Long World war i Poems
Long World war i Poems. Below are the most popular long World war i by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long World war i poems by poem length and keyword.
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.
Old Soldiers
Poem
Lionel Derbyshire
Old soldiers not born for war at all.
Father's brave and cold
Send into battle
And defend..
Home made men with chili courage
Gallant audacious and courageous
Very valuabe to their children
Never had a chance
To be good cuddle daddy's
They were alone and in fear
And no one near
The enemy bullet pierced them
And they bled and bled
And trembled tremble
Who sent them out there ?
Tremble tremble
Did they care ?
Quiver and shudder
They left the home
Leaving wife 'n child
Waiting their blank return
Their famliy field's are green
And their home is painted within.
Old Soldiers
Camaraderie in the war
Trenched , trampled , bruised in battle
Wounded father soldiers bravely fought
Returned in batches of boxes instead
Their courage..
Their hard fight.
Rewarded only
In memory of medals.
" the last thing Billy
done for me ...
was to paint the wall ..
and hang our portrait
above the dinner wall
before he left for war "
Only a cleft is left
In the lonely heart
Of the soldier's wife ..
And his name coldly
Embossed in marble
6 feet under in a cemetry.
Old soldier's did not
Want a war.
The sound of a clear Blackbird call
Echoed through the trees and over the fields making me stop and fall
Upon my knees his song followed on and on
An angelic sound of music ‘twas the Blackbird song
I cried tears and tears listening on and on
The sounds of pure, crystal life; beauty found in this world of war where the madness of men goes on and on
Through the smokey mist I could not see this beauty sing
To me there was never on earth a more wonderful thing
After days and nights of bullets, screaming, tears and bombs
Hearing the crying fields through the restless nights as death lingers on and on
Knowing for poor souls out there who’ll never make it back
Dying afraid and alone; dying on their backs
In my trench I wait for the next whistle call
I see in the eyes of men that their souls are due to fall
The rumbling war in the distance sings a dinging, disturbing song
Down the lines of trench as fighting begins and goes on and on
I find myself waiting for fate to play it’s hand
When the whistle calls I struggle to find courage to again enter no-mans land
I find myself waiting for the sounds of the Blackbird song.........
Through tears I find some beauty in war listening to this dead mans’ song
Christ and the Soldier by Siegfried Sassoon (1916)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-7OEnXw7P60
The straggled soldier halted and clumsily went down "O blessed crucifix, I'm beat !"
Christ still sentried by a seraphim between two splintered trees did speak
"My son, behold these hands and feet."The soldier eyed him upwardas he muttered, "Wounds like these, Would shift a bloke to Blighty just a treat !"
Christ, gazing downward grieving and ungrim, Whispered,
"I made for you the mysteries, beyond all battles moves the Paraclete."
The soldier chucked his rifle in the dust, slipped his pack, wiped his neck, then said -- "O Christ Almighty, stop this bleeding fight !"Above that hill the sky was stained like rust With smoke. In sullen daybreak flaring red, the guns were thundering and the soldier cried,
"I was born full of lust,hungry and thirsty, with a wishfulness to wed. Who cares today if I done wrong or right?" Christ asked , "Can you not trust my word? Am I not resurrection, life and light ?"
Machine-guns rattled from below, high bullets flicked and whistled through the leaves; smoke came drifting from exploding shells.
Christ said "Believe and I can cleanse your ill. I have not died in vain between two thieves; Nor made a fruitless gift of miracles."
"A bird lit onto Christ. a breeze came to pass and shook the ripening corn
A Red Cross waggon bumped along the track "Lord Jesus, ain't you got no more to say ?" He bowed his head with a crown full of thorns, as the soldier shifted, then stumbled on his way.
"O God," he groaned,"why was I ever born ?". The battle boomed, and no reply came back.
Posted by kipper at 14:22
Goodbye
Little white lie
Watching a person breakdown and cry
It starts off innocent enough
But in the end accusations could be rough
Some brag
While flipping through the tabloid mag
Is it a fantasy trip?
Wanting control planning life’s script
Throwing words around
Social leaders in the town
Spewing sensitive results
Bitterness showing up as insults
Ignoring injuries and who’s at fault
Sounding good neighbors’ impress
Gullible audience avoiding a mess
Is it all right blurring the truth?
Disregarding any credible proof
Or is it a comfort act
If handled properly with tact
Staging area a better place
To explain their case
There is a way
Fiction does pay
Write a book
Develop a plot, imagine a hook
Add character ingredients like a cook
Cast a line
Worth a dime
Reader will interpret the message in their own mind
Fish around and a scene will come
Antagonist lose, protagonist won
Sweet or stinks
Authored works will make one think
A paperback writer
Is a turn page fighter
Letting everyone know
Putting on a one on one show
Battling a foe?
Let it go
Pick up the pen
Unleash the internal creative gem
Address it to the publisher, attach and send
Waiting for the reviews hoping they defend
Earning a few bucks not caring when
Who plays
the world's guitar
turning hearts
against life
US wants money
Russia land
mindless of tears
and blood shed
China sneezed
covid spread
muzzling mouths
silencing sounds
dulling senses
to pain of blood
weakening bodies
enraging minds
tilting world's
economic power
laying wood
to later ignite
with the spark
of a murdered
world leader
in the Balkans
enflaming nations
enraging hearts
even brother
against brother
horror
in the Mid East
the flames l spread
and warships
will encompass
Holy land
Jerusalem will fear
unthinking hand
will press the button
razing nations
to the ground
skin will fly off
bodies will blacken
no tears in eyes
left to cry
corpses will pile up
without a burial
no place to run
or time to say
even a short
Our Father prayer
no flesh will be left
unless humanity
on their knees will
convert
except for the Remnant
nourished by Mary
sheltered in the Heart
of the Trinitarian God
to a paradise on earth
restart
candles of faith
bending dark
welcoming
Jesus's return
in power
to stop the madness
of self-annihilation
His breath
will blow away
infected air
touching bier of earth
with His hand
will resurrect creation
to its pristine
splendor
flowers dancing
with happiness
birds serenading
harmony
rivers flowing serenity
and people running
with health and joy
of living with
each other in peace
singing gratitude
to Triune God
Who is love
alone magnificent
all powerful in glory.
LuzdeMariaRevelacionesMarianas- October 28,2023: Death of a world leader will intensify and spread the war.
Your country needs you lads, let Lord Kitchener tell you more
Come forward, join the ranks and we’ll send you off to war
You’re fighting for salvation; you’ve got Jesus on your side
Remember that in battle; let the shepherd be your guide
Join up with your pals lads and march in time with pride
You’re Ulster Presbyterians, so, the lord with you abide
We’ll muster at the Shipyard so that everyone can see
Then continue to the Farmyards and the local Factory
You’re young, or even younger, than the army will allow
You look a little older since you smoke tobacco now
We’ll put you in a uniform and show you how to drill
We’ll teach you to be brave and then train you how to kill
Say goodbye to your family and prepare to sail away
You’ll fall in on the Western front and join the great affray
Although you may be seventeen, we’ve made you into men
Yet most of you will never see your mothers face again
My Hero
You went to World War I and II
You Went to Korea and Vietnam
You went all over the world
Wearing the uniform of Uncle Sam
Did you know you are my hero?
No, I don't suppose you do.
But I have so many freedoms,
And I owe them all to you.
You chose to wear a uniform,
And you put it on with pride,
So many of you did this
And so many of you died.
We were defended to the death
Of so many men and women
But we have our freedom
So we can say a prayerful amen
I owe you respect and honor,
For the things you did endure
Yes, you are my hero
Of this you may be sure.
So yes I salute when the flag goes by
Draped across a soldiers remains
Who gave his all in the line of duty
Those left behind never the same
Connie Moore
Five hundred years Giovanni Fontana had the notion
To rope gears to wheels and put it in motion.
One hundred years ago an idea came to Baron von Drais
Horses had been killed, ploughing required other ways.
Two wheels, no pedals, all made of wood
You had to push through the field, but still did some good.
A Scotsman added pedals, to the rear wheel
Maybe to celebrate, his friends danced a reel.
A Frenchman made the "boneshaker", which lived up to its name.
Ahead of its time, though reasons to complain.
It vibrated horrendously on the bumpy roads
Rattling teeth, rattling nerves, rattling loads.
Then England's "Penny Farthing" led the attack:
A five foot wheel in front, tiny wheel in back.
It was hard to climb on, and to keep a balance.
Every mount was a test of acrobatic talents
If you fell off without a helmet, it was hard on the brain.
Inventors went back to the drawing board again.
Radial spokes came in 1870, ball bearings 2 years later.
Progress is a goddess, love her or hate her.
Caliper brakes, multiple gears, shifters came fast.
Still too bumpy to have a blast.
Societies of bicyclists lobbied for roads paved and smooth.
Women started riding, old attitudes moved.
Across the pond Thomas Stevens rode a trans-U.S. ride.
With that kind of bike, a reason for pride.
Then pedals to gears got linked with a chain.
Derailleur was the next step, and a drive train.
The Italian Army used a foldable during World War I.
Between incoming bullets, they might have had fun.
Like the future Mountain bike, it handled rough terrain.
But for that, California cyclists tinkered, got the fame.
So that brings me to the day that I was cycling on a country road
composing verses, humming, reciting an ode.
Overtaken by two cyclists on electric bikes from Preston
Were batteries cheating? I glumly asked the question.
I concede it's liberation, more folks in fresh air
Their efforts assisted, but still mostly fair
Causality doesn't focus on me, of course
I'm just a convergence, a bike over a horse.
But all this history made it possible, on a rural lane
To move on my own power, through really nice terrain.
Famished and flagging footsoldiers;
facing fatigue, fitful fever,
faeces and foul, foetid fungi.
Fostering feelings, frustrated,
for this faraway, foreign field.
Forays so fraught with fine failure;
forfeiting furtive and fiendish,
fatally fettered from the first.
Forged by such fatuous fawners,
for folly to feud for a field.
Forced forwards with fleetness of foot;
firearms flash and fragments fly far,
feigning the firmament aflame.
Forces fight so ferociously,
fratricide set free on this field.
Forthright and filial feelings;
families of fine forefathers,
fought fiercely, for fear we’d forget.
Familiar flora forms focus,
for the fallen in Flanders Field.
- - - - - - - - -
8 syallables on every line (www.howmanysyllables.com)
November 2018
Entered in Brian Strand's "Contest No 515".
(1st Place)
I wanted to do something special - and a bit different - to mark the centenary of the end of The Great War (11 November 1918). This poem is dedicated to all the brave souls lost defending freedom during that terrible conflict (and all conflicts since).