"cenotaph" poems
1192
An honest Tear
Is durabler than Bronze—
This Cenotaph
May each that dies—
Reared by itself—
No Deputy suffice—
Gratitude bears
When Obelisk decays
3.3k
(20 minute poetry)
Crying air
flying where
the ocean's spray
and the summer days
last a lifetime and that's
measured by
some heavenly hand
on my lifeline.
I breathe in only to drown.
There's a sanctuary somewhere
crying air's not allowed
there.
At thirty seven thousand feet
I looked for and forward to meet
my maker.
More than this the absolute when they shoot you down in flames,
more than names on a cenotaph or cursory lines on a graph,
more in a laugh than a tear
we are all and more.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC
Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph
they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.
George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt
I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.
The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with
I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
Sargent Wilford Niles
March 9 , 1888 - June 18 , 1918
Buried somewhere in France
I gaze into the sullen dreams
I wonder about his shallow age
So far from family and all his friends
Did with God he make amends
What a journey did he make
When he left home he made a stake
Left to go fight in a foreign land
So far from these United States
Only thirty years so long
Thirty Happy Birthdays for a song
He hopped the train and then was gone
And left us wondering , right or wrong
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
The best way to forget the truth is to celebrate the lie
Poppies poppies poppies POPPIES and a big brass band
sea cadets in my home town forty miles inland.
Please dont be swayed to get your feet wet dont be fodder for a war
And you will if you forget.
My mates grandads wife never got his war pension
he got shot on the wrong day
I think there was an R in the month or was it a why (Y)
there's a statue on top of our cenotaph the Angel of the Somme
thee sea cadets parade around it tiddley um pum pum
Tiddley um pum pum
Pum pum pupum
The best way to forget the truth is to forget the lie.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC
The young boy wrote his Christmas Cards
Wrote his name as neatly as he knew
He put the ones aside to take to school
And in his bedroom he hid two
These cards were special for the boy
One was for his Uncle, one was for his dad
The cards just had to reach them
And here's the plan he had..
He knew that mail to Santa Claus
Made it up to the North Pole
But, he wasn't sure just how his card
Would reach his fathers soul
You see, the boys dad and his Uncle
were taken by an IED
They'd both been gone two years now
Since the boy was only three
He visited the cenotaph
In the park, most every day
He'd stop and he'd salute it
And then he'd go and play
It was a gentle hi to both of them
For he knew that at this place
He could feel them staring down on him
Though he'd forgotten his dad's face
He took the cards down to the park
And he left them by a wreath
Left over from November
He laid his two cards underneath
A man was walking past the boy
And he saw the boy salute
But, he also saw the Christmas cards
And he thought the whole thing cute
He waited for the boy to leave
And he opened one to read
It said "Merry Christmas" , "Thank You"
"I miss you, yes indeed"
The man went to the nearest school
to ask about the lad
To find out if this one young boy
Was a student that they had
A teacher overheard his tale
And called the man in for a talk
At the end she sat there crying
She had to go out for a walk
She went to find his teacher
Told the tale of this young man
Then between them they sat down and
They both devised a plan
The next day when the class began
Christmas Cards they would write
Each one was for a soldier
And to them this just seemed right
They would set up a class field trip
To see the vets up on the hill
In the special Veterans Hospital
to the kids, this was a thrill
The hospital was telephoned
And the vets were set to meet
Miss Johnson and Miss Watson's class
To get their Christmas treat
The kids were dressed in sunday best
Like they were a month ago
But, this time it was different
This time there would be snow
Each card said "Merry Christmas"
All said thank you, some were sad
To think this project started with
A card left for a dad
After all was done and dusted
The kids continued on
They went down to the cenotaph
To give more cards to those now gone
The story made it through the school
And each day another class
Wrote Christmas cards to soldiers
And they delivered them en-masse
By the action of a little boy
who wasn't locked to a computer
He started a tradition
this young boy, the saluter.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
I
He was intoxicated
by the scent of coffee
dancing in the morning
to his mother’s humming.
II
Then a blacksmith - his father -
taught him how to hammer
form out of chaos
in the muddle of force
and a sweaty anvil.
III
Now if he wished to see
the sunness of the sun
and the greenness of the tree
he would summon the image
of Fatma - an Arab maiden
who was once Berber,
to come write on his face
with her soothing finger:
“Salam, my anguished lover.”
IV
When green-eyed Fatma comes
the wreaths of coffee
Would come with her,
writing in the air;
and all the songs of history
would come marching too,
in battle array,
like an army dressed
in civilian clothing
for a dance in Rio.
V
Fatma’s hair –
a still cascade
of light goldness,
a tide of watery fire,
a flight motionless
of a millon birds who
sing in tongues
and laugh
to the stone unlettered
of his fidgety cenotaph.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
I
He was intoxicated
by the scent of the coffee
dancing in the morning
to his mother’s humming.
II
Then a blacksmith - his father -
taught him how to hammer
form out of chaos
in the muddle of force
and a sweaty anvil.
III
Now if he wished to see
the sunness of Sun
and the greenness of Tree
he would summon the specter
of an Arab maiden - Fatma -
who was once Berber
to come write on his face
with her soothing finger:
“Salam, my anguished lover.”
IV
When green-eyed Fatma comes
the wreaths of coffee
Would come with her
writing in the air;
and all the songs of history
would come marching too,
in battle array,
like an army dressed
in civilian clothes
for a dance in Rio.
V
Fatma’s hair –
a still cascade
of thin goldeness,
a tide of watery fire,
a flight motionless
of a million birds who
speak in tongues
and laugh
to the stone unlettered
of his fidgety cenotaph .
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, August 27, 2016
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
Ah didny recognise him fae the eulogy.
The meenister'd nivver met the lad, Ah could see.
A hero? Aye, mibbe. Jist a name tae maist ay these fowk.
But ah kent im as a boay,
the daft wee scapegoat, ayewis in boather,
but nae real hairm in im.
He wis the lad wha'd get skelped, the noise
makkin the teacher turn is heid
jist in time tae spot im skelpin back.
Mairched tae the heidie again.
"Yir a bad lot, Barry.
Yir faither wis a bad lot too."
Puir Baz.
Da in the jile,
Ma aff her face on smack,
an him, daft, funny, doomed.
If onybody at hame had cared enough
tae keep the schuil photies,
they'd have shown a wee freckly laddie
wi a too-open grin,
year eftir year,
jersey gettin tattier,
teeth getting gappier,
still grinnin while the rest ay us
were far too cool tae smile for the camera.
Ah liked im.
Didny unnerstaun how the teachers
were sae ***** tae im.
There wis far badder boays in the year.
Ricky ****** Jackson - a nasty, sleekit wee body,
yankin ab'dy's strings.
But his da wis rich
an the teachers fawned ower im.
No Baz, though.
Cannon fodder, richt enough.
Tackin the flack fir the rest ay us.
Exactly the kind ay lad
the ******* Army thrives on.
Ah canny feel the patriotic pride,
canny picture the self-sacrifice,
the heroism.
Ah can juist see im,
daft an grinnin,
daein whit he wis tellt
an gettin killt.
Mind you,
he wis aye headin for the poppies, that yin,
One wey
or anither.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
Remembrance in November grows repellent
each year we rob it further of its sense
by hunting down objectors to compel them
to stand in line or cause a grave offense.
No private contemplation or reflection
when strident shrieks of nationhood prevail
Un-poppied collars count as insurrection
a slight to every brave, red-blooded male.
Division, thumping drums and waving banners
the media wades in with guns ablaze
forgetful of respect, or simple manners –
that’s not how we conduct ourselves these days
If this is what our fallen heroes wanted
I wonder why the cenotaph is haunted.
We cannot know what sent the soldiers hither
or claim the fallen courage of the fight
think boys who marched to foreign fields together
were simple symbols drawn in black and white
If we could rise above the spite and chatter
We’d find unbordered bonds and understand
that shells and bullets lacked the strength to shatter
the looking glass that straddled no man’s land
From timid chaps to lunatic berserkers
we canonise the men who heard the call
if wives had had the power to shoot deserters
there never would have been a war at all.
Let’s render restless spirits more forgiving:
to honour best the dead, honour the living.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
Today I saw a man
He was sitting by the road
I couldn't see his face
But, his feelings...well, they showed
All of his belongings
Were beside him in a cart
I wanted to approach
But, my feet just wouldn't start
Today I saw a man
Picking butts up from the street
I crossed the road to pass him
And our paths, they didn't meet
He was searching in the gutter
For tobacco for a smoke
I didn't venture near him
Just in case he spoke
Today I saw a man
Sleeping in the park
It was early in the morning
It wasn't even dark
He was covered with a jacket
With a paper by his head
He slept just like a child
He looked like he was dead
Today I saw a man
In fatigues and baseball cap
Saluting at the cenotaph
I felt my heart fall to my lap
He saluted ramrod perfect
As just a soldier can
today, I learned a lesson
Today...I saw a Man
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
The young boy walked on through the park
His mother close behind
But then he took off swiftly, though
She knew that she would find
Him standing at the Cenotaph
Saluting, ramrod straight
He did it everytime they passed
No matter what the date
He knew that is was honorable
A place to honur those
Who died defending what was right
And every time he froze.
Each time they went to ride the swings
He ran ahead to stand
He did it, and she was proud he did
Though he didn't understand
A silent sentinel...piegeon perch
Memorialized the dead
There were pigeons all around it
And two piegeons on the head
But Billy didn't mind the birds
In fact he liked to say
The piegeons are the soldier men
Who can no longer play
He always walked around all sides
Always looking for the names
Of his father and his uncle
Bill and Randy James
They were taken by an IED
Though that meant nothing to Bill
But each time that he found their names
He then saluted and stood still
He knew that they would not return
Although gone, their names were here
He saluted them each time he came
Of the pigeons, he'd no fear
This silent, solemn cenotaph
Was a place he loved so much
Although he couldn't see his father
His name plate he could touch
He knew that his saluting
Made his mother's heart strings sing
After his silent hello to his dad
He could go play on the swing...
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
If you saw me sitting in the park
Feeding pigeons for a while
Would you give me not a second thought
Would you look at me and smile?
If while I fed the pigeons
I was talking really loud
With no one there to listen
Not one person, not a crowd
Would you look at me as crazy
Would you think my mind was messed?
Now put me in my uniform
With my medals on my chest
Now, would this make it different
Am I different than before?
For I didn't leave home like this
It's the end result of war
If you stood and saw me stumble
From a bar mid afternoon
Would you look at me and think
"This one's drunk too soon"?
Would you turn or change direction?
Would you stay out of my path?
Or would you slowly walk behind me
And shake your head or maybe laugh?
Would you look at me as crazy?
Would you think my mind was messed?
Now put me in my uniform
With my medals on my chest
Now, would this make it different
Am I different than before?
For I didn't leave home like this
It's the end result of war
If you saw me in a wheelchair
On my crutches hobbling by
Would you look at me as feeble
Or would you turn away and sigh?
Would you wonder just what happened
To make me handicapped a might
Or would you turn and switch direction?
So I wasn't in your sight
Would you think that I was lazy?
Just because I couldn't walk
Would you look at me as feeble?
Would you take the time to talk?
Just because I might be different
Doesn't mean we are not equal
There is two sides to a story
There can always be a sequel
Just because you might dress better
And your suit is cut so fine
I ask you just one question
Would you lay it on the line?
If your country came and asked you
Would you sign up in a sec
Or would you think there's always others
I can just go write a cheque
Now, if you saw me in the park again
Standing solemn, lost in space
Would you wonder what I'm thinking?
Would you even see my face?
Would you see me as a person?
Would you walk on by and laugh?
Would you ever even notice
I was at the cenotaph
Would you look at me as crazy?
Would you think my mind was messed?
Now put me in my uniform
With my medals on my chest
Now, would this make it different
Am I different than before?
For I didn't leave home like this
It's the end result of war
But, if you saw me feeding pigeons
I ask you sir, would you
If you saw me in my uniform
Dare to come and say "Thank You"?
.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
In this hollow space
I hold before the rising sun
In duty the greys will fade
as the sky shifts into it's run
I hold the hallowed word
and embrace it's lifeless eyes
Looking for a pulse
but there is none in it's disguise
Before the song comes tolled
by the early morning bird
The poet twists agony
seeking out a perfect word
The hollow echo of love's dust
is knocking at the door
Your hearts a cenotaph screaming out
Please ! Let there be no more !
The sun's rising red as an
evil eye of dread
Cold sweat is dripping now
from the brow of you head
The night's effort lies
at the bottom of the pool
All of your creations
make you look just like a fool
Now the rays of light
penetrate my aching head
This hollow empty feeling
compares to being dead
I toss my papers
halfway across the room
The all but hallowed
are replaced now by the gloom
Every night tastes cold coffee
leaves you feeling grim
The half eaten papers
where the ink has run on thin
My emotions have all turned to lead
it's my time to go to bed
The midnight's voice is screaming
like a nightmare that hasn't been fed
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
flourishing man twigs
your skin binder
seperating into
live lizard leather
you voice is making broken mouth noises
too much suction
FROM OUT THE
choir nodules
limpid eye spokes spin
in a humane wood grain
in
calliper, or in plurale tantum
knee cap tattoos
of crawling skunk stars
toggle cap vegetable yoga
in giant pollen helmets
sports magnets
in half wi fi marathon
what kind of *** uniforms
are they hiding in the cenotaph
sunday war things perhaps
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC
In Whitehall stands a monument,
A column wrought in stone.
Empty as that mother’s heart
whose sons did not come home.
It bears the dates of two world wars,
And three carved words I read.
A politician’s shibboleth
About “the Glorious Dead”
Standing in November’s rain,
No glory came to mind.
Perhaps that word held meaning
in another place and time.
They have passed from living memory
those soldier boys of thine.
Now bronze reliefs and marble wreaths
Recall their deaths to mind.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
There before me stands the cenotaph
of Master Sergent Wilfred Niles
He died of his wounds received
in the battle of Belleau .
He is buried in the soil
near the River Marne , in France
He left behind his mother Maggie
Her only child gone , she's now so bereft
She would die in a few short months
Of a broken heart from grief
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
in cold crisp air,
with steaming breath
and hearts open and laid bare.
we stand and remember.
the bugle sounds,
carry across the river
to meet the rising sun.
then it is quiet again.
we stand and remember
in tearful, grateful silence,
we stand and give honour
to, too many young men
who went a soldiering,
never to come home again.
we stand and remember
and in the rows before us,
old men they soldier on,
standing to attention
remembering wars long gone
and mates and foes and battlfields
and letters come from home.
faces resolute, set to the sun
as the bugle calls.. the last post,
remembering remembering
the wars that are long gone...
we stand and remember.
poppies, lie in drifts of red
in the air the scent
of pine trees and rosemary....
wreaths of hard fought grace,
lay placed with grateful thanks
below the names enscribed
upon the cenotaph's granite plane.
we stand and remember
the sun comes up,
with gentle, golden face
upon this special, sacred place.
we stand shrouded by memory
of those who fought and fell
and lie in a far distant place.
we stand and remember.
we will remember them....
lest we forget....
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
TIME FOR TEARS.
The cenotaph, a sea of memories and poppies.
Let us not forget these souls.
Remembrance service on the Mall,
God Bless each and everyone, upon this day of fall.
A sombre sobering thought.
A lump in my throat.
These brave souls always will have a special place within my heart.
And so they should always be remembered for brave acts and facing forced fire.
Without any choice.
Sleep well brave fellows of aged wars and modern wars.
Today I hold you in remembrance.
Poppy blessings on a bright Sunday in November!
(C) Livvi
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 5:47 AM UTC
our differences are in their infancy
at the body's showtime — the race
of will and safe word.
cenotaph of the *****
– bloodshot and weary.
industrial art, and the big old I
think of you
at the start of my masturbatory
routine - afternoons
where work is distant, and how
****** is asphyxiation
when the automaton
is dressed like a pretense?
wow.
i am so lost against this notion
of an integral shudder. i am
lost like the hatchling stranded
on planet pergola,
dead before it hits the ground.
there is no admitting faults
to lamplight in late evening,
there is no real security in
the gap made between his
steadfastness and my submission.
there is only the light
of our latest endeavours shining
sickly on wet genitals,
and mutual nervousness
cooling off under a ceiling fan.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC
We sang a dirge
But no tears to bid farewell.
We dug a grave
But no place to place a casket.
We erected a cenotaph
But no place to lay a wreath.
Sorrow clapped with one hand.
Rays of tragedy raced with one leg
To unlock the gate of tomb.
Town Crier's gong rendered
sounds of sadness
To inform the confounded cenacle.
Will your pen still pen a farewell?
Will your ink speaks for itself?
Will the diarists still hear your voice?
You slumber till eternity.
But you will not die again.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 8:45 AM UTC
There's a meeting of the minds today
people of all kinds will meet
and pray and
someone's bound to say,
'lest we forget'
Old soldiers at the cenotaph
can
still raise a laugh with other ancient friends,
while ends don't always justify the means and
peace it seems is just as far as Picardy.
eight hundred thousand poppies may remind
us of the dead they say,
they
remind me that life is not ceramic
life is that dynamic force
forced out from some
by the gun
and thus we live or die.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
Now that the war has ended
Vanquishers counted the vestige
Of casualties, eulogising the forgotten souls at the unmarked graveyard.
But we waved the olive branch to stop the callous carnage.
Victims' dirge polluted the air of regret.
Table of settlement shedding tears of rustiness.
Now that the war has ended
Widows endlessly waited for entombed spouses to fail failure of loneliness.
Glory of souls stored in the belly of graveyard, protesting early exit.
Darkness of sorrow eclipsed rays of joy.
Tears from the cheeks of the cenotaph promulgating decree of condemnation
Cemetery gathered glory, treasure, and destiny in its banks.
But now that the war has ended, let the kakaki of peace sounds.
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC