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
Why do you think my land is yours
because you want to live like me?
What makes you think you can exploit my dreams
just because I live were all are free?
My fathers shed their blood for this,
my brothers, sweat and tears.
But all you see are the rewards-
rewards that belong to my peers!
I toil every single day
so I can pass this culture down.
To those who will not tarnish it,
and sell it out for a crown.
So, why do you think my labor
now was stolen from your hand?
It's sad you live a hopeless life
in your twisted futile land.
You have your home, defend it-
keep your alien culture there.
Too bad you cannot see the ones
that hold you with false prayer.
Your fathers taught you servitude,
your brothers gave you strife-
you cower in your sacred place,
afraid to look at life!
God gives us a will to forge our way
when ancient ways prove vile.
Release the bonds of servitude,
refuse to bear their guile!
Stand and fight the menace
that is your father's creed!
Or live your life in slavery-
for that's what your culture breeds.
"I was angry with my foe; I told it not, my wrath did grow."
William Blake - A Poison Tree
Copyright © Francis J Grasso | Year Posted 2016
Flower in People’s Heart
Remanded just the body
The iron heart will never,
The tip of people's arrow
Flower in heart will blossom
Over the dictators!
USA, 25 Jan 2011
Copyright © Xaysouvanh Phengphong | Year Posted 2014
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
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
David can often be seen hot on the trail,
Of Richard Whitehead, sprinter, runner,
And was reported in Rio de Janero’s mail,
As the 200m bronze medalist, stunner.
He went to St George Catholic College,
Located in Southhampton, that busy port,
Attended Hertfordshire Uni on the page
Of mechanical engineering, to his purport.
But having joined the Army, made officer,
One day he stepped on a hidden IED,
So both his legs were amputated, better,
But he walked in no time, sports to see.
During his rehab at MOD Headley Court,
David found himself by sports enthused,
And got into swimming, basketball’s court,
Also sitting volleyball did find him amused.
After rehabilitation David did a Masters,
In biomedical engineering, at Imperial,
He inquired into an amputee’s masters -
Their prosthetics - he had opinions vocal.
At the Invictus Games he did many sports,
To win the gold in the 200 metres sprint,
And so made the 2015 IPC Euro consorts,
In Doha, Qatar, to bear the UK flag, flint.
The next year in 2016, Euros in Grosseto,
He was clipped to the line by Whitehead,
And so ran in Rio to entertain with gusto,
When he almost fell, but recovered dead.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2016
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
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
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 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
Where wisdom is lacking, the ego is king
Self-deception’s most likely the lay of the land,
A life without boundaries formless like clay,
Without God, all that’s real falls through fingers like sand.
“No God,” precious friend, means the future’s not yours,
And the past, though it’s dear to you, cannot be owned,
The present means nothing if you say it’s earned
Mortal’s souls have no value if they are not loaned.
For Satan’s the prince of those “KNOWING the TRUTH,”
Help us God, not to rest till all fools are expired,
Let’s honor the men who build towers of LOVE,
Give the Nation one voice, “Donald Trump you are fired!”
October 22, 2016
Copyright © Roof Missing | Year Posted 2016
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
At dawn's last light, as taps are played,
the colors are retired.
Thoughts of the sacrifices made
leave me feeling inspired.
I've heard it said "It's just a flag –
no more than cloth that's sewn"
as though it's just a colored rag
forgetting where it's flown.
It saw first light at Prospect Hill
during our nation's birth;
unfurling in the morning chill
over that hallowed earth.
It flew with pride, o'er those, alone,
who never fled the fight;
their valor for this country's shown
in Francis Scott Key's write.
And even in our saddest hour,
the union ripped apart,
it symbolized a higher power
and healed a nation's heart.
In dark days of the world at war,
under a foreign sky,
it epitomized the oath we swore
that freedom would not die.
The tower twins lay side by side,
felled by hate's cruel stroke
and yet our banner flew with pride
above the dust and smoke.
At dawn's last light, I hear taps blow,
the colors are retired.
The words I learned, long years ago,
come forth as if inspired:
"I pledge allegiance to the flag
of the United States of America,
and to the republic for which it stands,
one nation under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all."
Happy 4th of July
Copyright © Ken Johnson | Year Posted 2016
Welcome to our country, my foreign friend.
We're awful glad to have you living here.
Your freedoms now will seem without an end.
If you have suggetions, we'd love to hear.
We've got critics, so we have grown thick skin,
And we know to take the bad with the good.
We've learned to grow by seeing where we've been,
And seeing that our faults are understood.
They said,"Diversify", and so we did -
And found ourselves a complicated bag.
So you can do whatever lifts your lid -
But seriously, just don't burn my flag!
Copyright © Larry Bradfield | Year Posted 2017
Mon amour – Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal’s « My Love » by T. Wignesan
Me posséder ? Non, je ne me permets pas
L’amour que les autres connaissent,
Car j’ai épousé une cause:
Je me prive de tous loisirs de finesse.
Vous voulez me posséder toute entière:
Mon corps, mon âme et mon esprit;
Mon amour est réservé à mon peuple
En premier lieu, et puis l’humanité m’a pris.
L’entité sociale, celle qui désigne mon Moi
J'y ai renoncé depuis des lustres;
Ma vie est vouée au service des autres,
Aucun homme ne peut la ravir en maître.
L’intolérance des blancs m’emprisonne,
Des insultes et le mépris à me contraindre,
Je me dois d’être libre, je me dois d’être forte
Pour pouvoir lutter et les vaincre.
Car il y a des injustices à rectifier,
La malveillance des hommes à supporter,
C’est un long chemin, un parcours de solitaire,
Mais, Oui, le but est sûr et salutaire.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
Shades of Silence maybe unfeeling gray,
Or muted white with no words to say,
Cowering beige or blindfolded pink,
Subdued in denial, unable to think.
Shades of Silence could be deaf green,
Indifferent to the chaos that it has seen,
Uncaring blue or perhaps controlled red,
Dark as black with no tears for the dead.
Shades of Silence in orange maybe
Or in mixed-up brown denying History,
Following like sheep in lemon yellow-
Destroying the past they used to know.
Silence has many colors, but they're not nice.
Speechless and sightless as closed eyes.
Silence to evil colors much of Consent,
Cowardice, Submission, and ultimate Lament.
Copyright © Cynthia Buhain-Baello | Year Posted 2017
in national glory
wearing national flag
on a piece of wood
Copyright © Solomon Ochwo-Oburu | Year Posted 2017
If children ask the question why?
Why do warriors fight and die?
We answer that we are sure
Sure that patriotism beckons us to war
Copyright © Michael Sender | Year Posted 2017
The U.S. has a heritage
Born of might and blood.
I will not disinherit it
For wrongs some fools have done.
I will stand with hand on heart,
For those who fought for me.
I rise devoted as a part
Of a nation proud and free.
Our privilege was paid in full,
So high a cost was tendered.
Some knew crimson-dampened wool;
Others, shrapnel-shredded members.
There is no greater love or act
Than to die for the gain of others.
To leave a home, to defend a pact
Or give all for country and brothers.
So I stand with a broken salute.
I do not sit or kneel.
I weep and tremble, the pain acute
For so many died for me.
Copyright © Tom Valles | Year Posted 2017