Biggus
09-24-2007, 06:25 AM
THE LAST DAWN
On the horizon the eastern sky was lightening
But the over cast skies were not brightening
The dawn had little effect on the Grey sky
It was certainly a miserable morning to die
The sounds of the long range guns was absent
And the chorus of birdsong had not been vent
Just the cloud scudding across the murky sky
It was certainly a peaceful morning to die
The young soldier was led out in the silence
To face the firing squad to serve his sentence
The last cigarette signaled the end was nigh
What an undignified manner in which to die
The young man wanted to face his fate bravely
If he must die then he would do so with dignity
He would meet his maker with head held high
Though it was such an ignominious way to die
He did not run away and he was not a deserter
Nor a coward and could not be called traitor
But still he stood blindfold neath the dawn sky
In battle would have been a better way to die
His crime was to be blown over by an explosion
To lose his weapon and to suffer a concussion
His only visible injury was a cut above his eye
Its ironic really he was very lucky not to die
He was found wandering out of no mans land
Half senseless and with no weapon in his hand
His only injury was just that cut above his eye
It really is ironic how lucky he was not to die
Little did he know as he marched proudly away
What would become of him on a cold Grey day
When he kissed his love and then said goodbye
Little did he know how he would come to die
Crying out in fear is what filled him with dread
Before the shot was heard he was already dead
A new dawn breaking under the slate Grey sky
Why exactly did this young soldier have to die?
History would show that he was without blame
A young soldier no longer associated with shame
In the war to end all wars this you cannot deny
To be shot at dawn was a ridiculous way to die
ON THE BLOODY FIELD OF BATTLE
Bright burnished copper shields
Shined bright as gold in the midday sun
Spear points glinted in the sun
Like a myriad of dancing fire flies
Silver lights blinked from polished
Buckles and embellishments
The clink of metal on metal
The snort of impatient horses
The barking of impatient sergeants
Leather creaked and strained
On soldier and beast
All the sights brought back to mind
Vivid remembrances
And the sounds spoke a familiar tongue
To the battle hardened
Anticipation dried the mouth
Almost as much as the dust
Banners fluttered lightly in the breeze
Some standing as tall as trees
And carrion eaters waited unseen
For the coming banquet
Then the battle commenced
With an ensuing cacophony
Many died quickly, painlessly
Not even seeing the fatal blow
Equally many died slowly
In agony from their wounds
Others lay on the bloody field
For hours and survived
Only to fight and die another day
The victors write the history
Of the bloody days events
The truth also lies dying
On the bloody field of battle
REMEMBRANCE FOR UNCLE JOHN (John Holt 1887-1916)
“Your country needs you”
We heard Kitchener say to us
We took the Kings shilling
Without any fuss
Lads and Pals all marched
Crowds cheering jubilantly
Then crossed the English Channel
To halt the advancing enemy
The distant we gain in battle
Against the loss of a comrade
Is measured in inches at best
As we play out Hague’s Charade
We came as proud young men
To halt the invaders advance
Only to live and die
In the mud of western France
In the cloying mud of France
Once rich and fertile soil
No longer appears like earth
And now is as slippery as oil
The mud colours everything
Even we try and fail to stay clean
Mud has consumed the landscape
And hides the dead unseen
Subtle hints of another time
Some old Tree stumps remain
A jagged piece of wall sometimes
Will it ever be normal again?
Trenches have become home
Trench foot and rats our companion’s
Shellfire is our music hall
Mortars and rifles our musicians
We escape the daily horror
But only within our own minds
Where we explore familiar places
Far beyond the wars confines
The enemy are much like us
Their thoughts take them away
To a peaceful quiet land
On a peaceful quiet day
I sit in my muddy trench
My eyes closed to all but my wife
My sweet and beloved Tilly
The most important part of my life
Many fallen comrades lie
Where they fell upon the field
They saw no sense to fight
But still they refused to yield
After three long years
In the vile and muddy hell
I climbed out of my trench
And with my comrades fell
THE TREATY
The eleventh hour
The T’s were crossed
And the I’s were dotted
The eleventh day
Books were balanced
Of the butchers tally
The eleventh month
Seeds were sown
For the Second World War
By the French at Versailles
THEY FELL
They fell
Like ripened corn
Cut with scythe’s stroke
In seasoned hands
They fell
Like cherry blossom
Set free
By an April breeze
They fell
Like skittles toppled
By a wooden ball
Skilfully played
They fell
Like mighty English oak
Cut in thousands
To build the mighty fleet
They fell
Proudly and unwavering
Before their enemy
Uncompromising in their duty
They fell
Like the valiant
Cut down before their time
A generation forever lost
TOMMY
We walked towards the enemy
Hidden in the mist
That lay like a silent shroud
We picked our way
Across the open ground
Until the silence was broken
As overhead, a shell burst
Raining death and shrapnel
Knocking us to the ground
Throwing us hither and thither
Like skittles in an alley
Broken bodies lay in the Flanders mud
Of “no mans land”
Before me Tommy hung on the wire
His body vivid red
Cut from neck to groin
Even a baker such as I, knew
He was beyond earthy aid
“Shoot me” he pleaded
His face etched deep with pain
I knelt before him contemplating his request
Then his face relaxed
And he called out “mother”
Though not in pain or anguish
Not a cry for help, but a greeting
An exclamation of joy
As he was returned to her arms
War had diminished my faith
But in that instant it was restored
By a single death, my friend Tommy
I REMEMBER
I remember
Those with no future, But only a gallant past
I remember
Those who never lived, To enjoy the fruits of their sacrifice
I remember
Those who will be forever young, Those who will never be old
I remember
When the sun sets on their past, And rises brilliantly for our future
I remember
Father’s, sons and brothers, Husband’s, friends and lovers
I remember
That lost generation of men, Who went to war for our tomorrow
I remember
Poor man, gentleman and scholar, Who stood shoulder to shoulder
I remember
Those who fell before the foe, For a future they wouldn’t know
CRIMSON SNOW
Each November
We remember
At the Royal Albert Hall
And we remember
With dignity
With respect
They stand in silence
And we remember
In silence
Petals fall
Like crimson snow flakes
And we remember
Gently falling
They settle
Upon hat and tunic
And we remember
Each petal
Once a life
Floats in silent homage
And we remember
Red poppies
Springing eternally
From the bloodied fields
And we remember
Falling petals
Falling in millions
To recall the fallen
And we remember
FOREIGN FIELDS
In the flower of youth cut down
Pals in regiments from every town
Sent to fight in the Nations name
Sent to die to the General’s shame
On foreign fields a generation falls
Heroes for whom the last post calls
Heroes sent to fight across the seas
Names now whispered on the breeze
Gathered as the bell of tribute tolls
Now call with pride the honor rolls
On the horizon the eastern sky was lightening
But the over cast skies were not brightening
The dawn had little effect on the Grey sky
It was certainly a miserable morning to die
The sounds of the long range guns was absent
And the chorus of birdsong had not been vent
Just the cloud scudding across the murky sky
It was certainly a peaceful morning to die
The young soldier was led out in the silence
To face the firing squad to serve his sentence
The last cigarette signaled the end was nigh
What an undignified manner in which to die
The young man wanted to face his fate bravely
If he must die then he would do so with dignity
He would meet his maker with head held high
Though it was such an ignominious way to die
He did not run away and he was not a deserter
Nor a coward and could not be called traitor
But still he stood blindfold neath the dawn sky
In battle would have been a better way to die
His crime was to be blown over by an explosion
To lose his weapon and to suffer a concussion
His only visible injury was a cut above his eye
Its ironic really he was very lucky not to die
He was found wandering out of no mans land
Half senseless and with no weapon in his hand
His only injury was just that cut above his eye
It really is ironic how lucky he was not to die
Little did he know as he marched proudly away
What would become of him on a cold Grey day
When he kissed his love and then said goodbye
Little did he know how he would come to die
Crying out in fear is what filled him with dread
Before the shot was heard he was already dead
A new dawn breaking under the slate Grey sky
Why exactly did this young soldier have to die?
History would show that he was without blame
A young soldier no longer associated with shame
In the war to end all wars this you cannot deny
To be shot at dawn was a ridiculous way to die
ON THE BLOODY FIELD OF BATTLE
Bright burnished copper shields
Shined bright as gold in the midday sun
Spear points glinted in the sun
Like a myriad of dancing fire flies
Silver lights blinked from polished
Buckles and embellishments
The clink of metal on metal
The snort of impatient horses
The barking of impatient sergeants
Leather creaked and strained
On soldier and beast
All the sights brought back to mind
Vivid remembrances
And the sounds spoke a familiar tongue
To the battle hardened
Anticipation dried the mouth
Almost as much as the dust
Banners fluttered lightly in the breeze
Some standing as tall as trees
And carrion eaters waited unseen
For the coming banquet
Then the battle commenced
With an ensuing cacophony
Many died quickly, painlessly
Not even seeing the fatal blow
Equally many died slowly
In agony from their wounds
Others lay on the bloody field
For hours and survived
Only to fight and die another day
The victors write the history
Of the bloody days events
The truth also lies dying
On the bloody field of battle
REMEMBRANCE FOR UNCLE JOHN (John Holt 1887-1916)
“Your country needs you”
We heard Kitchener say to us
We took the Kings shilling
Without any fuss
Lads and Pals all marched
Crowds cheering jubilantly
Then crossed the English Channel
To halt the advancing enemy
The distant we gain in battle
Against the loss of a comrade
Is measured in inches at best
As we play out Hague’s Charade
We came as proud young men
To halt the invaders advance
Only to live and die
In the mud of western France
In the cloying mud of France
Once rich and fertile soil
No longer appears like earth
And now is as slippery as oil
The mud colours everything
Even we try and fail to stay clean
Mud has consumed the landscape
And hides the dead unseen
Subtle hints of another time
Some old Tree stumps remain
A jagged piece of wall sometimes
Will it ever be normal again?
Trenches have become home
Trench foot and rats our companion’s
Shellfire is our music hall
Mortars and rifles our musicians
We escape the daily horror
But only within our own minds
Where we explore familiar places
Far beyond the wars confines
The enemy are much like us
Their thoughts take them away
To a peaceful quiet land
On a peaceful quiet day
I sit in my muddy trench
My eyes closed to all but my wife
My sweet and beloved Tilly
The most important part of my life
Many fallen comrades lie
Where they fell upon the field
They saw no sense to fight
But still they refused to yield
After three long years
In the vile and muddy hell
I climbed out of my trench
And with my comrades fell
THE TREATY
The eleventh hour
The T’s were crossed
And the I’s were dotted
The eleventh day
Books were balanced
Of the butchers tally
The eleventh month
Seeds were sown
For the Second World War
By the French at Versailles
THEY FELL
They fell
Like ripened corn
Cut with scythe’s stroke
In seasoned hands
They fell
Like cherry blossom
Set free
By an April breeze
They fell
Like skittles toppled
By a wooden ball
Skilfully played
They fell
Like mighty English oak
Cut in thousands
To build the mighty fleet
They fell
Proudly and unwavering
Before their enemy
Uncompromising in their duty
They fell
Like the valiant
Cut down before their time
A generation forever lost
TOMMY
We walked towards the enemy
Hidden in the mist
That lay like a silent shroud
We picked our way
Across the open ground
Until the silence was broken
As overhead, a shell burst
Raining death and shrapnel
Knocking us to the ground
Throwing us hither and thither
Like skittles in an alley
Broken bodies lay in the Flanders mud
Of “no mans land”
Before me Tommy hung on the wire
His body vivid red
Cut from neck to groin
Even a baker such as I, knew
He was beyond earthy aid
“Shoot me” he pleaded
His face etched deep with pain
I knelt before him contemplating his request
Then his face relaxed
And he called out “mother”
Though not in pain or anguish
Not a cry for help, but a greeting
An exclamation of joy
As he was returned to her arms
War had diminished my faith
But in that instant it was restored
By a single death, my friend Tommy
I REMEMBER
I remember
Those with no future, But only a gallant past
I remember
Those who never lived, To enjoy the fruits of their sacrifice
I remember
Those who will be forever young, Those who will never be old
I remember
When the sun sets on their past, And rises brilliantly for our future
I remember
Father’s, sons and brothers, Husband’s, friends and lovers
I remember
That lost generation of men, Who went to war for our tomorrow
I remember
Poor man, gentleman and scholar, Who stood shoulder to shoulder
I remember
Those who fell before the foe, For a future they wouldn’t know
CRIMSON SNOW
Each November
We remember
At the Royal Albert Hall
And we remember
With dignity
With respect
They stand in silence
And we remember
In silence
Petals fall
Like crimson snow flakes
And we remember
Gently falling
They settle
Upon hat and tunic
And we remember
Each petal
Once a life
Floats in silent homage
And we remember
Red poppies
Springing eternally
From the bloodied fields
And we remember
Falling petals
Falling in millions
To recall the fallen
And we remember
FOREIGN FIELDS
In the flower of youth cut down
Pals in regiments from every town
Sent to fight in the Nations name
Sent to die to the General’s shame
On foreign fields a generation falls
Heroes for whom the last post calls
Heroes sent to fight across the seas
Names now whispered on the breeze
Gathered as the bell of tribute tolls
Now call with pride the honor rolls