Reader Submitted Poetry: Glory

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The War Suite - 4: Glory
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Another year has passed again,
he hung on his crutch in the driving rain.
The parade of young ones marched by,
with music and banners that filled the sky.
Quietly, since there was nothing to say,
the one legged man, met up again that day.

He was the last of the expeditionary force,
expected to be present, of course.
They knew his number, rank and name,
they said that the enemy was to blame.
The mayor, from the tribune, told the same old story,
ending with words like: Sacrifice! Honor! and GLORY!

Glory! What the HELL is that worth?
Glory! That is nothing but HELL on earth.
Glory! I was lucky, I just lost my leg.
Glory! My friend was found like a broken egg.
He was GLORIOUSLY torn apart by a gunpowder keg.
Don't give me that about HONOR and GLORY!
Mayor, I want to hear you say: We are so very sorry..

/Laura to war victims, who are forgotten and neglected
March 5, 2019
 

Reader Submitted Poetry: The Gray Platoon

 

The War Suite - 3: The Gray Platoon

She saw them coming over the moor.
pinching her arm to be sure.
She wanted to shout his name,
but it would not matter, it was just the same.
They were not there. They were gone for long,
and yet, she swore she could hear their song.

And if she listened hard enough
she heard his voice, sure enough.
"Please wait for me, my darling Rose!
When I return, I will propose!"
For seconds only, she saw them pass,
Fragile. As if they were made of glass.

The Gray Platoon of the dead, marched by,
and the old old woman wiped a corner of her eye.
They died that day. Bodies never found.
Shattered bones, tossed around...
Sara never got her Patrick back.
He was vaporized in a grenade attack.

/Laura, to those whose lovers never came home. March 5 - 2019

Submitted by Aola Tyrian
 

Reader Submitted Poetry: The Soldier

 
The War Suite - 2: The Soldier

The battle fog hung heavy over the killing field.
 Broken and scattered remains were revealed,
when the wind dispersed the veil,
that shrouded a soldier sitting alone on a pail.
Descending towards the soldier - the angel of death.
No sound was heard, not even a breath.

The angel landed, folding her wings,
and there was a single tone, of a bell that rings.
It was ONE of the sounds the soldier heard.
The other was a song of a joyful bird.
Said the soldier to the angel:
Take me! I am ready.

Said the angel: You have done what you could.
You did your duty, when others fell, you stood.
Come with me Soldier, now it is your turn.
No more sorrows. No pain. No burn.
I take you to the eternal rest.
You died a soldier, and your soldier soul is blessed.

/Laura, March 3, 2019. To the ones who fell in battle.

Submitted by Aola Tyrian
 

Reader Submitted Poetry: Be Ready When The Call Comes

 
The War Suite: 1: Be Ready When The Call Comes

Be ready when the call comes!
Be ready! Be ready!
Be ready when you hear the drums!
Hold the mare steady!

Sit up, ride with us, to the task ahead,
the task that you fear and dread -
Nothing else can curl your soul,
more than this, our task and goal.

Hold your head up, be proud,
sing with a voice that is clear and loud!
You will sweep fear away.
Not even demons will dare to stay.

The path ahead, is one direction.
There is no shield and no protection.
Be ready, hold your head up high.
This is the day, when you fall and die.

/Laura March 4 -2019 for the War Pavillion

Submitted by by Aola Tyrian (Ratatosk Independent)