Poems of the Era 1
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For the fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free. Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old; Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables at home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night; As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain. aurence Binyon (1869–1943) "Elizabeth"
The train blew its whistle pulling into the station Puffing steam through the morning chill, Signalling the start of tearful goodbyes With the sound of the engine’s warning shrill. Her eyes rested on lively Frank, A young lad, 18 summers old, His grey eyes lit with youthful vim At the thought of adventures yet to unfold. This was her second such painful farewell, Her fourth son off to follow his brother, And the pack and uniform in the hallway at home Portended that she would soon lose another. Her boys were not the first to go And she feared that they’d not be the last; While England issued her call to war The boys of Australia grew up too fast. One by one they emerged in khaki From a quiet office in Albert St, With hopes and dreams of seeing the world And a bayonet in the pack at their feet. The whistle blew, and mothers hugged sons While husbands bade their wives adieu, And Elizabeth kissed her son goodbye And prayed that God would see him through. She wished she could know that he’d be safe, But the war, like his life, was just begun; Her son was known by a number now: 1st AIF, Private 1271. She knew not even what he might face For reports from abroad were quite concerning – The papers wrote that all went well, Yet the boys of England were not returning. She watched him wave as the train pulled out And as the whistle faded away, She couldn’t help but wonder if She’d see ‘F. Lambert’ on a wall someday. Caelli Greenbank - 2015 © |
Memories of the ANZAC's
At the break of dawn the bugle cries. A khaki clad soldier wipes the tears from his eyes. The morning light dancing on the barrel of his gun. Cold hard steel warmed to the sun. The young and the old lay down their wreath, The face of memory etched in grief. The innocent small child smiles into his face. The tired old man remembers another place. Gently the old man reached for her hand. He had gone to war to save this land. Land this child walks in peace, a land where she can peacefully sleep. He smiles at her as he silently weeps. He remembers Gallipoli and the horrors of war. Brave young Anzacs on a foreign shore. They fought for their country, many fought till they died. Family and friends side by side. Remembering other children, the children of war. The loss of a parent, an orphanage door. Many of our soldiers were merely boys Carried real live guns, not childhood toys. A tear for those that fought and died. The feelings of loss he could not hide. “Don’t cry” said the child, “The flowers are pretty”. The cry of the bugle echoed over the city. Pam Colgate (2006) New Generation Veterans
We honour our old veterans, we honour them with pride, And read of all the horrors they have carried deep inside, We know they served in Asia or New Guinea’s highland rains, Vietnam or in Africa where many men were slain. We know that fateful landing on Gallipoli’s dark shore, Wherever Aussies fought, we know there are so many more, But now a new young generation needs our help as well, They too have been to war and suffer with their private hell. Though losses are not classed as great, their fears are just the same, Those electronic hidden bombs, still injure, kill or maim, They fight against an enemy they find so hard to see, Who mingle in the market place, then cause much tragedy. Insurgents in Afghanistan hide in the rough terrain, Or roaming in Iraq, where, wearing robes they look the same, The suicide stealth bombers, don’t care who they hurt or kill, Then, with their own beliefs, they try to break our forces will. Our fighting Aussie spirit shows on any foreign land, They’re in the skies, they’re on the sea, or on the desert sand, Now many are returning with the horrors they still see, And living with their nightmares, suffering bureaucracy. I know on ANZAC Day, we all remember with a tear, But ALL vets, young or old, they need our help throughout the year, Support and listen to their stories, when they do get told, Let’s honour our NEW veterans, just like we do our old. David J Delaney - 10 February 2010 © Sir
Sir - would it help if I shed a tear I swear it’s the first time since this time last year My spine is a tingle - my throat is all dry As I stand to attention for all those who died I watch the flag dancing half way down the pole That damn bugle player sends chills to my soul I feel the pride and the sorrow - there’s nothing the same As standing to attention on ANZAC Day So Sir - on behalf of the young and the free Will you take a message when you finally do leave To your mates that are lying from Tobruk to the Somme The legend of your bravery will always live on I’ve welcomed Olympians back to our shore I’ve cheered baggy green caps and watched Wallabies score But when I watch you marching (Sir) in that parade I know these are the memories that never will fade So Sir - on behalf of the young and the free Will you take a message when you finally do leave It’s the least we can do (Sir) to repay the debt We’ll always remember you - Lest We Forget Damian (Dib) Morgan 1998 © |