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Simon Clark Aug 2012
Remember,
Play on bugler,
Remember,
Play on bugler,
Play on.

Coffin,
Swathed in the Union Jack,
And that haunting, heartbreaking tune,
That echoed once at break of moon,
The Last Post is played.

Coffin,
Swathed in the Union Jack,
And that eerie, elegant song,
Now echoes that things have gone wrong,
The Last Post is played.

Remember,
Play on bugler,
Remember,
Play on bugler,
Play on.
written in 2009
No one calls me by name anymore
I'm the Poppy Man to most
At least that's how most folks know me

I've been selling poppies for the legion
Since 1946
Let's see...yep...it was 46
Went over in 43 at 17 years of age
Home in 45, and yep...46
Same spot too.
There's been two owners here at Danny's. Funny thing though....
neither was called Danny. Turns out Danny was the brother of the original owner, got shot down over Germany, so they named the place after him.
I guess that's why they let me come here and sell poppies every year.

Good thing.
Now, I'm getting up there, they let me sit inside the door. Have a nice little table for myself, and they keep my cup full.
I start selling November 1st, at precisely 11 o'clock. That's just the way it should be....11 o'clock.

Over the years, I've put up with wind, rain, snow and I've always held my post. Lost a few poppies in the wind one time, and the funny thing was...people came and paid me for them afterwards. Told me they found them blowing up the street, figured they were mine. Funny things that people do.

I'll tell you 'bout the name The Poppy Man. It started in 1952. A young mother and her daughter were inside having lunch, and I heard the daughter going on about saving change for the Poppy Man. I guess, I was the Poppy Man.
One of the waitresses put a sign up by the register saying "don't forget to save your change for The Poppy Man"....and it's kinda stuck.
That little girl came back every day with her mother, dropped her pennies in and saluted. You know the way kids do...hand open and all. I guess I owe the name to her.
I've collected lots of memories over the years, most of which I can only smile about now. If I start talking about them, I'd just tear up and you wouldn't get the whole story...so, I'll keep them to myself.
I'm a bit of a celebrity in these parts I guess.
Teachers bring their classes to me, every year to get their poppies. They always send me nice letters too, saying thanks Poppy Man. Cute little drawings, and big printing. Nowadays, I appreciate the big printing more and more.
Over the years, I've collected pennies, dimes, nickels, the usual suspects, bus tickets, candy wrappers, subway tokens, whatever someone had in their pocket at the time. I've seen it all in my tin.
The last few years, I guess since about 1997 or so, the cadets send someone down to stand with me for a while during my stint here.
Good kids mostly, dedicated, and with the same determined look I think we all had back in 43 when I went over.
Most of us didn't make it back, I'm one of the lucky ones. Some who did, never came back right if you know what I mean. But, that's all I'm gonna say about that.
There's only 5 of us left now from the old regiment. I can still see their faces when I shut my eyes....young, virile, strong. I miss them all.
I guess that's why I do it. Sell the poppies every year. It's for them. And for the new kids. New soldiers, new wars, it never changes in that way...just a different style of fighting.
Every now and then though, you know I hear that old bugler tuning up his bugle, and I think "not yet...I'm not ready to have The Last Post played for me"...."not yet".
So, that's about it for me, The Poppy Man....everyone knows me, and I'm easy to find ....just head to Danny's, I'll be at the table at the front.
Don't forget now....save your change for the poppy man.
Hal Loyd Denton Oct 2012
Men fight great battles in the depths of the sea but when there toil and terror is at end they return to
The harbor that is woman no other creature is so endowed or gifted in the specific her voice soothes
Her touch turns back great emotional waves her very breath is able to untangle sorted knots the
Wayward wind is her ally it carries fragrances that the suspicion is they are other worldly they define
Majesty of power they still the warring that continues in the heart she takes up the place of the lone
Bugler she sweetly blows the call to retreat not of defeat but of honor now release of pent up
Impressions that fasten themselves in gentle souls there are pools of error that other men fall into
That endangers not our country only but their own if they are not opposed another made this
Remarkable image of a woman and called it harboring dreams a **** the color of bluish grey her arms
Across her chest her face turned to her shoulder looking down her hair gripping as it seems to be in a
Tight wind with strips of her hair carried out flaying in the wind as she looks down with intenseness
Vulnerability with determination truly a harbor of rescue but it doesn’t end the scene changes with in
A sea house she is positioned in front of a great window it is night and she with just a soft glowing light
Has a thin white blanket pulled around her as she sets on the floor with her knees pulled up under
Her as she stares into space but observe the eyes they are so large and liquid soulful eyes that speak of
Knowing suffering on personnel level it seems for lifetimes but oh friend approach them you will get lost
In them more of the harbor of woman hood is being reveled to you having passed under sea clouds you
Were adrift in the glowing moonlight your troubles were evident on your face they played the saddest
Dance pathos at every twist and turn but when she catches your glance the wings of healing descends
Two souls desperately out on the fringe hope has been lost in the foreboding wood but now feminine
Mastery through the softness of her nature covers you the enlightened rays of her thoughts will not only
Harbor you but it will instruct and be the freeing that was set forth in creation for that very reason when
Mans strength and power has gone as far as it can then the reserve of the soulful tender spirit will show
You wonders you never be held before can soft words save where might will only move matters father and deeper into conflict yes it can it truly is the hidden current undergirding all relationships the unstoppable undefeatable love of a woman the greatest harbor man can know other than God’s spirit that works the same way and it’s central elements and theme is undying love no greater refuge can be found
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2012
Men fight great battles in the depths of the sea but when there toil and terror is at an end they return to
The harbor that is woman no other creature is so endowed or gifted in the specific her voice soothes
Her touch turns back great emotional waves her very breath is able to untangle sorted knots the
Wayward wind is her ally it carries fragrances that the suspicion is they are other worldly they define
Majesty of power they still the warring that continues in the heart she takes up the place of the lone
Bugler she sweetly blows the call to retreat not of defeat but of honor now release of pent up
Impressions that fasten themselves in gentle souls there are pools of error that other men fall into
That endangers not our country only but their own if they are not opposed another made this
Remarkable image of a woman and called it harboring dreams a **** the color of bluish grey her arms
Across her chest her face turned to her shoulder looking down her hair gripping as it seems to be in a
Tight wind with strips of her hair carried out flaying in the wind as she looks down with intenseness
Vulnerability with determination truly a harbor of rescue but it doesn’t end the scene changes with in
A sea house she is positioned in front of a great window it is night and she with just a soft glowing light
Has a thin white blanket pulled around her as she sets on the floor with her knees pulled up under
Her as she stares into space but observe the eyes they are so large and liquid soulful eyes that speak of
Knowing suffering on personnel level it seems for lifetimes but oh friend approach them you will get lost
In them more of the harbor of woman hood is being reveled to you having passed under sea clouds you
Were adrift in the glowing moonlight your troubles were evident on your face they played the saddest
Dance pathos at every twist and turn but when she catches your glance the wings of healing descends
Two souls desperately out on the fringe hope has been lost in the foreboding wood but now feminine
Mastery through the softness of her nature covers you the enlightened rays of her thoughts will not only
Harbor you but it will instruct and be the freeing that was set forth in creation for that very reason when
Mans strength and power has gone as far as it can then the reserve of the soulful tender spirit will show
You wonders you never be held before can soft words save where might will only move matters father and deeper into conflict yes it can it truly is the hidden current undergirding all relationships the unstoppable undefeatable love of a woman the greatest harbor man can know other than God’s spirit that works the same way and it’s central elements and theme is undying love no greater refuge can be found
r May 2016
Did you see them take the green fields
one by one, now line by line on hills in echelon?

Still, holding ground held holy by their sons;
no longer marching to the smoke and drum.

Where bugler called the day to final rest,
now silence grows like lichen on the stones.

For those who gave their all at our behest,
our memories alone will not atone.

Do you see the fires burning at a distance,
and more hallowed ground broken day by day?

Each new stone laid a fading reminiscence;
each new boquet soon fading into gray.

What better way to honor sacrifice
than to pause and speak their names aloud.

Until the gods of war are pacified;
until our flag no longer serves as shroud.
In memory of those who gave their all.
5/30/2016
And again, lest we forget. 5/29/17
Remember to remember.  27May2019
Remember-5/25/2020
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Night Rider
This is just a trip an excursion if that is alright it will weave in and out of the past the present and the
Imaginary its purpose a ripple in time for each of us a breather a drift time pressure to great and
Bothersome take this temporary exit off the beaten path into the rugged raw world of to whom some
Called savage. The story picks up with a brave mounted on a great paint coloring that is most identifiable
With Native American tribes. The place a large encampment tepees stretch for a mile down this high
Mountain meadow the rider’s duty ride the perimeter of this congress of souls that have made this
There sheltering land for the moment because they follow the dictates of nature its rhythms and
harmony they skillfully read they are at the front of this wave the human instrument that nature
displays her docility her range of emotions show in the lines of this people’s faces. The drawings on
Their ever movable homes tell the stories the time when the great storm came but the deliverance
provided by the great Spirit is depicted nature is their natural guide but it too has a master a benevolent
one then the drawing of the great battle the loss was evident on many tepees horseless rider the burial
altar built high offering this sacrifice of suffering and loss earth is bound in a struggle all who journey
here will shed tears and know sorrow but from agony tortured spring a new generation streams forth
Replenishing and building the future and in only such lovely ones can the separated be truly honored
And preserved. The village banks their fires against the night wind the rider rides on they nestled the
village up to the mountain on the north side to hamper the winds as they continue their endless quest
to dominate and wreck any or all disturbance your job take the advantage when you can the mountain
Not only is beautiful and the pine and lone coyote howling at the sorrowing moon is a well rehearsed in
much rendered paintings. What refreshing when the wind caresses the pine and its aromatic scents
Permeate with thick layers and cloak the sometime over powering affects of people in close quarters.
The west end how beautiful the arroyo what idyllic quarters for our fine mounts with out them we
would be impoverished our food would be in short supply if we had only deer and antelope but with
the horse the mighty Bison serves us with his rich bounty. Sadly this life is gone from the great plains the
mountains and the cliffs and the mesa country sometimes it is strangely carried on the wind I hope you
found it as a refreshing breeze that cleared a little bit of the clutter out of modern life. When heaven’s
Portal opened for Churchill he spoke these words I paraphrase as eternal night beacons I can hear the
Bugler blowing those mournful taps they invade and pass over innumerable army forts and fortresses
in life camp must be broken but take heart know this the same bugler who blows taps will sound revalee
at the eastern gate.
Loraine Fromm Aug 2011
THE SILVER BUGLE

HE CAME FROM OUT OF NOWHERE, IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT
WITH A SILVER BUGLE IN HIS HAND HE STEPPED INTO THE LIGHT
HE STOOD FOR A MOMENT IN SILENCE, THEN IN A VOICE SO DEEP AND CALM
HE SAID "IVE COME TO PLAY FOR MY MATES WHO DIED IN VIETNAM"

SOME HEADS WERE BOWED AND WAITING AS THE BUGLER TOLD HIS TALE
BUT WHAT THEY HEARD WERE THE EERIE STRAINS OF A 'WHITER SHADE OF PALE'
HE PLAYED THE SONGS FROM DAYS GONE BY AND THE BUGLE FOUND ITS HOME
AMONG THE FIELDS OF SORROW WHERE HIS MATES HAD FLOWN

THE SINGLE NOTES UPON THE AIR WERE LIKE AN EPITAPH
AS HE TOOK US ALL THE WAY WITH HIM, BACK INTO THE PAST
HE BLEW THAT BUGLE LIKE A HORN AND THE SOUND WAS PURE AND CLEAN
AS HE PLAYED THE HAUNTING MELODY  'I'LL SEE YOU IN MY DREAMS'

WE COULD HEAR THE GHOSTLY VOICES CALLING IN THE NIGHT
AND SEE THE FLAMES AROUND THEM, IN THE JUNGLE BURNING BRIGHT
BUT MOST OF ALL WE FELT THE PAIN OF THE MAN LEFT TO REMIND
THE WORLD THAT BACK IN VIETNAM HIS MATES WERE LEFT BEHIND

AS THE BUGLER CALLED FOR HIS LAST AND FINAL NOTE
WE COULD HEAR THE ECHO OF A GHOST
AS ANOTHER BUGLE PLAYED 'THE LAST POST'
r Oct 2014
a learning experience
- the detailed
timing and precision

- a certain etiquette
in the rise and fall
of hands and feet

i learned the walk
- mirrored on the toe
of a spit-shined boot

shooting imaginary doves
in white gloves -

the proper fold
of the cloth
- tight and taught
with stars above

the tri-fold - not
a trifling thing we're told

the color of a mother's tears
and grip of a father's grief -
the why in the cry of a child

- sad song of the bugler
on a windswept hill
standing in the detail.

r ~ 10/29/14
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Soulful Migration

Dedicated to all whose names are only spoken from headstones and now flowers is the only representation of their sweet presence that use to be aromatic and change our moods and thoughts with precious regularity now we are left to recall their words from memories grand in a much sadder land

A stream of faces and lives collect in a desert pool man’s measure stands in the stature of those he
Knows life’s heat he assuages from this spring shadowed and cool the best medicine man knows is

Family and friends formidable are the mountains the arid land belongs to no man although Georgia O
Keefe revealed its hidden Burnished glory time is the relentless stalker youth falls before its will surly

The bugler stands at life’s sunset to play taps so life is ran this one thing I know he will play reveille at the

Eastern gate the hair has turned snowy white soon the soul will know freedom we who are left will
Celebrate and speak the truth of your nobility you placed in our soul’s steel and granite enough to defend

A kingdom the majesty of God declared your lives must be or all would be vain life can best be described
As grand theater the elderly are the stars and we are the understudy the divine architect designed the

Physical stage in perfect ascetic severity the symmetry is flawless no angles are hidden from view the
Cost to play on this stage is everything you have or ever hope to have the consequence is eternal the
Low and frivolous are denied any central part

Good by Uncle Floyd aunt Kate
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Final Curtain
This is going to be written from raw emotion beware you might find bits of skin and even specks of
Blood and I might even shout at God he knows all about that He even on occasion repented of what He
Had intended to do you have a friend killed off its not pretty in fact it is messy I’m going to paint a
Picture with words give it structure depth and the rich pathos that it demands first some of those in
Attendance I can’t qualify this but I believe something this important God sends a painter to catch the
Private the sacred facts on the richest canvas and the paint has flashes of brilliance even though the
Colors are somber and dark to the side and the edge we would call it sinister Steve Jobs spoke of it as
Necessary nature a cleaner making ready for the new Victor Hugo called it the great cutting that would
Bring a greater growth and a show that would be stupendous dwarfing the first I suppose showing its
Inferior make up when compared to the future so there he stands the grim reaper first your eyes are
Frozen on the scythe even in the quiet softness it gleams they use to say there is a knife that will cut
Bone well what about a blade so sharp it cuts through flesh separates the soul and leaves no outer
Evidence of its work if that isn’t bad enough then everyone avoids eye contact with Grim what if he
Nodded recognition and gave you a sick smile saying you’re on my soon to do list thankfully there are
Others to observe one man stands with a violin he too is dressed in black he slides the bow slowly
Across the strings the sound it makes gives ultimate pure voice to the occasion sadness intoned by the
Richest quality it is sound but is liquid as the tears in the eyes of those attending then at his side the
Man raises the trumpet later he will blow taps my mind returns to what Winston Churchill said go ahead
Bugler today you will play taps but know I will be waiting for you to play reveille at the eastern gate that
Horn with its powerful soft tunes not only fills the parlor it penetrates all open places and it causes the
Curtin of time to draw back and you view life as it once was the street the housing is crystal clear and we
Are young again Kenny and my sister Evelyn and Willie are shown as they were Kenny had a laid back
Cool that made it nice to be around him sorry my sister put spice into life she was a hell raiser by this
Well you decide can’t and won’t tell you all but she left Don Scarlet cooling his heels while she stole his
Police car and a bouncer at the club Avalon had a hot ride home or didn’t he messed with her so she set
His car on fire then when she left this world her car hit the pole in Rosemond knocking all the power out
For over an hour the roughest for me was the funeral she had them play country music no not all my
Rowdy friends but a little Jones it had a defiant tone is all I know then Willie boy he was the leader of
Our street I respected and loved him then and still do they are a dying breed as is evidenced by the cold
Stones that mark there resting place this brings to mind as these days are in view back then you didn’t
Have the mind set of setting goals and especially contemplating future death but for the life of me I
Never once went to play at Price cemetery or at mound or the East we should have collectively pooled
Our money bought Black Desert as a resting place well for those that had a rebel spirit any way that is
The trouble they wouldn’t let the town grow and then you have political correctness and the big duffer
Environmental sensitivity took a way Black Desert the slack pile oh the wind is blowing the ash where
Were they when you ran out side at the housing to get the fresh snow to make snow ice cream to late
All Those chimneys spewing coal soot the snow was lightly back all you did was scrape off the top grab
Some and you were good to go the artist pulls you back in the only lights are over the coffin a lone man
Stands you can see he is lowering the lid a whisper goes out by Kenny outside the long black limo you
Want to say listen friend you have a youth of the fifties and a man from the sixties back there why don’t
You speed up at one of the corners he used to be a bad hot rod fool give honor where honor is do so
Grim turns to go everyone watching the direction he takes funny they all have some where to go in the
Opposite direction the painter continues to put finishing touches on this masterpiece that catches the
Essence of the life that has ended a window a door in the painting stands ajar the final parting is left for
You to process the life at the starting point that you knew up to its conclusion the musicians place their
Instruments back in the cases briefly they give a half hearted smile to one another but the one with the
Trumpet gives a few powerful blasts as if to put a powerful vibrant period at the fitting end of the story I
fell terribly short that is understandable Kenny told the story by his life thanks for being part of all our
lives Kenny
Stephen Parker Jul 2012
Pulsating honor doth corroded hearts impound
A blustery breeze echoes cries from each, preceding battleground
A recurring, eager parade of reporters, gawkers freely roam distant mound
Below, fatigued, tidy mass of steeled infantry; to death's throes bound
Neighing horses conditioned to mayhem the pageantry doth confound
On opposite ridges, mounted turrets prepared hell's fury to expound
On signal, a synchronized, concussive chorus doth its dark melody propound
Scraps of metal shards initiate; commencing another, toilsome round
After lengthy barrage, wits collected a more lethal volley to stound
Familiar, urgent order to charge christens hallowed ground
With youthful ardor a wide-eyed bugler doth the bridled expanse unbound
Shrieking rancor from recoiling rifles; a familiar anthem doth resound
Recurring cacophonous medley, weathered nerves drowned
Once more, a mass of flesh surges into the abyss with mortal hopes crowned
Anon, shattered limbs; gory wounds misery's cache compound
r May 2018
Did you see them take the green fields
one by one, now line by line on hills in echelon?

Still, holding ground held holy by their sons;
no longer marching to the smoke and drum.

Where bugler called the day to final rest,
now silence grows like lichen on the stones.

For those who gave their all at our behest,
our memories alone will not atone.

Do you see the fires burning at a distance,
and more hallowed ground broken day by day?

Each new stone laid a fading reminiscence;
each new bouquet soon fading into gray.

What better way to honor sacrifice
than to pause and speak their names aloud.

Until the gods of war are pacified;
until our flag no longer serves as shroud.
In memory of those who gave their all: 5/30/2016

And again, lest we forget: 5/29/2017

Memorial Day: 5/28/2018-In Memory of Wilfred Owen 18 March 1893 - 4 November 1918
Hal Loyd Denton Sep 2012
Sorry your flowers are late

I purchased them each one and the color was representing the many individual friends a delightful blue
Iris was no other than S.P. when dark shadows gather as they sometimes do she is the bluing of
Beautiful contrast this rich blue spreads from point of origin to the eye engulfing all visible ranges a
Small but great blue lifts the very shadows up until the sun vanquishes them by golden light then the red
Hues embolden of richness many times it is spent but never squandered and its riches never diminish or
Disappear in friendships ever rewarding garment he endures R.P. Violet this friend this light was
Adorned in grave clothes to join her loved ones of all generations but her influence warmth and the
Kindness that cannot die lingers it wafts across fields it passes through airy open window you smile
Unknowingly because she is by your side and not ever more so than your birthday precious one her
Initials are N.V. yellow so rich it blushes the wind this shear fabric so light it waves as pure silk you were
Given this gift early in life its folds hold so much treasured moments grasses trees houses playful side
Walks a stream of memories that bind you in the same vase others have beheld your combined beauty
Of thought and action I.M… The green of a soldier is enjoined by the mist it drifts it has patterns truth
And faith walks within this creature that has stature her face calls the night bugler all is dispensed
Within her voice is the kindest authority to all duty is understood in its deepest meaning G.H.E. then we
Come to multicolored piece of finest art true this grandness walks by your side and more so in your
Heart vestures sown with silver in glowing gold if an ever the hair turn to silver the cold black of youth
Will tower into all sunsets and grand children will always bring rays of joy and laughter happy belated
birthday Roberta
Kurt Philip Behm Dec 2016
The rain stopped,
  the sun was gone

Mercy was in
  short supply

Smoke hung over
  the trenches

A bugler in the mud
  with his cry

Bodies were being
  carted off

New songs were written
  to the dead

Just another day in
  World War 1

That started and ended
  in dread

Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2014:  
Opening page to my new novel, 'Death From The Sky.'
spysgrandson Dec 2013
he howled about the best minds of his generation  
being lost, but I am not sure they were ever found  
though I once lapped up his words like a cat with the sweet cream  
or a ravenous dog licking the bottom of his bowl
after a cold wet fast--yep, a dog, like that
and who ever called us the dogs of war?
canines don’t know **** about war: the waiting,
the planning, the measuring, the murdering  
they only know fear and what it tastes like to win
what it sounds like to lose, but they didn’t choose  
they didn’t have a moral dilemma when fur and teeth and flesh
became a hot blur a la ****** cur, we,
with our “best minds” he thought were festering
were duped  only by ourselves, by our desire to believe
the simple sweet lies rather than the shredding shedding truth  
who could we blame? Walter Cronkite? Norman Mailer?
John Wayne, Nixon or Peter Pan?
yes, he howled; his howling wasn’t that
of the wolf at the moon, revealing an eternal hunger for a full belly  
but a desperate audible gasp for one honest line, one
affluent aphorism before he slipped into the abyss
I won’t give it to him, because I was one of the dogs of war
not pretending to be wolf like he, not lamenting the loss
of great minds, whatever the **** those are  
I was washing the blood from my paws and snout
trying to forget it came from some mother’s son  
trying to silence the screaming of the other pups
when they fell prey to my razor sharp teeth  
given to me by the state, honed to perfection
not by a washing of my brain, but a heart that lusted for the ****  
long before I saluted my first flag, long before I swelled  
with drunken pride at the bugler’s song, or marched
in cadence with the deadly drums,
he howled, but I didn’t hear an imploring sound
when they lowered me into the godforsaken ground
r Jun 2014
Baseball was my passion
that year when the world
still seemed like a safe place
to hang my hat.  Dad was
buying horses left and right
while Mom shook her head
and kept her silence knowing
this was just another one of
his wild-*** hairs that seemed
to get a little crazier each year.
Credence Clearwater Revival
was hot and singing songs
about rain on the radio.  
School was out and I would
go over to the creek to swim
after I finished whatever chores
Mom had me doing those days.
Sometimes I would lie on the
Devil's Bed rock next to the
little falls where the biggest
trout liked to feed and listen
to the bugler from the Army
burial detail playing taps for
that days funeral. I wondered
what it would feel like to be
the son of the soldier getting
buried up on the hill having
to wear a suit and not cry. It
always gave me a lump in my
throat. My brother said it was
a shame and Johnson should
be shot instead. I always agreed.
We all watched the nightly news
together after supper and before
Hogan's Heroes came on.  The VC
were handing it to our guys in
a place called Hue and Mom cried
when a South Vietnamese officer
pulled out a pistol and BANG
shot that dude in the head
right there in front of god, me,
Mom and everybody. I went to
bed that night and  decided that I
wasn't going to pray any more.
We lost every game for the rest
of the season and I didn't care.
I've never forgiven that officer
for shooting that guy dressed
in black right in front of me,
god, my Mom and everybody.

r ~ 6/3/14
\•/\
   |    Who'll stop the rain...
  / \
Angela Okoduwa Jan 2017
An isolated farm house
In the outskirt of town.
At the strike of 3a.m
Someone came knocking.
With a lamp at hand
Old Mrs. Peterson descended the Stairs Into her quaint living room,
To the door she went.

"Knock knock" it came again
Puzzled, at the grandfather clock
She glanced.
"Knock knock" again it came.
In trepidation, she approached the door.
Key turned, doorchain detached,
Gingerly, she opens the door
There was no one. No one!

Few seconds later, she was startled
By the sounds of hooves
Thumping up her stairs,
And on the wall
Was the eerie shadow of
A humanoid creature
With ram horns and hooves.

     I had better call the sheriff
       *She mutters in displeasure

     **I have a **** bugler dressed in a crazy costume in my house
Silence Screamz Jan 2017
The funeral for this decorated soldier was a somber one.

A mother, dressed in all black, sat there with painful tears streaming down her reddened cheek and a father sat beside her in disbelief, his left arm laid across her shoulders, as he tried to comfort her.

A lost comrade taken by an enemy's bullet.

A lost brother taken by an enemy's bullet.

Our lost son taken by an enemy's bullet.

My heart had stopped briefly from each of the twenty one shots that rang out in the distance. Each shot danced echoes off my eardrums and the painful ache in my heart never seamed to stop.

His fellow comrades stood watch over his flag draped casket. Honoring him will a sharp, military salute just as Taps sounded from the bugler's horn.

The ripples of each note that was played sparked memories in my head of yesterday years and days gone.

The date was October 28, 1989. Our bundle of joy was born. It was 2:30 in the afternoon and the sun began to shine.

We became parents.

Time would never stop though.  Growing faster than the weeds in our own front yard. We learned to cherish each passing second and moment.

Through the terrible twos to the teenage years and finally out of the house... wow what happened?

We became older parents.

Then it changed. A proud moment. But a changing moment none the less.

Our son raised his right hand and he swore to defend the country against all enemies, foreign and domestic.  

His unit got deployed to a foreign country, shortly there after and we were still extremely proud.

On one chilly October, Saturday afternoon, two weeks before his 25th birthday, our lives would be  changed by one knock on our door. The dull sound of the rapping on our door is forever engraved into my head.

We knew what it meant and we both fell to our knees and wept.

The military chaplain spoke to us in a most peaceful tone, the following words, "On behalf of a grateful nation, I am sorry to inform you that your son was killed in action by an enemy's bullet"

The air became still and calm laid over us all.

At that  moment his casket was lowered into the ground and a folded flag was placed in our trembling hands.

Through the grayish clouds, one steady beam of sunlight came to rest on top of that folded flag and the time read 2:30 in the afternoon.
I was military honor guard my last three years in the military and those moments are forever embedded inside of me
~for Cathy Leff, curator~


no bugler blaring ‘pay attention’ to me,
no emergent bad news bearish telephone cell call of an absurd tonal,
no alarm clock retaliating agin a humans daily defying double-slap,
no young children sneaking in, with a guard dog in accompaniment,
   joy-ending a deep parental sleep from the exhaustion they induced

but as if shot, the humans burst into alertness,
from prone to moan, they instantly revert, becoming **** Erectus,
gasping from shock troop dreams, and a chest-pounding message,
a whisper growing, an ever increasing crescendo, an unnatural law,

an unsullied foot-stomping battle cry that self-terrorizes, undeniable:

write me, your poem, write me now!

ah, it must be 5:00 am...
JRC Jan 2017
Intro
Words in play without meter or rhyme
Is poetry without respect for sounds or time
Like a military bugler playing his morning song
But jazzing it up, which for the morning sounds wrong.

1
Poems short of prose serve to play the edge
In which the abstract thought can its verses wedge
Poetry's an art - that can't be denied
But when ripped apart, leaves readers in divide.
On one hand we have free verse with all its liberties
Its flows, like ocean waves, give in to subtleties
The other hand holds form where order and beauty lie
Its sound there calms the mind and guides the reading eye.
Well, how can art transcend if it's to be confined?
Ask the poor man painting, what keeps his strokes refined.
Ask him what is richer: materials or mind-
How he affords true art: in color or design.
And could he paint with passion if he were also blind?
To what limit does art flow, that could liberty unwind??

2
If sentences were laid and in stanzas fitted to form,
The simplest thought now sparks, the layman poet is norm -
-A hand that holds a pen.. its wondrous poem adored
Ha! That relic sonnet lost 'cause the modern reader's bored.
The talentless recites: his poetry: my rage..
Where then is the poem, in the words or on the page?
I'll credit that the form of poetry can change:
Like ocean waves on shores where waters rearrange
And subtleties lay washed whence art can have a fad
And for a moment last despite what I think bad.
Words without art, conveyed for art-less brains
The verse that freely speaks as the older school disdains..

3
But rhyming, timing schemes of ancient preference
What novelty they yield in these times of rhyme suspense....
Just the thought of it and one can hear a beaten drum,
A percussive, tired sound for ears tired and numb
They're artifacts of effort that the ancients then called art
Confined to rhyme and metered verse, the caged poems impart-
Shakespeare, Wilmot, Behn, these are but forgotten names
A pantheon of "poets" whose works of words too tame
Did not taste the "modernness" that free verse giveth to thee...
The ghosts of poems past singing their songs but never free.
How lucky for us rebel writers, we laugh at silly rules!
Rule-less, ruthless poems we write with rhyme nor time as tools!
I prefer traditional metered and rhyming poetry. I like the challenge of trying to write it.
Terry Collett Feb 2014
Bring him home
don't leave him

out in the cold
wrap him warm

clothe him
in his favourite

Man U
tee shirt

and blue
creased jeans

bring our son home
bring him back

from the far lands
the places

of failure
and disappointments

and flat lining heart
bring him

back home
let the bugler play

let him play alone
to reach

our broken hearts
and stir

our tired minds
lift up the blinds

let in the sun
let it warm

his cold hands
and ease

the closed lids
of his eyes

bring him back
bring back

our son
let him

be with us
once more

back
from the dark place

home
from the distant land

bring him home
as fast as you can

bring back our son
and special man.
John F McCullagh Feb 2013
Taps

The smell of cordite fades
as the day declines to dusk.
the reek of iron rises
From brave men who'll soon be dust.

A solitary bugler,
Plays a mournful song;
Serenades the fallen
Two short notes, then one long.

The sinking Sun is fiery red,
Like Mars, the god of war.
The honored dead?
Not one of them
Recalls what they died for.
r May 2019
Did you see them take the green fields
one by one, now line by line on hills in echelon?

Still, holding ground held holy by their sons;
no longer marching to the smoke and drum.

Where bugler called the day to final rest,
now silence grows like lichen on the stones.

For those who gave their all at our behest,
our memories alone will not atone.

Do you see the fires burning at a distance,
and more hallowed ground broken day by day?

Each new stone laid a fading reminiscence;
each new boquet soon fading into gray.

What better way to honor sacrifice
than to pause and speak their names aloud.

Until the gods of war are pacified;
until our flag no longer serves as shroud.
In memory of those who gave their all.
5/30/2016
And again, lest we forget. 5/29/17
Remember to remember. 5/27/19
I mean
fudge 'tis
our fight
to desire
this delight
in my
house it
sit tight
there as
a bullfight
that contrite
a beast
so light  
that lament
may die
this bugler's
call kent
Dave Robertson Nov 2021
With leaves fireworking
their last defiant blaze
against grey skies and the mud,
once again I forget to remember

the muted tannoy announces silence
for customers and staff
and the surreal descends
among the tins of peas and carrots

where the absence of the normal clatter
suddenly roars, catches in my throat,
the plaintive, Sally Army bugler
scoring the sadness in these aisles,
these isles

with two minutes passed,
the cacophony of the tide
of plant based diets
and too early Stollen returns
to wash over, to forget
My first mutant friend clean his right hand bugler, to sail the massif of thousands of mountains like thousands of sheets to be pasted into the largest history huge book. The one on the left, is like palm Nosferaticus bone, moving the curtain of his prodigious window of a freeze morning, my good friend wistfully, his hand trembling before taking his belongings before leaving ... :, feel as if it were something as the head of zen in an Islamic republication would be a zen  serious little temperance that preys with braveness the editor slumbering in his bed -. warrior earth, a stripling warrior , who lost his gang which still hung in trees as if they were over a hundred thousand crows on all the trees near the horcondising.


In the midst of them, trying to finish my last project of life and spirit, he was in the financial phase, trying to finish points balance, like the mesh to receive my body in freefall after traveling so far trying to measure the radius of the universe personally.,., but my comrades forgot the fruits of measurement.

When I speak of them I speak of their contracted forms, their hands clear arteries and hydrogenated hands, green as the strain of a vineyard in hectares of saturn energies. When one day I thought naively go up there to the Saturnian vintage

For my ship that looked like a scorpion stings had stoked hydrogen, of forces that were, forces were ...

My Cosmonaut scorpion the right hand, I said to rescind my project my ramadanic project, my upheavel voyage prior saturn born again infected with stars collided in her autopsied heart center.

beam having me horcondisis, beam receive me then bathe your transacted valoric object, I have to go through the orthogonal morning, then be under the sun with his best face before deal thousand legions of spiritualistic forms of adhering spirits in my vitrubio’s arms, equations mastics, typical of souls migrating souls of spears never embraced by some vegetarian cell bodies.

We are at home horcondisis appear hordes armed licking contrails snails bees in their hive little more than their laborious phases snail suicides honeycomb.

He went up its slopes, thousands of hidrogens green lights, souls light years pouring their breaths through the peaks of horcondising, where misery is empire gold empire abundance of thousands of millions of prayers sent millions of years by lovers wise to be heard by the mountains and not the hommo sapiens, is mucus in the handkerchief northern gambler ..

Since crying infant, infant biological matter and not moved, the hommo sapiens rages as a detergent drapeability torn flood of destruction.

Horcondising is the Olympic platform scene securities by deal catafalques free vision to beat the triviality. - the three roads.

The three causeways to be more invisible all guilt, no stranger to inherit anything, nor himself only what gives me a fleeting morning light of my love for you lord of light,

The sun transpire, almost obese up the last few steps to fall like a diamond to the orbital of the earth's solstice, almost like a intimidating rappel on stage to see how to get to land, after climbing son long or so much mind.


My lord solstice never thought it was so chilling rub your back when I fall upon you. And the littoral, scabby and stellar explosions, constellation Orion and others, who will dress the unclothed souls, headwaters of the new sun.

By the greatest oath that is written and promulgated human voice, I outline the hiperdisis galactic start the breadbox to distribute, as the true summit of summits where true souls will be traded, that cost will have expansive roles on the globe that both we appropriate . Unduly, almost as violating the energies that move the improper world.

When I get near the pace of the sun in its solstice, I go to horcondising almost like a star, anxious to wait for the balance to dethrone all vanities and improper grace of owning myself.

To around me desperate ran sapiens hommo throwing her back the last pieces of lost opportunities, their quick clothes were in quick gestures of conformity, before reaching the ellipse, on all heights in the world because they could not be less so, degrees difficulty, degraded fringes of understanding ....

Goes up, and those who come from my lords aside from around the world, are fanned to heaven passing their monetary leftovers others who never had by body that will fit, but now a spirit that only shines in her eyes, gold pocket which houses coins manure mud.


When Late afternoon in an ever lived time, run by terror hills water are forms of veils falling by  manorial sleeping earth, many whys ... for so many hours of feverish centuries of few transit hours of nascent lives disrupted in sleeping lives. When my last minute delay in releasing the penny soothes my wound, perhaps it hurts twice the beggar who want to cure your wound, tilling day, to love their steps infant who was one day, almost as needing a new  smack on her buttocks bone more than anything if it is not hidden the day as a poisoned shrew.


The barriers of the day, as night to jump higher thousands of souls who aspired to reach the plateau drains the water that washes break every lost soul. Each with its little faith to have his good deeds, only better debt for unconfined failures and hold for a second to reach the sun shining light that dwells alone for seven days in Horcondising to save our souls dilapidated. Decades of years lived, scrubbing my conscience to be better than a being who can not live without your tired lifeless body ,. a beautiful autumn day tells me a flower starting step of men who have defected from this immense mansion that pours joy shouting to the winds that run from joy to joy.


And stan the groans of those who rise from his bed with his head, not thinking but because they lack arms as levers huge cranes to say; I stand to play with all the walking endlessly until the arms of the Lord who made me, but it took me all the decades I wanted to improve the days that I could not, because the door was bolted he saw shine off the sun but the door said no one opened it because it was the minute arrive also close to others who ask because I also ask, receive me on top I look like a boy pursing his face to seek help from others get flexible the chain to continue day out full of hope and quiet after warning others more direct link between two sets divided souls, the tender embrace that carpet the land germinating happiness reigns on the esplanade never get tired of this duality, blessed the day of the ritual God made the sun strongly embrace the earth when dawns, even when it rains; because then whales water paths in ding **** sound, looking cheerful participate fantastic zig zag Pilgrim universe smiling suns on the ground that heals his wounds as a mask molten blood.

My multi machine wound weapon that fires projectiles caliber of egos, get tired because they leave rows driven, and traces his fallen weightless  ego and super ego without body. It comes my time to be measured by what never before lived and not lived in for good measure.
TRANSMIGRATED POEM, FEELING A SOUND BEYOND . THE CONSCIENCE FROM THE UTTER ALL ( UNDER EDITION )
Word Hobo Nov 2018
Look!
now they sleep      bloodless warriors
pandemonium stilled      agony slain tranquil
death sanctified in rigid cartesian rows
honored for their sacrifice and selfless valiance
laid to rest beneath mourning grasses

Ask!
where was the higher honor due them      before war
are sacred vows      to be profaned      to be misemployed
                            
Why!
do once verdurous lives lay cold and pulseless
as spatters of red petals      tearfully fall
families breathing wistful flowers
distilling rue      with lulling scents

Adjudge!
all men      who enact lies
dishonoring crossed graves
greed calibrating scales of injustice
bodies tilted high by tonnages of gold
Aurelian kisses      vaulting wars riches

Do Not!
dishonor a warrior’s willingness to die
for bravados mouth is a soldier’s tomb
do not forsake truth and honor    our only faithful ally
ask ten-thousand whys      before one soldier dies
before the bugler's breath      sounds death's lamenting cries

Think!
Contemplate war’s fiery womb
hatred    born inextinguishable
good & evil     indistinguishable

Look, what stillborn bones lie locked in battle
this fleshless monster      we mis-named peace        


gv.2014


Matthew 6:13 . . . deliver us from “evil”
Evil as translated in 6:13 is "Poneros" A name also attributed to Satan
Which means:  "he is not content unless drawing others into the same destruction as himself"
(From Lexicon to the New Testament by Spiros Zodhiates, TH.D

"Soon
the world
won’t have a rib intact.
And its soul will be pulled out."

A line from Vladimir Mayakovsky's 1917 poem , Call To Account

“They made a wasteland and called it peace” Publius Cornelius Tacitus
nico papayiannis Mar 2016
The noise of footsteps quickens, with haste I run, but time is chasing me down this one way street

As smart as a fox I am in and out of every nook and cranny, the flood of the inevitable hot on my heels

Each moon passing hails another suns birth, the more you witness the more you question your worth

From boy to man with no set plan, the compass has no needle, the waypoint , the marker, just keep on forwards motion until the days are longer and darker

The last ditch attempt to try and apprehend has me hiding behind a long grey beard, a cane to aid and a shuffling of every weary stride

That long lasting sleep it beckons, it claws at my heartbeats as they fade to a lone bugler, the procession, the flowers, a youthful smile to hail a new awakening
betterdays Apr 2019
pride wars with regret
old men march in ranks depleted
medals clink  in time to the town band
children hold grand childrens hands
then the bugler plays
and as the notes fly into silence
old men cry in defience of age
that has wearied
and remembrances of those gone before
they remember more and more
lest we forget ...
sunshines in the bluest of skies
and there is youth once more in tired eyes
anzac day 2019
r May 2020
Did you see them take the green fields
one by one, now line by line on hills in echelon?

Still, holding ground held holy by their sons;
no longer marching to the smoke and drum.

Where bugler called the day to final rest,
now silence grows like lichen on the stones.

For those who gave their all at our behest,
our memories alone will not atone.

Do you see the fires burning at a distance,
and more hallowed ground broken day by day?

Each new stone laid a fading reminiscence;
each new boquet soon fading into gray.

What better way to honor sacrifice
than to pause and speak their names aloud.

Until the gods of war are pacified;
until our flag no longer serves as shroud.
In memory of those who gave their all.
5/30/2016
And again, lest we forget. 5/29/17
Memorial Day 5/28/2018
Remember to remember.  5/27/2019
Remember-5/25/2020
Lawrence Hall May 14
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                  Shakespeare Didn’t Drive a Clapped-Out MGA

                                  Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet 49

A time will come when you will audit me:
My prospects as a husband and provider
The possibilities of a comfortable home
And maybe the Mercedes you deserve

I amuse you now, but not for long:
A studio apartment with a rabbit-ears TV
A hideaway bed for frolics in the afternoon
Sale-table wine and Bugler-rolled joints

Not quite Rod McKuen, to my dismay:
It’s not if but when you go away
Meme-ing from Shakespeare Sonnet 49
You leave your mother's home, to serve the bigger home- your motherland.
Raw, young and fiercely trained, you swim undaunted in strange waters.
The currents and inherent dangers do not deter you.
We salute your venturesome spirit and lion-heartedness.
You are courage personified.
What more to say O Courageous Man-at-arms !

Dangerous missions and risky operations beckon you.
You rush without any fear of injury or death.
To demolish the enemy and accomplish harmony.
We salute your unwavering dedication and mettlesome attitude.
You are valiance personified.
What more to say O Valiant Rifleman !

You safeguard our frontiers with your impenetrable gaze.
You suffer the deepest wounds and scars of battles.
You brave solitude, adversities, unpredictabilities and infinite toils.
We salute your unparalleled intrepidity and tenacity.
You are duty personified.
What more to say O Dutiful Cannoneer !

Your family profoundly prays for you while you are away.
Your children miss their daddy moments in their growing years .
But motherland is your first love being wedded to the olive green.
We salute your unrelenting devotion and absolute loyalty.
You are trust personified.
What more to say O Faithful Cavalier !

Coffin draped in tricolour, bugler playing 'The Last Post' is heart-wrenching.
Homecoming of a fallen warrior is so heartbreaking.
Countrymen stand by you, your stoic wife, bereaved parents and wailing children.
We salute you for your supreme sacrifice, soldiering and deeds of derring-do.
You are heroism personified.
What more to say O Honourable Infantryman !

You give your today for our tomorrow.
Forever you live up to the motto- valour and wisdom.
Your service before self is embodiment of love for motherland.
We salute you for upholding the highest moral and ethical values.
You are hope personified.
What more to say O Worthy Soldier !


(Composed by Preeti Pathak from India. Please do visit my blog preetikandpalpathak.blogspot.com)
The dance of the vultures o'er frosted red clay ,smoke swirling in the timid valley , ominous vibes in the winter grass alley ....
In the Principality of the Pulpwood Stumps
A wounded , worried lover's psyche tortured
Misty rain , copious memory hound weathered men and brothers
Barking corporals , leathered skin , soggy dens ..                                     Nutcrackers form a line , stand tall , call cadence then break into attention
Tight , bright , impeccably sutured uniforms crackle in the biting breeze , adorned in silver clasp with pink marble buttons securing slingshot munitions ...
With cherry cheeks a bugler splits the silence
The soldiers load their roscoe's
Keepers of the Grass hurl sweet gum cones
high into the orange eve
Locust spears guard fescue forts and hillside -
tunnels
Cracked corn funneled into hollow onion stems
The November battlefield looms dark and silent-
as the autumn bulb dims ...
A spiffy locust then proclaims from a tall tree
War is finished for you and me ..
The pasture of our forefathers shall be -
divided in thirds
A share for every mammal , insect and bird ...
Copyright October 2020 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Kurt Philip Behm Jun 2018
War
Severed madness….
  the wounds bleed again

All stitches have broken
  stains marking the end

Unsutured indemnity
  ensuring your pain

All flesh now in enmity
—last bugler in flames

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

— The End —