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Long Memorial day Poems

Long Memorial day Poems. Below are the most popular long Memorial day by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Memorial day poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Faith Dye | Details

My Brother

My brother is and will always be my Memorial Day
Of course I will always respect every warrior that fought let's say
My brother joined the Marines to get away from our mother at seventeen
she was mean, mentally ill, bossy, and out of her mind in between
so serving his country during the Vietnam War felt better to him
leaving all of us behind, going over there with the body count wasn't a whim
we all cried as he went out the door
mom cried the most and I was just floored
because she yelled and screamed at him all of the time
but today looked like she loved him so much and wanted him to stay behind
if he knew this and didn't have to think that she didn't care for him
his journey may have been so much better with more care and begin
to think of her differently like a loving mom
then when he was detecting land mines and hearing bombs
he may have been more comforted by love
looking at the stars up above
wearing peanut butter on his feet 
in the monsoon season
as not give the rats a reason 
to bite his flesh and hurt
they could drive you berserk
and the tunnels pray tell
they were a living hell
they would come out anytime
no reason no rhyme
hand grenades in hand
blow you up on their land
It was always a dangerous situation
you never knew when injury was a completion
you'd blacken your face up and find a tree
and sit real still and listen to everything carefully
because one wrong move could mean your life so
you had to be super aware to all the facts before you could go
to sleep for a matter of minutes perhaps a little longer if your lucky
things sure aren't the same since that plane ride all the way from Kentucky
so they put their helmets on their rifles in case they were shot at
they'd think that was their head and they would miss them flat
out right was the goal only some of them knew
and some of them snuck around to the front of you
to blow off your real head and shatter you
and if anyone say "medic" they'll shatter them too
it's just too destructive being there
you're a trained killer and it just isn't fair
You don't believe in Memorial Day, you say?
Don't stay in the states, we should run you away
too many men gave their lives for you to keep you free
we should throw you in prison lock the door and get rid of the key
this celebrates men like my brother, my cousins, good men that didn't come back
the audacity of you to talk bad about this day, disrespect them, the deck was stacked
not in their favor, believe me, we should've sent guys like you, their bodies hacked
to scare them, I wish I could scare you
no your not even worth it to do
anything to drop down to your kind
just remember when you look behind 
you, proud men gave you freedom believe it or not
you ignorant bastard you must have forgot
your daddy, your grandpa, somebody you know
fought a war for you and us and you show
no respect
to the rest
Happy Memorial Day!
Thanks to all you Women and Men whom keep and kept us safe

Copyright © Faith Dye | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by James Clark | Details

The Babaji Wheelbarrow

It was a dry, dusty day when I saw the wheelbarrow, with long handles made of dark wood. 
The wheel is struggling as it carries its burden, but it manages the job that it should. The man pushing appears to be crying, his eyes all puffy and red. It’s time to move on, but I wait,  I wait for him to reach me instead. The wheelbarrow has a dark green cover, such a sickly, metallic sweet smell underneath,  such a heavy lump in my throat,  “don’t lift the cover!” but regardless, I pull back it back to see.
The first thing to strike me, such a tiny hand, tiny fingers all bent into a fist, and an inch below there in my big gloved hand, the smallest most delicate wrist. Her face is held together by bright orange thread, her eyes are searching the stars. Her crown should still be there, on that beautiful head, where she lays, crumpled up inside her Dads cart. I put back the cover, swallow hard and just stand there, my head, Jesus Christ I can’t think,  my pounding heart tearing itself apart inside my trained body, at this beautiful little angel in pink. 
Her father, his eyes screaming toward me sobs gently, silent rage and yet deafening shock. Why can’t I bring myself to look into this man’s eyes, oh Lord, grant me some breath that I may talk. To say sorry, to ask why, to just speak in his tongue, to show him that I really care. I realise that I could never find words, I’ve no such tragedy to compare.
I walked away from the blue wheelbarrow, thinking that I could leave it behind. But every night as my daughter hugged me, that wheelbarrow crashed into my mind. Whenever she cried my stomach went tight, when she laughed those dark clouds disappeared, whenever she told me she loved me, I knew that I had nothing to fear, but yet so much. The wheelbarrow changed me forever, drank me to illness, and brought my whole life to the edge. I couldn’t switch off from that sweet smell, and I couldn’t explain that to friends. 
 I will never forget, such a small wrist in my hand, such beautiful soft lips kissing the sky. Such a pretty pink little dress, though stained red with blood, those clear and lifeless brown eyes. I wish that I had asked for her name, what to call that three year old victim of war, so small and so beautiful with those innocent eyes, my body aches that I can’t wish so any more.
If I could explain to people, about my demons, in one image to make them understand. I’d draw that blue wheelbarrow with the green cover on top, and that sweet delicate wrist in my hand. Two days after the wheelbarrow I became a Father and to my comfort, for the rest of my life I will know. No matter how often the wheelbarrow returns, I have my daughter, here for me to hold.

Copyright © James Clark | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Galeo DS | Details

In Memory of My Dad

It’s already been three years now since you passed away, Yet, those mem’ries of you are alive, in my heart you’ll forever stay; Every time I think of you, I smile with pain, And wish that I can see and hug you once again. My childhood years with you were so much fun, I can’t recall any moment when you hit me with your hand; You always took care of me with so much love, ‘Til I dreamt of Jesus on his bike, showing Himself like you-a loving Dad. You were a very loving father who sacrificed everything, When mom was away for work, you crossed rivers if I get sick; You’d played the biggest role in my grade schooling, You’d always fetched and brought me to school through biking. I remember when you asked my teacher’s permission, I was sick and I couldn’t attend my Kindergarten Graduation; My teacher didn’t agree for I’ll be given an honor, Wrapped in blanket, you brought me up on stage to pin my ribbon. From my secondary to college life, You gave your financial, moral and spiritual support and guide; You’d honed your house-painting skills and you became well- known, A big help for mom and your three children’s education. December 2010 to January, 2011 was the happiest moment for me, You and mom visited me in a place so far away, A happy reunion of only four (with your sis/my aunt) but I was so happy We enjoyed your natal day… I never thought that was your last, Daddy. You went back home and suddenly you got sick, No matter how everyone climbed a mountain, you’d a remote recovery; Despite the pain of losing you as my eyes blurred with tears, I finally let you go to God, in Him you’ll find the most soothing relief. Today is your death anniversary and I’m writing my poetry, To express how much you are missed my ever dearest daddy; I offer you flowers and candles on the altar where I’ve placed your photo, Through my prayer to God, I’ll send my loving messages to you. Dear God, please tell my dad that I dearly love and miss him so much, Hug him for me and through the breeze, please send me his loving touch; Among the most beautiful flowers in heaven, please pick one for me, Give it to him- a symbol of my great love and forever he’s my best daddy.
Feb. 27, 2014 5.20pm A poem requested by my relatives for my dad’s Third Year Death Anniversary on this March/14. He was 64 when he died. It was sent back home through mail and will be read by my 11-yr. old niece on his memorial service day at church. >>Pls. click about this picture. TYSM

Copyright © Galeo DS | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by John Arribas | Details



Patriotic songs give us reason to cheer
Except when “over there” is over here
Living underground is no place to cherish
Cause in this place , you could easily perish
You huddle in the trenches each day at dawn
Then over the top at the sound of the horn

The chatter of machine gun fire spills cross the plain
Your companions are dropping screaming with pain
You move rapidly as your pulse races
Only a fool would cross open spaces
After the charge there are agonizing cries
From wounded men slowly losing their lives

Unarmed medics venture into the strife
Feeling for pulses searching for life
Commanders gave orders for this type of fray
We need to get back what we lost yesterday 
And so it goes swapping land for men’s lives
With this kind of lunacy no one survives

Neither side will consider the others petition
They’d rather continue this senseless attrition
Riddled with bullets then dumped in a trench
No time to collect name tags too odorous the stench
This young life extinguished ahead of its time
His uniform tarnished and covered with lime

A senseless deployment of each nations best
The reward for their bravery is eternal rest
Later that day when they call the roll
Few will be there maybe no one at all
Back home they’ll read his name in the square
Some will be crying in utter despair

Wwi (2) amer. Ver.

The government boasts of daily  achievement
But in many a home there is only bereavement 
Gallantry and sacrifice was well worth the price
Cause on November eleventh all will be nice
An equitable armistice will truly insure
That no further carnage the world must  endure

Mission accomplished medals galore
Cause we fought the war “to end all war
The generals all flush with their new found fame
Were eating their truffles and drinking champagne
The lonely soldier still in one piece (so it seems)
Trudged through the mud seeking relief

The war was over a time to rejoice
Yet in his soul an unanswered voice  
The pain and the fright he had to sustain
The horrors of war were sure to remain
Then on that day when his life closes
Put a flag on his coffin and scatter some roses

They’ll praise his service to the land of the free
Award him a medal granted posthumously
Death and destruction will happen no more
Cause he fought the war “ to end all war”

apsumo de vita


Copyright © John Arribas | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Scribbler Of Verses | Details

Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom

(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)

Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom:

Solomon Mahlangu was trained as an MK soldier with a view to later rejoining the struggle in the country.

He left South Africa after the Soweto Uprising of 1976 when he was 19 years old, and was later chosen to be part of an elite force to return to South Africa to carry out a mission commemorating the June 16th 1976 Soweto student uprising.

After entering South Africa through Swaziland and meeting his fellow comrades in Duduza, on the East Rand (east of Johannesburg), they were accosted by the police in Goch Street in Johannesburg.

In the ensuing gun battle two civilians were killed and two were injured, and Mahlangu and Motloung were captured while acting as decoys so that the other comrade could go and report to the MK leadership.

Motloung was brutally assaulted by the police to a point that he suffered brain damage and was unfit to stand trial, resulting in Mahlangu facing trial alone.

He was charged with two counts of murder and several charges under the Terrorism Act, to which he pleaded not guilty.

Though the judge accepted that Motloung was responsible for the killings, common purpose was argued and Mahlangu was found guilty on two counts of murder and other charges under the Terrorism Act.

On 15 June 1978 Solomon Mahlangu was refused leave to appeal his sentence by the Rand Supreme Court, and on 24 July 1978 he was refused again in the Bloemfontein Appeal Court.

Although various governments, the United Nations, International Organizations, groups and prominent individuals attempted to intercede on his behalf, Mahlangu awaited his execution in Pretoria Central Prison, and was hanged on 6 April 1979.

His hanging provoked international protest and condemnation of South Africa and Apartheid.

In fear of crowd reaction at the funeral the police decided to bury Mahlangu in Atteridgeville in Pretoria.

On 6 April 1993 he was re-interred at the Mamelodi Cemetery, where a plaque states his last words:

‘My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom.

Tell my people that I love them.

They must continue the fight.’

Mahlangu died for a cause!


The Struggle Continues…

(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Old buck | Details

My Dad Was Just a Lad Part 2

My Dad Was Just a Lad
Part 2

He was on a brand new ship,
The USS Horace Bass,
The KEEL was laid in ‘44
APD would be her class.

With a crew of over 200 strong,
But for most, their first time out.
In the weeks and months ahead,
They’d learn what “WAR” is all about.

Headed out for the great Pacific,
Okinawa, at Hagushi anchorage.
371 Enemy planes shot down,
As our Fleet would vent her rage.

Then came those grueling days,
They called this duty, “picket line”.
The enemy must cross this space,
But heavy shelling is what they’d find.

There were occasional escort trips,
To Guam and then Saipan.
It broke the tension of daily fire,
Which was fine with every man.

Returning from such an escort trip,
A submarine blip came on sonar.
8 depth charges would be dropped,
Watch for oil slicks, on open water.

History was made April 25,
Bass had sunk a mid-size sub.
The only APD to, “git’er done”.
36 enemy, “sank” inside that tub.

It was the night of July 3 0,
Things were seeming very still.
When they heard the cough & sputter,
Of a crippled plane, out for the kill.

It caught them really by surprise,
Flying in darkness, fast and low.
Headed straight now toward the Bass,
Wanting to take its fatal blow.

The very last moment before impact,
That killer plane went o’er the side.
An aerial wire had caught his wheel,
Missing our ship, that “kamikaze” died.

One American killed, 3 badly injured,
More injured slight, but still could fight.
The Bass puts into Buckner Bay,
Ship & injured were soon made right.

They would be among the first,
Task Force 31 would find their way.
To take position way up front,
To occupy 'their' Tokyo Bay.

August 27, at 0810, Captain Flynn,
It’s official: Nagato admits defeat.
The last lone fighting battleship,
Of their Great Nipponese fleet.

Well now I pause to catch my breath,
Our young man will soon be home.
As thousands more hit U.S. soil,
So many of them, will feel “alone.”

Families were there, that’s true,
And friends, now by the score.
But they had not seen the suffering,
The deaths, and so much more.

* * * * *

Written by oldbuck to record for his 
growing family, The story of his father,
and the brave fighting crew of the
* * * USS Horace A. Bass * * *

Copyright © Old buck | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Timothy Hicks | Details

A Different Kind of Memorial

I write this for you far too late it seems.
That the day would come, the sun would set on you
was always just a bad dream, I'd conjure in my head,
late at night while laying haphazardly in my bed.
Of course I found it to be true
and it left me speechless through and through.
You were a friend to me and a Man of God.
You were tired of standing still, so you got off your log.
And when you announced you were joining the army
I was indifferent. I didn't beam with pride, nor preach against it.
I was a pesky mouse with a million things to say, but stayed quiet.
Just what in the world could I do
that would ever compare to the Greatest Sacrifice?
We can't even sit down and talk about it
that's what they mean by the Ultimate Price.
Just how in the world do I honor thee
when I'm convinced so thoroughly
America was in the wrong?
I wish at times I could be like a sheep
and tag along.
Hold my head up high
and see the good ole red, white and blue
waving majestically in the sky.
But I can't just ignore what my heart is telling me.
It's not about taking the day-off and having a barbecue.
It's not about kicking up your feet, basking in the heat.
I respect that full-heartedly.
But with the range of emotions I'm feeling currently
I can't even shed a tear,
it just wouldn't do these feelings justice.
For it is without shame and without prejudice
I mourn the loss of anyone,
not just someone close to me.
I can't put a price tag on lives,
it's just not how I see things.
It's a lie what they tell you, digging doesn't
always get you gold, just grimier dirt.
When someone goes we all point fingers,
but in the end it's only hurt that we feel.
It's a long grieving process, but in explicable ways
some of us just won't ever heal.
Oh how I wish to grab Uncle Sam's shoulders,
screaming, "Wake UP!
We've played your game, but enough is enough!
In the name of God, stop this charade!
How dare you turn a blind eye to so much blood..."
But alas, now is not the time for that - today I'm just sad
when I think of all the life you could have had.
All I know is that on May 4th, 2013 war took her course
and swallowed up one of this world's last great remaining stars.
It's a comfort to me, however minuscule,
that I see your smile on the faces of many,
so you can't be all that far.

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Phil Salmon | Details

Odyssey from Africa 7b

CHAPTER 7b (Ipiki, continued)

Which had shared their lofty tree-nest
Now the bats abruptly vanished
But for one unlucky creature 
Which the hunting snake now swallowed 
And, its scaly torso flexing
Disappeared into the foliage 
Which regained its normal greenness.
One black leaf however drifted 
Gently down onto the sleeping 
form of Matto, who now waking
Saw this gossamer-like object
Resting on his naked midriff
Soft as air and light as moonbeam
Black as night, now slowly stirring 
Matto took it very carefully 
In his hand and looked more closely 
"It's a baby bat", said Kwona
As the family huddled round him
Then the dark winged creature fastened
Tiny claws round Matto's finger
Han and Kwona then permitted 
Matto to adopt the batling
For a second time extending
Succour to a helpless orphan
So they talked about the naming
Of their Pipistrelle companion
He was cute and very squeaky
So they called his name "Ipiki"
By their keen young ears the children 
Heard the language of Ipiki
But their parents could perceive no 
Inkling of his high-pitched chirping 
Matto made himself a necklace
Woven out of fibrous fern fronds
From the necklace hung Ipiki
Sleeping as they walked in daytime 
Then, since bats are nighttime mammals  
He would wake up in the evening  
Matto fed him grubs and insects 
Which Ipiki snapped up gladly
After several days, at sunset
As the bat bestirred, it spread its  
Filmy wings and fluttered skyward
Circled several times near Matto
Then crash-landed in the bushes
And his maiden flight was ended
But the bat grew fast and strengthened
Gaining skill and flying further 
Matto found that soon Ipiki
Had no need of finger-feeding
With his bat acoustic senses
He could capture flying insects
In the darkness. Thus at nighttime 
As the family ate together 
And retired up to their tree-nest
Then Ipiki would awaken
Stay some moments as the children 
Cradled him between their fingers 
Then would flutter through the night air
Circling round their tree encampment 
Keeping up a kind of vigil
Near the family through the night hours 
And from that time on they suffered
Less and less from biting insects 

Copyright © Phil Salmon | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Brian Martin | Details

Remembering Vlad

I first glanced at you
Quietly looking away
I'll never hold you
My selfish declaration 
I'm not that strong
Weaker than I perceived you were
Seeing you behind those tiny bars
Unable to lift your head from
That stained mattress 

They said "Here,  he's yours for the afternoon"
I instantly felt all your bones
Femur, spine, ribs, and radius
Your pooched out belly is all that made that
Onesy seem to fit
Your sunken distant eyes were the exclamation 
Of your hunger, not just from food, but beyond
When one's been touched it's possible 
To smile at death
Hope makes such things possible 
But it's hope you never met
And it was absent from our embrace 
As we sat on the stone bench in the tall weeds 
Of the hospital playground 
The other kids responding w/ laughter 
And smiles, giggles and games
Sticking out their tongues at each other

They said you were 4
You had never uttered a word
Had yet to eat solid food, you were still
Eating baby food
You had yet to walk, you were too weak
You'd been beaten, though
Several times
Unwanted, a curse
You ground your teeth so loud
I wanted to cry

I began talking to you about
Your future
One day talking
One day walking
Eating solid food
You didn't blink, you just stared blank
Like I wasn't there 
Realization crept upon me and
Snatched optimism from my bosom
Next to where you lay
I wept
It was MY hope for you
That had been hijacked not your own
As far as I know you felt nothing

I would be back home
Within a week
As mucous flowed from my nostrils 
Down the sides of my lip
I grappled with my feelings that you
Would be dead before I saw
My children again

My daughter playfully pedals bye 
Her head tilted back and to the side
Bouncing Sandy blonde curls
Almost touching the tricycle tires
Chubby cheeks squinting eyes
Smiling the perfect full baby tooth smile
"Watch me daddy!"
Riding in circles around the hot fire grill
Filled with steak, mushrooms, and peppers 
"Daddy's watching you, little turkey"
My baby is 4 and a half today

To have a memorial, there first must be a day of importance

Copyright © Brian Martin | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Vicki Acquah | Details




In her lofty ways, she was always
the best example of
the stars out-shining the moon.

Her ways of doing things always
correct and proper
she was a student of the Queen.
Place setting and
the china on the table all had to
be per the law.

And no PHD could outwit her with
her twelfth-grade education.
She though dignified and learned
always quoted un-biblical quotes
from other bibles.

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness ".

I would say well didn't
God make dirt too!?
Don't be asinine she would say-
Seemed as if the emphasis
would be on the "ass"
I would laugh... and when
she thought
I was not looking
she would laugh too.

Auntie could hardly
pass up a good humorous
exchange no matter how
ostentatious or outrageous.
Her well-groomed and well
manicured demeanor
was not just for Sundays.
She served her God faithfully
in words and in deeds every day.

I have never known her
to beg or borrow.
Never seen her complain as
"Arthur" took his toll on her knees.

She was faithful to the end
and though she had no
children of her own,

she was nurturer of all us
children whom were
blessed enough to be
corrected by her or to
eat a slice of her lemon
meringue pie.
Anytime I think of her
I remember the sweetest

music coming from
the piano that displayed
her mood with music-
Her piano voiced her
thoughts in pitch and
range; as she became
one with the keys and chords.

There was no room for "I can't"--
and no excuse not trying.
She finally gave up on me
playing the piano -
That ruler had taken
its toll on my knuckles
and even if you failed at any

attempt to do things as right
as she wanted:
After a hardy reprimanding

Auntie was sure to have my favorite
food and clean bed waiting for me.
I loved her so much that
every now and then
I must write about this amazing
Sister to my mother.

Her name...
Rosella Faye Graham Derrickson Myers ...
And yes, she would say her whole ''title"
if you were to ask her, her name.

Her spirit lives on...

In all the lives that she has touched.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2013

Long Poems