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I'm on my way to luncheon.
It's only down the hall.
But at journeys end the shortest way
Seems the longest road of all.

It's most peculiar.  These old walls
Were decorated plain.
But the fog dissolves to a distant shore,
As an Emerald Calls my name.

I've journeyed through the decades
Where I've heard the Church bells peel,
From the beachhead of June '44
To The factory gates in Theale.

I grew a garden proud and fair,
With a weeping willow tree.
Where my family played in its summer shade,
It still remembers me.

My trips to Ross have long since stopped,
But the earth salutes them still;
With the ghost of a car, on the shortcut
Down the side of Birdlip Hill.

My travelling days are now long gone,
But my family still recall,
That a ship came back from Guernsey
With contraband alcohol

I don't know how they'll judge me,
When my final furlong's run
But an echoing stranger’s voice talks
Of a gentle Gentleman.

I was a handsome charmer, now
I've supped time's cruel pill.
But that glint in my eye, as you pass me by
Is shining from me still.

I learned it from my father,
Snooker was my game
Now friends have all gone home
I’m tired; I've played my final frame.

I'm on my way to luncheon.
A familiar smell wafts by,
The scent of overcooked
Roast beef, the tang of apple pie.

I'm on my way to luncheon,
I drop my frame and fall.
I hear the siren whisper
Of a distant dancer's call.

I'll leave you all in peace now,
But I don't want any tears,
And I don't want any fuss now,
When you toast my passing years.
In Memory of Ben William Warner who would have been 100 on the day of posting
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2021
A no-man's land,
ablaze in scarlet

A no-man's land,
the blood and the bones of men

The more who died,
the more they thrived

A no-man's land,
flowered along the banks
from which the dead drank,
to forget their former existence,
when they were singing
in the lulls

A no-man's land,
offering a touch
of Heaven in Hell

Svetoslav Nov 2021
The only boy in the family got drafted into the army. He saw that the journey away from home might be his last. "Mother, please take this rose. I will come back once it has withered," the young man said to his mother as he wiped the tear on her cheek. He went down the road looking at the sky. The rose never withered, and the boy never returned. His ashes were scattered in the winds by the explosion that devastated his journey. His name got engraved on a stone, and that is what's left of him. One time he prayed to return and two times he perished. One time he was posthumously awarded and two times he was remembered.
Memorial to the people that gave their lives for their cause.
They headed to the battlefield with enormous courage,
fought for what they believe in
and caught the prize of remembrance and honor.
Even though they wanted to live happily with their families.

Many children were left without their dads
and many grandchildren had no grandfathers there to love and play with.
All of this was because of the desire to conquer
and wishes for fortune of some people.

Here this stone will remain
with the names of the fallen heroes for eternity.
For their families to remember and what they could have had
if it wasn't for the mindless people and their blade of destiny.
The flowers we put show that their sacrifice wasn't in vain.
Left To Rot Nov 2021
Beloved son (of a)...
Sweet mother...lover.
yes, please,
write this on the gravestone
I'll rest under.
You must mention my NPO
for the poor on our streets,
you can still see me adopting stray dogs.
Remember my kind smile
brightened by the sun,
or the flash of a camera,
helping cats stuck on trees.
I'm gonna leave a lot of footage
for my memorial, but you see,
it's important that you remind people
that I, a good guy, have done all these things.
Dave Robertson Oct 2021
Mist chose to linger a while,
though mild air belied October.

Overwhelmed by birdsong,
loud against the abstract silence
of these adolescent sentinels,
stood like arboretum trees
filled with the gravitas
of no age, no age at all.

The year passed as always
with them growing taller,
bolder, a little more aware
of wisdom’s cost
and the one they lost.
Dave Robertson Sep 2021
The fabric usually feels the same
a cloth that remains soft
similar to everyday
until, perhaps, a stain
a rip, a tear

I would love to wear the world
as was before all this
but perhaps my prior idiocy
is why we remember
Ken Pepiton Sep 2021
Some ideas, thoughts I think you
enjoy writing, game ideas for ever,
just in case,

living the dream may become too unreal as
it is only
visible on tv,
really, I am a product of tv,

I know, I can pull up the name
of that monk in vietnam who burned himself alive,
as I watched in his future, just
again, remember, reattach the spirit of the instant
today or just
Ticwhan'duc, died before my eyes in my mind,
it needs be said, this is thought
forming words
not words forming thought
it is a thing.

Not song exactly but similar. Silent. Remembering.
A thought.
Nigdaw Aug 2021
we went out to the desert
my young daughter and I
looking for the pilots
crash site shot down in a dogfight
over this strange landscape

we found the memorial
to their sadly shortened lives
and my daughter who had
collected shells from the beach
to take home
placed them as offerings

tears welled in my eyes
and I thanked them for their
sacrifice and this precious
moment in my life
Dungeness is the UK's only desert. Thank you Boguslaw Mierzwa and  Mieczyskaw Waskiewicz.
Michael R Burch May 2021
I, Too, Sing America (and did so in my diapers!)
by Michael R. Burch

I, too, served my country,
first as a tyke, then as a toddler, later as a rambunctious boy,
growing up on military bases around the world,
making friends only to leave them,
saluting the flag through veils of tears,
time and time again ...

In defense of my country,
I too did my awesome duty –
cursing the Communists,
confronting Them in backyard battles where They slunk around disguised as my sniggling Sisters,
while always demonstrating the immense courage
to start my small life over and over again
whenever Uncle Sam called ...

Building and rebuilding my shattered psyche,
such as it was,
dealing with PTSD (preschool traumatic stress disorder)
without the adornments of medals, ribbons or epaulets,
serving without pay,
following my father’s gruffly barked orders,
however ill-advised ...

A true warrior!

Will you salute me?

I hope my “small” attempt at humor will help readers remember the sacrifices made by the spouses, children and extended families of our valiant servicemen and women. It was not easy making friends only to lose them, time and time again, as I grew up a “military brat” on American air bases around the globe. I really did make sacrifices for my country, while winning every battle against the “communists” in our back yard.

Keywords/Tags: Memorial Day, military brat, service, war, duty, honor, heroism, soldiers, army, navy, air force, marines
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