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The Inquisitive Child – a Remembrance Day poem

 

 

poppyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Why are they selling poppies, Mummy? Selling poppies in town today.
The poppies, child, are flowers of love. For the men who marched away.
But why have they chosen a poppy, Mummy? Why not a beautiful rose?
Because my child, men fought and died in the fields where the poppies grow.
But why are the poppies so red, Mummy? Why are the poppies so red?
Red is the colour of blood, my child. The blood that our soldiers shed.
The heart of the poppy is black, Mummy. Why does it have to be black?
Black, my child, is the symbol of grief. For the men who never came back.
But why, Mummy are you crying so? Your tears are giving you pain.
My tears are my fears for you my child. For the world is forgetting again.

Author unknown

DULCE ET DECORUM EST -Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) Famous Poet

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on , blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tried, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!–An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

LEST WE FORGET

poppy

Lest We ForgetHave we forgotten their ultimate  sacrifice?Of these men and women who died in their  millions?Brave and true, without question,proud to be British,  not ashamed to be Christian.So many years have past,it  seems our memory doesn’t last.Forgetting these courageous people to our  shame.

Why can’t we remember their names?

How short is our  memory?

That we have forgotten them already.

Died in their  millions fighting for our freedom,

believing in our free democratic  ideology.

What does it take to wake up this country,

to  rise once again from its complacency?

How much more do we take, before we  decide to fight,

for our beliefs, our traditions and our  liberty?

by Simon Icke, Buckinghamshire.  UK.

Two men

 
 
The two men of age sat
 
With ice cream cones
 
That melted in the heat;
 
Each drip of luxury
 
Deliberately hung,
 
Heated and scorched,
 
Then scolding coldly
 
On a hand of history
 
August remained constantly pure
 
Blistering memories wide open
 
Their view of horizons widened
 
Across an azure blue-bathed vastness.
 
 
 
Yesterday the cauldron of battle,
 
In vineyards of Toledo
 
Of Catalonia :
 
Of Dust and time and land
 
Precious drops of reddened life
 
Seeped as wine in an
 
Iberian sun;
 
In Spain;
 
To scar an ancient earth.
 
 
 
The two men watched a sunset
 
Caress the shortening day
 
A gilded final stream of fading
 
Light strayed, illuminating
 
Their huddled figures:
 
They looked away.
By Steve Holloway.
The poem relates to the Spanish Civil War. Many ‘ordinary’ men and women from this country (and many other nations too) went to Spain to fight fascism between 1936 – 1939. It is the 75th anniversary of the foundation of the International Brigades in which many perished fighting Franco.

My soldier boy

  There was a knock at my door
 A soldier stood there all forlorn,
I recognized him as my boy
A boy who went to war,
Now he wasn’t a boy any more
Now he has grown into a man,
This is my son
Who I had not seen for so long,
Who I’d yearned to see for such a long time
He stood at my door in all his prime,
It must have been a year or two today
When I had last heard him say,
“Hello mother”
There will be no other,
My one and only stood in front of me
I said “come on in son, I’ll make some tea”
My soldier boy

 Thomas sims

A Field of poppies

pop

I walk through a field of poppies

They are spread as far as the eye can see

Like a deep crushed velvet carpet

Presented in front of me

Each poppy resembles a soldier

Who died a hundred years ago

I cannot name one of these soldiers

Not one I will ever know

But each one is a hero

So who is left to tell their story

Of the war one hundred years ago

By Thomas Sims

Salute The Hero’s

mosaic

When our armed forces go to war

They leave their families behind

Knowing that they will face danger

These thoughts are on their mind

 

Soldiers have always done their duty

No matter where ever they are sent

They are dedicated personnel

  Giving one hundred per cent

 

No matter whatever the climate

 Stand together for what’s right

Even in the midsts of battle

Brothers in arms they will fight

 

To all those lost in conflict

To the families brings heartache and pain

Knowing their loved ones did their duty

Knowing they will not see them again

 

Our thoughts go out to all our armed forces

For their bravery against all foes

We should be very proud of each one

To stand up and salute all our hero’s

 

Malcolm Bradshaw

Battle Cry

bitter

The battle raged all around

Bullets and shrapnel lay strewn on the ground

The sky was grey

I hear solders cry

I feel their pain as a hand rose high

Then a rocket lands close by

Another crater appears before my eyes

For more soldiers to be devoured

And buried them alive

Will these wars ever end

Can we learn from battles won or lost

Will we keep paying the cost

Or will we still hear the battle cry

Can someone please tell me why?

Thomas Sims

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War Child

 

child cryingxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I wake up in the morning to the cries of hurt and anger
I wished I’d wake up to cries of joy and laughter
I wake up every morning hoping it will all be gone
But the fighting the war has only just begun
I’d play out in my mind that I could beg for them to stop just for a while
But no! What do they care I’m just a war child

I’d go to sleep every night with the fear of not being able to last another day
Oh please please help this child many would say
But deep down I know those peoples urgent call
Will be returned with bombs shooting or nothing at all
The shock that they turn to shooting even if you smile
Is abhorrent but what do they care I’m just a war child

I’d hope for a place to truly call home
But how can it be with all the peace and harmony gone
It hurts and pains to know the people doing this have neither regret nor remorse
But instead curfews and more undeserved punishment is what they’ve enforced
Enemies upon us our country reviled 
But what do they care I’m just a war child

I’d cry puddles full of tears day to day
Hoping someone my mummy or even my daddy come by say its ok
But no one will ever care I’m just a war child.

© Lamzii

Remembrance Day and the importance of teaching our children the lessons of war and peace. Send your poetry to poetreecreations@yahoo.com

war one

IRAQ FRIGHTS BACK

18Misrach-5

Iraq Fights Back
A hole in the ground
So large and round,
Devours a soldier
Laying him in the ground
To leave no sound
Only echoes around,
Where silence lingers
And the hole gets bigger,
Where the soldier lies
Clutching his trigger
Stillness surrounds,
There is no sound in the ground
There is no-one around
To hear the silent sound.

By Thomas Sims

The Ghost of world war one Hundred Years ago

 

 Kitchener-Britons

 

A young boy stood outside

The recruitment office door

One dark and foggy night,

The door’s swung open

The boy got a terrible fright

A Sergeant stood before him

bellowing with a thunderous voice,

Have you been here before boy?”

But the the boy just stood his ground

And eventually replied,

I’ve come to fight the war sir

I have experience you know,

I fought in world war one”

The Sergeant just laughed and said,

But that was a hundred year’s ago”

Oh no” the boy cried,

When a green mist appeared

It’s a gas attack”

Can you smell the stench

Of the chlorine-gas?”

He shouted out with a panic stricken face,

The Sergeant started to cough and splutter

His eyes became all sore,

The boy said “Don’t you remember

Was it you that sent me off to a war?

It was me that stood at your door,

One hundred years ago

But you must realise that I am just a ghost”

With this the Sargeant shook is head,

Then he remembered the story

Of the farmers boy,

who roamed the streets at night,

Was this his ghost?

Of that boy who lost his life

One dark and foggy night

One hundred years ago

 

Thomas Sims

 

Second_Battle_of_Ypres

The first German gas AttacksDate, Thursday 21 April – 25 May 1915….Field Marshal Sir John French, Commander-in-Chief of theBritishArmy, wrote:….At first the French officers assumed that the Germaninfantrywere advancing behind a smokeAfter thefirstGerman chlorinegas attacks

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The Ghost of world war one by Thomas Sims

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Remembrance

They stand in rows like soldiers on parade

Those memorial stones in the war cemetery

A poignant of those gallant men

Who died fighting to protect our liberty

Many words have been written about the great war

Words which describe the living hell

Words which should have a profound effect on our thinking

Words which remind us of the brave words who tell

They were fighting for the honour of our country

They were fighting to ensure we stayed free

That is what their sacrifice was made for

That is something that should be etched in our memory

These sacrifices should often be in our thoughts

Not just once a year on Remembrance day

When we watch the veterans march past cenotaph

Paying their tribute as the bands their solemn music play

We should think about those who cherish our traditions

We should think about those who died on a foreign shore

To think about the present and the future of our country

And to ask ourselves if this is what they were fighting for

Ron Martin

Lest we forget


Have we forgotten their ultimate sacrifice?
Of these men and women who died in their millions?
Brave and true, without question,
proud to be British, not ashamed to be Christian.

So many years have passed,
it seems our memory doesn’t last.
Forgetting these courageous people, to our shame.
Why can’t we remember their names?

How short is our memory?
That we have forgotten them already?
Died in their millions fighting for our freedom,
believing in our free democratic ideology.

What does it take to wake up this country,
to rise once again from its complacency?
How much more do we take, before we decide to fight,
for our beliefs, our traditions and our liberty?

by Simon Icke UK

 

Forbidden Love

fofbiden love
Hidden secrets
Secret smiles
Smiles hidden
Truth forbidden
Forbidden love
Love secrets
Secret smiles
Smiles hidden
Hidden secrets
Locked tight
Strongest tension
Strangling tight
Tight emotion
Emotion hidden
Secret smiles
Smiles forbidden
No compromise
Given

Gillian Sims

This poem was recently published in the book THE GREAT BRITISH WRITE OFF

Bonfire Night

firefirexxx

As we celebrate bonfire night
Let us remember when it all began
Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament
The government of the day was not a fan

His attempt to destroy failed
For his treachery he was hung
Today we all celebrate bonfire night
With everyone having lots of fun

With fireworks and sparklers
Jumping jacks, bangers and mushy peas
The fire burning lightening up the sky
See the rockets flying over the trees

The smell of bonfire toffee
Fireworks displaying so bright
The fire well alight now
Lightning up the darkest night

Remember to be careful
For fireworks can burn and maim
Let your parents light them all
Keeping all away from hurt and pain

Malcolm G Bradshaw

The Bonfire at Night: A poem by Enid Blyto YOUR FAVOURITE POEM – Famous Poet

Bonfire, you’re a merry fellow
With your flames of red and yellow,
And your cheery cracks and pops-
You gobble up the old bean-props,
The pea-sticks, withered plants, and all
The leaves blown down beside the wall.
Your never-ending spires of smoke
(The colour of a pixy’s cloak)
Go mounting to the starry sky,
And when the wind comes bustling by
Oh, what a merry game you play,
And how you pop and roar away!
Your heart is red, your smoke is thick,
On, pile on leaves and branches quick!
Let’s dance around and shout and sing,
Oh, Bonfire, you’re a LOVELY thing!

From the Enid Blyton Poetry book, 1934.

 YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOURS

Light the Blue Touchpaper

 

ffffffffffffffffff

Carefully Guy carried the taper

and placed it against the pyre.
Ample amounts of petrol vapour

rapidly ignited the fire.

“Grand Commander Thrrp”, said the underling
avoiding its superior’s stare,
“They’ve lit another beacon. This time an intriguing
place they call Weston-Super-Mare.”
“They must be aimed at us. I see no other design.”
was the Grand Commander’s view.
“Our primary goal is first contact. This is a sign
it’s important to these creatures too.”
“Fire up the translator. Initialise the empathy device.
Dress yourself in Earthling wear.
Ask the computer to determine appropriate technology advice.
Then land us in Weston-Super-Mare.”

Guy stood, reigniting the taper.

The evening was on track.
With care he lit the blue touch paper

and then he stood well back

“They’re firing upon us!” the underling exclaimed.
“Report,” ordered his superior.
“Multiple miniscule missiles. Not particularly well aimed
but a few have hit the exterior.”
“Take evasive manouvres and get us out of here.
I want bombing altitude yesterday.”
The underling pressed a few buttons, trembling in fear,
knowing how the Earthlings would pay.
But he finally said, looking at the planet soon to be no more,
“It may only be the leaders that are errant.”
“Nonsense,” said the commander, “We’ve seen their sort before.
They should have forced a change of government.”
©Adam Rulli-Gibbs 2002 – 2006
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