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Best Memorial Poems | Poetry

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Son, I Want To See That Memorial Before I Die by Hinshaw, Robert L.
memorial service by hansen, jan
Sing Song To Memorial by Horn, James
Happy Holiday -- Happy Memorial Day by Wolf, Gershon
Memorial Day by Callus, Paul
Memorial Day by trevino, carlos
MEMORIAL DAY by Rodrigues, Kim
MEMORIAL DAY Patriot's Blood and His by Deo, Anil
My Most Memorable Memorial Day by Connell, Carol

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The Best Memorial Poems

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Military Tunic


A lost guardian angel, sitting on the edge of everything 
I push my shopping cart along the cracks of destiny  
My house sits on the corner of every mission street
My tin coffee cup feeds on caring heartbeats
My possession is the icon of war, six missing buttons
Navy and white my grandfathers 70-yr-old military tunic.

My Jacket-  My blanket
My Jacket from which I am inseparable
My Jacket - represents the mobility of life

This Jacket is my home.

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013

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Not with my arms but with a heart that blesses your reveries, may peace reside within your chest... is it possible to love you less? Perhaps allow the sun to brush your hair in the luminescence of dawn? Even autumn envies you as white light moves with your scent and possesses your laughter never to be mine again in times of harvest or falling rain… and from stars above, may your eyes remember our blades of grass while I half-close the damp field of memorials creaking on the burial of a resting place that finds me kneeling, wailing, asking how time can drown our adventures much too soon... as I stumble upon this cruel, bruised night. ~ Contest No. 410 of Brian Strand Re-post 3/16/2018

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014

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One Stone - Unknown

you May-
think me odd    perhaps strange 
peculiar and off the wall-
but I
like to wander cemeteries

among    rows       on rows

I love the tranquility
there is a peace    like no other
where hidden birds sing melodies
and little creatures scurry
and time    stands still 

and I like to read inscriptions
on tombstones in the dappled sun
    or rain wet or snow covered
        gravestones monolith
            flagstones flat and small
                all the RIP inscriptions

among   rows    on rows

the relic stones     I do adore
those traces
of family history
faded now and obscure
covered in moss    some toppled over
I have to get close to read
    and even then it is a mystery

on a bright sunny day
camera in hand    journal ready
      my mind at peace
I noted    one stone    inscription
reading  U N K N O W N
this of all the stones    this broke my heart

among   rows    on rows

no name     no date     no record
no flowers ever I am sure
  no memorial of any kind
     a homeless man, perhaps
        or woman, maybe
              a baby unwanted     so sad

of all     the commemorative slabs
   the huge monuments with many names
with    beautiful words engraved
  of remembrance    with dates and names    

this unknown stone has broken my heart . . . 

November 9, 2017

Poetry/Free Verse/One Stone-Unknown
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9597-09-0
All Rights Reserved.  Written Under Pseudonym.

Written for the contest, Two Word Challenge
sponsor, John Lawless

Second Place

Copyright © Dear Heart | Year Posted 2017

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An Eternity II

And I begin my own steep climb into 
The Chalkland Downs                                                                     
Where none but stiff blast and 
Continous drone,              
Warbling chants from drifting curlew,
Muffled and alarmed bleats from 
Scattered flocks of confused and 
Wandering sheep -                                                         
Home to the ancient Guardians!                              
And still the blustering winds, 
Blowing hence Time-Immemorial,                                     
Eroding into disapproving frowns
Etched on every crumbling brow
And sharp escarpment of balding peak;                                                        
Here all meddlesome tribes of men 
Are held in equal contempt                                    
By these benign Spirits
Secured far above the bustling and 
Intrusive sounds;                                                                                                                   
Scrupulously bearing witness 
To mundane existence of shabby 
Lives -
Disorganised and unkempt!                               
Every day noise slowly detaching, 
Floating absently upwards -
Forever removed from the creeping 
Of pretty seaside towns.                                                                                           

Nothing but a void -                      
An inestimable void of invisible 
Whose serrated flight shuns the 
Chaotic hours of Humankind;                            
A great void whose voluminous 
Could quite easily inflate the 
Narrowing corridors 
Of a wearied and depleted mind;                                       
Above, hurrying nonchalantly,  
And, somewhat, dismissively by:-                   
The outlined caricature of
Silhouetted clouds                                                             
Weakly traced against the dreadful 
Of a vast grassland sky!                        
...And thus I find myself wondering,
What now of abandoned promises?
Pledges, once earnestly sworn,
Callously disowned and then thrown
Thee unpalatable stigma of this
Undeserving unworthiness!
How easy words are to utter -
What an utter confoundment 
When one tragically feels so
To irretrievably renege on all such 
Solemn vows!                                 

This bellowing furore that does,
At an instant, 
Most strangely, inwardly roar 
As if enraged like a muted, 
Pebble-tossing sea!                                         
Sudden squalling gusts, slamming 
Into the car,
Appearing, apparently, from out of 
To vigourously assault unto the 
Angry columns of towering air;                      
The tumultuous display of Heavens
Showering Firmaments...
Finally, at last - arraigned enmasse!            
...Then...a subdued wail that wails 
Amidst a wailing silence...                                    
Which, more and more,
Oh so ever disconcertingly...                                             
As if a lamentation for happier
Moments long since past...                                    
Would seem to emanate from within
The very depths me!                                                                                          alone...
Helplessly trapped in an                  
Infinitely immeasurable,
Solitary, brown-coloured bottle of 
Beer -
For all of a damnable eternity!!                

Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2017

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"A cappuccino would be nice 
And thank you Anne dear friend. 
Since Bert has died I've felt quite lost, 
But time has helped things mend." 
"I guess what hurt the most dear Anne 
Was finding in Bert's will; 
To me he never left a thing; 
A truly bitter pill." 
"He never left you anything! 
I thought Bert more sincere, 
But is that diamond ring not new 
You're wearing sister dear?" 
"Well let me put it this way Anne. 
Bert's will did leave a bit; 
Five grand for a memorial stone 
And this dear Anne ... is it." 

Copyright © Merv Webster | Year Posted 2005

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In Memoriam: Chiselled in My Heart

 In Memory of the first year since my wife Lilian passed away.  Never forgotten.
Time passes, 
I look in retrospect 
on a life petering out. 
Memories rack my brain, 
there under the pine tree 
we stand embraced 
in perfect harmony, 
our names chiselled 
on the tree's trunk, 
our love in unison 
our passion fulfilled. 
Time passes 
like the monotonous tick tock 
of an old wall clock 
rigorous and unrelenting 
obdurate and harsh. 
Our feelings are chiselled 
in a book of love. 
Life's a continuum, 
like a smooth sand dune 
until some heavy breeze 
ruffles the surface, 
then the calm and back  
to the velvety smoothness 
of our devotion and love. 
Time passes, 
steadily and pitiless, 
sharing, dividing, consolidating 
all that we had construed,  
until my last entry is there: 
rest in peace my sweet. 
Soon we'll be together again 
as I wane and wither; 
soon our names will be chiselled 
on a flat cold stone 
soon I'll rest too 
forever with my love. 

Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2018

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Wish for Acceptance

My greatest wish is for humanity
Treating each other with civility
Regardless of each one’s ethnicity
All men should be treated with dignity
For when I hear of discrimination
It generates the greatest repulsion
And so as not to create confusion
Every religion deserves inclusion
Judging books by their covers can only bring
More hate, intolerance as hope takes wing
If we could learn to be more accepting
Bells of world peace would surely be chiming
So join me now in prayer for acceptance
And an end to widespread intolerance
Beyond war there will be a transcendence
Through God’s plan we’ll live in benevolence
*Entry for Kristen’s “If I had one wish” contest
By Carolyn Devonshire

(Thanks for reading.  No comments needed.  Will be away on vacation for the next 
week and unable to return the favor.  Have a wonderful Memorial Day holiday!)

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011

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The Cut

A country yearns industry
from assiduous minds revolutionary,
cities conceived with mind set and skill
yet lay insipid in the body of Britannia
those in need of life’s blood,
akin to human organs
served only; by arterial veins.

The first sod to lift an unfolding nation
the first cut the inauguration the call,
have a thought pleasure seeker
enduring men with pick, shovel, some did fall,
his sweat given freely or not as the case may be
to mingle with earth removed
or deep within copse ghyll may well be for a tree.

The Dales emptied, of its men
famine ravaged Ireland too,
drawn towards the rush of new born adrenaline
a creation of foresight
when the need for this an artery to flow
through lock, tunnel aqueduct,
transforming her virgin land
albeit out of trades of old,
an era steeped in tradition
tools an extension: of one’s own hand.

Adverse weather geography
this realm having found fame,
complexity from above, below,
the elements the environment
nothing to stand in obsessions way,
from soil to solid rock, energy sapping
clods of clay negotiated all
amidst many tongues, yet same laborious conclusion
wheeled away by the barrowman; 
horse and cart.

This precious land host to many heroes
those upon columns stand tall,
our sons live on in remembrance
a memorial for them all,
so to this symbolic structure
craved through hostile terrain,
a burly navvies sculptured cleft
within the very earth
his body one day to lay.

Oh the city Leeds, city Liverpool and those in between
the bargees upon the cut there now do dwell
living within the ideals of another time sown
but of ease it is with just a memory
conservation the historic debt on loan!

copyright Harry J Horsman 2013

Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2013

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I Touched The Wall Today (The Vietnam Memorial Wall)

Emotions flooded my very soul as I viewed that Sacred Wall.
Etched for all eternity are hero's names who sacrificed their all.
I sensed that I was on hallowed soil as I knelt on bended knee.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.

I offered a silent prayer for each of the names that I caressed.
Tho' their time here was brief, by them we were truly blessed.
They placed national destiny above their own defending liberty.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.

They were ordinary Americans who performed extraordinary things,
Such grand and noble acts to ensure that freedom's bell yet rings!
They gave their full measure that humankind might live free.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.

What might they have become, I muse, had fate not dealt them so,
A teacher, doctor, a farmer?  Alas, we shall never know.
To teach nations The Golden Rule, I suspect would be their plea.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.

Tho' grander monuments have been built for those of greater fame,
This simple yet powerful memorial will keep alive the flame,
Of humanity's quest for brotherhood, peace and dignity.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)

Placed 7th in "The Best Day Of Your Life" Contest
Placed 3d in the "Your Best Poem" Contest" June 2010
Featured Poem Of The Week 2-9 May 2010
lst Place in Security Public Library (Colorado) Poetry Contest - May 2006
Published in Poet Bob Casey's Book, "An Oasis In A Cluttered World" - 2006

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010

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My Most Memorable Memorial Day

On that day many years ago, we took the kids on a trip
             to the national cemetery on the Presidio. Our hope-
                                   to give our children a different perspective
               besides picnics, hamburgers and hot dogs. The weather
         was windy but pleasant as we pulled up to our destination. We 
                        stood together near the entrance looking out over rows and
           rows of decorated tombstones.  Gazing  at my young son,
               I observed a look of reverential awe on his face. Suddenly with
     no prompting, he ran toward a tombstone where a flag and
flowers had been blown over and gently
          put them back in place. To our amazement, this act was repeated
     again and again and again as we made our way through
                   the grounds.  A profound thankfulness filled my bosom, leapt up
                       and shouted, “Yes, he has it for himself now!”
                               I have never forgotten that day when among the dead,
                something noble was born in 
                                              the heart of our son.

Copyright © Carol Connell | Year Posted 2018

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Eyes of Blue

A people persecuted beyond imagination;
To help them he felt, was his obligation.
He joined the army in World War II;
Not knowing his hell would be Eyes of Blue.

When he reached Normandy, the beaches were red.
Crawling over his brothers who lay already dead.
To give this tyrant, this devil his due;
Not knowing his own demons, would be Eyes of Blue.

He rounded a building securing a town;
A young German soldier was just coming round.
He plunged his bayonet, the quicker of the two;
Killing the young soldier, with Eyes of Blue.

He knelt down beside him with tears in his eyes;
How long this moment would last, he did not realize.
He closed the eyes as he thought he should do;
Thinking never again to see those Eyes of Blue.

The victor over many in Germany and Japan;
It was always difficult taking life from a man.
None would haunt him, this he now knew;
As long as the soldier, with Eyes of Blue.

He died an old man, to heaven he went;
For this honorable soldier, mercy was sent.
First time since the war, so sad but true;
A peaceful sleep, not seeing Eyes of Blue.

Copyright © Arlene Smith | Year Posted 2014

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Lights Out

One hundred years on and still the shout
“Everyone put your lights out”
Just for an hour from 10 to 11
And remember all those souls in heaven

One hundred years and still the cry
The perennial unanswered question “why?”
Is there a need in this hour of deed
For any to ignore or not to heed?

One hundred years, millions dead
In battles, wars and streets of dread
Trenches then, now car bombs blast
Tearing at families left aghast

One hundred years – again LIGHTS OUT
Not one city but the country throughout
Is this too much to ask ourselves
For those who died through bayonet and shells?

Lights out and let us honour our dead
Light a single candle in room or shed
Remember those terse words upon us yet
“Lest we Forget – lest we forget!”

August 4th 2014

Copyright © Thomas Mansfield | Year Posted 2014

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Unforgettable Moment

Those were my green and salad days
My friends, my toys were all my wealth.
Marbles and pebbles, my gems and pearls.
No fear of loss or bother about gains.
Trump cards valued no less than money.
School , home and uncle’s was my world.
What comes from where and goes where
None of them, I cared about, alike prince.
To run the empire of my utopia, my dad
Fought so many battles against all odds.
Unaware of all, with joy pass my days.
Till one day to pay my fees, I remember
If anything seeped into my mind ever
Like an engraved word on copper plate.
He has to sell his  wedding watch 
On the pulse, for the first moment in life.
My eyes were wet for someone else
Other than me, painted with the colours
 Of emotion, as most memorable picture.

For a poetry contest,inspired from a real memory.

Copyright © Malik Yaseen | Year Posted 2014

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Near somber guards, units of children heap 
dead leaves, naive to any else fallen.
Friend, you chuckle, but your posture speaks
of duty on this day of contradictions.

Firefighters bow heads in silent paean, 
while polished trucks stand at attention.
Families have again answered the call
to attend this festival, so uncommon.

Here, laughter rings around the memorial
for exuberance must never be doused,
Gloriously wrought, a sculpture of angels
commiserates with each mourning house.

You say, I see valor in lives that inspire.
 I see heroes and their lines of fire.

*For Craig


Surreal, the way a contortionist knots
himself as the escape artist breaks free.  
Uptown, buskers beckon with what-naughts,
drawing thousands. Candyland, sighs New-Dali

at its epicenter, his true element,
and he takes it in: the sword swallower,
blindfolds, jugglers, clowns miming laments,
fire-fed gals, stilted-men and tots taller 

on shoulders. This carnival can endear,
turn heads, but only one with a seer-heart
studies the music box dancer, then swears
that she spins perfect webs with street-smarts.

Mirroring that swivel, awed by his entourage,
He becomes centrum to his own collage.

*For Chan, fully alive in Heaven.


Your brows are up. The Princess Cinema
is not your choice. C'mon, I don't fit here,
you snort. You, with all your charisma 
and kindness, stand in a short line, fearing

boredom or worse ... pretense. Promise me,
that we aren't about to wallow through
subtitles, you sigh.  Give me clarity,
a story, something that I can relate to.

But the charm catches you by surprise,
a star-struck atmosphere, the seats are new
and the popcorn is still warm. Friendly eyes
laugh, then amusement streams from you

for these Global TV spots simply delight
like each snippet that you joyfully write.

*For Andrea


There be Scots as farrrrrr as the eye can see.
Brawn calves and bright kilts delight lasses 
while pipers swagger out of the pub, tipsy.
Your smile broadens as a caber is tossed

end over end. Then, across the glen, highland                      
dancers in ghillies beckon with hearty flings.
Auch, it’s hot yet heather dare no’ wilt. Clans
gather, roguishly rib each other, as wool spins

in wheels. Aye, the romance can fair overwhelm
e’en the sensible. Worse for we, the fanciful. 
Come, here’s the tea tent. Let soft fiddles calm
as we nibble oatcakes. Tartans and tunes pull

heartstrings. We sit raptly, lost in Brigadoon,
put pen to napkin to let wee thistles bloom. 

* For Francine


Rustling maples break vows of silence,
naturally. As pleased, spears of hyacinth  
worship breezes with such soft reverence
that we give pause in this living labyrinth. 

Nothing here is still; wood thrush reverb
good news and cicadas buzz testimonials.
Nearby, a creek mumbles, Word-Word
while squirrels glorify their bounty. All

is abuzz with joy, save for the shade
under a weathered cross; it’s emptiness
resurrects veneration. A butterfly wades
the sudden hush, lands on your hand, nests.

My friend, you lift it to wood, sympathizing 
on bent knee, speechlessly evangelizing. 

*For Brian


Your eyes drink the hues of the Shisha Lounge:
art on walls, art brewing over charcoal.
This coffee ceremony is on the fringe,
far from the pallid and staid. I’ve marveled

at these dear blends, how culture can transcend 
barriers and ignorance. We order too much.
Tibsy, zignie, timtimo.. injera bends 
to each spiced delicacy as our plates touch. 

Gone is this haven where pleasure was shared.
Still, I’ll bring you there. Scribe, man of integrity,
sit with me. Exhale poetry. Imbibe tribal air. 
Mine, this moment and mine, this memory

but that mystifying brew, that receptive floor,
the smoke refined by deep respect… each are yours.  

*For my cuz, Scribe


A warbling vireo hops from oak to elm.
Your gaze wanders, too. This amphitheater
hosts the lyrical, almost overwhelms,
for beyond the mill ruins, the Grand River

is deep in thought, reflecting. It’s as though myth
lives; Summerland has come to the hillside 
where weathered fieldstones beguile the impish
to dance. They do or else tin flutes will chide.

Though cozy the spot,  the world's at our feet.
Tanned toes can not help but tap. Strong is the lure
of pipes and those songs that dulcimers keep.
When night softly falls, one group brings rapture. 

They sing until stars tire and all are hoarse
like poets rousing words to supplicate verse.

*For Carrie


Pure pageantry, how publishers' banners
wave over tents. Flocks of readers graze
on glossy trades, leaflets, hardcovers,
chapbooks. My friend, a true gent, stays
his ground. Maybe, it is the press of page;
Its forthright weave petitions for slants,
favors unique fonts, yet gilds no edge,
sees no need for illustration, just verdant
language. I did not intend to read
over his shoulder. He grins good-naturedly,
tweed makes an allowance. Each line, poetry,
he praises and I still my chatter. We feed
on gems, unrushed, but their brilliance spurs
a verbose woman and a man of his word.

*For David

Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2014

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August 4 1914

It was the summer - August 4
When England joined the First World War
1914 the very year
Before wives and children shed their bitter tears

‘The war to end wars’ was the battle cry
Before there had been one widow’s sigh
The men lined up by the score
To enlist, sacrifice themselves to this bitter war

Friends and families made their mark
Pals regiments were formed in town and park
From factories, clubs, offices and farms 
They became privates, sergeants, men at arms

And off they went through the streets
Not knowing that they were cannon meat
Cheered and applauded as they marched
Toward war’s verdant fields not yet parched

“It’ll be over by Christmas” came the call
“Get over there one and all”
No one of them, home or abroad
Had ever heard of “Total War”

Posters beckoned from every wall
Poets wrote of war’s enthrall
Songs and stories came thick and fast
Glorifying war and our heroic past

But very soon came the acrid truth
Millions dead - “Anthem of Doomed Youth”
Trial by ordeal and fire and zeal
A generation gone through war’s sharp steel

The sombre, bitter, vile death-calls
Quickly killed the tunes of the music halls
Wounded, dead, disfigured men
Many mutilated beyond any ken

At the end it was all for naught
That carnage in each battle fought
Kings deposed and Empires lost
But the worst thing was the human cost

One hundred years to this very day
Like then we shake our heads and say
Still in wars our sons and daughters die
To all that is holy, why? oh why?

Copyright © Thomas Mansfield | Year Posted 2014

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Bring it Down

a memorial in time
bring it down
bring it down
a testament to bravery
bring it down
bring it down
a witness to chivalry
bring it down 
bring it down
a monumental beauty
bring it down 
bring it down
a statue turned gargoyle
bring it down
bring it down

I'll bring it down
this monument of words
this epic work of art
with hammer and chisel
with my bare hands
with my fingers torn
with my heart worn
I'll bring it down

I'll bring it down
Down to the ground
This abhorrent thing
grotesquely formed
no longer adorned
this thing of shame
remnant of the game

I'll bring it down
I'll pulverize stone
Only dust will remain
of what I disdain
washed away in the rain
of the tears
That you brought down....

Eileen Manassian

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015

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Memorial Day

Most of us play, our lives like a game
Both ends of our candle, consumed by the flame
Choosing a curtain, buying a vowel
Planning tomorrow, forsaking the now
In days gone by, not so long ago
We were dreaming of spring, through icy windows
Fields of green clover, budding trees and daffodils
Cooling homemade cobblers, on open window sills
Walking barefoot in the yard, after warm morning showers
Lost in our daydreams of sweet smelling flowers

Now June awaits, with anticipating brides
Spring has sprung, as we hear distant tides
Our minds look ahead, to tropical destinations
Free time with loved ones, on family vacations
Camping, hiking, perhaps water skiing
Traveling far away, for some casual sight seeing
While we're relaxing, with minds elsewhere
Spending today, on tomorrow's big dare
In the hot summer sun, we'll think of the snow
Taking for granted, the time that we blow

For Americans, tomorrow is Memorial Day
Religious or not, we should all stop and pray
For all the people, who gave their lives
At home and abroad, for their sacrifice
Fighting and dying, for the time that we waste
Ask God to love them and show them His grace
Pray for their families, for the love they lost
Paying the price, with the ultimate cost
Think of the fallen, lost in their prime
Be thankful for them and keep them in mind

 an original poem by the "Poemdog" Daniel Turner

Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016

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Memorial Day

A street lamp illumines our rain soaked flag
as soft filtered shades of red white and blue
try to let sparkles of light glisten through.
Peace fills the night as a zephyr shapes rain,
yet our mourning hearts have an ache for you.

As dawn crests the mountains and paints our
twilight sky, in pink, purple, then a golden hue,
today we remember those who fought far-away,
and let us not forget all their loved ones too.

Our memories we recall in our own sacred way.
Let us give thanks for their sacrifice; Never forget,
the countless dear lives of our soldiers unknown;
and thousands whose names in stone that are set.

Let us have faith, their spirits to heaven have flown.
So today let us offer our love in a heartfelt prayer
to pray for families whose loved ones have died.
Lord please bless them all, let them know we care.
Let there be peace for all on this earth who abide.

© Connie Marcum Wong

Blessings on Memorial Day

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016

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The Day the Earth Moved

The moment that changed a city
The moment that changed a town
The moment that the earth did move
The moment that walls came down.

Sudden shock in the dark of night
Not expected before a coming day
Jolted from a peaceful sleep
From a nasty brutal sway.

What seemed to be eternity
Seconds that weren't so quick
Suddenly silence spread its sound
Except the echo of an old clocks tick.

Fears for friends and family
The networks all gone down
Checking neighbours in the street
Emotions shaky as the ground.

Listening to the radio
Expecting death to fill the air
Bracing with every aftershock
Terror laid fully bare.

Angels must have worked that night
No one badly harmed
Not knowing in the future
We weren’t to be so charmed.

4th September 2015

Christchurch Earthquake September 4th 2010. The smaller earthquake on February 22nd 2011 was to claim 185 lives.

Copyright © Mark Woods | Year Posted 2015

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Where White Crosses Grow

Rows and rows and rows of white crosses,
Like sentinels -stone-fixed to the ground.
The wind like a shroud wraps around them,
Enshrining each space where they're found.

Stone guardians stand at attention,
Into the distance -row after row.
O' mourn those hallowed internments,
Where our heroes are resting below.

Rows and rows and rows of white crosses,
With their numbers increasing with years.
And graves that are drenched by the weeping,
Will never run dry of our tears.

Now the soil is the dead's lonely blanket,
Below - and everlasting - at rest.
Those keepers -yes -all those white crosses,
Announcing -'Here lie the Best of the Best.'

Rows and rows and rows of white crosses,
All those warriors were yields of our lives.
And the harvest of what all wars cost us,
Are plowed under and nothing survives.

There is green lawn laid like a carpet,
That covers our heroes repose.
Outstreched are the arms of the crosses,
In a garden where nothing else grows.

Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2017

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New Start for Captain Mazy

Wading through flooded streets as hurricane rain poured
A man fell into the flow when sharp thunder roared
As a journalist reporting live from the scene
I saw lightning crack through the sky, heard the man scream

“Is he homeless?” I asked the emergency crew
The director shook his head; the answer he knew
“He lives in our park now, but served in Vietnam
He saved his entire unit from the Viet Cong.”

The team pulled him from the gutter to the shelter
I brought him tea, forgot I was a reporter
I asked why he’d screamed, his memory seemed hazy
“Did you hear the bombs drop?” asked Captain Bob Mazy

The emergency director took me aside
“We call him Crazy Mazy,” he did confide
He suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder
Can’t live with the lives he took following orders.”

When Hurricane Kate passed o’er the Gulf Coast
I’d seen much destruction, but remembered Mazy most
His story I broadcasted and vets contacted me
The donations poured in; so many gave freely 

Soon we’d accumulated twenty-five grand
Just enough to buy Mazy an acre of land
Then people from his home state gathered one weekend
To build him a home, much effort they expended

Several social workers set up counseling services
To meet all his needs, everyone made concessions
Local stores gave him clothing, food, even a job
No longer “Crazy Mazy,” he was now just Bob

A gentle man who soon overcame all his fears
On Memorial Day, he was greeted by cheers
Accolades he’d never heard when he returned from Nam
But attitudes had changed and people’s hearts had warmed

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011

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DEAD AT HOME -For Veteran's Day 

It's a gray day, in the café, 
by the side of the road.
There's an old man, took a firm stand, 
trying to loosen the load.

It is struck luck, with his last buck, 
but he pays for his soup.
He has no wife, all of his life, 
he is out of the loop.

He will bum thumb, in a ride from, 
here to his cardboard box.
There's a sleeping roll, a piece of coal, 
and a pillow made of rocks.

No glory. 
A mad sad told cold story. 
Alliteration, of an allegation, on how he kills for glory.  
Then the lie dies, in GI's, when our soldier kills a man. 
All told, he is not bold, but this tale is secondhand.

He preaches whale's tales, of army mad males, 
as he calls for his god. 
Then he dreams schemes, of the war machines, 
and ghosts that run him odd.

Then he weeps sleeps, and a secret keeps, 
and he hates the morning light.  
He has lost his place, in the human race, 
and he always will take flight.

He will dine fine, on the red wine, 
which he drinks from a paper cup. 
He will watch stars, and count his scars, 
but his heart has given up!

No glory. 
A mad sad told cold story. 
Alliteration, of an allegation, on how he kills for glory.  
Then the lie dies, in GI's, when our soldier kills a man. 
All told, he is not bold, but this tale is secondhand.

-Edlynn Nau

Copyright © Edlynn Nau | Year Posted 2015

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Brownload in progress- for Jan

Written for Jan Allison, who then decided I should share it for poop verse afficionados.
True story, by the way.....

There are some jobs where heeding worker's safety is required
and during operations must be suitably attired
environmental hazards mean that everyone conforms
and wearing full length protection has now become the norm.
In this case, paper snowman suit with hood and full length zip
a sturdy piece of clothing and is not inclined to rip.
Whilst clearing out some premises a worker got caught short
and knew he'd never make it to the toilet, so he thought
and made a break for the nearest hedge with a newspaper he'd bought.
Just in time he squatted down, the time lag all too brief
as out in one loud massive jet his bottom got relief.
The job now done he zipped back up and dressed just where he stood
not realising, squatting, that he'd done it in his hood.
It soon became apparent, as his headwear pulled in place
as fly attracting runny doo doo dribbled down his face
His workmates doubled up in laughter, just making it worse
as he stormed off in anger like an Oreo in reverse.
So since time immemorial, the moral's been the same
that when you go, then please do so, but
just you watch your aim.

For Jan, with love 'n hugs and trembly bits, Viv x

Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2015

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May May Be

May May Be
By Franklin Price

May may be the nicest month
Of all the dozen best
You may ask why would I say this
Let us put it to the test

The days of winter gone
Freakish April in the past
Flowers are still blooming
We have not seen the last

The days have balmy temperatures
The nights are sleeping cool
Hot Summer days are not yet here
The kids are still in school

I remember dancing 'round the pole
When I was in grade three
Over under round about
Was a lot of fun for me

May has many holidays
In abundance they abound
Can celebrate or commemorate
With silence or with sound

May Day's the first with dancing pole
Cinco de Mayo, Teacher's Day
Victory in Europe
Take your mother out and pay

Don't forget our soldiers
For our freedom lives they give
Memorial Day is at the end
Celebrate the lives you live

For May and all the other months
Last words I say to you
Respect yourself and others
In everything you say and do

Copyright © Franklin Price | Year Posted 2015

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Dedicated to Uncle Lester Deschler

Looking Back Long Ago

We were looking back long ago
While time went by seeming so slow
Distance between time kept spreading
Would do something they were dreading.

On a broad beach boots hit the sand
After seeing sight of a lonely land
On shore was sort of a light breeze
Enemy was on hills and up in trees.

Screeching and exploding sounded loud
Later that day heads were all bowed
Thanking God that they did survive
Being in one piece and remaining alive.

At Normandy we each dutifully performed
After the troops on shore had stormed
And only thing we saw that now remained
Was either blown to bits or blood-stained.

PVT Lester E. Deschler Died July 12th, 1944
in a tank explosion. He is now buried at
Normandy America Cemetery and Memorial.
Am unsure if he was an uncle or great-uncle
of Ms. Kelley Deschler a Poetry Soup lover.

James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran 
Make sure that you have signed peace petition at above website.

Copyright © James Horn | Year Posted 2015