Long Solders Poems
Long Solders Poems. Below are the most popular long Solders by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Solders poems by poem length and keyword.
THEY HAD ALOT TO TALK ABOUT
THEY FOUND A GROUP FROM THE
UPPER- VALLEY ON THE EDGE OF THE SETTLMENT
IT BOTHERED SOME
KNOWING THAT sTAMBLE mEANEST WAS AMONG THOSE SPOTTED.
STAMBLE HAD FATHER A CHILD WITH SEVERAL WOMAN IN THE SETTLEMENT.
AND WISHED TO MARRY ONE OF THE DAUGHTERS OF WARBIRD.
THIS WENT AGAINST THE WISHES OF WARBIRD, AND EVEN HIS FATHER WHO HAD LABELED
HIM A TRAITOR TO HUMANITY.
HE HAD ALLIED HIMSELF WITH THE POFIA-DAFF-GANNY, A COUNTERINTELLIGENCE
GROUP FROM AN AREA IN SOUTH MEXICO.
THEY LOOTED A WORSHIP AREA IN PITITO ALLOW STAMBLE ACCESS TO THE SETTLEMENT, PUTTING A BOUNTY ON HIS HEAD AND
ONLY ALLOWED HIM THE RIGHT TO WRITE HIS CHILDREN.ZIA AND SHIPPED THE GOLD TO THE VALLEY TO BE STORED THEIR.
WHY DID THE SETTLERS AGREE, IS SOMETHING OF A MYSTERY.
IT IS SAID THAT THAT THE TREASURE WAS HAUNTED, AND A CURSE WAS MADE ON IT.
THOSE WHO WISHED TO POSSES
THE TREASURE WOULD DO SO AT A RISK.
SOME SCHOLARS SAY THAT WHEN THE SETTLERS MELTED THE GOLD
AND MADE COINS
THE FLOOR OF THE BUILDING BEGAN SHAKING.
AND SOME REPORTS THAT THE DOORS FELL FROM THEIR HINGES.
NOT WANTING THE TROUBLE FROM THE SPANISH SOLDERS, THEY
REFUSED. WARBIRD WAS QUOTED AS SAYING, "HE ( STAMBLE) WISHES TO MAKE WOMAN THINK LIKE MEN.
CAUSING THEM, TO CREATE A CULTURE AROUND HIM.
YET WHAT IS RECREATED OFTEN CREATES NEW PROBLEMS"
I have been traveling for more than a hundred and twenty days searching for the special lights that keep popping up in my nightly dreams and the beam that passes through the skies when the visitors walk by.
I have been searching for the road where the story has been told, but the ages have passed with time and I keep moving around with this radiant image in my head with a scroll stucked underneath an age old concrete bed, and an ancient vault sealed up next to the cross where history was born.
I have been traveling for more than a hundred and twenty days with a back pack on my back and an architectural diagram in my hand. Landscape of the morning burning in the street and rumbling clouds in the evening cools the temperature when the sun goes down.
I have been searching for this road where the battle is unfold and the solders retreat before destiny completes; a cluster of trees stands in the middle and a circle road runs around it with multitude of lights condense between edges and nature is breathing all over it.
Not not one human frame was inside and the village was illuminated with millions of lights and there was no incident inside. I stood on the side and watch it glow and the mountains around joins the show and sing a joyous tune as the lights glow from within.
I stood there for hours absorbing the magnificent scene and my soul was at peace for the journey was complete; it is a journey that you have to make and you have to do it before it is too late; there is only one way in and one way out and you have to find it before nature starts to shout;, go and search diligently for the road that leads to illumination street; someone is waiting there for thee.
True Christmas Miracle
Huddled in muddy trenches, the soldiers heard an eerie sound.
Troops were English, French & Belgians, and as they looked around,
The sound was coming from the German enemy lines just 50 yards away.
It was singing, and the German soldiers were approaching on that day.
It was the twenty fourth of December nineteen fourteen.
Between France and Belgium, The Western Front, was the scene.
As Germans left their trenches a cry of “Merry Christmas” could be heard.
Our solders could only watch without saying, even one word.
The German solders looked so jovial, it didn’t seem to be a trick,
Our soldiers hesitated, slowly coming out, their actions were not quick.
Soon they were striding up to the oncoming soldiers, accepting their invite.
The beautiful singing drew them in, even though they feared it wasn’t right.
There was laughing and joking, and they all exchanged gifts sent from home.
Seemed all men were the same, didn’t matter from where they roam.
They smoked and showed each other photos of their children & wives.
For a short time, they were comrades not one bit afraid for their lives.
As night fell, drowned in soft moonlight, German carols filled the air.
For the first time since the war began, each soldier felt comfort there.
Laughter resounded, and the allies began O Come All Ye Faithful, in tune.
Germans sang the same Hymn, in Latin Adeste Fideles, under the moon.
I wonder if it crossed their minds “Just what are we fighting for?”
How extraordinary, enemies singing together a carol in the middle of a war.
By morning gifts of cake, smokes and clothes were exchanged by each side.
Men chatting as a magician and a juggler were enjoyed, with eyes open wide.
A barber in civilian life, gave haircuts. Soldiers had notes they addressed,
Hoping to be taken to their loved ones in France and England in the west.
Soccer broke out. The game went hours, that history making Christmas day.
Soldiers on both sides spent time burying their comrades, to their dismay.
Soldiers who had been killed in fighting that preceded that wonderful truce.
A truce that should be an example of what we humans can willingly produce.
A true show, that men aren’t killing machines, everyone, a husband or a son.
A true Christmas Miracle from the bloody chapters of World War One.
Funkin AT THE CHICKEN SHACK – Tony Adamo - 1990
Jimmy Smith was laying down an incredible riff on a wall of kinetic sound that was oozing out of my car radio. I was on my way back from a singing gig at an Indian Restaurant. Saturday night is jazz night in the City by the Bay. On my approach to the Bay Bridge, I could see the fog was cold and watery wet, as it lay low and crept along like solders on night patrol in Vietnam.
I steered my Chevy Nova like it was a priceless Lamborghini the musical transition of thought. No traffic on the B Bridge…2:00AM on the steel span and all was right with me. Jimmy smith with friends Kenny Burrell, Stanley Turrenting, and drummer, Donald “Duck” Bailey were my musical guides for the ride.
I dug deep as I had to slow down. The fog was horror movie thick. Now I had time to think to the 100th power. Sho’ ‘ nuff and came up with Don Patterson, Richard Groove Holmes,Charles Earland, George Fame, Wild Bill Davis, Shirley Scott, Big John Patton, Baby Face Willette, Larry Young, Brother Jack McDuff, Jimmy Magriff. That’s where it’s at baby. The royal bloodline of B-3 players who brought us into R&B, Pop, Rock & Roll and Soul Jazz. Into the swingin’ feature goes Joey “D”. No boundries, no limits.
Bridge:
Back at the Chicken Shack people dancin’ to a kookin’ groove.
Breakin’ out into a funk sweat
Boogie sounds brewin’ from the B-3
Your twisted sister never danced like that
Reuben Wilson and his killer sounds was a stackin’ the beat shakin’ the Chicken Shack down to its feet
(Solo)
(Bridge)
What a beautiful and dynamic management of mind, body and intellect goes into coaxing Soul Jazz out of a fat Hammond B-3 organ. Was it the foggy, misty, jazzy night? Or…was it that I actually got paid to sing Jazz? No! It was Jimmy Smith’s playin’ that was vibbin’ me along the steel rail. The joyous atmosphere that hung in dense textures of musical thought was punctuating my life like bayonets turning to thumb prints on the consciousness of my creative mind. It was in thick reference to the wet fog rippling across the bridge, like fingers on a Hammond B3, Jimmy and me……free to be.
From Tony Adamo's Miles of Blu Cd/ Hipspoken Word
A heart felt prayer with four chambers alights on a maiden voyage
Meets valves and percussion awaits tenderly to be tuned into harmony
Passion where had been void and stagnation and pulse been icy and flat
The mind once arrested in dangling contemplation halts its corrosion
A wandering soul solders confusion towards awakening warmth while
Destiny folds its narrow lapels onto the fabric of chimes of the time
Tim had enough of canned laughter mocking his elegiac mourning
Surpassing melancholy contempt he ventures an unknowing path
A map shadows mountains temples and valleys in starlit desire
His labyrinth mazes amazing adventure looms spindles of thread
The open book threatens no longer all gloom and fear has been bared
Closing chapter and shimmering verse find beginnings in ends
Trenchant acrimony cast aside Tim arises from pulverized trenches
Reminds himself gently that happiness is more than a smouldering gun
02 February 2019
Storms of the soul invade my perception
Yearning for a personal resurrection.
Fragmented emotions dangle from each new face
Leaving me in an empty place.
Fires once ignited grow rapidly dim
Because of the sin that dwells within.
Phantom lovers drift in and out
Claiming to know what love is all about.
`Bruised an rejected
Far from perfected.
Injected with madness
To drown out this sadness.
Lost yesterday’s lead into my tomorrows
While the voice of reason drowns out this sorrow.
Abandoned in a land famished and dry
The absence of water restricts my eyes to cry.
Violent assaults protrude at my mind
Only in sweet silence will my heart ever shine.
All of these voices demand my attention
It’s as if they reserved for me a reputable pension.
Roads of confusion are filled with delusion
Seducing our solders while leaving them colder
How do you get out of web spun for fun?
It’s only by mercy, it’s only by one
Armies of darkness capture each being
Claiming ownership over all that we are seeing
Facetious attempts to keep our men bent
But as they grow closer the angels are sent.
Once on the field they will not relent
There is grace for all those that gladly repent.
Victory smells like a clear spring day
When colors of dismay quickly fade away
Pillars of flames light up the clear night
And the fights you’ve been fighting suddenly grows light
For battles were never meant to be fought on our own
In the mist of all chaos we can hear heavens song.
By: Sabina Nicole
Mister Everett Wheeler Cartwright came from Burlington Vermont
All the way to Massachusetts---quite a healthy jaunt
Didn't really understand the cause the Union fought so hard for
Freedom from King George of England---far beyond his ken, and
Dying from an errant bullet, no one said to Everett Wheeler
Cartwright, "Happy Holiday!"---at his untimely end.
********
Eldridge Porter Hampton hailed from Cotton Valley Louisiana
Had no money, had no slaves, but loved his hoe and banjo
Never heard of Douglas, never heard of Lincoln; couldn't read or
write much, nothin' but his name. Yet Eldridge Porter came a runnin'
East to serve: For Johnny Rebel's legend gave him courage, gave him nerve to
face the soldier'd took his life---No 'Happy Holiday' for his wife.
********
Now the deaths are all forgotten; now the mem'ries fade away
Solders fighting wars today: mocked, reviled, e'en betrayed
"Happy Holiday" to one and all: "Memorial Weekend Super Sales"
Picnics, outings, lakeshore (or) beachside---Beer and Wine and Ale
Far removed from battles, far removed from war's numb pain
One more US Holiday---demeaned o'er tear-stained plains.
A poem in trochaic hexameter and octameter
True Christmas Miracle True Story Full version written by Wendy Horder. 2020
Huddled in muddy trenches, the soldiers heard an eerie sound.
Troops were English, French & Belgians, and as they looked around,
The sound was coming from the German enemy lines just 50 yards away.
It was singing, and the German soldiers were approaching on that day.
It was the twenty fourth of December nineteen fourteen.
Between France and Belgium, The Western Front, was the scene.
As Germans left their trenches a cry of “Merry Christmas” could be heard.
Our solders could only watch without saying, even one word.
The German solders looked so jovial, it didn’t seem to be a trick,
Our soldiers hesitated, slowly coming out, their actions were not quick.
Soon they were striding up to the oncoming soldiers, accepting their invite.
The beautiful singing drew them in, even though they feared it wasn’t right.
There was laughing and joking, and they all exchanged gifts sent from home.
Seemed all men were the same, didn’t matter from where they roam.
They smoked and showed each other photos of their children & wives.
For a short time, they were comrades not one bit afraid for their lives.
As night fell, drowned in soft moonlight, German carols filled the air.
For the first time since the war began, each soldier felt comfort there.
Laughter resounded, and the allies began O Come All Ye Faithful, in tune.
Germans sang the same Hymn, in Latin Adeste Fideles, under the moon.
I wonder if it crossed their minds “Just what are we fighting for?”
How extraordinary, enemies singing together a carol in the middle of a war.
By morning gifts of cake, smokes and clothes were exchanged by each side.
Men chatting as a magician and a juggler were enjoyed, with eyes open wide.
A barber in civilian life, gave haircuts. Soldiers had notes they addressed,
Hoping to be taken to their loved ones in France and England in the west.
Soccer broke out. The game went hours, that history making Christmas day.
Soldiers on both sides spent time burying their comrades, to their dismay.
Soldiers who had been killed in fighting that preceded that wonderful truce.
A truce that should be an example of what we humans can willingly produce.
A true show, that men aren’t killing machines, everyone, a husband or a son.
A true Christmas Miracle from the bloody chapters of World War One.
War is endless
The Winters harsh
Soldiers are dying
Food and Water scarcity
How much longer are the Solders to bare
Freedom and opposition take time and endurance
The Solders are embattled in their own physical survival
Tears pour in how long?
All for war that will not get any better
One by one the Solders are falling
Like Ten Little Indians and there was none
Do you even care?
Without Solders there is no war
Without Freedom no peace
What are you expecting?
The skies wonder of your mind
Wintry winds urging stop this battle
Voices of deceased Soldiers speak
Devastation being an aftermath
Miles of Mils of destruction for what America to gain?
Longer the battle
Death being times past, present and current
Moment of precise time
Standing for Freedom whether I die or live
No matter what, my spirit will rise and live again
Stood as long as I could General Washington
I beg and plead
My emotion shouts
Stop this war before it’ too late
I see fate in an endless battle
My tears pour for the weary
My heart extends for what is right
Your task I can no longer foster
Life is about striving
No longer the skies overlooking this wilderness
Agonizing echoes
The wounded Soldiers are torn and can no longer do battle
Moans of pain
Silenced voices
Spirits that rose
Sorrows that follow
Another tomorrow with no end.
Thursdays that disappoint !
A sadness reigns .
Some Thursdays come, most by, do go.
Why everyone does not flow ?, I do not know.
A lube job for you, an oil change for me.
No consistency, why ?, this I can not see.
Now taking two hours, sometimes more
When it used to be twenty minutes to my door.
Slipping the head of the family into the crevice.
Sliding effortlessly into that moist, dark cave.
Penetrating, feeling, touching walls that gave
shelter – for a time – to little solders on the run.
In search for that nest of eggs, now only for fun.
For the years have taken, as did a medical device.
Knowledge of, know full well that this cave is barren.
Representing only a portion of its former self.
The rest placed upon some medical shelf.
Gone is the time of productivity, into space, staren.
In search of, becomes the joy, the adventure,
the desire and the pleasures, during a time.
Times of closeness, not always, are they mine.
That is alright, I guess, with this families head.
Not alight are the excuses, the reasons I am fed
for the loss, the denial of Thursday night,
the searches, resurrecting of the hunt I might
continue - in that beautiful cave – searching.
Trying to find the right door, reaching.
Searching for those none existent eggs, to ply
the pleasures found in the hunt – denied, why?
One has to wonder, what was your game.
To know all the others, to know their name,
Would not comfort, would not make things the same.
No !, and should the hunt come to an end ?,
know, that no matter what, I will still be a friend.
Know that consistency is the spice of life,
as is spontaneity and desire without strife.
Has life in the spice jar, been forever lost ?
Celibacy, indifference, aloneness the cost ?
B. J. “A ” 2
April 10th 2005