they shouldn’t have taken the guns,
Gravesides more frequent than bedsides
When did we become such serious foes?
That tears can’t seem to mend?
We let our children die by our own hands and still squeeze our sorry faces
How valuable is this trophy, hope it’s worth the pains we are feeling now?
We match in battalions, onward we go
Faces brimming with boldness and courage,
Though fear still takes its partition
We leave behind loved ones not so sure,
like walking into the lions cave to kill or be killed
Jumping over strip wires, nice try
Only to step on landmines
A time to team up with death taking from one end
While it continues from the other side in its own way
Orphans, widows and widowers we make at will that which we had once pitied
What caused this sudden change?
So unfortunate many fighting ignorantly yet arrogantly
Now we pull down our once fancied walls to build more refugee camps and fill them
We overstretching science and make of men expendables
A time we show how much we can take
What we depict now is wickedness rather than strength
In this game
Copyright © victor nwakanma | Year Posted 2015
Untimely death, why come so near
To taunt my soul with mortal fear.
I cannot go – so unprepared
So full of life and yet so scared.
The world’s held nothing for me but strife
And yet, O god, I cling to life.
A fatherless boy in a Gorbals slum
Who owes his being to a tot of rum.
The industrial school with its air of blame,
The endless fight to renounce its shame.
And then the slump with its hunger march
That swept its way to Admiralty Arch.
The years of depression without any hope
With nothing to do but sit and mope.
The look of misery in the children’s eyes
With nothing to offer but bread and lies.
The relief of war and work at last
A future for those who had no past.
Must I lose it now, with scarce a taste
Of the honeyed joy in the desert waste;
Must the death knell come as my life began
To a forgotten link in the chain of man?
Copyright © May Fenn | Year Posted 2015
It appeared on the doorpost as a Cyclops' smiley face
For some Cyclops WhatsApp icon, but red-themed application
Yes gruesome red, in contrast to the expectation
You would get from a smiley face, even for a Cyclops.
It quizzed my curiosity and I dug further on Google’s interface.
It appeared on the search page as the queen Isis,
Long told in Hieroglyphics, Cyrillic and Roman alphabet,
Patroness, mother, queen, blessings with love met,
But unlike these grim Arabic script in an ominous logo,
And tales of death, pain littered with deeper crises
It told of “nuun”, 14th letter of a blessed script
In which many beautiful and wise thoughts found life,
A letter which told of blessing and not of strife
Being in a position multiple of seven, a number blessed
By God Himself when he Earth and Heaven in 7 breaths whipped
It told of the Magen David, a shining star, which should be a good thing
Only that it brings memories of gaunt bodies piled in trucks
And human experimentation, and as history at our door knocks
And Isis or Isil opens to let in what we dread most
“Nuun” is stuck in my iris with pain and scary sting.
For I have seen the blank stare of heads painting in red drips the pickets
And Leonidas’ 300-style gore re-enacted in modern city streets
As heads are divorced from bodies and all around are scared heartbeats
For even bloodied child clothes cover head-less bodies,
As Christians are beheaded like one would roast crickets.
It brings back memories of my ancestors up in the Samba regions,
Fleeing the harsh choice given to them by the jihadists:
To adorn the village picket or join the cause of the Islamist,
Forced to create a third choice, which was to leave their homes,
Friends and family to pseudo-Islam or lurid lethal lesions.
Is it that time again for Iraqi Christians?
Shall the world once again watch the Red Indians’,Tutsis’, and Jews’
Story take gruesome form and hack through human sinews?
How many litres of innocent blood, and kilogrammes of hacked Christian flesh
Are needed to realise the vanity in the life of Homo sapiens?
Copyright © Nyonglema Pisoh | Year Posted 2014
His parents didn't condone the viewing of
The Twilight Zone. A bunch of silly nonsense,
his dad would claim. What was Rod Serling's aim,
writing and directing such fantasy induced flimflam?
Much to my good friend Sam's bemusement, after he
burned the tapes just days short of being too late for
relevance. Right there on front pages news was an
article about the red, white and blue's devotion to
maintaining world peace.
(It’s the thought that counts at the very least!)
"War on terrorism strikes yet again we are
sending thousands more men. Please, let us pray
they get shipped back breathing, but if not let's not
waste precious time grieving. We still must teach those
Arabs to be civil and decent. Come on down, my fellow
Americans, it's a family event!"
And thus I reminisce the speech from The Obsolete Man,
back when tyranny was a ghost story, to be told around a campfire,
late at night, "Don't fret my children. It's only a story—
everything will be alright!". Serling's famous quote was the following note.
(with a few polishing touch-ups),
"You are about to enter a world that has one iron rule;
logic is an enemy and truth is a menace. This was
Mr. Timothy Hicks, in his last 48 hours here on earth.
He is a citizen of the state but will soon be eliminated,
because he is built out of flesh, and because he has a mind.
Mr. Timothy Hicks, who will draw his last breaths, in
the Reality Zone."
NOTE: The speech at the end is from the episode, The Obsolete Man, of The Twilight Zone (I just replaced Romney Wordsworth with my own name). If you haven't already watched it, it's an awesome episode!... I'm a huge fan of The Twilight Zone, however...
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013
The detail lowered the colors:
That weathered flag with stripes and stars,
That had crossed so many borders
In declared and undeclared wars.
Young soldiers debark for glories.
The detail lowered the colors.
Old survivors tell their stories
Of comrades who died in valor.
We refused to doubt their honors,
Though causes have been disputed.
The detail lowered the colors,
While veterans were saluted.
To the widows, kind words were said.
The rifle squads rendered honors,
Then respectfully Taps were played.
The detail lowered the colors.
20140625. Note--'colors' means not only shades and tints of frequencies of light, but also refers to to a national flag in a military formation.
Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2014
I do not know?
I've walked up and down the rows; skipped a few, then went back to look
Since I was seven, this ritual continues; A routine going on more than 51 years
A sad silence as I look across the grounds, always the rush of tears
As I read each name, I wonder who they were; what their story was
A World War II Veteran, a mother, father, grandparents, daughter or son
A teenager on the brink of life, an innocent baby with life just begun
Some headstones are neglected, no flowers or sign of care
Everyone wants to be remembered; not forgotten like the release of a dove
Some graves have monuments as a tribute; to show the endless love
I say a prayer for those gone before me; brother, sister, parents, aunt and others
A whisper soft breeze moves my hair, a gentle presence that doesn't last long
I think of this fleeting brief life; We're here for a moment... and then we are gone
A peaceful feeling surrounds me as I recall precious memories, happy times
I place the flowers down and turn my back to walk away
I whisper my promise to come back again, another time, another day
Copyright © Margi Spurgeon | Year Posted 2014
Your tragedy interrupted my heart's song
Not a single word of joy can pronounce
Hundreds are your innocent victims that fell
Time must it take off, your attackers to denounce!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
14 November 2015
PARIS —A series of attacks targeting young concert-goers, soccer fans and Parisians enjoying a Friday night out at popular nightspots killed at least 150 and injured more than two hundred people in the deadliest violence to strike France since World War II. President Francois Hollande condemned it as terrorism and pledged that France would stand firm against its foes.
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2015
A moth to the heart of the light, flamed
A memory semi-precious, almost alive
A random arced flight of a bullet not aimed
A gymnastic crimson misted dusty dive.
An event striking elsewhere, a country un-named
His memories stop, awards to come; cease,
Mass shock, horror, and politics blamed
Kind words at his funeral, sandwiches and teas.
His very last printed picture has a small hole in it,
Then something red…
( Based on an event where a photo-journalist that I knew, was killed in a war )
Copyright © Stuart Ackerman | Year Posted 2015
Our brothers were born upside down
They were conceived by mistake.....and
our fathers choose to call them prodigal
Who would have thought as much?
With their faces beaming with smiles as
their foreheads shone bright with promising future,
There names we never wished to forget because
they made us live reciting it again and again
But they ended up stamped on grave stones just because
they were too obedient to pick up the gun and had gone
Now we wished they weren’t born at all
We wished they hadn’t picked up the gun but run
We wished we were wishes
We wouldn’t have wished war.
Copyright © victor nwakanma | Year Posted 2015
An Old Battlefield , by Frank L. Stanton
The softest whisperings of the scented South,
And rust and roses in the cannon's mouth;
And, where the thunders of the fight were born,
The wind's sweet tenor in the standing corn;
With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam,
And blue skies bending over love and home.
But still the thought: Somewhere,-upon the hills,
Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills,
Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat
For the loved sound of unreturning feet,
And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave,
Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave!
Frank L. Stanton
My tribute below, to this great man and his fine poem
Where Now Sings The Sweetest Morning Lark
The morning dew falls upon the ground
precious soil, where blood was laid down
Fine men, hearty soldiers one and all
upon this battlefield they did bravely fall
Silence now , no loud cannons booming out
no screaming in an agonizing painful shout
Bullets once whizzed onward to hit their mark
where now sings the sweetest morning lark
Morning mists now wrap the towering hills
where war took so many with senseless kills
Courage so true, could still save no man
not if cruelest Fate had a different plan
Death raced about in the air with glee
sad was every blood soaked dying plea
Of brave men that fought and valiantly died
leaving behind family that forever cried
The setting sun casts a saddened glow
on this once bloody soil covered with snow
No victor's glory can ever stand to replace
these fallen that lost their greatest race
No laurels given at that deadly finish line
no great banquet to celebrate and dine
Only quiet and forgotten memories remain
of this great battle and its bloody stain
Robert J. Lindley, 02-12-2015
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015
instead of flowers
stones bloom in mass profusion
engraved with honor…..
history has come to rest
locked in the shadows of time
echoed from the past
the foreboding sound of guns
thunders from the sky...
lamented tears of angels
scatter over sacred ground
far from battlefields,
all creatures mourn the endless
grief still mingles in the breeze
with the sounds of a bugle
Contest: "Even The Angels Wept"
Sponsor: John Lawless
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2016