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TWO MINUTES SILENCE

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

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

 

The addict

His body frail

His face so pale

His eyes so dim

His legs so thin,

Once flying high

Once in the sky

Once drugs kept him

Once one so thin,

Now he’s greeted by the soil

Now kept in a coffin like a chicken in foil,

Now only tears can be shed

Now only words can be said

Now that he is dead

By Gillian Sims

Midnight Swim – Promote Yourself

Hi,
 
My name is John from Northern California, USA. While I am no longer young, I am but a child at heart and also very new to writing. Even newer to writing for the world at large to see. I will be sending entries from time to time as I am inspired. Here is my first. Hope you enjoy.
Midnight Swim

tumblr_m8ru48t62I1qgkoejo1_500

Cold ocean waves

Reflected moon

Diamond glitter

Across the wake

 

Refreshing plunge

Open water

Quiet mind

Alert,  awake

 

Depth unknown

Moving shadow

Swift below

Midnight mistake

 

Jaws of death

Open wide

Scream in pain

For no ones sake

 

Countless teeth

Razor sharp

Rip and tear

Shred and shake

Foamy water

Crimson red

Flesh is torn

Bones they break

Glimpse the moon

One last time

Pray the LORD

My soul to take.

Thank you poetree creations for providing this outlet. Anyone who enjoyed this feel free to check out all my other poems, flash fiction, and written mayhem at JMC813.wordpress.com

Keep writing.

JMC

Trapped – Promote Yourself

 

ttrappedxxxxx

Banging on the walls, she screamed, she prayed
Begging for freedom to come each and every day.
Her prayers, though, fell on deaf ears
As her days grew to months, which spanned years
She was a captive, locked in the confines
Of his demented, tortured mind.
As the time wore on, she grew numb to the abuse
To this pathetic excuse
Of a man – a man she once loved
Back when she thought that was enough
Now, though, she simply longs to be free
Far away from his anger, his torture, his depravity.
As time wore on, her prayers for salvation
Took a morbid turn
As she, instead, begged for death to come
She could take no more, she was done.

Trysh L Thompson

The Man – Promote Yourself

I just began following you today, and I love  the idea of being included in someone else’s blog. Proves that I’m not the only one who thinks my stuff is decent. 🙂 (Okay, I admit, some times I don’t even think it’s decent.)

I’ve included a handful of poems in this email. All are written by me, Trysh L. Thompson. I live in Kentucky, USA. Nothing really exciting about my existence. Some of the poems included have been posted, or are in queue, at my blog chromeprincess.wordpress.com.

Most of my poems deal with death, and it’s because of the slap in the face I had with it when I was 26. It’s changed my life forever

homeless-veteran

“Have you nothing to spare
To show this shriveled, homeless vet you care?
Twice-over I risked my life for you,
A complete stranger, but that’s just what soldiers do.
I watched my friends suffer and die,
As I continued to battle for you and I.
My friends’ lives were not in vain,
Think of that when you vote again.
Don’t you think I’ve tried everything before resorting to this –
Cold, alone, hungry, and homeless?
You would think there would be more out there for me
But they tell me I’m just a washed up soldier with PTSD.
So I’m reduced to begging on the streets,
Relying on the kindness of strangers for the smallest morsel to eat.”

I emptied my wallet, giving it all to the man,
As he took it, his touch lingered on my hand.
“Thank you, from the bottom of my heart,” said he,
“May God bless you as much as he’s blessed me.”

I never saw the old man asking for money again,
He died the next day, a drunken driver ran over him.
I still pass by that corner and smile,
That man taught me the most important lesson I’d learned in a while.

Trysh  L Thompson

BATTLE FLAG

 

 Tattered-flag

The battle flag snapped and swung up to fly in the wind

Above the post on the hill that even God had forgotten about back then

Rifles swung up and pointed out and down across the clearing

Searing rounds were sent out for the human shearing

A burst returned ripped holes in the flag that flew in the wind

Blood and mud spattered, its fabric so worn and so thin

That flew above boys that day sudden turned into men

It snapped and swung up to fly in the wind

Above the post on the hill that no one, not even God knew about back then. 

 Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
All Rights Reserved
THANK YOU FOR LETTING US USE YOUR POEM
kind regards
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