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#FridayFun Crouched - in a hole, lone; death bullets circle his home. Child, stranger to calm. Fear - a common foe, That visits with every shot. Trapped, nowhere to go.
I have always believed that there can never be an excuse for lying, that is until I read this poem.
Dusty old man with his trousers, torn, Sits on the steps of the church , forlorn, The pain on his face matches the cut on his wrist, Where it looks like a watch, once may have exist, His shirt...
Broken bones and bloody skin. Saying goodbye to your kin. To war we go. To fight our foe. Battered skulls. Destroyed souls. Kids without dad. He's away in Baghdad. Fighting the war.
The shrieking din when bombs explode, The sound of weeping from a fallen abode. As a woeful warning, dead men lie, Like distressed ravens, the wounded cry: The dreadful souvenirs of a damaging war.
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.
A bugle sounds so far away For another lost for your tomorrow Sand kicked from a soldiers boot as he disembarks in sorrow Another comrade fallen another broken brother A man that has returned to try...
"Lords, ladies and gentlemen, I give to you my blue blood. If you protect and marry my daughters with pure love. Award my future bloodline with titles and foreign lands full of golden stuff.
I love this poem...
Confined inside my wheeled chair, The ghosts of friends surround me, Gunshots, screaming, cannon fire, The echoes still confound me.
For Remembrance Day- Why. Why are we fighting. Why are we killing. Why are we dying. Murderers Is that how we're proclaimed.
#wewillrememberthem The following is a poem by one of two of the best war poets Siegfried Sassoon, the other Wilfred Owen. If you haven't read any if their work, I recommend it.
“Welcome home, soldier,” called a voice in the dark, 30 years late to a 50 year old man. Once he was golden with the promise of youth, til his country sent him off to foreign land.
Skipped school Would'nt listen. Pointed fingers Names sticking. Loser Non mover Low life With a pocket knife. Long days making short stacks Cash in hand Evading tax. No prospects Devils reject.
He rolled one up, then kicked back in the sunshine. The night before had certainly been a "fun time". "Nice one Sarge", the first voice said.
I feel the piercing coils of metal whizz past my face. The adrenaline pumping through my body paralyses the world around me. I see the bullets spin through the air.
Please note that this is not my work and is just a poem that I find truly amazing and inspiring :) Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through the...
A poem by Wilfred Owen written from memory: Bent double, like beggars under sacks, knocked-kneed coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge.