Best Warold Poems
The old man stood silently, head bowed
Fighting back tears that needed to flow freely
A young Marine was playing Taps on the hill above
He and his wife shattered by the recent events
Holding on to his sanity with the loss of his son
War? What is it good for, what purpose does it serve
In defense of our nation, yes
For the protection of our freedom, yes
To fill a hunger for power, no; a thirst for greed, never
Oh God, to lose your child, the war never ends
As the last note is played, his knees buckle in grief
My son, Oh God, my son, Taps echoing in the distance
If his death served a purpose there could be a closing
If for one moment he could believe but it wasn’t there
Looking at his wife and the despair in her eyes he remembers
The words to an old folk song play over and over in his mind
When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?
In the days to come, he’ll sit by his son’s grave and talk
One sided conversations but he knows he hears him
So much to say, family, politics, war, questions unanswered
Why did you have to die son, Why? Dear God, tell me why
War, What is it good for? What purpose under heaven
A grieving father, an inconsolable mother, the answer burns
Absolutely nothing!
My faith in me
Have made vast changes to my dream
I shall never be again who I am
But who he meant for me to be
A pilgrim whose nomadic days are o'er
I did not come saturated like a tree
Behind whose walls the incessant engines hum
Cracking water on the processing line
Churning marketable products out of light
I did not come saturated like a tree
My faith was a pounding hammer on my temple door
My mind was rock hard plastered against such a storm
I did not know worldly reason could make such a wall
For I was just a memory of Babel's traditions scrawled
On the evening news like old newspaper
On the evening news the old newsmaker
Identity was then just Babel's muckraker
Yet I was obsess with queries
For that an earthworm outlived God's image was not right
And reptiles that would grow their tails again
And amoebas so immortal almost, and my fading sight
Things beyond the crucibles of all my pain
I needed to know why was I born if still I had to die
Faith was a rough boot against an heckling egg.
And yet it was a gift to me
Mailed to my querying address, a gift to cover nakedness
Where temple walls ill-suffice
The boundaries of my quest
And once I thought I took it like a tree
But now ever bending on my knees
I am an ancient sea
Composed of rivers, salt, and rain
And sunlight
Making me into atmosphere again.
YARRA was an old Sloop
Yarra was an old ship in 1941...........about a 10 year old Sloop
She was a small Destroyer with three 4 inch guns...
So she sunk the Babr in an attack in old Iran......it had 4inch guns the Babr....
And she dodged the Stukas at Tobruk, this small tin can....
Leading Seaman R Taylor was on the no2 gun...
He was a good shot, when driving off the Hun...
The Captain called the Black Prince, was Harrington, a good one...
Yarra drove the Stukas off, downed 4 planes in 41...
She escorted supplies to Tobruk, to feed the Aussie boys ...
Tobruk would frustrate Rommell, Aussies destroyed his tanks like toys....
42 brought the Japanese war, much closer to their own ....
So Yarra went to Singapore, on escort duty home ....
4th march in 42, Yarra was heading south again....
With a small convoy, met warships from Japan....
3 cruisers with big 8 inch guns, Yarra had no chance, for sure...
Yarra turned and went for them, outgunned 10 times and more...
Yarra soon was a burning blazing wreck, abandon ship was called....
One lone gun was shooting at the Jap, Pommy prisoners recalled?....
From the Japanese Cruiser Maya, they saw a sloop defy....
No 2 gun still shooting, Taylor and Yarra die...
Don Johnson 7-Aug-09
Yarra fought the lethal Stuka 87 German dive bombers , and Italian bombers on the Tobruk
run...
She dodged bombs , after they were dropped and dodged torpedoes from them too....
Yarra on her final day with her three 4 inch guns came up against 3 Japanese Cruisers with
several 8 inch guns each, plus 2 Japanese Destroyers who also outgunned her.... Later
in 1944 US Submarines Darter and Dace sank 2 of those cruisers Atago and Maya.
Yarra fought the 3 Japanese cruisers and died fighting
One gun kept shooting thought the ship was afire and sinking.........Seaman R Taylor the
brave!
http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush/
We're living now in dangerous times
Though maybe not more than before
We've lost some old disturbing crimes
But daily we discover more.
Religion will not help us here
We have enough ways to go mad
But reason will not disappear
And all the ends are sad.
Too many hold the sacred flame
Believing better is elsewhere
Abandoning from where they came
Abandoning their right to care.
They prophesy the end of days
Though what they see without a doubt
Is where their footsteps guide their ways
And what they bring about.
They see wars in uneasy peace
They see the devil in the lines
They wish to feel the soul's release
From base mortal designs.
They see a war to end all wars
They see a battle final met
Disturbingly, they do not pause
Their victory, to see regret.
They do not question why they move
Beneath an old religion's spell
Or feel the need again to prove
That even holy wars are hell.
The arrogant storm God's domain
And second guess the fickle Fate
Their saviour may yet come again
To find they could not wait.
Wisdom does not compromise
Or gamble with its precious lot
Or waste time sifting truth from lies
To sacrifice the wealth it's got.
In truth, it's hard to understand
Believers so in haste to greet
And occupy an unseen land
Destroying that beneath their feet.
Believe in things you understand
Give bedrock to your errant soul
For what is not within your hand,
Is not in your control.
There is no better world to come
If we, alone, can't make it true
We march the march, we beat the drum
What will be done, is what we do.
Percy would stand up and sidestep and tap dance while the bullets bounced around him....
Percy laughed at death
and the Grim Reapers sickle missed him..
http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush/
PERCY WATT.
Percy he was as thin as wire there was none as game as he...
In Syria where hot lead did fly, bullets zipping round him like a Bee. ... (1941)
Percy walked across the open ground, as we watched him from the trench...
I'd call 'Jesus, Perc get down', as he'd dodge the bullets, French....
For he never was a moment still always shifting changing place....
He'd taunt the Vichy French to kill, they just couldn't hit this Ace....
He was a great morale booster, this lean boy we did admire....
Game as a young red bantam rooster drew the Foreign Legions fire.....(French Foreign Legion)
And then in New Guinea green, when sudden death was all around.......(1942)
Bullets bounced where Perc. was seen while the others hugged the ground.....
I'd yell 'Get down young Percy mate those Jap's will surely kill you!'
He`d laugh and say 'They can`t shoot straight, they're so bung eyed that it`s true! '.....
No they couldn`t hit young Percy Watt yet he lived where others died....
Came home alive it was his lot,...
Though the bung eyed Nip's they tried.....(my father worried about a 17
year old)
Don Johnson....Percy is in the Toowoomba cemetry :( old age got him.....
Percy was a young ex sunday school teacher about 17 year old in Syria. He was convinced he
couldn't be shot in war and never was hit by the many bullets fired at him .
In close quarter fighting he was deadly with the bayonet parry and butt slap on the Jap.
He worked in the Toowoomba foundry after the war.
In the most interior halls
Of grandfather, opa, Herr Uberlebende
His mind
Behind the film that shrouds his eyes
(Fading, opaque, impenetrable)
There is a gap between the rooms that line the dusted floors--
A hole between the satanic years
When worlds erupted and world war too,
Between eight year old boy and that
Thirteen year old half-man
(His portrait was burned with all the rest,
That filled the uninhabitable rooms)
A line of broken apartments hide
Padlocked, wired, sealed by ghosts.
They lie repressed beneath the floors
And grandpapa, my dear
Has not been to clean them since
The doctors taught him they didn’t exist
Don’t exist
Extract your belongings
(We’ll pay your fees)
Whitewash the walls—
And then you leave.
For it would be your death to enter
Into those vacant rooms
Starved walls
Where you, yes you,
(Oh Opa, pappy)
Emaciated your soul
Deprived, you
Forsook your abode—
When an eight year old Liebling
Peering between life and death
(Retreating behind his hole in the wall)
In his splendid apartment—his very own
Looked up
At the S.S. poster boy—
And Himmler’s devil asked—
“Who is home?”
And the answer came back, in echoes
Echoes
“No one, no one is home
There is an empty apartment, empty, empty;
and no one, no one is home.”
Lies come true.
Now only echoes and the massacred
tread in the purged, forbidden rooms.
You left with pride you were doing all that was right.
A year later you've became another.
Who exist's only within the fight.
Off the plane empty eyes did greet.
Goobye to that sweet soul.
Asking old friends did we ever truley meet.
A battle is fought within inside.
Cold night sweats.
Speaking another language there are
inwhich you can confide.
The sand and regret is a painful cross to
bare.
Old friends run a hand in front of your face
and question are you there?
A cigarette's glow in a dark room.
His emotions like dust
Swept away in the morning by a old broom.
Taken to bed by diffrent women for none
he does care.
Kissed lips question are you there?
Every waking moment does remind.
The pain that he does exist.
And the brothers he left behind.
To break a soul empty there is
nothing left to share.
Theres really no need to question.
For he"s no longer there.
He stormed Omaha Beach in Normandy during the Second World War.
The old soldier knew all too well the din of battle and its heinous gore.
He'd fought his way through France ending up in the Battle of The Bulge.
He was hailed as a hero, but was loath his heroic deeds to divulge.
They pinned medals upon his breast - he suffered through the accolades,
And was honored by his hometown folks marching in their parades.
But there was something lacking - he was listless when among others.
He desperately missed his buddies - they'd become as close as brothers.
Through many restless nights he wrestled with demons from the past,
Tortured by bloody battlefield scenes and the thunder of cannon blast.
He was turned down by government agencies trying to relieve his plight,
And was met with unconcern at every turn - it seemed a hopeless fight.
He became addicted to the Devil's curse, the bottle, out of desperation.
Friends and family forsook him - he was headed for a life of devastation.
He was seen pushing an old grocery cart here and there about the town,
That held his meager belongings - he looked so pitiful and so worn-down.
The headlines read: "Veteran found dead beneath a blanket of snow!"
He'd sought shelter 'neath an overpass when it was twenty-one below.
He was buried with military honors while "Taps" sounded o'er his grave.
Come on America! Can't we do better than this for America's brave?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Let them tell the old lie no more
For we who went out desolate
Desolate returned to the empty shore
Laden with wounds that shall not heal
Deep mental scars tattering us more
Who left our fragments on distant fields
That these old apartheid ways may endure.
Nothing in dying is sweet
Not the way the shell splintered him
And left him gulping his blood
Upon the desolation of my arms.
I am not fit to die again
To be lynched on this distant calvary
Bribed by medals
Blemished pawn in a filthy game
My Constitution can explain
I am a fraction in the figment of a dream
Without a country where manhood can claim esteem.
At four years old she kissed him goodbye
In his splendid soldier’s uniform
She was saddened to see her mother cry
As he set off for a land that’s foreign
She didn’t understand the reasons
Why her Daddy had to go
She only knew it was a soldier’s duty
Because her Daddy had told her so
By five years old she had forgotten his smell
From the after-shave when he gave her a kiss
She had gotten used to life without Dad
But by her mother, every day he was missed
Today her father came home
Though it wasn’t a day full of smiles
He would be traveling in a wooden box
Across the many miles
Six soldiers carried him off of the plane
With an American flag draped over the top
She watched the tears flow from Mommy’s eyes
As if they’d never stop
She stood up and she saluted them
The way her Daddy had shown
Not completely cognizant
Of the eternity of his new home
When Daddies of little children
Die for some vague political cause
Every living human being
Should stop in thoughtful pause
In wars there are no winners
Just some who loose much more
Victory has hollow meaning
When Daddy dies when you are four
Our Mate Fred Greer...
Strike me dead said poor old Fred....
A man cant get a win....
Churchill's dropped us off at Singapore ....
With no rifle its a sin.....
Changi prison camp at last....
and his best mate lay a dying...
Fred stole an egg for him to pass....
And the Japanese thought he was lying....
Fred was forced to dig a hole ...
and they put him down in the clay.....
For 24 hours he searched his soul....
And the sun beat down all day.....
Burnt to a frazzle from the blazing sun....
The Japs still made him pay....
They'd call him out to flog him for fun....
Yes every bloody day!.....
Back in Australia in 1945....
still sick and sad a bit....
A squatter offered him a job ....
Said ride out Fred, you'll fit....
So he said to the boss, come breakfast time....
How are you Bill, today ?....
The squatter looked down his nose, a crime ....
Call me Mr, this I say .....
No breakfast for Fred, he saddled up ....
Rode back to Dirran. this day....
And class distinction was sold a pup....
Sir and Mr were left that way....
Poor old Fred still lived in dread....
Of the awful sadist Jap...
He'd shake and shiver, bad dreams he said...
Of all the floggings, poor old chap....
Don Johnson.....
http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush/
When was the last time you caught yourself reaching out into thin air?
Coming home with news to share... only to realize, no ones there.
Rolling over in bed craving the warmth of your lovers embrace.
Opening your eye's hoping to see that smile on his perfect face.
You truly felt your breath catch at the sound of the phone?
The last time you were in a room full of people and had that feeling of being alone.
Everyone telling you the same thing, "hey, you'll be alright."
You had gone to bed depressed, dreading another lonely night.
You had to look at your child and wipe away their tear.
Cause they haven't seen their daddy in almost a year.
The last time you felt you had to stand tall and strong.
When everything in your life seems to be going wrong.
The last holiday you had to spend without your spouse.
Cause for months, it's only been you and the kids at the house.
The last time you looked at his picture... breaking down and crying.
You wrapped yourself in a ball cause the pain is to much, you feel like your dieing.
The last time you cleaned house and found something you thought was lost of his.
Tightening your grip on it, holding it close to your chest, closing your eye's and making a
wish.
The last time you turned the t.v on and it was playing his favorite show.
Or cranked the radio up when you hear his favorite song and the radios on to low.
The last time you wore his old t-shirt around all day long.
Singing at the top of your lungs with that old country song.
Well, I can tell you exactly when the last time it was for me.
I've done all these today and it's only just now 5 minutes till three.
Form:
Go to Dambu Lui Gaf, I told them
Climb some hills and lose some breath.
Lie in a shrine, on wet grass, I told them
The earth is not fully peopled yet ...
And so many now are young and dying
The young dies fast and furiously.
And old men with broken hearts are crying
My Pavel is dead, he died so violently
Old Platanov, go back to Dambu Lui Gaf
When the opiate mist of morning is gone
Let her fall in the grass, let her laugh
Again, like Sandy Booker and his fawn.
There are too many wars, and too few lovers
Open the borders of the flaming sword
O climb the hills, and smell the flowers
Young Pavel died and the silence is heard.
I have counted enough bodies, I told them
Like the spectre of birds in far sunset
Love put put his four stars in his eyes, I told them
At the top of Dambu Lui Gaf no regret
Go to Dambu Lui Gaf, I told them
Climb some hills and lose some breath
Lie at a shrine on wet grass, I told them
The earth is not fully peopled yet
And so many now are young and dying,
The young dies fast and furiously
And old men with broken hearts are crying,
My Pavel is dead, he died so violently
Old Platanov, go back to Dambu Lui Gaf
When the opiate mist of morning is gone
Let her fall in the grass, let her laugh
Again, like Sandy Booker and his fawn.
There are too many wars and too few lovers
Open the borders of the flaming sword
O climb the hills, and smell the flowers
Young Pavel died, in sad silence we heard
I have counted enough bodies, I told them
O pale specter of birds in a far sunset
Love put four stars in the eyes, I told them
At the top of Dambu Lui Gaf, no regret.