At Ieper in Belgium there is Bloomfield's Cathedral Arch
Through the town's cobbled streets we did proudly march
For all British Nations troops who were garrisoned here
In the Great War we stood our bravery so sincere
We 55,000 who died our face to a foe bravely met
There were no graves for us so please don't forget
We are not missing we are all here with no rank division
You will see us all at midnight in Longstaff's ghostly vision
Visit at each dusk while the bugle weeps for us
Know who we were and what we did those days a must
Remember all and let our sacrifice be well considered
For to end the war to end all wars was our hope undelivered.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Categories:
garrisoned, world war i,
Form: Ballad
Mother buried hacked-up carp beneath
pink rose mallow. She knew the filthy cats
would come. A balled-up dirty rag
and coffee tin of smelly kerosene
were garrisoned behind a red berry twistwood.
Mother would hide in a column of shadow
near the porch. Ambush the cats as they dug
for carp. Their noses spiced with fish-oiled peat.
Tails flagged above puckered targets.
Mother was quick with her kerosene rag — spot on!
A hush-hush tripwire stretched taut round
the perimeter of mother’s mortared desperation.
The sacrosanct, lint-free, perfect world, where
she demanded God wipe His feet at her door.
Dear Mother, our Elizabeth Taylor dead ringer,
who could waltz with kings, or gut them with a glare.
Ghetto mother, who would murder to keep
her suburbs white, the cat crap gone, and
her prize mallow big as Frisbees. I couldn’t
let it storm on mother. She would get crazy
if her galvanized tin-roof mind was rattled.
Her daughter always had to shine. I kept
the attic window shutters well oiled. Mother
never heard my bare feet crisscrossing
the roof, as I ran to catch the rain.
Categories:
garrisoned, childhood, daughter, life, mother,
Form: Free verse