Some Wore Green, a poem

Today May 26th, is Memorial Day. This poem is dedicated to all those who have served in time of war, and to their families who have suffered the pain of their loss.

Two by two and four by four
The brave young men all marched to war
Some wore green and some wore blue
And each one had a job to do.
She could merely stand and wave.
She told herself she must be brave,
That surely he’d return to her
And married they would be for sure.

Her true love brave in battle died.
With his last breath her name he cried.
Buried under foreign sand,
No more to see his native land.
She swore that with her dying breath,
If not in life, then fast in death
She would be joined forever more
To her true love who died in war.

She journey’d half a world away
To find the place her love did lay
With spirit steeled and visage grim
For that was all she’d left of him.
This thought alone consumed her mind
And yet his grave she could not find.
Until one day, so near despair
She met a man with long gray hair.
Bent and lame, a soldier old
Whose eyes still glittered, blue and bold.

“No more to weep, no more to cry
I know the place your love does lie.
I say to you by heaven above:
None fought so brave as your true love.
He was gallant, loyal, brave and true;
With his last breath he cried for you.
Just beyond that rocky hill
Lies your love buried, cold and still.”

She slowly climbed the hard terrain
Beyond which her true love was lain.
And when she finally reached the top
She felt her quickened heartbeat stop.
For there as far as she could see
Were gravestones to infinity.
All bore these words upon a plate:
“This one was sacrificed to hate.”

Past countless headstones carved the same
She ran and wept and called his name.
Long she searched, and long she tried,
Not finding him whose name she cried.
Too many deaths, too many tombs,
Too many crypts that held the doomed.
Forever more she’ll search the graves
To find the love she couldn’t save.
But silent stones forevermore
Will keep her love who went to war.

Stephen P. Smith

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Sunday Open Thread

Inspired by Robert D’s lament


The Climbing Tree

We ran all day and climbed the trees

Without the fear of falling

But with respect for gravity

And always felt it calling

We rode in cars without air bags

The steel dashboard projecting

On slick hard seats in front and back

With no seatbelts protecting

We ate the food called poison now

And still grew into Titans

Because we ran or rode our bikes

And did our own fist fightin’

We heard an independent call

And hated slavery’s chains

We roamed at will and rode the waves

And suffered freedom’s pains

That one or two were taken out

Pursuing freedom’s verve

Was caution tale and understood

And served to steel our nerve

Yet now the children prattle by

In uniforms once earned

A tear comes to my wizened eye

And lesson hard is learned

The pain that you’re protecting from

Was once a stage of growth

So chose between a man or child

You cannot have them both

Veterans Day

Veterans Day

by Beto Ochoa



For every hero on the stage

On parade or in the grave

With medals pinned and glory flags unfurled



The humble serviceman by scores

Packs the caissons, Guards the doors

Sails sea and sky across the troubled world



Comrades in arms they share the call

Who stepped across that line for all

Knowing well that fate might call their name



They crossed that sword mark in the dust

For freedoms sake and God they trust

And did it not for fortunes gold or fame



So on Remembrance Day give thanks

To veterans past and current ranks

And Praise Eternal God that they were there



Oh quiet heroes, every one

Without your hand, naught would be won

Pray our acclaim, the purest badge you wear

Linked at Rantburg (thanks!),

Posted at Gateway Pundit (thanks!!)

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Immolatus est, a poem

I wrote this poem and posted it on my own blog when my son was deployed to Iraq. He’s home safe now, but there are still thousands of American soldiers over there, fighting and toiling so the Iraqi people may someday know what freedom is. This poem is dedicated to them.

Your room is as you left it.
The football jerseys of your heroes,
hang in your closet mutely awaiting your return,
forming a tapestry of red, white, and blue.
As the hour moves to vespers,
the dying light stains the glass,
the room glows red and gold.

In a land where the cross is kept always well hidden
you march the sand, while ever silently behind
Mohammed walks arm in arm with the black robed reaper,
carrying your blood in a grail of iron they balance between them,
waiting to cross your path and claim you for their own
as they spill your blood upon the sand.

The dying light illuminates the rosary and Bible you left behind,
not permitted in the land of Mohammed,
the land of wailing sand and wailing prayers
where you have gone to fight for someone else’s cause.
For it has always been and ever shall be
the bodies and blood of the Young that are sacrificed
to the hatred of the Old.

–Stephen P. Smith


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