Author Topic: A Challenge. Writers- Let's See What You Can Create in Honor of Veteran's Day  (Read 814 times)

DGSquared

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Hopefully a little motivation for some new material for each of us but please feel free to add your archived poems.

Initially, I intended to selfishly post my own old poem after stumbling upon it at MWC but came up with this idea as an afterthought and after reading Citabria's (remember him?) ;D suggestion that we have such a thread. Finally, after 12 years, your idea is brought to light, Mark. Let's hope it works. Consider ourselves challenged.

Let's do this thing!

Blah, blah, blah, what I wrote before.>>>>

Resurrecting an old poem in honor of Veteran's Day. This is one of my first poems. It's not very good but I haven't written a verse about Veterans since. I need to work on one.

Ode to War

My Grandfather went off to war
fighting Japanese who'd bombed our shore.
Hiroshima, Nagasaki paid the price-we dropped the bomb.
Grandparents, mothers, and children burned and gone.
The cost too high? Yes, to be sure.
They knew what they were fighting for.

The world as one had gone to war.
Families murdered, burned, the horror.
When it was over Hitler was dead
no price too much upon his head.
Far across the distant shore
I know what they were fighting for.

My Uncle Bruce went off to war
navigating spy planes o’er the shore.
The Chaplin said,  "Your son is dead."
Granny sadly hung her head.
My uncle went away to war.
Don't know what he was fighting for.

My Daddy went away to war
scouting runways by the jungle floor.
He came home but had lost his smile.
I've looked for it all the while.
My Daddy went away to war.
Don't know what he was fighting for.

Our soldiers going off to war
mothers, fathers, sons and more.
On desert sands, dirt in their eyes
for oil, my God please hear their cries.
They’re brave and strong right to the core
Not sure, what are they fighting for?

My friend’s son returned from war
he knew just what he would endure.
They unloaded dead soldiers off the planes
a cold, wooden box with his remains
A mother’s heart broken, on her knees, fell to the floor
“My God, what are we fighting for?”



~Deborah Jean
        11/11/07
« Last Edit: November 10, 2019, 10:04:05 AM by DGSquared »
"Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read." -Groucho Marx

A child’s life is like a piece of paper on which every passerby leaves a mark. -Chinese proverb

Blondesplosion! ~Deb

DGSquared

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Okay, a rough draft with a long way to go of my new Veteran's Day poem just to show you guys I'm working on it. Are you?


Gifts from Hell

Of 461 men,
one of 32 survivors,
my grandpa,

O. C. Leach
escaped
through a porthole

after the USS Oklahoma
was torpedoed
and capsized

in Pearl Harbor.
Leach and two other men,
swam up into the oil-fueled, fire

in the bay
that was once
Battleship Row.

They had to
abandon
Father Aloysius Schmitt.

The Chaplin’s shoulders
too broad,
unable to escape.

Father Schmitt was the first
American chaplain of
any faith to die in World War II.

There were many
firsts in that war
from Guadalcanal to Bougainville

and all the blood baths,
sunken ships,
and dead soldiers

in between,
before, during,
and after

the first
uranium gun-type bomb
used in war

dropped on Hiroshima
August 6, 1945
from a modified B-29

The first
plutonium implosion bomb
used in war

dropped on Nagasaki
three days later
like gifts from Hell.

Deborah Manning-Galarza
11/10/2019   

Yeah, it needs lots of work but it's a start.
« Last Edit: November 10, 2019, 12:29:16 PM by DGSquared »
"Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read." -Groucho Marx

A child’s life is like a piece of paper on which every passerby leaves a mark. -Chinese proverb

Blondesplosion! ~Deb

Gyppo

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I've walked this ground before, but here's today's take.

=====

Nineteen Days

My Grandad was a 'Conchie'.
No coward but a true pacifist.
He went to the Great War,
but refused to carry arms.

They taught him how,
mocked his Wesleyan Chapel principles,
but that hard young Yorkshireman
never budged.
"Thou shalt not kill."

A top class bowler,
he flung grenades in training
with lethal accuracy.
But never against a human.

Nineteen days at the front,
in the mud and blood of Flanders.
Volunteering as a Stretcher Bearer,
and fleet-footed Company Runner.

Darting out to rescue the injured,
English and German alike,
during lulls in the slaughter.
"A wounded man was a wounded man,
not a uniform."

His Red Cross armband,
probably hidden under the mud,
offered only a flimsy shield
when a 'stray' shell 'fell short'
in No Mans Land,
breaking the fragile cease fire.

Shrapnel isn't selective.
Sent home with a fist sized hole,
ripped into his back.
His papers marked 'Unfit For War'.
As if he were just a commodity,
a broken weapon.

He lived for sixty more years,
a stern unbending man,
doing a clerical job he hated
to feed his family.

No medals, no glory,
but a true man.

Gyppo

DGSquared

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I love this poem and respect this man without even knowing him. You paint a vivid picture, Gyppo.
"Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read." -Groucho Marx

A child’s life is like a piece of paper on which every passerby leaves a mark. -Chinese proverb

Blondesplosion! ~Deb

Mark Hoffmann

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Poppies

I remember.
I remember the what

but not the why.

History books talk of assassination,
of mobilisation
that could not be stopped.

An old man, a waistcoat, a watch chain.
My grandfather
He explained it to me.

Gassed.
Buried alive.
Faced the guns,
the horror
and survived.

Today I remember those who did not survive.

I remember.
I remember the what

but not the why.

Writing humour is the hardest thing since sliced bread.

The Severed Hands of Oliver Olivovich
UK - https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B087SLGLSL
US - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B087ZN6L6V

FB Author Page - https://www.facebook.com/Mark-Hoffmann-Writer-102573844786590

Gyppo

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Having had time to process the mental images from yesterdays Remembrance Service...

Keeping it under their hats

This year the sunlight picked out the hats,
mostly black berets, mostly worn straight,
but a few cocked at an angle
in a proud and private code.

Two dark green berets,
one sandy, one bright blue.

Two Gurkha hats, dead level.
One above a hard unsmiling face.
The other incongruous,
framing a 'grandfatherly' smile
with twinkling eyes behind his glasses.

Colourful headgear for the Sikhs
and other Indians.  But warrior's eyes.
They don't look like this when working,
smiling at customers in their restaurant.

And a man in a black belted raincoat,
with a trilby hat, looking, God forbid,
like someone from the Gestapo.

Plus an elderly Indian lady,
in a long dark green dress
with a poppy print.
Standing with the men.

Gyppo