Long Veterans Poems
Long Veterans Poems. Below are the most popular long Veterans by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Veterans poems by poem length and keyword.
The men marched by with their heads held high,
Flowers and garlands in the air as the crowd cheered,
The little boy watched with eyes of wonder,
Straining to see through the mass of grateful onlookers.
"I can't see!" He shrieked in nervous excitement,
As the father picked him up on his shoulders.
His blue eyes sparkled with awed admiration,
When one from the troop turned towards him.
His father saluted - he followed suit,
And the man smiled with a nod of acceptance.
As the day came to an end and the streets emptied,
The duo walked back home over the scattered petals.
"I want to be him, papa!" the boy said,
His voice that of a determined four year old.
The father chuckled as he put him down,
His hand going up in a salute for his son.
Fifteen years and not much has changed,
Except for the war that wrecked the city now.
Death and starvation a constant companion,
Distant gunshots the only lullaby children slept to.
The streets were crowded once again,
As barely nourished men crawled the lanes.
The men in khaki carried home a box with pride,
No flowers and garlands this time around.
A blue eyed boy barely out of his youth,
Laid inside in a peaceful slumber.
A voice rang out amongst the masses,
"Papa! I want to be him!" his wail echoed through the night.
The striking strawberry-colored roses refused to give up,
Resisted the snow as valiantly as any dragon-slayer
They standout artistically against the sparkly white backdrop
The first thing you notice, symbolizing courage and resilience
A lone blueberry dangles from a stiff gray limb, holding his own
Unnoticed at first, but photographed and plucked after being spied
Red, white, and blue. The pure colors stand out proudly and clearly.
Standing at attention in the glow of oncoming winter’s majesty
My land, my roses, my yard, my blueberry too.
First snow on Veteran’s Day,
possibly reminding us to give each other
A fresh start, wiping our slates clean,
remembering all of the soldiers whose hard-earned sacrifices and
fights for freedom’s rights were done, so we could voice our unique perspectives and views
Respecting and appreciating those who have sacrificed
everything, so that we can have differences of opinions,
Honoring them, as they honored us.
Our country ‘tis of thee. Not yours. Not mine. All of ours thanks to them.
A scant twenty years,
grieved a century or more
Poetically perfect,
in spirit and lore
A man and his horse,
out riding the range
The cattle his instruments,
and music to play
Civil War veterans and blacks
from the South
Through dust and dark clouds,
—snowy blizzards that mount
Together they battled,
in concert they fought
Each unto himself,
life’s harmony caught
The hardship and death,
to him worth the price
Pushing always ahead,
his past now contrite
The only thing telling,
to be left at the end
Was the legend he gave us,
—and the message it sends
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
He enters the neighborhood bitter
from cold cases old grudges and gripes
his musty breath is shallow stone cold
coming from his angry nostrils transferred
yet again for bad behavior after sucking
the life out of another non suspecting poor
individual while suspended to the desk duties
for a few months he lay in waiting creating slander
perpetrating falsehoods for the weak the helpless
the vulnerable homeless the disabled the injured
veterans families down on their luck he's mastered
the boroughs villages canals valley's street corners
and hills throughout the city children run from his
thumping hoofs craving blood sweat and tears
of urban survivors holding on by mere threads
praying for spiritual guidance redemption from
this evil hoping for strong minded individuals
to somehow provide ethical support leadership
crumbles rams locking horns while performing their
civic duties of washing the scum off the streets
when instead Mr excessive force organized brutality
home invasions intimidation fear corruption
abuse of power rises about the small towns
of little people whose cries are never heard
until a sudden riot approaching engulfing a city
the watchers always look on in disbelief as the flames
crawl block for block windows smashed glass shatters
into a million pieces reflecting the eyes of despair
graffiti begins to cover store fronts meanwhile
friendly fire explodes sifting through reasoning
remorse the crying kind Danny boy oh boy oh boy
a quiet calm cease to behold a sullen peace
the trying time beckoning the emptiest eyes
malice unfolds first responders are grieving
as Mr excessive force is now leaving
32 have taken their own lives.
Leaving behind, children, friends and wives
How much longer is this to go on
Devastating families is totally wrong
No person should get to this state
When they could just chat to a mate
Asking for help is not a sign of weakness
It's about sharing your bleakness
Other ways to cope with this mess
Admit that you are in distress
Learn about breathing, and using your senses
This will strengthen your defences
That black dog that sits on your shoulder
Let it know you were a soldier
You are strong and can't be beat
You are not ready for defeat
My ask is that everyone shares
To show all affected somebody cares
This is not a massive ask
Go and see them take a flask
Sit down with a listening ear
Let them know you are here
Have a chat and make a brew
Chew the fat like you use too
Being beside them is really great
The true meaning of a mate
If you do this simple thing
You could stop heavens bar-bell ring
new pages
old pages
pages of my poetry
pages and pages down under
under my desk dwelling
under in boxes
boxes dwelling and mingling
boxes dwelling down under my desk
desk of this writer
desk where I write sad
sad poems that drip
sad poems I touch
touch the words dwelling under
touch and love the pages of sorrow
sorrow under my desk
sorrow of my writing
writing of my life
writing my mournfullness
mournfullness has been my muse
mournfullness has made me a poet
poet who seeks words to linger down there
poet soul entwined in the pages
pages down under existing
pages that wait
wait and exist for dusty years
wait existing in boxes
boxes of flowing words
boxes of rhymes and verses
verses of bliss and love
verses resting down under
under is love that came from my pen
under is love forever in painted poems
poems penned from my soul
poems that dwells on paper below
below my soul lives between the lines
below my soul lives on the pages
pages tattered and new
pages I write
write and place down under
write poems in the night
night is when muse is alive
night is time for verses and stories
stories written in solitude
stories beautiful in boxes
boxes of solitude I have put away
boxes and boxes and boxes
boxes of poems weeping
weeping words
words . . .
weeping . . .
_______________________________
August 5, 2015
Poetry/Blitz/pages in boxes
For the contest, Down Under
sponsor, Debbie Guzzi
Honorable Mention
I wish we celebrated veterans for more than just one day…I wish our ceremonies and celebrations would last…because our veteran’s don’t stop being veterans just because another Veteran’s Day has passed.
For they are more than just veterans defending our freedoms…they are our sisters and our brothers…they are our friends…our neighbors…our children…they are our fathers and our mothers.
And families know when we send them our loved ones off to fight…as we shed a tear and lovingly whisper their name…every soldier sent to war…will not come back the same.
Because war…is war…and wherever lives are lost and gunfire is exchanged…every veteran who makes it back…does not come back the same.
Which is why we, as a country, should strive to make our veteran’s futures bright…by offering them as much support when they come home as we did when we sent them off to fight.
I wish this country…our country… who our veteran’s fight to defend…
to keep us safe…and free…would treat every veteran who comes back home like a member of our family.
For there are two times we hug our family members tightest…
(something every family knows and hope one day our country will learn)
The first is when we send them off to war…
Then second…when they return.
Paul and Lydia Marino were ambushed.
While paying respects to their son.
Even a place of final rest isn't safe anymore.
The killer was BLACK; the elderly couple were WHITE.
That's why it moved at the speed of light...
to the back of the news breadline.
BLACK on WHITE crime doesn't sell well,
Ratings won't pop as it does for a poor BLACK man
Paul and Lidia couldn't breathe either.
Where is the outrage?
Where are the civil rights activists?
Where are those two rabid reverends?
Why do we not ever call BLACK-on-WHITE crime
a hate crime?
Nobody is taking banners to the streets
for Paul and Lidia.
Nobody is breathing for them.
Somebody must breathe for them.
Toss kindling atop this stack of complacency.
Rest in peace, Paul and Lidia Marino.
Killed by a Black racist in a veterans' cemetery.
I have never served in the military.
I can only imagine what it must be like
to have served in the wars and conflicts;
Or the myriads of tasks for which you are
called upon and to which you always say "Yes".
My heart is warmed each time I see anyone
in a military uniform, and if the opportunity
presents itself, I will humbly say, "THANK YOU".
Yes. "THANK YOU" for your service to your great
country. "THANK YOU" for giving up many of your
personal freedoms so that I may remain free.
"THANK YOU" for surrendering your personal pursuits
so that I may freely pursue my hopes and dreams.
"THANK YOU" for taking orders from your superiors
so I need not feel inferior to any people or nation.
For this and so much more, "THANK YOU, sir, mam".
110924PS
It comes around every year,
My body feels all the fear.
My pulse escalates,
My tears fall, and my heart breaks.
It happens all the time,
In all my dreams, in every year.
There is no need to cheer,
All I want to do is disappear.
I want to hide, but I am denied.
I want to forget, yet I forever see the threat.
The dreams and nightmares,
Of my many prayers.
All I see are the bodies of the dead.
The loud music is my calm,
Yet I still see the blood of the people dying.
They call it P.T.S.D.
We call it time served, and my life observed.
The search dogs and the veterans have seen it all,
So, time after time, year after year,
It's as clear as it appears,
We feel the fear along with our peers.
We cry as we see the pain and despair.
The nightmares never go away.
July 4th is no celebration.
We huddle, we hide as we remember all who died.
The screams.
The fireworks.
Just let me be.
We'll be okay on Morrow's Eve.