Best World War II Poems
Each day Annie Lesley opened a can
Her eighty-six-year-old hands trembling
As she sat with her cat and ate pet food
What is wrong with this elder’s rendering?
Pride swallowed to remain independent
Large, sunken eyes peered from her weathered face
Her late spouse a decorated hero
Annie’s lifestyle a national disgrace
More enlightened cultures all over the world
Have revered their seniors throughout history
Asians and Native Americans
Are just two who honor their ancestry
Polynesians, other Pacific tribes
Respect the wisdom that comes with age
Seniors are welcome in family homes
But here in the states they’re placed in a cage
Bone-thin Annie Lesley chose to be free
Amazing neighbors with her endurance
When social services tried to intervene
She fought with remarkable resilience
Old photos on walls told many great tales
But only purring Tibby was listening
Each morning she rose to care for her cat
Until the day that Tibby went missing
In tears she claimed he must have been poisoned
Though in cat years he was older than she
Each day she sat by the window, staring
Awaiting the homecoming of Tibby
She’d been abandoned by society
Lost in the world’s most “progressive” nation
For sacrificing her spouse in World War II
Annie received little compensation
This widowed war bride never had children
Her mate had met his fate in Normandy
Posthumous awards she dusted each day
Annie’s life was defined by loyalty
To a man and a cat who never came home
And the vigil she kept all alone
Ended quietly one warm summer night
When an angel came to take Annie home
With a can of cat food in hand when found
Annie had nothing else to eat in her house
This is the way a veteran’s wife died
And tear stains had blemished her faded blouse
Although seniors’ wisdom is heeded
In societies that grow from history
Too many like Annie lead lonely lives
Wisdom untapped, they die in poverty
Sophie Scholl was raised a Christian in a Lutheran family
Born in the town of Forchtenberg in south west Germany
For standing defiant against evil with her young life she'd pay
In a country that was in deep turmoil and had lost its way.
She was a young teenager in nineteen thirty three
When a new leader offering hope, emerged in Germany
Adolf Hitler was an Austrian, who came to power
And for many it was the start of their darkest hour.
To unite the German people the Nazis held rallies
In some of the larger towns and all the big cities
But something dark and sinister was taking place
The evil Nazis were plotting to create a master race.
All the youth were encouraged to join an organisation
Hitler youth they were known all over the nation
Sophie and her brother together, with some of their friends
Turned their backs on the movement and vowed to make amends.
Word was getting around about death camps and persecution
Together they decided to form, a small non violent organisation
Known as the 'White Rose' who urged the people to renounce Hitler
They handed out leaflets telling the truth, about the Nazis slaughter.
One day at Munich University where Sophie studied as a student
She was seen distributing leaflets on what Nazi ideology meant
A janitor intervened and confronted her, and wouldn't let her go
She was arrested and then handed over to the notorious Gestapo.
They interrogated her to find out, who her accomplices were
But she wouldn't give them their names, as they tortured her
They charged her with high treason and sentenced her to death
To die by the guillotine and the date of execution was set.
They executed twenty one year old Sophie for making a stand
And they had accused her of being a traitor, to the fatherland
They eventually captured the others, five of them in all
And they too walked to their deaths standing proud and tall.
It’s people like Sophie who want to make the world a better place
And not supporting some twisted ideology like a master race
The Nazis were eventually defeated and their leaders tried
But not before Sophie and millions of other innocents had died.
Written 15th May 2021.
#One should be cautious in starting a war, but
once begun, it should be carried out thoroughly#
#Quote by Hirohito circa Dec 1942#
Onslaught
As little boy fell over Hiroshima,
a demigod dismayed how it grew
Into a fat man above Nagasaki,
Hirohito said, so I’m the devil too
Both are one, and the same person,
to say otherwise is splitting atoms
When two suns appear overhead,
an emperors duality, cannot fathom
And necessary evil is a dubious sin,
willpower making its choice that day
Expedience worked saving millions
I’m firmly on the side of Enola Gay
Reckoning came, not a flash in the pan
for marching POWs to death, at Bataan
Also, Pearl harbour, Iwo Jima, Guam
Midway, Okinawa, Tarawa, and Saipan
Job’s done, the mission accomplished
a time to celebrate, peace be strong
our conscience does not need absolution
obliterated by belief, we did no wrong
Little Boy/Fat man, US code names
for the atomic bombs in WW2
Pick-A-Title, Vol 32 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Prompt chosen Onslaught
07/11/22
Lili Marlene
In times of war, love can subdue cynical adversaries
(Men separated from their vocation, now filled with hatred)
And quell the beast inside their misdirected hearts,
And free their consciences, to allow sorrows’ comfort.
A noisy silence pervades the barracks’ atmosphere,
Where soldiers stir, stuffing duffel bags and miscellaneous,
While others reminisce, writing letters; maybe their last.
And await further orders for Western and Eastern Fronts, or Africa.
From Belgrade, a woman’s voice over the airwaves is transmitted,
Allowing a moment of silence and reflection for those listening
Alone; spiritually uplifted in memories of better times,
Who seek a reason to justify this madness of sacrifice.
“My Dearest Marlene,” the pen begins when all hell breaks out.
By bomb flashes bright bloody hands write, then the pen stops;
“Until we meet again underneath the corner light,
Like we used to do, my Lili Marlene.”
***
Note:
'Lili Marlene' is a German love poem set to music by Norbert Schultze (1911-2002) in 1938 based on the poem 'The Song of a Young Soldier On Watch. written by Hans Leip (1893-1963) in 1915 during World War I. The song was first recorded by Lala Andersen (1905-1972) in 1939 under the title 'The Girl Under the Lamps”' which became popular during World War II (1939-1945) among the Axis and Allied troops. The song was first broadcasted by the German Radio Belgrade station throughout Europe and North Africa, following the Nazi occupation of Belgrade in 1941.
Marlene Dietrich (1901–1992) was the daughter of a Prussian officer. She refused to work in Nazi Germany, and was branded a traitor by Nazi supporters when she became an American citizen in 1937. She made over 500 performances entertaining Allied troops from 1943 to 1946. Marlene Dietrich recorded the song in 1944 under the Decca Records (US) and Brunswick Records (UK), which was later released in 1945.
Four-score years ago, the youth of Allied Armies stormed Normandy's shore;
Men in the December of their years returned today recalling the gore of war.
They wept at comrades graves who freely gave their all on that crimson strand;
Heros reaped by the Scythe of Death to ensure that freedom would yet stand.
Old men wept as the dulcet notes of Taps was played,
And rendered smart salutes as Old Glory was displayed!
Many of the veterans leaned on canes to guide their stride;
Others in wheel-chairs were helped by guides to ease their ride.
Gnarled hands that once held the fearsome weapons of war,
Beckon for peace that we shall know war nevermore!
Upon the plain above Omaha Beach lie 9000 buddies they mourn,
Who await Gabriel's clarion bugle call on that Triumphant Morn!
The glistening sand that once was stained by a hero's blood,
Is now cleansed by the ebb and flow of decades of tidal flood.
The beach that once resounded with the cannon's roar,
Now trembles with the booming surf rushing to the shore!
The hardships these gallant men suffered, we shall never know;
So much, so very much, to this Great Generation we owe!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
At
Dunkirk,
where thousands
of stranded men
lined a bloody beach,
hope was draining with each
air strike delivered by the
unrelenting Germans’ aircraft.
Cold, starved, and injured men watched from shore -
their few rescue ships being bombed and sunk.
How must they have felt knowing their homeland
was so close – and yet so far away?
Horrific days passed when at last
brave civilians came with boats,
so it was that ten times
the number of those
not expected
to live were
instead -
SAVED.
Aug. 16, 2017: Double Etheree written for
JPContest 6: WAR AND HEROISM Contest
From Wikipedia:
The Dunkirk evacuation, code-named Operation Dynamo and also known as the Miracle of Dunkirk, was the evacuation of Allied soldiers during World War II from the beaches and harbour of Dunkirk, in the north of France, between 26 May and 4 June 1940.
The operation commenced after large numbers of British, French, and Belgian troops were cut off and surrounded by German troops during the Battle of France. In a speech to the House of Commons, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill called this "a colossal military disaster", saying "the whole root and core and brain of the British Army" had been stranded at Dunkirk and seemed about to perish or be captured.
On the first day only 7,669 men were evacuated, but by the end of the eighth day, 338,226 soldiers had been rescued by a hastily assembled fleet of over 800 boats. Many troops were able to embark from the harbour's protective mole onto 39 destroyers of the British Royal Navy, 4 Royal Canadian Navy destroyers,] and civilian merchant ships, while others had to wade out from the beaches, waiting for hours in shoulder-deep water. Some were ferried to the larger ships by what came to be known as the little ships of Dunkirk, a flotilla of hundreds of merchant marine boats, fishing boats, pleasure craft, yachts, and lifeboats called into service from Britain. In his We shall fight on the beaches speech on 4 June, Churchill hailed their rescue as a "miracle of deliverance".
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.
A place where peace should reign, yet terror grows.
A paradise where blood and children lie.
A beach where young boys played and now men die,
with liquid crimson waves that evil sows.
The cliffs now bow and weep and look below,
where from their shoulders cast a deadly tide.
A peaceful nighttime vista now belied
by daylight's bloody battle of the foes.
As dreams replace the din that's all around
and life drips slowly there into the sand,
it's faith and God and love that now surrounds
these ever grateful souls that have been found.
Brave comrades in this fate so proudly stand
to be delivered now where they are bound.
The world's grey. Slowly, methodically,
Feathers from colorful birds have been burned.
Sheep in a fog on a snowy mountain.
One man thought uniformity equaled
Superiority, ugly furor.
Their ashes floated down all around us
There's no color left in this sooty world.
Beauty's palette swirled with color beckons.
Diversity screams for a slight foothold.
The heart just whithers in colorless worlds.
APRIL 23, 2016
Word count 62
Wild galloping horse
Berlin nineteen forty-five
Hoof pounding the Earth
10/01/17
I was five years old when the war was over
August, 1945, and my daddy sent word
He was on his way home from Guadalcanal.
Grandma was already preparing a feast
For the family to celebrate his homecoming.
Momma took her last ration token from the box
She kept high on the kitchen counter cabinet
And filled up the old, worn-down Chevy with gas
So she could pick up my daddy at the bus stop.
Everyone was super excited except for me.
You see, I could not remember this man.
I didn’t know this person coming into my life--
Why was everyone so excited?
He had been gone to war since I was a baby.
The only man in my life was my grandpa.
One uncle was fighting with Patton in Italy;
Another was somewhere in Japan, we thought.
I tried to ignore the party goings-on,
And I reckoned I would make the best of it.
I was climbing the sour cherry tree next to the porch
When this man I did not know came up the hill.
He had a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder;
He wore a white uniform with a strange hat--
“A navy man,” he later told me, and he said, “I
Will make a navy man out of you!”
Later I heard Momma saying she’d taken
The last token to buy gas she hadn’t needed to.
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Written 3/22/2021
for the "Last Token" contest
sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose
I'd have loved to see the bluebirds fly
above the white chalk-cliffs of Dover--
and as they were blithely soaring over,
immersed in thought I'd lie
in calm repose upon that beach,
admiring their swooping forms,
evanescent, in fleeting storms,
like ballet ... far beyond my reach.
Frisking, fragile, carefree birds,
symbolic through intrinsic meaning --
like sterling hope and freedom's words
light English springs, forever greening:
while England fought the bitter fight
to hold at bay the 'fall of night.'
Author notes
November 20, 2004 - approx 112 words
What makes Britain great? The entire world would be speaking German and Japanese right now if not for British courage in the face of overwhelming adversity.
Setting, approximately June, 1941, Dover Beach, immediately following the Battle of Britain.
This is a published poem, copyrighted, and it takes you to a specific place as well as a specific time, when the world was at war and the fate of all mankind hung in the balance. It is relevant because we are fast approaching another such time. Bluebirds are not found in the British Isles, but I wrote the poem before I became aware of the fact. The curator at the Dover Museum said I should just leave it that way, as bluebirds, since the song, The White Cliffs of Dover, specifically named bluebirds.
Update: BLUEBIRD is an old country name for swallows and house martins, which have a blue sheen to their plumage. These migrants arrive from the continent in spring and leave in autumn, crossing the English Channel. So these bluebirds appear at least twice a year over the white cliffs and no doubt many spend the entire summer in the vicinity of Dover. As portents of improving weather, swallows and martins are traditionally believed to bring good fortune.
The poem, a quasi-Petrarchean sonnet, is being archived with other writings about Dover and The Second World War by the Dover Museum, in Dover, England.
This sonnet was published in Sonneto Poesia, Volume 3, Number 1, Winter,
2003-2004
Written July 20th, 2003
Act III, final scene, psychodrama script-
the world is ushered off into history's crypt.
All the super heroes lie slaughtered on the floor
while apocalyptic addicts are screaming out for more.
A handful of patriots ride the airwaves into night
broadcasting dire warnings to bring the truth to light.
General population is glued to the TV set
watching situation comedies, smoking cigarettes.
The program's interrupted by a special news update
"World War III declared" more details at eight.
General population pumps his fist hard into the air
grabs himself a six-pack and settles back into his chair.
Less then twenty cases later he is morgue decor
from the radiation resulting from the war.
The tube becomes his headstone, body decomposing on the floor
beneath blue light TV flickering...1984.
From Poland hailed your Uncle Max, who in matters of manners was a bit lax,
While from France came Aunt Belle, whom I thought was really quite swell.
Next up from Russia was Cousin Boris, whom I always confused with Nephew
Morris;
And then from Germany came Aunt Gitel, whose fingers fairly flew o'er
her fiddle.
After that from Lita came Uncle Beryl, whose fistic prowess put enemies
in peril.
Of course, from Ukraine came Cousin Emma, whose soup was the crème de
la crema.
It's our duty to recall Uncle Saul, though no one knew where he came from
at all
And finally, from Prussia, poor Aunt Masha, who subsisted for years on
potatoes and kasha.
What's this? You say you don't know any of these relatives at all?
Neither their names nor those of their children can you recall?
Then furrow your brow and bestir your brain; just don't be appalled:
Uncle Max may have been from Krakow, but his skeleton was prematurely
interred by the Nazis at the death-camp of Dachau.
Cousin Emma was from a wealthy family in Vizhnitz, though her fiery
cremation was reserved for the ovens of Auschwitz.
And pretty Gitel, who grew up in the small village of Dulmen, was gunned
down in the caverns of Bergen-Belsen...
So much for our family tree.
Had grandpa not fled to America by sea,
One of those dead branches above
Would surely have been me.
HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL DAY -- 73RD ANNIVERSARY -- APRIL 12, 2018
NEVER FORGET!
“The Old Warrior”
They look at me and shake their heads
That non-compliant taking up this bed
They whisper in a tone that says it all
And hurry to enter a note so small.
Do they know I buried my wife a month ago?
That my time to grieve may be too slow
I cannot see my pills so well these days
For my eyesight is slowly fading away.
I would love to tell them of the time
I fought the enemy behind their lines
I long to tell them that in my prime
I worked all day in the hot sunshine
Defending this country with sweat and blood
Earning the right to occupy this bed.
All I ask is that you treat me good
And hold my hand when the demons come
Look at me as you would your Dad
Envision me in the life I had
And when I slowly close my eyes
Salute this soldier and let me die.
Deborah M. Kelly?