Long Boer Poems
Long Boer Poems. Below are the most popular long Boer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Boer poems by poem length and keyword.
You were born in Clermont, Queensland on December, twenty-four,
Away back circa eighteen sevn'ty-two.
Edward Jones now had a fifth child, whom his dear wife Anna bore,
Their second son and both were proud of you.
They'd migrated out from Ireland back in eighteen sixty-three
And sailed upon the good ship Beejapore.
Landing at Rockhampton harbour in the Queensland colony,
Resettling on a strange and foreign shore.
Childhood days behind you Victor you then joined the work force lad,
Assigned to a gold mining company.
In the range town of Mt Morgan you enjoyed the job you had;
A diligent and loyal employee.
You assisted the paymaster, though you left your posting when
You chose to join your countrymen at war.
For you heard the call of duty and you joined Mt Morgan men
To fight for Queen and country 'gainst the Boer.
Volunteering as a member of the gallant Q.M.I.
You proudly donned that feather in your hat.
First Contingent of B Company you waved this land good-bye,
Enrolled as British troops and went to bat.
Rebel Boers embarked on raiding farms of loyal colonists
In Griqualand west district to the north.
Counter measures were then put in place to stop these terrorists
By sending Pilcher and his column forth.
On the last day of December circa eighteen ninety-three
This force would march from Belmont heading west.
Information was forthcoming as to where the Boers could be
And Ricardo led his party which was soon put to the test.
On the first day of that New Year Victor Jones you lost your life;
They buried you at Sunnyside that eve.
Since that day the world's continued to be filled with war and strife,
So many die for what they do believe.
But the nation recognises that the first Australian
To die upon the battle field was you.
So Mt Morgan folk erected to your memory young man
A monument; the least that they could do.
In the not too distant future Victor, nations may yet see,
How precious all their young men really are.
Then refrain from sacrificing them and let the young men be,
Fine fathers to their families, not memories afar.
You are welcome to share this poem for noncommercial use and dedicate it to your favorite mother, but please credit the author if you share it on social media or elsewhere …
Mother’s Smile
by Michael R. Burch
There never was a fonder smile
than mother’s smile, no softer touch
than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than “much.”
So more than “much,” much more than “all.”
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother’s there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.
There never was a stronger back
than father’s back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, then flew.
But, oh, a mother’s tender smile
will leap and follow after you!
I have dedicated this poem to my mother, Christine Ena Burch, and my wife, Elizabeth Harris Burch. Published by TALESetc, Famous Poets and Poems, Poems for Big Kids (anthology), Victorian Violet Press, Better Than Starbucks, Promosaik (Germany), Pour Femme (Italy), Korean Palmers, JIT Jaipur (India), Inspirational Stories and Care2Care; also Penguin Books Valentine’s Day Contest Winner and included in the Children of Gaza song cycle by composer Eduard de Boer. Keywords/Tags: Mother, Mothers, Mothers Day, family, children, love, compassion, tenderness, encouraging, encouragement, selflessness, sacrifice, comfort, hugs, kisses, smile, smiles
Love has a gentle grace
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth on Mother’s Day
Love has a gentle grace; you have not seen her
unless you’ve looked into your mother’s eyes
and seen her faith
—serene, composed and wise—
that you’re the center of her very being
(as once, indeed, she carried you inside.)
Love has no wilder beauty than the thought
that you’re the best of all she ever sought.
(And if, perhaps, you don’t believe my song,
can your mother be wrong?)
Rolf was born in Wallertheim, in an optimistic year
Progress seemed to be everywhere, and not much to fear.
Then the reds took Russia, shook the world to the core
Millions killed when in power, a crime you can’t ignore
Drafted in World War One, every moment was a scare
French came at him in bright red uniforms, too visible, wasn’t fair
He claims he didn’t kill anyone; I wish I could believe
He was on the wrong side of that war, a past you can’t retrieve.
Under Weimar, the dollar was worth 4000 trillion marks
That kind of inflation destroys society, opens it to sharks.
Nazis got into power, took guns from all the Jews
Rolf threw his weapon in the Rhine, and his medals too.
He left grape vines behind, took his family out, down to the wire
They rode through Palestine, saw Jewish farms set on fire.
Then a letter came from the Reich, called Rolf to the reserve
We still have it, bureaucratic time lag, an ironic reminder to serve.
If Rolf had gone back, he would have been doomed
Into the maw of the gigantic bloodshed one more life consumed.
I met Rolf in Denver, a short, muscular guy
He even flipped me on my back, with a Judo move I didn’t spy.
I watched a rodeo with him, history was in arrest.
It's a strange thing, in one man, so much time compressed
I spoke with a great-aunt who had uncles in the Civil War
A great uncle told me he saw soldiers marching to fight the Boer.
He also fought in World War One, but on the English side
Showed me wounds in his arm, to fight was part of pride.
And now I use ChatGPT, and admire Space X
In me through memories so much history connects.
And yet I’m the black sheep, so many things went bad
I’m relieved these men never knew my saga, so dismal, and so sad.
I also look at the world, there is so much bad news:
Jihad in Africa, and in Holland a “hunt for the Jews”
China, Russia on the rise, the west has seen better days
Will we end that compressed window of history in a fiery blaze?
Unmusking the Lies - Poem written to Elon Musk
In the stillness of night, a truth stirs and grows,
A chorus of voices, where our history flows.
From the ashes of burdens, our spirits ignite,
Our pain woven deep, and we’re reclaiming our light.
Elon, hear our cries—this narrative’s flawed,
To claim we are killers, is a strike at theawed.
The echo of struggle, the chant you condemn,
Is a cry for the fallen, for our lost sisters and brethren.
"Kill the Boer," they chant—not a call to the blade,
But a voice through the silence, where our heroes were laid.
It reflects the suffering, the scars of the past,
A fight for our freedom, a hope built to last.
We carry the weight of history’s chains,
But our joy and our strength break free from the pains.
We aren't the oppressors; we rise, we stand tall,
In the shadows of anguish, our spirits won’t fall.
So listen, dear world, and lend us your ear,
For the truth of our struggle is steeped in our fear.
To label us violent is to silence our soul;
We rise from oppression, reclaiming our whole.
The chants of the past are our stories of strife,
They honor the fallen, they honor our life.
In the face of injustice, we won’t turn away,
We’ll sing for the chosen, who fought night and day.
So stop with the labels, and see us anew,
For our strength is in unity, and our hearts hold the truth.
That mourning is layered, and pain wears many forms,
But in justice and healing, our resilience transforms.
Let love be the narrative, let wisdom be clear,
For only in understanding will we silence the fear.
Together, we rise, hand in hand, side by side,
In the tapestry of justice, our souls will abide.
Hoping my complement of words compliment your time:
[The man] from
Cape Town came down
was a Dutch Boer much more
likely be less lightly
[demand] his
boar who bore
his own way in and weigh in.
The Boer was allowed to speak aloud
and he laughed when he left,
but was bored when he board
the plane but a plain man
who was a former farmer
and he rose like all heroes
except when they accept
they need the doe-like when they knead the dough
was too high a price to pay, so he bought a cheap toupee
and crossed aisles row by row
and crossed isles shore by shore
he rent-a-car and went by car
and rode on a road, ahead ... and saw a head!
Aghast! He stepped on ... a gas pedal
where metal met mettle
going off course on the coarse roadside.
He could hear wheels whet off the wet edge of the road
He had to sell his cell phone to pay for the room
The maid made the call to the police
The cops were told over cups of coffee
He read the report and signed it with red ink
All know that there's no way he'll forget it soon
They said, "A lesson that never lessen, our hour is up, good night--whether the weather holds."
The waitress said, "Some night, the sum is on the house."
He waste away his waist that day
At the docks, he saw ducks and first they were geese
He got the que to stand in the queue as those who were through threw in their shoe and shoo
Clerk, "Destination?" "I'll be headin' for the British Isle."
Clerk, "Cheers and goodbye." "Cheap, was a good buy!"
N TROTSE AFRIKANER BOER
Ek staan vanaand en kyk na my land
Suid Afrika.
Waar is ons land dan? Waar gaan
ons le vanaand?
Ek sien weer die voortreker wa. Ek
sien weer my oupa se oupa waar hy
jonk en vrolik die osse inspan, want
net oor die volgende bult le ons rus,
net oor die volgende bult le toekoms
rus oor daai bult le Louis Trichardt
en oor daai bult le buffels fontein.
Ja ons Afrikaner bloed le diep. Ver
loop ons bloed in bloedrivier in. In
die grond le ons swoeg en sweet. Is
daar dan nou nie n plek vir ons
afrikaner hart nie. Word ons nie ook
n plek gegun in die aarde waar ons
voorvaders baklei het vir ons
bestaan nie?
Hoe lank moet ons baklei om ons
plek te kry in die afrika se son en
sand? Hoe ver moet ons dan trek om
weer eens die land te maak waar ons
kan opbou soner om te dink water
plaas word weer geplunder water
een van ons Afrikaner boere se vrou
en kiners kry seer.
STAAN OP MY BOERE VOLK STAAN
OP UIT DIE AS EN KOM STAAN
SAAM TEEN DIE WAT SEER MAAK
WAT AFBRAND
Want ons hart le in ons kiners se
toekoms en soner ons aksie is hul
verlore. Sal hul omdraai en vra waar
is ons trots afrikaner waar was ons
Want in die land van moord rape en
barbare kan ons ook weer n land vir
ons as afrikaner skep. Kan ons die
Afrikaner weer veilig slaap vir ons
kiners n toekoms gee as daar aksie
is as ons ook weier om op getrap te
word
Slouch Hat
When you see the hat or hear the tune so fair,
you'll know what its about.
The old "Slouch hat" that our Digger's wear,
and the "Waltzing Matilda" no doubt.
Yes we have some pride in what we've done,
of the convict blood in this race.
We'll never be happy unless we've won,
to lose is a big disgrace.
Whenever asked, well we've been there,
to aid our friends in a War.
Our boys they've died, yes died with flair,
since the Breaker fought the Boer.
Well now we're multicultural, mixed, all sorts,
but all Aussies any rate.
New Aussies can be good at sports,
so say "Good on you mate."
It doesn't matter how smart you are,
don't try politics, be a clown.
You can be very popular,
till the newsmen pull you down.
Character assassination is their trade,
they cut tall poppies short.
Brainwashing by the sentence made,
they got Bondy didn't they sport?
When you see our Diggers on a farewell parade,
all races so proudly march there .
And the Waltzing Matilda so loudly is played,
it picks up your feet with its flair.
The Bayonets are fixed and Sabres displayed
for the Diggers its walking on air.
They're off to do battle with the tools of their trade,
the young and the brave proudly there.
by D H Johnson.
________________________________________
Each time I raise my gaze to the night sky,
A million stars stare back, shedding happy tears of light.
And I cannot but stare back in delight,
Wondering which one of them holds your great soul.
Tell me, Old Nelson, do they--these stars--still shine upon
you?
Heaven should grant that they do,
For like them your example still shines upon us, pointing
to us the true north of life--
And, oh yes, this one great lesson: that life's struggles will
endure our stumbles but never our mumbles.
Yes! Our hopes may fall and our fortunes dip, but on their
feet our voices must keep.
Twenty-seven years did rough chains bind your feet,
And twenty-seven years did they girdle your breast,
But not once--never--did they bind your voice.
"Only free men can negotiate," you scoffed at your jailers,
scorning to barter your ideals for your freedom;
And to that crooked Boer court: "A free South Africa is the
great ideal for which I live, and if need be it is the one ideal
for which I will die."
Then to a bleeding, seething nation: "Let's break with the past."
From the flesh of these words a new nation was carved for
white, brown, and black alike.
Twinkle for twinkle it matches the skies,
And in its bosom you now rest forever: quiet, contented,
victorious!
You defy belief
Thanks dear
I mean, seven in the morning, and you’re sober
Pub went on fire, early night
Someday you will die a lonely man
My God, that philosophy degree has done you good
Why, because I state the obvious
Exactly, we’re all going to die someday
Not from liver cirrhosis
No, you’ll go from nagging-itis
Always the comic
Being married to you dear brings out the best in me
Do you ever wonder why I left
Have you left
Yes, I’m now happy with Jeff
Philosophy again, seven in the morning, you passing by
I was concerned about you
Jeff’s boring the pants off you
No he isn't, he’s my rock
Fancy a quickie
Certainly not
C’mon he’s a boring history teacher
Jeff’s a lecturer
It’s written all over your face, frustration my dear
Our sex life is great
Sex to the Boer war, riveting
Jeff is tuned into me
Battle of Britain music, is that oral to Jeff
Hate you
I see that look in your eyes
Hate you
You want me
Shut up, let's go
Will you be passing by again anytime soon
Not if I can help it
You sure, I don’t mind helping out
Going for a romantic weekend with Jeff
See you Monday then
Only if I'm passing by
Context,
Boer War , South Africa
The Battle for Spion Kop
Slag van Spioenkop
Ladysmith , Natal
23 January 1900
British forces under the command
Sir Redvers Buller
Dug in to take the higher ground
on Spion Kop
In order to engage the Boer army
encircling below
Lead by General Louis Botha
The rest is written down in history, folklore and infamy
And a famous football club's stand named after it
Dedicated to it's fallen
2nd Battalion Lancashire Fusseliers
243 Dead
1250 Casualties
I write this only because,
i myself visited this hilltop graveyard paid homage and knelt before it's unkept memorial upon it
And instead of feeling what i thought
i should be the travesty, horror and
utter futility of war
And whilst leaving took 1 final glance over my shoulder at the vista and panorama only to be over come by the sheer unadulterated serenity and beauty
And i left perversely thinking what a beautiful place to die
Death has a hell of a lot to live up too