Remembrance Day thread

[minstral 5,375]

[Jimenez 1]

Posted this quite a few times before but I love it. Such a poignant statement.

The inquisitive mind of a child

Why are they selling poppies, Mummy?

Selling poppies in town today.

The poppies, child, are flowers of love.

For the men who marched away.

But why have they chosen a poppy, Mummy?

Why not a beautiful rose?

Because my child, men fought and died

In the fields where the poppies grow.

But why are the poppies so red, Mummy?

Why are the poppies so red?

Red is the colour of blood, my child.

The blood that our soldiers shed.

The heart of the poppy is black, Mummy.

Why does it have to be black?

Black, my child, is the symbol of grief.

For the men who never came back.

But why, Mummy are you crying so?

Your tears are giving you pain.

My tears are my fears for you my child.

For the world is forgetting again.

[MosesMcNeil 1,664]

God bless them - all who gave their very lives to protect us, serve us and keep us free.

Eternally grateful :unionflag:

[bashfulblueorange 21]

[disgruntled_bear 157]

:unionflag:

[BeerHunter 0]

God Bless the thousands who died for our freedom. Lest We Forget.

[BlueSuedeSambas 56,378]

:unionflag:

[Tam3r0wn 12]

:unionflag:

[Wullie! 8]

:unionflag:

[bluepeter 5,627]

Posted this quite a few times before but I love it. Such a poignant statement.

The inquisitive mind of a child

Why are they selling poppies, Mummy?

Selling poppies in town today.

The poppies, child, are flowers of love.

For the men who marched away.

But why have they chosen a poppy, Mummy?

Why not a beautiful rose?

Because my child, men fought and died

In the fields where the poppies grow.

But why are the poppies so red, Mummy?

Why are the poppies so red?

Red is the colour of blood, my child.

The blood that our soldiers shed.

The heart of the poppy is black, Mummy.

Why does it have to be black?

Black, my child, is the symbol of grief.

For the men who never came back.

But why, Mummy are you crying so?

Your tears are giving you pain.

My tears are my fears for you my child.

For the world is forgetting again.

I've read that before when you've posted it, and it brings a tear to my eye every time.

:unionflag:

[scottrfcuk 3]

brilliant poems. never forgotten :unionflag:

[strar8 55]

:unionflag: awesome poems

[Frankie 505]

I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,

Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love;

The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,

That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best;

The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,

The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

We will remember them.

[BLUEDIGNITY 34,078]

Cover them over with beautiful flowers,

Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours,

Lying so silent by night and by day

Sleeping the years of their manhood away.

Give them the meed they have won in the past;

Give them the honors their future forcast;

Give them the chaplets they won in the strife;

Give them the laurels they lost with their life.

~Will Carleton

Absent Friends !

[Blue Stars Bearette 1]

in honour of all the brave soldiers...never forgotten

~~By Major John McCrae, May 1915.~~

The verses were apparently sent anonymously to the English magazine, Punch, which published them under the title, In Flanders’ Fields. Colonel McCrae died while on active duty in May 1918. On the eve of his death he allegedly said to his doctor, Tell them this. If ye break the faith with us who die we shall not sleep.

IN FLANDERS FIELDS.

In Flanders field the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

[adam2102 662]

i have been fortunate enough to see where my great grandad fought and showed his patriotism for his country. all in all he won 3 medals during his service and he was lucky enough to come back alive. however, he never spoke one word of his traumatic experiences.

thanks to all the servicemen, never forgotten

[bombaybadboy08 15,660]

:unionflag: Lest We Forget

[*Manticore* 1,893]

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.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est

Pro patria mori.

[J_RFC87 762]

Fantastic thread, great poems so far

Lest we forget, wear your poppy with pride :unionflag:

[*Manticore* 1,893]

Fantastic thread, great poems so far

Lest we forget, wear your poppy with pride :unionflag:

Here's a muddleboard poem:

With a four leaf clover on my breast

And the Green and White upon my chest

No blood stained poppy on my hoops

So fuck John Reid and fuck his troops.

[minstral 5,375]

Fantastic thread, great poems so far

Lest we forget, wear your poppy with pride :unionflag:

Here's a muddleboard poem:

With a four leaf clover on my breast

And the Green and White upon my chest

No blood stained poppy on my hoops

So fuck John Reid and fuck his troops.

my father was right about them, he said celtic as a club were scum.

[BeerHunter 0]

Fuck them Scum that they are. Let's be having some more quality poems please.

[edranger 0]

For all of them lest we forget

The Spirit

When there ain't no gal to kiss you,

And the postman seems to miss you,

And the fags have skipped an issue,

Carry on.

When ye've got an empty belly,

And the bulley's rotten smelly,

And you're shivering like a jelly,

Carry on.

When the Boche has done your chum in,

And the sergeant's done the rum in,

And there ain't no rations comin',

Carry on.

When the world is red and reeking,

And the shrapnel shells are shrieking,

And your blood is slowly leaking,

Carry on.

When the broken battered trenches,

Are like the bloody butchers' benches,

And the air is thick with stenches,

Carry on.

Carry on,

Though your pals are pale and wan,

And the hope of life is gone,

Carry on.

For to do more than you can,

Is to be a British man,

Not a rotten 'also ran,'

Carry on..

'Woodbine Willy'

[minstral 5,375]

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousands winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there. I did not die.

IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO GAVE ALL

[edranger 0]

No Man's Land

No Man's Land is an eerie sight

At early dawn in the pale gray light.

Never a house and never a hedge

In No Man's Land from edge to edge,

And never a living soul walks there

To taste the fresh of the morning air; -

Only some lumps of rotting clay,

That were friends or foemen yesterday.

What are the bounds of No Man's Land?

You can see them clearly on either hand,

A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun,

Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run

From the eastern hills to the western sea,

Through field or forest o'er river and lea;

No man may pass them, but aim you well

And Death rides across on the bullet or shell.

But No Man's Land is a goblin sight

When patrols crawl over at dead o' night;

Boche or British, Belgian or French,

You dice with death when you cross the trench.

When the "rapid," like fireflies in the dark,

Flits down the parapet spark by spark,

And you drop for cover to keep your head

With your face on the breast of the four months' dead.

The man who ranges in No Man's Land

Is dogged by the shadows on either hand

When the star-shell's flare, as it bursts o'er head,

Scares the gray rats that feed on the dead,

And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch

May answer the click of your safety-catch,

For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand,

Is hunting for blood in No Man's Land.