If we say the Geneva Convention is obsolete, then what do others who have our soldiers say?
quote by Charles Schumer
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The Bald Eagle Has Broken The Geneva Convention
Only a monster could observe
naked suffering of concentration
extermination camps and not thank
God for liberation closing of this crime.
A crime inditing systematic political indifference
to a horrific crime perpetrated against humanity.
Only a monster could observe
calculated humiliation human rights
abuses torture violation of international
law Geneva Conventions and not pray closure.
International law for humanitarian treatment of
victims of war as 90% in Guantanamo proved to be.
Fact! The Geneva Convention agreements of 1949
negotiated in the aftermath of World War II updated
the terms of the first three treaties and added a fourth.
Fact! Articles defined the basic rights of those captured
during a military conflict, establishing protections for
the wounded, and addressing protections for civilians.
“The treaties of 1949 were ratified, in whole or with
reservations, by 194 countries” including the USA Mr Bush.
Placing Guantanamo outside the United States to avoid
violating American laws, while deliberately violating
international law, and Geneva Conventions, sends a strong
message to the free world; spelling out meaning of Bush
new world order, and foolish contempt of world opinion.
Arrogant is a word, reserved for illegal, fuel war in Iraq.
When deliberately targeting infrastructure, hospitals
electricity water schools, non-military targets, a word
for the wise. This does not win hearts and minds, but
individuals; communities, governments, nations
globally, observe infrastructure is deliberately
destroyed; selection fixed to suppress control demoralize.
Soon such policies Guantanamo abuses
are compared to a few little sentences
Mr Bush Pentagon staff should have read.
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Planned Obsolescence
[ music: dennis drew/lyric: natalie merchant ]
Science
Is truth for life
Watch religion fall obsolete
Science
Will be truth for life
Technology as nature
Science
Truth for life
In fortran tongue the
Answer
With wealth and prominence
Man so near perfection
Possession
Its an absence of interim
Secure no demurrer
Defense against divine
Defense against his true
Image
Human conflict number five
Discovery
Dissolved all illusion
Mystery
Destroyed with conclusion
And illusion never restored
Any modern man can see
That religion is
Obsolete
Piety
Obsolete
Ritual
Obsolete
Martyrdom
Obsolete
Prophetic vision
Obsolete
Mysticism
Obsolete
Commitment
Obsolete
Sacrament
Obsolete
Revelation
Obsolete
song performed by 10000 Maniacs
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I Want to be a Soldier
I will be a soldier
Only when soldiers realize
They are not animals or
cattles
Only if soldiers can ask
'Why should I shoot that
innocent man? '
I would be a soldier
If soldiers can ask the
commander
'Why should we shoot at
the children? '
I would be a soldier
If soldiers know that
The red blood that runs
through their veins
Runs in the rest peopl's too.
I would be a soldier if
Soldiers know they aren't
what they ask them to be
When they know that
The Emperor will never ask
them to kill his children
I would be a soldier
When soldiers realize war
is inhuman
When soldiers know war
always starts war
When they know that
World peace can not be
reached through war
When United Nations can
ask themselves
Is war the only way to end
corruption in the globe?
When soldiers know the
distance between peace and
war.
When soldiers realize how
intoxicative the gun is.
When soldiers realize
that gun does not control
them, but they control it.
I would be a soldier only if
soldiers know
why Martin Luther King jnr.
was killed.
If they know Adolf Hitler
also tried to make peace
through war.
[...] Read more
poem by Idris Adesina
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Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems
March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan
Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.
Sincerely,
George W. Bush
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.
They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.
The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.
They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.
The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.
[...] Read more
poem by Tom Zart
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Blind Faith
[ alternative version of planned obsolescence ]
Love, breaks apart is a myth of human kindness
Love, breaks apart is amyth of human kindness
Love, breaks apart is a myth of human kindness
Panic in the worried night with the tempting, rises
Panic in the worried night with the tempting, rises
Panic in the worried night the tempting rises
No doubt that shed desire blind faith in all surmises
No doubt that shed desire blind faith in all surmises
No doubt that shed deny blind faith in half-surmises
Because
Any modern man can see that
Any modern man can see that
Piety obsolete
Faith obsolete
Mysticism obsolete
Prophetic vision obsolete
Any modern man can see that
Any modern mad can see that
Love, breaks apart is a myth of human kindness
Love, breaks apart is a myth of human kindness
Love, breaks apart is a myth of human kindness
Panic in the worried night with the tempting, rises
Panic in the worried night with the tempting, rises
Panic in the worried night the tempting rises
No doubt that shed desire blind faith in all surmises
No doubt that shed desire blind faith in all surmises
No doubt that shed deny blind faith in half-surmises
Because
Any modern man can see that
Any modern man can see that
Piety obsolete
Faith obsolete
Mysticism obsolete
Prophetic vision obsolete
Any modern man can see that
Any modern mad can see that
song performed by 10000 Maniacs
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Through the eyes of a Field Coronet (Epic)
Introduction
In the kaki coloured tent in Umbilo he writes
his life’s story while women, children and babies are dying,
slowly but surely are obliterated, he see how his nation is suffering
while the events are notched into his mind.
Lying even heavier on him is the treason
of some other Afrikaners who for own gain
have delivered him, to imprisonment in this place of hatred
and thoughts go through him to write a book.
Prologue
The Afrikaner nation sprouted
from Dutchmen,
who fought decades without defeat
against the super power Spain
mixed with French Huguenots
who left their homes and belongings,
with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Associate this then with the fact
that these people fought formidable
for seven generations
against every onslaught that they got
from savages en wild animals
becoming marksmen, riding
and taming wild horses
with one bullet per day
to hunt a wild antelope,
who migrated right across the country
over hills in mass protest
and then you have
the most formidable adversary
and then let them fight
in a natural wilderness
where the hunter,
the sniper and horseman excels
and any enemy is at a lost.
Let them then also be patriotic
into their souls,
believe in and read
out of the word of God
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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Annals of Assur-Nasir-Pal column I
To Ninip most powerful hero, great, chief of the gods, warrior, powerful Lord, whose onset in battle has not been opposed, eldest son,
crusher of opponents, first-born son of Nukimmut, supporter of the seven, noble ruler, King of the gods the producers, governor, he who rolls along the mass
of heaven and earth, opener of canals, treader of the wide earth, the god who in his divinity nourishes heaven and earth, the beneficent,
the exalted, the powerful, who has not lessened the glory of his face, head of nations, bestower of sceptres, glorious, over all cities a ruler,
valiant, the renown of whose sceptre is not approached, chief of widespread influence, great among the gods, shading from the southern sun, Lord of Lords, whose hand the vault of heaven
(and) earth has controlled, a King in battle mighty who has vanquished opposition, victorious, powerful, Lord of water-courses and seas,
strong, not yielding, whose onset brings down the green corn, smiting the land of the enemy, like the cutting of reeds, the deity who changes not his purposes,
the light of heaven and earth, a bold leader on the waters, destroyer of them that hate (him), a spoiler (and) Lord of the disobedient, dividing enemies, whose name in the speech of the gods
no god has ever disregarded, the gatherer of life, the god(?) whose prayers are good, whose abode is in the city of Calah, a great Lord, my Lord - (who am) Assur-nasir-pal, the mighty King,
King of multitudes, a Prince unequalled, Lord of all the four countries, powerful over hosts of men, the possession of Bel and Ninip the exalted and Anu
and of Dakan, a servant of the great gods in the lofty shrine for great (O Ninip) is thy heart; a worshipper of Bel whose might upon
thy great deity is founded, and thou makest righteous his life, valiant, warrior, who in the service of Assur his Lord hath proceeded, and among the Kings
of the four regions who has not his fellow, a Prince for admiration, not sparing opponents, mighty leader, who an equal
has not, a Prince reducing to order his disobedient ones, who has subdued whole multitudes of men, a strong worker, treading down
the heads of his enemies, trampling on all foes, crushing assemblages of rebels, who in the service of the great gods his Lords
marched vigorously and the lands of all of them his hand captured, caused the forests of all of them to fall, and received their tribute, taking
securities, establishing laws over all lands, when Assur the Lord who proclaims my name and augments my Royalty
laid hold upon his invincible power for the forces of my Lordship, for Assur-nasir-pal, glorious Prince, worshipper of the great gods
the generous, the great, the powerful, acquirer of cities and forests and the territory of all of them, King of Lords, destroying the wicked, strengthening
the peaceful, not sparing opponents, a Prince of firm will(?) one who combats oppression, Lord of all Kings,
Lord of Lords, the acknowledged, King of Kings, seated gloriously, the renown of Ninip the warrior, worshipper of the great gods, prolonging the benefits (conferred by) his fathers:
a Prince who in the service of Assur and the Sun-god, the gods in whom he trusted, royally marched to turbulent lands, and Kings who had rebelled against him
[he cut off like grass, all their lands to his feet he subjected, restorer of the worship of the goddesses and that of the great gods,
Chief unwavering, who for the guidance of the heads (and) elders of his land is a steadfast guardian, the work of whose hands and
the gift of whose finger the great gods of heaven and earth have exalted, and his steps over rulers have they established forever;
[...] Read more
poem by King Assur-Bani-Pal
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Lead Soldiers
The nursery fire burns brightly, crackling in cheerful little explosions
and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature rockets
peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala
flamed a night of victorious wars.
The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his head forward and back, slowly,
and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares into the air
and nods - forward and back. The red rose in his hand is a crimson splash
on his yellow coat. Forward and back, and his blue-green eyes stare
into the air, and he nods - nods.
Tommy's soldiers march to battle,
Trumpets flare and snare-drums rattle.
Bayonets flash, and sabres glance -
How the horses snort and prance!
Cannon drawn up in a line
Glitter in the dizzy shine
Of the morning sunlight. Flags
Ripple colours in great jags.
Red blows out, then blue, then green,
Then all three - a weaving sheen
Of prismed patriotism. March
Tommy's soldiers, stiff and starch,
Boldly stepping to the rattle
Of the drums, they go to battle.
Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns.
He puts his infantry in front, and before them ambles a mounted band.
Their instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet-tunicked soldiers,
and they take very long steps on their little green platforms,
and from the ranks bursts the song of Tommy's soldiers marching to battle.
The song jolts a little as the green platforms stick on the thick carpet.
Tommy wheels his guns round the edge of a box of blocks, and places
a squad of cavalry on the commanding eminence of a footstool.
The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods - nods. The fire makes
the red rose in his hand glow and twist. Hist! That is a bold song
Tommy's soldiers sing as they march along to battle.
Crack! Rattle! The sparks fly up the chimney.
Tommy's army's off to war -
Not a soldier knows what for.
But he knows about his rifle,
How to shoot it, and a trifle
Of the proper thing to do
[...] Read more
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Tower Beyond Tragedy
I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Goin Down Geneva
Goin down geneva, give me a helping hand
Im goin down geneva, give me a helping hand
Its not easy baby, living on the exile plan
Down on the bottom, down to my new pair of shoes
Down on the bottom, down to my new pair of shoes
Im down by the lakeside, thinking bout my baby blue
Last night I played a gig in salzburg, outside in the pouring rain
Last night I played a gig in salzburg, outside in the pouring rain
Flew from there to montreux and my heart was filled with pain
Look out my window, back at the way things are
Look out my window pane, back at the way things are
Just wonder how, how did things ever get this far
Vince taylor used to live here, nobodys ever heard of him
Vince taylor used to live here, but nobodys heard of him, aint that a shame
Just who he was, just where he fits in
He was goin down geneva. give him helping hand
He was goin down geneva, give him helping hand
It wasnt easy living on the exile plan
Vince taylor used to live here, nobodys even heard of him
Vince, vince taylor lives here, nobodys even heard of him
Just who he was, just where he fits in
Just who he was, just where he fits in
song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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I Saw It Myself (Short Verse Drama)
Dramatis Personae: Adrian, his wife Ester, his sisters Rebecca and Johanna, his mother Elizabeth, the high priest Chiapas, the disciple Simon Peter, the disciple John, Mary Magdalene, worshipers, priests, two angels and Jesus Christ.
Act I
Scene I.- Adrian’s house in Jerusalem. Adrian has just returned home after a business journey in Galilee, in time to attend the Passover feast. He sits at the table with his wife Ester and his sisters, Rebecca and Johanna. It’s just before sunset on the Friday afternoon.
Adrian. (Somewhat puzzled) Strange things are happening,
some say demons dwell upon the earth,
others angelic beings, miracles take place
and all of this when they had put a man to death,
had crucified a criminal. Everybody knows
the cross is used for degenerates only!
Rebecca. (With a pleasant voice) Such harsh words used,
for a good, a great man brother?
They say that without charge
he healed the sick, brought back sight,
cured leprosy, even made some more food,
from a few fishes and loafs of bread…
Adrian. (Somewhat harsh) They say many things!
That he rode into Jerusalem
to be crowned as the new king,
was a rebel against the state,
even claimed to be
the very Son of God,
now that is blasphemy
if there is no truth to it!
Johanna. I met him once.
He’s not the man
that you make him, brother.
There was a strange tranquilly to Him.
Some would say a divine presence,
while He spoke of love that is selfless,
visited the sick, the poor
and even the destitute, even harlots.
Adrian. (Looks up) There you have it!
Harlots! Tax collecting thieves!
A man is know by his friends,
or so they say and probably
there is some truth to it.
Ester. Husband, do not be so quick to judge.
I have seen Him myself, have seen
Roman soldiers marching Him to the hill
to take His life, with a angry crowd
following and mocking Him.
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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Soldiers
Do I hear what I think Im hearing?
Do I see the signs I think I see?
Or is this just a fantasy?
Is it true that the beast is waking
Stirring in his restless sleep tonight
In the pale moonlight
In the grip of this cold december
You and I have reason to remember
Soldiers write the songs that soldiers sing
The songs that you and I dont sing
They blow their horns and march along
They drum their drums and look so strong
Youd think that nothing in the world was wrong
Soldiers write the songs that soldiers sing
The songs that you and I wont sing
Lets not look the other way
Taking a chance
cause if the bugler starts to play
We too must dance
Whats that sound, whats that dreadful rumble?
Wont somebody tell me what I hear?
In the distance but drawing near
Is it only a storm approaching?
All that thunder and the blinding light
In the winter night
In the grip of this cold december
You and I have reason to remember
Soldiers write the songs that soldiers sing
The songs that you and I dont sing
They blow their horns and march along
They drum their drums and look so strong
Youd think that nothing in the world was wrong
Soldiers write the songs that soldiers sing
The songs that you and I wont sing
Lets not look the other way
Taking a chance
cause if the bugler starts to play
We too must dance
Soldiers write the songs that soldiers sing
The songs that you and I wont sing
Lets not look the other way
Taking a chance
cause if the bugler starts to play
We too must dance
song performed by ABBA
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(ballad) If I could...
If I could.....
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
If I could
I'd bring our soldiers home..
i would bring them safe and sound
home again on American ground
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home.
If i could
I'd make this world free
If i could
I'd make this world free
no cold and hungry children
no pain or poverty...
if i could
I'd make this world free.
If i could
i'd bring or soldiers home
if i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
I'd bring them safe and sound
Home again, on American ground
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home..
If i could
i'd change nine one one
if i could
I'd change nine one one
I'd give anything to change
the damage that's been done
if i could
I'd change nine one one...
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
If i could
I'd bring our soldiers home
I'd bring them all safe and sound
home on American ground
If i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
if i could
i'd bring our soldiers home
poem by Connetta Jean
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Home Sonnets--Address To Ireland
I
Mother of soldiers! once there was a time
When your sons' swords won fame in many a clime;
When Europe press'd on France, they fought alone
For her, and served her better than their own!
Those were the days your exiles made their fame
By gallant deeds which put our age to shame-
Those were the days Cremona city, saved,
Stood to attest what Irish valor braved!
When England's chivalry, sore wounded fled
Before the stormy charge O'Brien led-
When travellers saw in Ypres' coir display'd
The trophies of your song-renown'd brigade!
Mother of soldiers! France was proud to see
Your shamrock then twined with the fleur de lis!
II
Mother of soldiers! in the cause of Spain
The Moors in Oran's trench by them were slain;
For full an hundred years their fatal steel
Has charged beside the lances of Castile.
Carb'ry's, Tyrconnell's, Breffny's exiled lords
To Spain and glory gave their gallant swords;
And Spain, of honor jealous, gave them place
Before her native sons in glory's race;
Her noblest laurels graced your soldiers' head,
Her dearest daughters shared your soldiers' bed;
In danger's hour she call'd them to the front,
And gave to them the praise who bore the brunt:
Mother of soldiers! Spain to-day will be
A willing witness for thy sons and thee!
III
Mother of soldiers! on the Volga's banks
Your practised leaders form'd the Russian ranks;
And fallen Limerick gave the chiefs to lead
The hosts who triumph'd o'er the famous Swede.
That time even Austria gave them host on host,
The ruling baton, and the perilous post-
Buda, Belgrade, Prague, Deva-every trust
That man could earn, and found them bold as just.
Velettri, Zorndorff, Dantzic, still can tell
How Austria's Irish soldiers fought and fell,
And how the ruling skill that led them on
To conquer was supplied by your own son!
Mother of soldiers! while these trophies last,
You're safe against the sland'rers of the past!
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas D Arcy McGee
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Let's Remember Those Soldiers
Let's remember those soldiers
No matter alive or dead
Hold them dear to our hearts
And keep their memories in our heads
Let's remember those soldiers
As they fight on foreign lands
And pray they make it back home
Because it is all up to Gods hands
Let's remember those soldiers
And the hell they are going through
Praise them when they get home
For all they've done for me and you
Let's remember those soldiers
And their families they left behind
Should you know some of these families
Try and treat them a little more kind
Let's remember those soldiers
They are fighting for our rights
Before you go to sleep tonight
Say a prayer for them tonight
Let's remember those soldiers
And let them know that we care
But for the grace of God
We might be the ones over there
Let's remember those soldiers
And let's wish them all the best
May they all make it back home
So we all can get some rest
Let's remember those soldiers
Even ones from wars of the past
Though some are dead and gone
Let's make sure their memories last
Let's remember those soldiers
And docs and nurses in those camps
Taking care of the wounded
Let's put their faces on postage stamps
Let's remember those soldiers
And not just count them as a loss
For they are truely the ones
That pay the ultimate cost
[...] Read more
poem by Norman Hale
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Soldier (not really a poem)
the american revolution was fought witha new breed of soldier.
this country was founded on that soldier.
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines calls the coward
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines call when they need help
because these soldiers dont miss.
these soldiers are trained harder than the most elite frontline man
these soldiers are tought to kill their enemy before there enemy sees them.
these soldiers are the ghosts in the night,
these soldiers are the wind in the day
these soldiers are everywhere.
these soldiers are the bush next to u.
these soldiers are the the tree across the field.
these soldiers are the lump of snow in the flat plain.
these soldiers are snipers.
snipers are the reason we are free.
snipers stop the enemy before the enemy gets close to u,
poem by Joshua Decker
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Custer
BOOK FIRST.
I.
ALL valor died not on the plains of Troy.
Awake, my Muse, awake! be thine the joy
To sing of deeds as dauntless and as brave
As e'er lent luster to a warrior's grave.
Sing of that noble soldier, nobler man,
Dear to the heart of each American.
Sound forth his praise from sea to listening sea-
Greece her Achilles claimed, immortal Custer, we.
II.
Intrepid are earth's heroes now as when
The gods came down to measure strength with men.
Let danger threaten or let duty call,
And self surrenders to the needs of all;
Incurs vast perils, or, to save those dear,
Embraces death without one sigh or tear.
Life's martyrs still the endless drama play
Though no great Homer lives to chant their worth to-day.
III.
And if he chanted, who would list his songs,
So hurried now the world's gold-seeking throngs?
And yet shall silence mantle mighty deeds?
Awake, dear Muse, and sing though no ear heeds!
Extol the triumphs, and bemoan the end
Of that true hero, lover, son and friend
Whose faithful heart in his last choice was shown-
Death with the comrades dear, refusing flight alone.
IV.
He who was born for battle and for strife
Like some caged eagle frets in peaceful life;
So Custer fretted when detained afar
From scenes of stirring action and of war.
And as the captive eagle in delight,
When freedom offers, plumes himself for flight
And soars away to thunder clouds on high,
With palpitating wings and wild exultant cry,
V.
So lion-hearted Custer sprang to arms,
And gloried in the conflict's loud alarms.
[...] Read more
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Pharsalia - Book VII: The Battle
Ne'er to the summons of the Eternal laws
More slowly Titan rose, nor drave his steeds,
Forced by the sky revolving, up the heaven,
With gloomier presage; wishing to endure
The pangs of ravished light, and dark eclipse;
And drew the mists up, not to feed his flames,
But lest his light upon Thessalian earth
Might fall undimmed.
Pompeius on that morn,
To him the latest day of happy life,
In troubled sleep an empty dream conceived.
For in the watches of the night he heard
Innumerable Romans shout his name
Within his theatre; the benches vied
To raise his fame and place him with the gods;
As once in youth, when victory was won
O'er conquered tribes where swift Iberus flows,
And where Sertorius' armies fought and fled,
The west subdued, with no less majesty
Than if the purple toga graced the car,
He sat triumphant in his pure white gown
A Roman knight, and heard the Senate's cheer.
Perhaps, as ills drew near, his anxious soul,
Shunning the future wooed the happy past;
Or, as is wont, prophetic slumber showed
That which was not to be, by doubtful forms
Misleading; or as envious Fate forbade
Return to Italy, this glimpse of Rome
Kind Fortune gave. Break not his latest sleep,
Ye sentinels; let not the trumpet call
Strike on his ear: for on the morrow's night
Shapes of the battle lost, of death and war
Shall crowd his rest with terrors. Whence shalt thou
The poor man's happiness of sleep regain?
Happy if even in dreams thy Rome could see
Once more her captain! Would the gods had given
To thee and to thy country one day yet
To reap the latest fruit of such a love:
Though sure of fate to come! Thou marchest on
As though by heaven ordained in Rome to die;
She, conscious ever of her prayers for thee
Heard by the gods, deemed not the fates decreed
Such evil destiny, that she should lose
The last sad solace of her Magnus' tomb.
Then young and old had blent their tears for thee,
And child unbidden; women torn their hair
And struck their bosoms as for Brutus dead.
But now no public woe shall greet thy death
As erst thy praise was heard: but men shall grieve
[...] Read more
poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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Every Soldier Has A Dream
After a war a soldier sometimes has to cry as dreams of those memories waters in the eye.
It's very sad when this world of ours goes to war.
Peace is the thing that soldiers have fought and died for.
With hands held in the air a soldier cries a bit but people are blind to dreams that do not fit.
Some people abuse this world but one day they'll find that they've lost their battlefields and they are unklind.
Lost battlefields and dreams with no victories won, following the forgotten hero.
Here they come.
They bury the dream because they cannot recall what it was that made the Soldier stand proud and tall.
Soldiers come from all walks of life.
Sisters.
Brothers.
Soldiers with many dreams seldom shared with others.
Soldiers who had loved ones and families back home.
Some soldiers are just children
and still on their own.
Honoured I feel to remember soldiers this way.
I salute them have I your attention I say.
Stand at ease,
fall out.
Sir nobody knew his name.
Dear God you know who he was our dream was the same.
Undaunted was the soldier in the face of fear.
No turning back.
Each soldier shed a silent tear.
But I wonder why no one hears the soldiers cry.
Listen today as soldiers go to fight and die .
Try to imagine the soldiers forgotten dream.
Keep the memory of what the Soldier
had been.
It haunts us today and remains here in our time.
Ghosts with forgotten dreams remain.
Its such a crime.
What the soldier fought for is what we must redeem,
as we look back and try to recapture the dream.
The ship's sunk and they say,
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poem by Paul McCann
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Wallace Ferguson
There at Geneva where Mt. Blanc floated above
The wine-hued lake like a cloud, when a breeze was blown
Out of an empty sky of blue, and the roaring Rhone
Hurried under the bridge through chasms of rock;
And the music along the cafés was part of the splendor
Of dancing water under a torrent of light;
And the purer part of the genius of Jean Rousseau
Was the silent music of all we saw or heard --
There at Geneva, I say, was the rapture less
Because I could not link myself with the I of yore,
When twenty years before I wandered about Spoon River?
Nor remember what I was nor what I felt?
We live in the hour all free of the hours gone by.
Therefore, O soul, if you lose yourself in death,
And wake in some Geneva by some Mt. Blanc,
What do you care if you know not yourself as the you
Who lived and loved in a little corner of earth
Known as Spoon River ages and ages vanished?
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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