Best Foxholes Poems
VETERANS ARE PEOPLE
I fought in the trenches of World War I
In the foxholes of World War II
I was in the Korean Conflict
And the rice paddies of Vietnam too
I've been to Afghanistan
Kuwait and Iraq
Spent long months away from home
I've been to hell and back
But the stars and stripes will forever wave
In honor of those who went to their grave
To ensure that America will always be
The home of the brave and the land of the free
The bells of freedom will continue to ring
All across the USA
And it can be said, without a doubt
Our veterans paved the way
24 August 2018
For the contest sponsored by July Morning
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
While walking through a hospital one day, a veteran I did see
He was in a wheelchair with both legs missing, and he did it for you and me.
I turned around a corner and down another hall
Only for my eyes to behold a family who has lost it all
A five year old cried out,"Why did daddy have to die?"
The mother held her son closer while she greived and began to cry
The mother of that young Marine, who had fought over in Iraqu
Wandered why her son so brave, didn't survive the enemie's attack
The father of that soldier, hung his head to cry
He was a retired soldier himself, why couldn't he have been the one to die?
His heart broken sister, sits in shock and tries to deny
The death of her older brother, he was killed and don't know why
A few days later, a family, everybody all dressed in black
Went to the funeral of a twenty-five year old who too our bullet in Iraq
The Bible says "thou shalt not kill." and "Love your neighbor" too
Maybe our soldiers aren't doing what's right, but they still take your bullet for you
They sleep in foxholes, and eat in trenches, and do all that they know to do
They rest in the sand with no comforts of home and they take your bullet for you
The restless nights turn into days, you wouldn't believe all they go through
THe rest of us sit at home and gripe, and still they take your bullet for you
The next time you hear a 21 gun salute, don't condemn as others do
The next time the taps are being played, remember, they took that bullet for you.
Thanks, Veterans for your sacrifice.
Estranged men caught in their remote dimensionLoving only that, which they can see and touchDigging foxholes to hide their fear of infinityThe concept has always been thereEternity within the hearts of men,yet they can neither see it or feel it naturally,so they clutter their minds, with tangible temporary comfortsOccupying dull imaginations, with darker thoughts of probabilityThe definition of insanity, yet men continue to live and dieChoking on the fruits of their own knowledge,either dissecting humanity with Occam’s razoror pouring double binds upon their own headsbecause seeing is believing, yet belief is the state of mindin which a person thinks something to be the case,with or without there being empirical evidence,so not asking a question, because to them it does not exist,yet with their limited imaginations they have lofty ideas,as energy can neither be created nor destroyedSpending all there of energy on temporal thingsnot considering a simple truth,where will your essence spend eternity
A lonesome boat in the harbor rocks insanity.
Big waves of the black sea roll across the white sands
that fade into darkness for eternity.
Far from the life giving drops of rain are predators
in the city of shadows.
Feelings from the last solem breezes blow.
As the evening sun fades slowly into the night,
the pavement glistens like cracked glass
from the earlier evening rain.
A lack of silence remains.
In the city of shadows,
screaming voices creep in the corner of your mind.
Visions of the garden where the flowers died.
The dark alley reveals the emptiness of peace within your soul,
and death reveals the cold, cold truth way beneath the black crumbled earth.
Slapped with a strike of lightning,
disrupting the fall of silence where secrets crawl to hide,
in the foxholes of one's mind.
In the city of shadows, bewildered minds tick with the time of the clock.
Breath by breath falls perfectly out of place,
and darkness opens a new gate.
Tunes of the violin slowly fade away.
A new awakening to blindness,
in the city of shadows.
The man like a phoenix rose from the smoke
And we with the audicity to hope looked up and heard
The strange cawing of the vulture white bird
Like a code unciphered, and yet the angst provoke
Of allies in the foxholes fretting for a change.
O this is a time between peace and war, no strange
Allegories here. Numbered with dead, some
Disrupting double consciousness found ransome
In books and ballot, a narrow, but fertile range
To sing of the weary years a different way.
We sang a rap around the blues without dismay
And knew that singing needed wings as well
For feathers when lingered in the flames made hell
Hotter in the heart. And there the phoenix like day
Renewed rose to better us in our dreams.
But the constant cawing, the vultures loud screams
In decibels of silence are rattling the moon
A phoenix only flies when the nest egg is ruin
Walk softly on the brittle shells, here are our dreams
It's late, it's late you cannot turn back the clock
Among the prairie hens are eagles fallen from the rock.
There aint any angels in foxholes,
Jock Grey once said to me.
He was looking at a different scene
Than what we could both then see.
Just tension and maybe boredom
And expectation among the boys,
Just waiting for the action,
Waiting for the noise
That soaks into your being
Once it all kicks off again;
Then it’s all action and panic
Shouting and screaming men.
There’s no glory down in foxholes
Ask any man who’s been there
God and King and Country, no
Let me live is all you care
And whether it’s hot or cold
Dry or wallowing in mud
Only one thing is certain
You’ll see lots of blood.
There ain’t no pride and glory
Just a sense of desolation;
If there is a god he aint gonna
Just back one lot of nations.
He’s probably packed his bags
Closed heaven down in haste,
Sickened by the carnage;
The awful bloody waste.
Perhaps that awful god
Hangs his head in shame
That they dare to do this killing
In his honour and his name.
Let the fountain pen warriors write
Of war’s glory and war’s pride
How many have seen a foxhole
Let alone been down inside
I could see his shoulders heave
See the blankness in his gaze
Feel the raw emotion before
He came back from those days.
No there aint no angels in foxholes.
I wish they’d get that right.
Now whose round is it lads?
The beer’s bloody slow tonight.
R.I.P. Jock - survived WW2, died in a train crash late 1960's.
We enjoyed many Mess Nights and beers together.
Me you come in the dark hour of pain
When howling winds of strife
Threaten your own dear life
And your myriad tears fall as endless rain
To Me you come
You come with the promises of love renewed
Sacrifices of things held dear
Longing to quiet down the fear
And have the vicious storm again subdued
To Me you come.
In the bitter darkness you grope for Me
“Father, answer Thou my prayer,
Now I need Your gentle care.
Your obedient servant I swear to be.”
To Me you come
I then enfold you in your time of need
Wanting so your love to last
I erase your hurtful past
Your fainting soul with my strong love I feed
When to Me you come.
Then along your way comes the joyful hour
Everything to your lips is sweet
And you forget your Lord to greet
You go on in life full of your own power
Not wanting to Me to come.
If you could know how great is my sorrow
To be ignored and forgot
And no longer loved or sought
But I will still wait for you tomorrow
Hoping once more to Me you’ll come.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Published in Youth of the Hour Magazine, a publication for Seventh-day Adventist youth in the Middle East, April-June 1997, along with the article by same title written by the author. No corrections made.
Jeremiah 2: 23- Will a young woman forget her wedding ornaments, or a bride her attire? But my people have forgotten me days without number.
We tend to come to God when we are in desperate need. We don’t come just to revel in Who He is. So many years have passed since I wrote that article about how I was afraid of losing my little daughter to an illness and how I begged for healing, only to forget Him when she got better. We never seem to learn. Some of our most fervent prayers were prayed in the bomb shelters during the civil war in Lebanon. We come to God with shopping lists, requests, rarely….rarely with words of adoration and praise simply because of WHO HE IS! The saying goes…”There are no atheists in foxholes”…..
The Dragon Jar
What better place for fearsome beasts of fire
than airless thickets choked in green excesses
where weary soldiers stumble and aspire
for nothing more than living through the year?
Vast plantation harvests have all ended
death comes calling as soldiers ply their trade
row on row of rubber trees untended
now scarred by shrapnel not the sapper's blade.
Weeks of scratching foxholes in the hard-pan
and sleeping in the dirt before they're dead
fatigue and fear, they follow every man
into a tiny clearing, there to rest.
Nearby, highway one has little movement
save boom-boom girls on Honda motor bikes
who brave the free fire zones to pay the rent
where all conduct a business to lament.
Well shaded by a bent and threadbare tree
and encircled by a fence at clearing's edge
there stands a small platoon of pottery
as in formation, standing dress-right-dress
The soldiers, in passing pause to wonder
of jars too large to carry, filled with soil
left outside, devoid of human plunder
faux vases for the weeds that grow within.
One jar draws attention from the others,
it stands apart with glaze of earthen brown
outshining the dull clay of its brethren,
a dragon image reaching base to crown.
A soldier who has time for art admires
the jar's beauty, and incongruity,
and thoughtless of it's purpose he conspires
to make the dragon jar the spoils of war.
A fellow soldier helps tilt the vessel
they pour the rich, black soil out on the ground,
to be scattered by the arid winds of summer,
and walked on as the others gather 'round.
The Dragon Jar's inside a house in Brookland
it helps provide oriental decor,
near highway one, fertile dust is blowing,
and a soul is want to wander, evermore.
In the shadows an enemy lurks, it’s where they hide.
While inside my foxholes, a Marine grunt, I abide.
A poncho line wrapped around my body that shivers;
Steeled nerves, impenetrable will, I refuse to quiver.
I wait soaking wet in my restrained prime.
Its death that haunts me while I suffer this time.
My mind is troubled, yet there I’ll remain
There’s no pretending, its death, not a game.
Trained to fight and not to run for the Vietnam War,
Where time has forgotten, and joy comes no more.
Waiting for the enemy, faces without names;
Their bodies mount-up now God’s to claim.
Marines died in the jungles of South Vietnam
While outside of country, the world moved on.
They dared not dream, for it might be forever.
O’ Home, Sweet Home, twas' their bold endeavor.
Two young men in vietnam
Sit in a foxhole one night
While chatting and talking about there families
and sharing pictures of each others wives
But along in the Dark distance
Came a bright and shimmering light
The light came down from the sky
like a shooting star in midflight
Charley was spreading
into the jungles of the night
Shouting out to one another
Tat ca deu chet dêm nay
which means they all die tonight
As the men laid in the foxhole
watching people running for there life
One of the men said we must flee
the other man said not I
The one man said
In the bright shimmering light
But why does one not flee
and run too save his own life
The other man looked deep
Deep down in the man's eyes
and says I shall do as my fathers did
I shall stay, I shall fight and I shall die
The fleeing man had a face
a face full of surprise
He asked why does thou not flee with me
on this very hour tonight
He said I just can't do it
it's not the way I was raised
my mother always taught me
to have a little faith
See I believe in God
and I believe he has a plan
and if it's my time to go
might as well be like a man
So now do you see why,
why one does not flee tonight
why I choose to stay
and risk my life and fight?
The fleeing man said no
and ran into the dark jungle night
So the one man kept his word
with every inch of his might
sitting in his little foxhole
and fighting throughout the rest of the night
Until his upmost surprise
came mornings first daylight
he seemed to have survived
survived for one more night
Re-gathered with his troops
all thankful to be alive
the man began to search
for his friend that ran off that night
asking all the troops
if they had seem him around
he finally came to the realization
that his friend was nowhere to be found
But he forgot to check
where he should have looked before
because there laid his friend colorless
and lifeless on the floor
So the Vietnam war ended, it took so many lives
but the man who said that he shall stay and fight
now lives at home with that same wife
for he every sunday
visits a tall white ivory stone
on the front it reads, I miss you
and I cant believe that your gone
But with all the Commemorative plaques
and monumental poles
theres one saying that still holds true
there are no atheists in foxholes
Gold is the color in the veins of that ore
and red is the color in the veins of war.
Bankers have bested alchemists of old
and found a way to turn blood into gold.
With a false flag attack invent a foe
to rally the nation around a flagpole.
Then ignite emotions till a vengeance flows
that sends the troops to die in foxholes.
In the business of war you fund foe and friend
with flows of equipment to wars without end.
Allies and enemies, they’re both the same,
destroy and replace is the name of the game.
Equip your armies with bombers and tanks
then deposit the proceeds into the banks.
Blow them all up and when that’s complete
order replacements from the corporate elite.
Those who protest can often be coaxed
to close their eyes and join in the hoax.
Money has power to eradicate proof
and nullify all indisputable truth.
Morals and loyalty have prices and range
that are traded like stocks on an exchange.
As the bribes go up ethics go down
and there’s never a lack of sellers around.
The wealthy think they’re a class of high priests
and the crumbs of their greed are some kind of feast.
They are held in the highest reverence and awe
by those hungry for power and morally poor.
So anxious are some to devour the scraps
they lick up the floor beneath their bootstraps.
There isn’t a lie that they would not eat
to stay in the grace of the corporate elite.
Those who seek justice are told that the law
is a remedy that’s so righteously pure
that it will imprison the vilest of men
to rectify evil committed by them.
Those who believe the rich go to jail
are lost in the pages of a fairy tale.
There’s no happy ending at the close of the book
all chapters are written and penned by the crooks.
The “enemy is” those who threaten the pork
devoured by Wall St. up in New York.
And if you want some bacon to put on your bread
you’d better tear all who oppose them to shreds.
Put boots on the ground with a sky full of drones
to slaughter resistance in the killing zones.
Let oil and blood flood into the streets
for the profit and pleasure of the corporate elite.
Can you imagine God that laughs?
Well I feel sure I can!
When “Christians” flock to Church in droves
Though sinful to a man.
A God who tolerates the gaffs
That we plunge in his side,
Though we may pray for daily loaves,
We won’t let go of pride.
Imagine too a people then
That God chose for His own,
Protecting them from so much loss
And that which makes man moan.
Now hear the laughter once again,
The way man pays His dues,
Demanding Christ’s death on the cross,
Man’s version of Good News.
We humans have a funny way
Of showing God our love,
Fond memories are oh so short,
Hold pain close like a glove.
For human fears of death hold sway,
(Our trust in what we know),
And rarely do our dreams report
That what we hope is so.
But through it all God laughs my friend
And bears us no ill will!
For we are all immortal souls,
The children He loves still.
As love that we can’t comprehend
Can’t prove that it’s not there,
Our tendency to seek foxholes
Won’t mean He doesn’t care.
God Laughs! God loves! Don’t doubt this truth,
No life He'll preordain,
Though God divines the route you’ll take
Your choice controls your pain
And sin is fount of all your ruth.
To honor God is bliss,
The way to leave your own heartache,
To know His Warmth, His Kiss.
Brian Johnston
August 18, 2015
it'll break yours - to see an old man cry
lips shaking at the memories
legion hats and baseball caps
with buttons and pins and medals stuck
the soldier talks and tells a tale
those past events - didn't turn out so well
haunts he's carried most all his life
more than the slain, he's burdened with strife
and there's some who can't go back before
they fought and slew, as soldiers of war
so doctors and counselors diagnose and surmise
PTSD, shell shock, combat fatigue, or soldier's heart
killing is killing no matter the cause
and living hearts bleed, as those that died
whether enemies, allies, or innocents are killed
is still a good reason, to break down and cry
mankind - such an interesting notion,
that our civilization's men are really kind
hand-to-hand or remotely terminating a life
it's hard to comprehend we're really that blind
bomb-bay doors, M-16s, foxholes, phosphorus fires
the children, platoons, felled in murderous quagmire
General Sherman said it better than I, "War is hell,
good that it be so, least humanity love it too well"
© Goode Guy 2012-11-12
http://storycorps.org/?s=Harvey+Hilbert&post_type=post
http://www.soldiersheart.net/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soldier's_heart
I AM THE VETERAN
I fought in the trenches of World War I
In the foxholes of World War II
I was in the Korean Conflict
And the rice paddies of Vietnam too
I've been to Afghanistan
Kuwait and Iraq
Spent long months away from home
I've been to hell and back
But the stars and stripes will forever wave
In honor of those who went to their grave
To ensure that America will always be
The home of the brave and the land of the free
The bells of freedom will continue to ring
All across the USA
And it can be said, without a doubt
Our veterans paved the way
Curtis Moorman
5 February 2010