Long Remembrance day Poems
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April 14 , 2016 10 : 32 am
I love you Kobe
You were my hero.
Till the eight now lastly to the 24 .
Last night your memories struck my tears and my happiness.
It’s just so hard that you are fading away from the game.
I realize that I honestly don’t love you of your fame.
I love you because you’re my hero and role model.
You inspired me to not quit.
You inspired me to continue.
Those 60 points I witness last night were a blessing from your talent and heart.
They were our last beloved memory of you.
It made me think to believe in myself.
You’re the real MVP Kobe.
You taught us loyalty.
You taught us to listen
You taught us hard work is important.
Whenever you go I’ll go.
And you taught us dearly to love you and respect you not only as a player but as a human beloved being sent from GOD.
Heroes come and goe.
Zeroes collapses and lets us down
But a Legend like you Kobe is forever eternally.
I love you Kobe.
Thank you for the game of basketball.
Thank you for me and the fans for seeing the moment on a special wonderful game you had deeply inside your sparking heart.
Your heart has touched my heart it pounded me.
I never felt like this before when it came to my hero turned legend.
I don’t care if I have a man crush on you.
I don’t care if I’m obsessed on you as a fan.
Because all I know is that you will always be my number 1 hero my savior my idol and my everything.
I cried last night.
I saw your past games last night.
I saw a growth.
A man.
A hero.
I saw a legend.
I saw your 60 points.
You were amazing , I praises you and follow your path of greatness.
When I go to bed in my deep sleep every night I think of how great and special Kobe is and how I got much love for him. So in closing I will love to say farewell Kobe. See you later no goodbyes. Thank you for the sacrifices and the memories of the game of basketball. And I understand that you have to fade away eternally.
I never let go Kobe.
I never stop thinking of you .
Kobe all day.
Kobe all night.
Kobe a hero.
A legend.
And Kobe I love you forevermore and good luck on your new journey.
Rip Kobe Bean Bryant 1996 – 2016.
This isn’t a goodbye it’s a see you later.
Form:
A story I read about war and good luck charms…..
The Good luck charm
Standing on the dock in front of the troop ship
His mother hugged him and fussed about Straightening his hat and brushing his tunic and bits
Finally stuffing a hankie in his top tunic pocket
He protested as a son was prone to
do
As it was all done in front of his mates
Finally it was last call as he followed up the gangway too
And the ship moved away to the Great War frontlines
He was a message runner for his battalion
And he carried the hankie through his Great War battles
Often dodging the machine guns all along
As he made his way through the mud and shell holes
His mother’s hankie always made him think of her
Never leaving it in his pack not wanting to lose it
And as a good luck charm when bad scrapes did occur
Until one day he was caught by a machine gun blast
One of the bullets wounded his neck as the wound showed
With his life pouring out with his blood
The only thing was the hankie to stem the flow
As he held it tightly to his neck to stop the blood
The stretcher bearers found, bandaged and brought him in
With the hankie stemming the blood flow
He was taken to the Casualty Clearing Station through the din
The doctor and nurses worked on him
There was no more war because of his injuries all
So he went back to Australia taking the hankie with him
And he kept it with blood stains from the wound call
Until the Second World War was declared again
His son took it again to war in North Africa, Greece, Crete and to New Guinea to the end
The son returned home and gave the hankie back to the Anzac
Lauding its power to keep him safe in battles again
He returned home to his family and life in Australia
There was a third generation of warriors in war going back
When a grandson took the hankie along too
Vietnam was the battlefield and the hankie’s powers were fact
He returned to Australia unscathed too
The hankie had good luck in store
When carried into battle as a good luck charm
For a family of warriors who needed it and more
And the family was convinced it protected them.
© Paul Warren Poetry
© Paul Warren Poetry
ANZAC Day 25/4/ 2024
This is a true story dedicated to the missing and the families of the missing of soldiers from the wars Australia has been involved in.
A Mother’s Love
Perhaps it was the machine-gun’s infernal chatter
As it mowed down his mates like they didn’t matter
Or was it the sight of his mates blown to pieces
As the hell of the Somme battlefield increases
For they found him wandering the battlefield
Dazed with his mind broken and finally yielded
To what he had seen that terrible 1916 day
When there was no one left who knew him or his ways
So he joined the lost parade
Of returned soldiers for the world from which he all but faded
He was returned to Australia as mentally unfit
To languish in the Callan Park Hospital as the end of it
Emma McQuade had never given up hope to find
Her son George who listed as missing in action at that time
For she scoured the docks when each ship returned
In the hope of seeing George the son for which she yearned
Each ANZAC Day she attended the march past
Looking at the faces for George as the battalions passed
Although never seeing him in this crowd
She returned home with renewed hope that she allowed
In 1928 a journalist contacted Emma then
Her son was identified as surviving in the end
After being recognised from photographs in his paper
And he ensured the cost of her travel they did waiver
She went to the hospital to meet with him again
And with a tear in her eye she exclaimed, Darling, darling then
Upon seeing her he replied, You’ve been crying , mum
As she hugged him tight as their reunion was begun
They were photographed together in the hospital gardens
As their story was related from the start to the end
She knew he would never recover from his trauma suffered
But their happiness finding each other was never ended
There were quite a number returned soldiers in grief to implore
In Mental Hospitals from that ghastly war
As well as families who never gave up hope
Of finding missing sons and a way to cope
So some toured the places where these soldiers lived
Hoping to find missing loved ones with their love to give.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Recruit Division
I never applied to join the Army, a nice man phoned me,
He said I was the type they liked, with a steel certainty,
Plus he happened to mention the nurses on the way,
And the simple matter of doubling up my pay,
I signed.
So after having passed some sort of fitness tests,
I puffed quite a bit, but certainly tried my best,
I found myself, as many a medic knows,
To the town of Ash Vale, near a certain lady rose,
I’d signed.
Now as I walked, fashionable hair dishevelled,
There ahead of me, was a soldier whose back was upright and level,
So I called out, ‘Sorry to bother you mate, is the way for the Keogh camp gate’?
And the RSM made it very clear, that I would find it and him, certainly quite near,
Now I’d signed.
Within the breath of a watching gnats eye,
My hair was gone, no time to wonder why,
Everything seemed to happen with rapid and specific shouts,
Part of me was now wondering, a modicum of doubt,
Why I’d Signed?
Over the months to follow, each day a tired tomorrow,
I learnt about guns and bangs and running for fun,
Whilst far out on the expanse of the drill square,
A Russian yelled ‘Moy Et’ with a certain disposition,
Signing was my decision.
Now behind that drill square ran the main London line,
So we would be doing things, everything looking fine,
When the London train would pass, thundering on time,
And I tried not to grin at the phrase, ‘I left you in this position’,
Glad I signed.
I discovered a new world of dead fly biscuits,
Often so hungry the compo was worth risking it,
And how far a bed could fly, without seeming to try,
Or how proud I was as my bulled boots, not asking why,
I’d signed.
There was the nine second rule, certainly a gas,
Although they’d not mentioned they would take off the mask,
As each of us fit and healthy blokes,
Laid on the grass, throat burning chocked,
But I signed.
Finally a day arrived, escape from the camp,
Helping my granddad walk up the ramp,
Parents watched on as their son stood up,
Second best recruit, but no second cup,
Proud I’d signed.
Andrew Carnegie, Reminiscing Aldershot, 14th Jan 2017.
Angels die also!
3/5/2016
Where does one began to find the words to express a unique bond and love that has developed over many years
A bond that is different from love of country, family, music or the many passions of life.
A love of that has helped you overcome depression, loneliness, or when you are sick.
A loyalty and devotion that is given 24/ 7 and from the heart.
It’ called unconditional love and its from my little dog Mr Murphy.
Over 18 years we have been together, exploring life every day.
The walks on the beaches or the trails near our house.
He would always walk ahead of me, or at my side, occasionally looking back or up at me for approval, or reassurance.
Many times traveling in the car “ sucking air together” with his head out the window or sitting in my lap, watching the world around us.
He especially enjoyed chasing a ball, and running up and down hills.
At times he loved doing the “Bichon Blitz when he got excited and made us all laugh.
At night he would sleep on the bed and rest his head on my neck or just by my side.
This was his reward and he felt so safe.
He enjoyed so many experiences with me and being content as my soul mate.
Mr Murphy was a small dog but his spirit and love of life was much greater then his size.
I sensed he understood my loyalty and love to him.
I could never ask more from my little friend.
In returned I was given loyalty and devotion from him, that was our unique bond.
We always were there for each other everyday.
Now that he is older, I know that our time is limited.
I see the changes in him and it breaks my heart.
I wish I had the power to keep him young and healthy.
But of course I do not.
We have grown older together over the years, each in our separate unique ways.
It’s so hard realizing that we will go separate ways one day.
But that bond and love will always be with me.
Especially his spirit that will always be in my heart.
I do hope and pray that when he closes his eyes for the last time, that it's a peaceful death.
Then I will know an Angel has died also.
Note: Mr Murphy was almost 19 years, but died this morning on 09/27/2016
I remember my old grand dad
Always wore his Sunday best
We always called him "Poppy"
It was always pinned upon his chest
For as long as I remember
He always had that piece of red
Tattered, torn, but sturdy
In memory of the dead
Echoes in his mind of years
Images so real
I never asked him what he saw
His tears...they sealed the deal
A silver screen of vintage flicks
In his brain of days gone by
Of good times with the friends he had
Of the days he saw them die
"Poppy" sat out on the porch
With his beat up Meerschaum pipe
He kept it tight between his lips
I never once saw it alight
He'd stare out in the distance
Seeing things from back in time
He'd listen to the voices
He never quite heard mine
We lost him back in eighty three
When "Poppy" got the wire
He was the last of his platoon
They had just lost Cpl. Squire
Echoes in his mind of years
Images so real
I never asked him what he saw
His tears...they sealed the deal
A silver screen of vintage flicks
In his brain of days gone by
Of good times with the friends he had
Of the days he saw them die
"Poppy" went inside himself
Never spoke another word
He was back with his old friends
As free as a free bird
Each year he would get dressed up
"Poppy" would go out on parade
He never, ever left the house
The porch was the longest trip he made
On the eleventh of November
He'd would polish up his boots
And at precisely eleven hundred hours
He would stand there and salute
Two minutes more of silence
From a man who didn't speak
But his actions, they said volumes
They showed that "Poppy" was not weak
Echoes in his mind of years
Images so real
I never asked him what he saw
His tears...they sealed the deal
A silver screen of vintage flicks
In his brain of days gone by
Of good times with the friends he had
Of the days he saw them die
"Poppy" never left his prison
The one he created in his head
His world was just the front porch
And the life that he once led
I remember my old grand dad
With his poppy, beat by time
It would adorn his chest proudly
And I now wear it on mine.
the field is given a name
battles are about where they disappear
the ones that walk away
don't know where the hell they are
after the mayhem
peace continues destroying barns
birds peck at exploded eye sockets
take what they see to feather nests in hollow trees
insignia and belt buckles
are hunted to extinction
sold into usury
mists shuffle a daze of time
the rattling roll calls of magpies and jackdaws
echo the click-clacking of jawbones
executing orders and counter orders
the officers that stumbled forward or away
go quietly mad or marry well
later
shell stumped foot foragers tell their slogging tales
then find newly cracked rockers
to slip away on
between the hour before dawn and midday
the violence died away in smoke
muddle and disorder
no land was lost or won nothing ended or begun
only this smoldering
cannon blasted field surrendering its nowhere acres
eventually milk cows and goats are purchased
to he hell into butter
dead horses are brought back
as glue and sacks of fertilizer
the stubborn ghosts of mules bray
on the night before remembrance day
thus now in the kilter and unwinding of years
the unnamed are plowed in or out
framed in visitor centers
the long hauled about laid to primal grist
the fallen slain recalled again
to quicken vintage tractors
the bearded and beardless site-marked and told
by the grave tongued rangers
who speak for the listening gone
and the whole much pounded shebang
grid referenced
as the muzzled earth still heaves up
its lead riddled bones
service roads are built over tufts of d-n-a
spent shells and frayed lapels catalogued
filed away
then the blue and grey left to fight
their own way home
while another day breaks its promise
Oh, I remember...
A most painful anniversary. I'll never forget
Where I was that fateful September day.
I still vividly remember what I was doing
And exactly how I felt
When I watched in paralyzing horror
As the second hijacked plane hit the tower;
The cataclysmic impact,
Immediate;
Depth of heartache and pain,
Bottomless.
I knew America was under terrorist attack.
The imagery of billowing smoke
From the gaping hollows
Where the planes struck
The twin towers,
Unforgettable.
Watching trapped people
Who couldn't withstand the intense heat
Plunging to their deaths,
Unshakable;
Glued to the TV in such shock and disbelief
I could barely speak!
On that September morning in New York,
Thousands of everyday people,
Including brave firefighters
Woke up,
Kissed their families goodbye,
Walked out the front door never to return.
Their survivors left to deal with
The aftermath of their new reality;
Yet that awful, tragic day was also a day
Of courage and resilience.
Heroes made the last moments of their lives count
Aboard Flight 77; an impending attack
On the Pentagon, they thwarted.
Terrorists tried to divide us that day.
They failed spectacularly.
From the ashes, America rose like Phoenix,
Still united. 21 years later,
The pain is still fresh every anniversary.
The memory is eternally vivid.
The world hasn't forgotten.
We Americans haven't forgotten.
We will never forget.
Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Date submitted: 12/03/2022
N/A in Remember September Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietrich
Contest Judged: 9/23/2022 8:14:00 PM
Date written: 09/11/2022
>Did you remember it today?
Did you stay quiet at 11 AM I say?
Were you out, or indoors?
Were you one 11 AM ignored?
I stood a moment on my own.
Was in my office all alone.
No one did me telephone.
Internet was off in my home.
I thought of all those brave men.
Did not forget there were women.
Gave their lives, that we one day.
Would give them two minutes, of one day.
But as I live this life of mine.
I remember them all the time.
Of those who are not by our side.
As up in heaven they abide.
I often wonder what would they say.
If alive and here today.
Would they be. As we are.
Afraid to say who we are.
By that I mean in countries far.
Say you're a Christian, if that's what you are.
Then be kidnapped or imprisoned too.
Could lose your head, or be lashed true.
I think they really would despair.
To see the world does not care.
For its people anywhere.
As all seem to be leaving their.
By their I mean what was their home.
As across, the world they roam.
From fighting wars I would flee.
But where to go. Would I come here?
Germany said you're welcome there.
But numbers grew so high. I fear.
Then other people from countries far.
Paid for bad passage to travel far.
Sadly then on the BBC News.
We could not miss those horrific views.
People drowned as boats capsized.
Dead children, brought tears to our eyes.
Would my friends if they were not dead.
Have a dry eye in their head?
Or have a tear like me instead.
Their training, could not help those dead.
I guess those brave men and women too.
Are glad not to see what we did do.
Their sights of war, were bad enough.
I'm glad they did not share, this horrid stuff.
I think they've had their share of strife.
I hope they are at peace for life.
In heaven that place, off so far.
Where soon we will reunite, at end of life.
So, did you stand for two minutes today?
For all those lives taken away.
And for the relief for all those fighting men.
Did you remember them, at 11 AM?
The above was written on the eleventh day of the eleventh month 2015 (TMA)<
Form:
I should embrace the thought of Karma,
that positive aspect that could change me,
instead I rely on my irresistible Charisma
which sparks the friendlessness in me.
I'm more than a kind-hearted man when it
it comes to helping others by lending a hand;
I am the universal believer of honor and respect,
of diversity and equality; I can be anyone's friend.
These traits were instilled in me by kind people,
who had endless faith in God and smiled at life
even when they faced the most challenging struggle;
in the land of brotherhood and continuous strife,
my people preserved their identity and great culture
that the invaders envied them for their ampleness of wisdom,
for the richness of their land, so they usurped their kingdom.
Never being ashamed of what I am and being that light,
I have found my self-worth in loving and compassionate eyes;
and they deserve the right to abundance, and when it's scarce,
they compromise by singing from windows and balconies...
believing that those doing harm are punishing themselves
for envying what they possess: the extraordinary strength to fight.
I lament the decay of institutions, I revel the concept of a rebirth
of the Mezzogiorno* that can put real gold in their empty hands,
but this image is a deterrent to go forward and be productive;
perhaps in my lifetime, I will not see these changes, it's so elusive
to look away and not consider that this society deserves self-worth
and embark on a journey as their forefathers did in these rich lands.
* The Mezzogiorno ( Southern Italy ) is still a colony
of Northern Italy since the Unification of Italy
in 1861. King Vittorio Emanuele II ordered a genocide of all the rebels
who opposed his government and that included their families. They were called Briganti ( lawless ). The Italian President Napolitano refused to honor them
with A Remembrance Day, and yet he honored a king who ordered the massacre of thousands of innocent people including Neapolitan and Bourbon soldiers.