Old 11-11-2017, 12:33 AM   #1
UnderYourSpell
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Lest we forget

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Blessed are the cracked for it is they that let in the light
They say a smile is a gift which is free to the giver and precious to the recipient.
But giving the finger is free, too, and I find it more personal and sincere.
If at first you don't succeed....skydiving is not for you ....
If you don't pay your exorcist .... do you get repossessed?
I shall always decide not to decide, unless of course I decide to change my mind.
....But I, being poor, have only my dreams, I have spread my dreams under your feet,Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.......
Nil Caborundum illigitimi
Sestina slut
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Old 11-11-2017, 01:26 PM   #2
champagne1982
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Je me souviens

Known Unto God

And me, I know you
like the sister who watched
you take the welcoming
punch in the shoulder
from that handsome boy
you stood in the recruiting
line up behind and eagerly
pushed forward on a farm
boy's Grand Tour to storied
places you yearned to see.

I know you, like the girl
blowing kisses and chasing
the parade to the pier
to catch you up and tuck
her 'kerchief against
your neck while you smiled
and bravely hoped that today
the propaganda was true
and you'd be home in six months
having won glorious Freedom.

Known unto God and me.

I know you like the mother
who watched your toddling
steps across the dooryard
while it rained and you slipped,
falling into the mud, struggling
to stand on your own, never
imagining how you foundered
in the water at the bottom
of the shell hole, bleeding
and unable to stand
on your own, I know you.

A soldier boy, who never
knew the heat of sex,
the joy of owning an acre
to build a home wrapped
in a picket fence. You
fervently wished to believe
that fighting for your King
meant fighting for Truth,
Liberty and Justice
and that you would die
a hero's noble death

A Soldier of the Great War
Known Unto God.
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Last edited by champagne1982 : 11-11-2017 at 01:37 PM.
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Old 11-11-2017, 05:11 PM   #3
Piscator
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Location: Canada
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11:00/11/11/2017

The lights in our Farmers' Market dim and
there is momentary confusion till someone
whispers eleven o'clock and we stand in silence.

I look at my lapel, the poppy is missing, again.
I think of Passchendaele, a battle now one
hundred years ago, where more than four
thousand Canadians died.
Yet today only just over a third of us can
even pinpoint it to the First World War.

The lights return, I pay for my cheese and
move on to meat, fruit and vegetables.
On the way out, I buy another plastic poppy
from the cadets at the door and hope
they will remember why.
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