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I wear the poppy
to celebrate
100 years
since
WW1
Manda Clement Jul 2014
We did not come here on the orders of others
We came freely, our own choice, blown by the soft winds
scattered o'er many a mile
Landed upon Flanders Fields and rested a while

Then death came, disturbed the earth
Destruction hit the ground in which we slept so quietly
Awoke us from our slumber sweet
To witness tragedies and defeat

Now we are risen
and in our place beneath lie men and boys of courage, strong and true
Who fought valiantly but now lay slain
Our gentle roots entwine around their bodies that remain

Each dawn we wake for them and face the summer sun
At night our gaze doth meet moon
We stand tall and proud and dip our heads
And honour them that lie beneath with our petals red
Another WW1 inspired poem. Poppy seeds can lay dormant for many years before flowering. This is what happened on the battlefields of ww1. The earth was disturbed with all the shelling and death and destruction and released the seeds that had been laying dormant. How beautiful yet so sad.
Manda Clement Jun 2014
Fight, fight against the night
Race to the dawn
Far from home are we in this our billet damp and dark
Band of brothers, All for one, One for all
This will not be my end, you'll see.
Nor theirs, brave friends, strong and true
We rage once more against the enemy

Fight, fight against the night
The skies above scream with such thunderous voice
For us to go to fate unknown
No! No!
I will not fall, for once again dawns light I'll see
A flicker of the suns golden rays
Will save me from this hell, this purgatory            

Fight, fight against the night
My ears crave a kind whisper
My lips long for the gentle kiss of home
My hands to once again touch the door
And enter to warm embraces
And love
Ah love, I miss this most of all
Desperately clinging to memories of brighter days
Hoping, endlessly for peace to fall

Fight, fight against the night
My comrades with me,
Now my kin, together to the end
Spirits high we smile through adversity
We have no want to show our sorrow
For we are feeling, aching, longing as one
Duplicated in our grief and its severity

Fight, fight against the night
My hands they shake through cold and fear
Both bite through every layer I have
Tonight again we fight
For freedom, Fight for what we left behind
For loved ones waiting, praying, wishing
To see us back on England's shore
For we are men no more than that
But in our strength we will defeat
What lies beyond the barbs we see
Through mist and smoke
On, on to meet our destiny.
I wrote this poem after reading a wonderful book by Julia Lee Dean called And I Shall Be Healed. It was such a beautiful book. I am hoping to write more on the subject of WW1 .
Forgotten Dreams Jun 2014
It's funny how people forget,
That underneath those white stones
There are people...
Young men.
Men that hadn't even started living.
It's not just a name on a pretty white stone,
Covered in roses and poppies,
That hide what lies beneath.
Those are men who stood up with real courage,
Not like what you read in books,
But real courage.
They knew the risks...or sometimes didn't...
But they still stood.
Unlike you and I who just complain,
Those men fought for our future...
So no my friend it's not just a pretty white stone,
They are the real Heros
Spent the last four days touring the battlefields in Normandy and this is just one of the poems I came up with whilst there. All feedback is highly welcomed :]
Manda Clement Jun 2014
I must try to be strong now, my boy he is away
To fight for king and country, his boat sails this very day

To far off shores and places, of which I do not know
My heart it bursts with pride  but I am scared to see him go

I do not cry as he departs but smile with aching dread
As my boy, he marches strong and true to face what lies ahead

He will be be back here soon I feel, it will not last too long
But I will miss him every day and night that he is gone

I'll  look up to the heavens, and before the setting of each sun
I'll pray my boy comes back to me, and the war it will be won


From a Father
Another inspired by the beautiful music of Classic FM and my interest in WW1 in this the 100th year of the beginning of.
Manda Clement Jun 2014
Mother do not mourn me for I am not dead
I am well enough in this hospital bed

My leg it is gone in a Flanders field it lies
but some gave much more, paid a far greater price

My comrades lost, never to return
to England's shores for which they all yearned

I just want to see you Mother, again
and let you hold me, erase all the pain

So do not fret Mother, for me please be strong
till I’m home again Mother, where I belong

Your loving son
Listening to a wonderful piece of music on Classic FM,  I was inspired to write this WW1 poem.
I hope it moves some of you. :)
Emily Pidduck Apr 2014
Remember Jerry 'cross the street?
He never said much
But I've placed my life in his hands
Time and time again
He's no longer a boy, Ma
But I don't know how to say
He'll never be a man

And Thomas, who stayed with us last summer
He was part of my squad
Was as straight-laced as ever
But we were knee-deep in wickedness
I hope he met God

And Andy was my partner
Always making me feel small
So I had a man's resentment for him
But he was truly very kind
Putting my safety first
Because he left me behind
to re-wrap my bandages
to stop my stump from bleeding, right?
Oh, and we fought
see, my pride was hurt
I was no pantywaist, I still had a leg
But he just laughed, said he'd come back
so, I've been lying in bed alert
'cause I'm still waitin' for that
man lying face-down in the dirt

But Ma, I'm coming back to Canada
And I only want you cryin' happy tears
But know that I won't visit our little town
Not for a long, long while
And maybe never our street
Not that home-road of the twelve ambitious young men
and little Peter, sneaking into the bustle
While only fifteen

Mother, please believe me
I love Newfoundland
But I'm heading over
to Alberta
So try to pretend I'm fully gone as well

Please don't tell ~
the only one to survive the shell
was your boy
who's gone through hell

I hope the rest were sent to heaven.
For the Newfoundland families, where entire streets would have no sons because each was taken and left in the battlegrounds.

— The End —