Veteran - Stephen A. Roberts

In the smoke and flattened fields
your comrades walked into oblivion;
you were left to face
a hundred years alone

Now you are fêted
and they ask you,
before you fade into history,
what was it like?

A tear comes,
it is for the fallen:
and for the
world still at war

Stephen A. Roberts

Think - Kathy Figueroa

Think of how much better society would be today
If all of those young men hadn't died in such a brutal way
Think of the advancements in humanities and science
If, to deadly conflict, the world had expressed defiance
Surely, there must be nonviolent ways to “settle old scores”
Or curtail tyranny, than to engage in endless wars
If only humanity’s feral instincts could be tamed
And mankind’s noblest higher qualities were what remained

Kathy Figueroa

November 11, 2021 Lest we forget

Anthem For Doomed Youth - Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
---Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,---
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen

This item is from The First World War Poetry Digital Archive, University of Oxford (www.oucs.ox.ac.uk/ww1lit);
© Copyright The Estate of Wilfred Owen. The Complete Poems and Fragments of Wilfred Owen edited by Jon Stallworthy first published by Chatto Windus, 1983. Preliminaries, introductory, editorial matter, manuscripts and fragments omitted.

September 11th 2001 New York - Theresa Le Flem

American flags hang dismally
like forgotten laundry slung across balconies
dirty and betrayed
A grey skin of steam
plumes by the Hudson River
It echoes the smoke in our memory
Something to fill the gap
Where the twin towers stood like brothers
proud against the skyline
mothers search for sons
There is no looking
only seeing, disbelieving

American flags in tatters torn
like skin like someone waving at the moon
It’s so unreachable untouchable
this enemy of life
No amount of kindness or forgiveness
seems enough

When hate itself becomes the sword
that pierces every word and thought
What can dilute the poison draught?
Who can achieve a goal in life
if death itself is the task?

Two cylinders of buildings
where people starting work
carrying coffee, filing letters
are ignited by a spark
Death such as this
makes history itself unworthy
of the task of recording
so many lives lost senselessly

We have this hole in Manhattan to fill
It aches, it kills us still
they all belonged to us you see
now we’re loosed from it
but we don’t feel free
Our question lies uncomfortably
Why not me?
Why not me?


Image : Pixabay - Armelion

From Theresa Le Flem's collection 'Meet Me at Low Tide' available here.

Armistice Day, France - Trudie Shannon

Armistice Day
And the café is two thirds empty.
Vacant seats that evoke images
Of men unknown
Who drank coffee, made love, fathered children
Teased their siblings, loved their fathers, idolised their mothers.
Unknown and faceless here and now
Yet these empty seats exude their presence somehow.
Their voices infiltrate the conversation and the music,
Their invisible footprints leave muddy trails upon the floor
And the dank smell of their unwashed bodies and uniforms
Permeates the air and outside there is a
Staccato rhythm to the silence.
It is not raining.
It is not nighttime
But there are ghosts, drifting hopeful
Around these empty tables, these vacant chairs.
And suddenly in isolation, tears cascade into my cup.

Trudie Shannon

Anthem For Doomed Youth - Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
---Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,---
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen

This item is from The First World War Poetry Digital Archive, University of Oxford (www.oucs.ox.ac.uk/ww1lit);
© Copyright The Estate of Wilfred Owen. The Complete Poems and Fragments of Wilfred Owen edited by Jon Stallworthy first published by Chatto Windus, 1983. Preliminaries, introductory, editorial matter, manuscripts and fragments omitted.

The Valour, The Horror - Kathy Figueroa

Ypres, the Somme, Vimy Ridge, Passchendaele…
The Enemy was fearsome, but destined to fail
Before the might of the Canadian Expeditionary Force
Brave-hearted men who changed history’s course

Let us not forget the young lives lost
The tremendous toll, the human cost
The valour, the horror, the pain, the gore
The battles waged on a foreign shore

Let us remember torn flesh, blood, and bone
That mingled with mud, water, sand, and stone
…Europe’s ridges, trenches, beaches, and plains
Are scattered with fragments of human remains

Of good men who knew not if they’d perish
To uphold ideals that we cherish
Who risked their lives for future generations
With a hope of peace among the nations

November 11, 1918, was Armistice Day
The warfare stopped and peace held sway
One hundred years later, let us remember still
And strive for peace, harmony, and goodwill

Lest we forget.

Kathy Figueroa

This poem is dedicated to the memory of a veteran of World War I and
member of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, Peter Harman, my grandfather.

Veteran - Stephen A. Roberts

In the smoke and flattened fields
your comrades walked into oblivion;
you were left to face
a hundred years alone

Now you are fêted
and they ask you,
before you fade into history,
what was it like?

A tear comes,
it is for the fallen:
and for the
world still at war

Stephen A. Roberts

Muddy Fields - Diane Scantlebury

Your great grandad fought in the 1st world war
He survived, but never spoke,
About the muddy fields and stinking trenches
Or of the mustard gas on which he’d choked,
He’d joined up early to fight the Hun
For king and country to make a brave stand,
Too young, he’d lied about his age,
Too young to be dodging bullets in no man’s land,
Your great grandad fought in the 1st world war
He survived, but never spoke,
About the muddy fields that were the Somme,
Where young boys fell and slept,
But never woke.

Diane Scantlebury

Wear Your Poppy With Pride - Lyndon Queripel

Wear your poppy with pride
That's what the sign said
Remember the ones who died
And the ones who bled
Wear your poppy with pride
It's time to pay the price
For those who turned the tide
With their ultimate sacrifice

Wear you poppy with pride
For we must never forget
It can't ever be denied
We owe them such a debt
Wear your poppy with pride
Give generously if you please
Now that the blood has dried
And we all live in peace

Wear your poppy with pride
There's freedom in the air
And take your place beside
The silence of our prayer
Wear your poppy with pride
Let the services begin
Remember the widowed bride
And the unsung heroine

Wear your poppy with pride
For those who rose and fell
Across the great divide
Of bullets, gas and shell
Wear your poppy with pride
If only those poor souls knew
The same banks financed every side
In both World war one and two

Wear your poppy with pride
With faith,hope and charity
In God they trust and hide
From behind this conspiracy
Wear your poppy with pride
To honour the brave hero
But who gets to decide
Where all the money will go

Wear your poppy with pride
As a tribute to the many
There's veterans far and wide
Who won't even see a penny
Wear your poppy with pride
For the old soldier on the street
He sold his medals and cried
Just to buy something to eat.

Lyndon Queripel

Boots 1916 - Trudie Shannon

My boots are invisible.
I cannot see where my torso ends and my thighs begin.
I cannot see my trouser legs, or my legs within
I am become a shapeless form encased in cloying mud.
I cannot feel the cloth that clothes my skin.
I cannot feel the skin beneath the cloth
I cannot feel a bloody thing.
My boots are invisible.
And the gun in my hands is slick with blood,
My blood and bloody rain.
And I cannot see where my torso ends and my thighs begin
I cannot see ought but this sea of mud
And its tide of body parts.
And it’s so quiet, so deathly quiet.
My boots are become invisible roots
And the bloom of my youth a poppy.

Trudie Shannon

Ashes On The Water - Tony Gardner

From Jerbourg cliffs the morning sun
       gleams soft across the bay

We gather here at Moulin Huet
       this sad, fulfilling day.

Ashes float and sparkle
       the proud sun picks them out

Affirming this was one of us
       a Guernseyman throughout.

He left his heritage a while
       But came back home to die.

Ashes on the water
       "C'est bien" the wavelets sigh.

Tony Gardner

Wear Your Poppy With Pride - Lyndon Queripel

Wear your poppy with pride
That's what the sign said
Remember the ones who died
And the ones who bled
Wear your poppy with pride
It's time to pay the price
For those who turned the tide
With their ultimate sacrifice

Wear you poppy with pride
For we must never forget
It can't ever be denied
We owe them such a debt
Wear your poppy with pride
Give generously if you please
Now that the blood has dried
And we all live in peace

Wear your poppy with pride
There's freedom in the air
And take your place beside
The silence of our prayer
Wear your poppy with pride
Let the services begin
Remember the widowed bride
And the unsung heroine

Wear your poppy with pride
For those who rose and fell
Across the great divide
Of bullets, gas and shell
Wear your poppy with pride
If only those poor souls knew
The same banks financed every side
In both World war one and two

Wear your poppy with pride
With faith,hope and charity
In God they trust and hide
From behind this conspiracy
Wear your poppy with pride
To honour the brave hero
But who gets to decide
Where all the money will go

Wear your poppy with pride
As a tribute to the many
There's veterans far and wide
Who won't even see a penny
Wear your poppy with pride
For the old soldier on the street
He sold his medals and cried
Just to buy something to eat.

Lyndon Queripel

Boots 1916 - Trudie Shannon

My boots are invisible.
I cannot see where my torso ends and my thighs begin.
I cannot see my trouser legs, or my legs within
I am become a shapeless form encased in cloying mud.
I cannot feel the cloth that clothes my skin.
I cannot feel the skin beneath the cloth
I cannot feel a bloody thing.
My boots are invisible.
And the gun in my hands is slick with blood,
My blood and bloody rain.
And I cannot see where my torso ends and my thighs begin
I cannot see ought but this sea of mud
And its tide of body parts.
And it’s so quiet, so deathly quiet.
My boots are become invisible roots
And the bloom of my youth a poppy.

Trudie Shannon

The Poppy - Ian Duquemin

I am the flower worn with pride
Commemorating those that died
My colour that of blood once spilled
Upon the muddy battlefield
When I am worn admire me
I represent what they set free
You, forever in their debt
Shall never then forget

Ian Duquemin

The Bugle Call – Ian Duquemin

The bugle called, yet no-one came
Out from the blood, the mud and the rain
Silenced the call left an empty space
A barren, desolate place
Rusty wire entwined with hair
Had ripped the flesh in its tangled snare
And darkness covered this land of red
Hiding the glorious dead
Prayers of loved ones were never heard
By those in trenches left here interred
Eyes that witnessed such hurt and pain
Stared lifeless upon the slain
One hundred years have come and gone
And with each new and thankful dawn
That bugle to this day is blown
Calling them back home

Ian Duquemin

Anthem For Doomed Youth - Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
---Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,---
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen

This item is from The First World War Poetry Digital Archive, University of Oxford (www.oucs.ox.ac.uk/ww1lit);
© Copyright The Estate of Wilfred Owen. The Complete Poems and Fragments of Wilfred Owen edited by Jon Stallworthy first published by Chatto Windus, 1983. Preliminaries, introductory, editorial matter, manuscripts and fragments omitted.

Remember Larry - Julian Clarke

The battle lines are drawn
From many miles away,
The soldier looks within
He hopes it's not today.
His head's in such a spin
Forgets it's his birthday,
Go; go, over the top lads
A bullet goes astray.

Mum sits by the telephone
A birthday wish to say,
Lying in the mud alone
The ultimate price he paid.
The soldier and his Noreen
Were soon going to marry,
When they turned eighteen
Not to be; poor young Larry.

Julian Clarke