Most wars are fought by the military
with the starter pistol fired by politicians,
then soldiers are sent out to kill each other
to fulfill some political ambitions.
War is now considered big business
putting young men’s lives at stake,
while counties sell each other lethal weapons
to see how much profit they can make.
Without the uniform this would be murder
but in war you never count the cost,
only when you visit the cemetery
do you really know how many men were lost.
War never has any winners
just brave men trying to survive,
with their wives and loved ones at home
hoping they will come back alive.
Ready the gun, action to the rear!
the 105 howitzer should give them something to fear!
why hadn't sergeant felt the toss?
the men jumped out
among each gunner
a shamed face shows
for each of them
already knows
we have their position!
prep the munition!
he drops his hands
and stops his commands
Sergeant sees his worst fear
the gun was lost
it was no where near
one single tear
fell from his eye
without our gun
our men will die
I saw those men in solemn chain trooping from the line
hand on shoulder, link to link their bandaged eyes gas blind.
The image burned upon my soul, and tied me to their chain
A scene imbued with haunting light, my retina retains.
The pock marked fields of battered earth with human debris clad,
the lifeless shell shocked look of men, stare neither sane nor mad.
The sepia tinted photographs of horrors captured mime
Burst like exploding shrapnel in the crater of my mind
The pages turn and blur the eyes of we who gaze aghast
and rational defies the sombre images that pass
The jaundiced eye of victory, a truth tells through the lens
but monochromes in battered frames declare true fate of men
These albums of the ghosts of war demand a heavy toll
with nightmares of the conscience that stain the very soul
Untidy groups of forfeit men awaiting fates last chance
accuse from yellowed paper in their posed heroic stance
Gaunt and lost they blindly stare with sad and frightened gaze
their memory like photographs are fading with the glaze
Creased and tear stained photo cards, memorabilia of a war
Evidence and remonstrance like poppies bloody flower.
some men are born to be killed
some men life means nothing to
can old men hold their heads and cry
you can only dodge so many shots
before you eventually take a a few
then it's about surviving
some men have no nightmares
some men only dare to dream
history reflects repeated screams
women, colored men, stars of david
I wish i could let it go
i can not
I wish there were such palaces as heaven minus hell
i don't know what i believe in
some men believe there should be
a balance between good and evil
some men misunderstand the hurt
the hurt then becomes lethal
I don't know how i got here
or how much longer i will be here
but if i don't stand now
i will forever be falling down
i can only hope you understand
my sister says we didn't choose this life, she cries
I don't even know her
but i could feel the droplets from her eyes
some men are born into lies
others into contradictions
some men mean well
other live in a figment of fiction
"tiny thoughts of the black hitler"
Stoically he faces the enemy hoards;
Emotionless and appearing almost bored;
Courageously, “Onward!”, his battle cry;
Masking the coward hiding deep inside.
Sending his men to certain death;
From a distance he witnesses many a last breath;
While he rides secure upon his steed,
In the rear of the men he was trained to lead.
Medals pinned upon his chest,
In royal garb and a crimson vest,
While soldiers, barefoot, heed his command;
Advancing into the enemy’s land.
When all is lost and no more can die;
Long after he retreated in this futile try;
He laments, “No reinforcements ever came”,
Although his incompetence is to blame.
His own account of this failed event
Includes tales of bravery that he’d invent;
Masking his fear and cowardly feats,
Creating glory and valor from his defeats.
Men of our time warriors of war
Boys to men of another time
The battle of within to survie
The cross that is layed as our friend lays dead
A world that is angry with all
No peace to run and hide inside
Minds of others words of trouble
Innocents burned as they take a gun to there hand
To take a life to fight for differences
The gift of breath to be stolen so young
Mens boots on the child of youth
Its laces so binding to death
As a mother cries as she sees her son march away
Will she ever see him another day as she prays
His country needs him thats what they say
Day goes by and the months slip away
His maturity grows as the strongest wave
The blood on his hands as he drops to the ground
He is everyones hero which is now found
He protects his mothers land and like his father did as a man
The crown that covers country to country
The fields the sun the rain the stars all are the same
The men are the sons from the womb
Each man starts from the child within who has no sin
They grow as men with the witness of pain
But rememeber each soldier is just the same
Written in 1981 after attending a Viet Nam veterans welcome home parade.
They march in step without a cadence call
and wear old uniforms, if they still fit,
recalling days when they were standing tall.
Five services, they represent them all;
a few in rolling chairs, required to sit.
They march in step without a cadence call.
On their parade a somber rain did fall,
but these were warriors not inclined to quit;
while some men heard the drummer not at all.
The flagless streets and silence they recall;
now greeted with a smile instead of spit.
They march in step without a cadence call.
On skeptic ears polite applause did fall,
for causes lost, but not their part in it;
while some men heard the drummer not at all.
The tears for those who died will ever fall
belatedly, a candle now was lit.
While some men hear the drummer not at all,
they march in step without a cadence call.
Cheap bullet holes
Through cheap souls
Make rich ones!
Aimed at them with no college, no future...no funds
Have fun with guns?!
And be all you can be?!
And so, we shall see...
But bloodied clouds will garner
When all is dead and calmer
Bloodied history shall not be missed
But feeble, blood lust men will clench a fist
The invalueable commodities sigh
All lost...at cost from those up high
The mosquito men who fly by
For young to fight and die
Mosquito men sucking dry
With leanest, redest eye
To meet the keenest, deadest guy
When?
When will peaceful ways be found?
When will God’s good faith shine down?
When will men erase hate’s frown?
Peaceful men embrace loves’ ground.
Faithful men let God surround.
Respect for all; please, come ‘round.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
January 26, 2010
Poetic form: Englyn
Poetic Form: Englyn Milwr (The Soldier’s Englyn) REFERENCES follow:
http://blogs.warwick.ac.uk/zoebrigley/entry/the_measures_of_1/
http://jpicforum.info/types-of-poetry/englyn-milwr-680.html
Lines: 3; Syllable count per line: 7,7,7; Rhyme pattern: A,A,A
Medals in a cupboard drawer
Testament of what went before
With his enemy held no score
Boy's turned men, played at war
In blooded field or muddy trench
Gaunt eye's stared from stench
Bone and boot so weary tread
At cannons call prayers are said
From shell holes came human cries
Voices lost in shrapneled skies
Shellshocked victims tied to post
Frontline justice feared the most
Boy's to men , men to ghosts
Not the story that glory boasts
Given the orders did blindly follow
To end all wars a promise hollow
And into the drawer another set
A different time, the same regret
The cost of war just wont relent
The family grieve and loss lament
Son loses father then loses son
How many times since time begun
Still soldiers, sailors children play
From toys to guns a price will pay
"I want my Mommy.I want my Mommy",
I heard the young man cry.
That's how I made my living.
Watching young men die.
The boy had taken a bullet,
Right around mid-thigh.
It cut through his femoral artery.
Soon he'd bleed out dry.
I took my index finger.
I stuck it in the hole.
I tried to make a tourniquet,
But I couldn't find a pole.
I could feel his lifeblood pulsing.
I just couldn't make it stop.
As the bullets flew around my head,
I could hear the pop,pop,pop.
My rifles butt exploded.
It had taken a direct hit.
I found that I was thanking God.
I'd found my tourniquet.
I prepared the lad for transport,
To take him back to base.
When I turned around he was dead.
He'd taken three rounds in the face.
He was gone, so I moved on,
Amidst the constant cry.
That's how I made my living,
Watching young men die.
Pounding seas, wind tossed spray
Cold North wind, blowing night and day
The ice gripping men in disarray
The convoy ploughing onward
The merchant vessels, shadows in mist,
Weave and wind, wend and twist
Then disappear when torpedo kissed
The convoy ploughing onward
The small corvette, the guiding hand
The leader of the straggling band
But cannot make a fighting stand
The convoy ploughing onward
The men washed into icy seas
The eyes that bulge, the limbs that freeze
The ship brought down upon its knees
The convoy ploughing onward
The submarine torpedoes roar
Explosion, seas rush through open door
Ships and men on the ocean floor
The convoy ploughing onward
Few are left when journey's done
Supplies got through, the race is run
So many lost, so who has won?
The convoy ploughing onward
As children playing with a dangerous toy
Who think it sport to make the toy perform,
No matter what it will soon destroy
And maim the innocent in fiery storm
So men of might, in momentary rage
Under cover of enforced democracy
Let loose upon an unsuspecting age
The curse reserved to scourge humanity.
Not quite content with their appalling deed
They vie with Woden, ape the mighty Thor,
And toy with thunder that will surely breed
A raging whirlwind whipping flames of war.
When men make playthings of so great a power
The times portend the Armageddon hour.
War
These days I see in only shades of grey,
Those memories from past are violent true.
The severed ends of my unifrom fray,
These battle scars I now begin to rue.
Todays conflicts should not be solved with guns,
To end the lives for which we had once fought.
And in some armys it's the one who runs,
Who by his own commander will be shot.
Down in the trenches how are we to know,
Out of all of the men in tattered rags.
Which of these men to us is friend or foe,
We know not lest they dawn our body bags.
Mass murderes reap rewards of great rank.
Great generals have never fought in war.
They just take their fat check up to the bank,
And sit in huts untill their rear is sore.
So the people who wish to dawn a gun,
Beware the wars you fight will not be fun.
16th April 1746
The day a country ceased to exist
British Army, Hanoverian scum
Defeated our Jacobite's
Scotland is on the run
Our Tartans banished, bagpipes no more
To lead our troops, to frighten the foe
Cumberland's men hunt us down
In every village and every town
Massacred, slaughtered
Wiped from our earth
Erased from the country of our birth
2000 men died to fight for their right
Against the British Armies might
Cameron's MacDonald's and Fraser's slain
Many other Clans, population drained
The survivors facing Hanoverian bans
Led to
The Scattering of the Clans
The Clan Chiefs lands, vast and many
Asset stripped, taken by the enemy
Alleged traitors tried, treason their crime
As Hanoverian Scum, on our riches dine
In the aftermath, many Scots left their shores
To distant lands to open new doors
Many writers on here
On their Ancestors scan
You may be here, because of
The Scattering Of The Clans
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland.php
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