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Poems - I Remember
| | I Rememberby Leggolas
I Remember
as if it were yesterday.
"Am I the only one?"
Whistling
the missiles rise
then shower as if rain.
Blistering explosions burst, again, Again, AGAIN.
Helpless hollow hands attempt to stem the pound upon each drum,
"CAN SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF HERE!",
I need to find sanctum.
End this momentum.
Flee these deranged ambitious waves which seek imperium.
Desperation's call does climb to fall upon deaf ears.
[I am but a pawn, a token, played to death by absent peers]
It makes no difference how I plead, the fighting does not cease,
this manufactured war endures, until
such time as we make peace.
[Securing world's release,
as millions of saviours descend to their decease]
Isolated,
all alone,
accustomed to deaths stench.
Friendships lie fragmented,
dispersed, dislocated,
mangled, mutilated,
lives which were so vivid, decay, slayed within this sodden trench.
[An ebullient excavation, became burrows for the brave,
oblivious their furrowing was digging of their grave]
These recent recollections surge and pain swells to a blur.
Its haze is irresistible,
escape, its consuming lure,
eager to be absent,
I willingly concur.........
Delusion's sift
does slowly drift
away from mire that I am in.
The surreal quells
the shocking shells,
tumult fades to distant din.
Taint falls faint beyond me.
"I'm on my way back home!"
Across the sea,
to ‘Old Blighty‘,
an island small,
but still mighty,
though currently imperilled,
she shall be forever free.
Up over,
cliffs of Dover, soaring through unfettered air,
obliging crow,
spits fire below,
bringing me to where.
Ashen smoke of oak rises from rustic chimney pots,
stacked upon a roof which rakes to brick once laid by eye.
Carefully assorted ends, meander, pave the way,
through rows of roses,
vibrant red,
shire fed, in regimented pristine bed,
avenues to ivy, arching over welcomes door,
forever on the latch.
A gentle push, tired hinges flag to judder with the floor,
established is the greeting, from tiles chequered with history.
Instant warmth coerces me to flicker of the flames,
that flow from cindered source,
to lap lethargic logs
till prompt comes from bellow.
[Persistent nudging pokes arouse a simmering within.
Suddenly, that settled, rises to become inflamed,
summoning saps for spitting spats
each aimed at dousing raging cause of he who is to blame]
Now embers glow to surging soar
which leaps up to dangled decor
to dance upon beloved brass,
each buffed to brilliance,
till lustre has attained,
reflections of an age.
Another log is thrown, to reinforce those gone before,
burning thoughts are drawn from those to those that I adore.
Smells once still familiar force famished feet to rove,
into awaiting kitchen,
where Mother toils at labouring stove.
Rubicund, glistening, engrossed in roast of Sunday's breast,
devoted dedication, in her I'm truly blessed.
Intuition perceives presence,
raise begets uplifting smile,
I study cherished features to then savour passing while.
Embracing warmth that follows is so good I can't let go.
Why did I leave this peaceful life? do I really know?
“Yes, of course, I do know!
I answered to the call,
to fight for King and country, keeping freedom for us all,
but millions dead, dying and wounded,
will be total sum.
This generations sacrifice
for all of you still yet to come”
Out through distorted window pane, father tends the soil,
progressive germination forms integral part of daily toil.
I pace and reach to greet him,
as I do, he bids a fond farewell.
His grip of steel diminishes
as I'm propelled as if a shell,
for fingers
clinging to the past
are ripped away from secure grasp
which flourishes into a proud, but fading final wave,
to dwindle on the doorstep of my idyllic enclave.
I’m drawn back passed the stacks of hay where memories were laid,
a summer’s kiss, grazing grass, the plough man's lunch,
fresh lemonade!,
landing before Bromley, where the ancient Abbots prayed
and Dancers prance the Horned Parade,
long main street, lined with fortitude, no German shall subdue,
a vibrant vein which pulses patriotic red, white and blue.
Selected friends now appear to become slapped through the crowded craze,
acknowledged by the masses,
enthralled by celebrations phase
passed Bloor the Blacksmith, glowing
whilst employing forged resources,
shodding
nodding horses,
beyond the fabled Buttercross,
[historical preserve]
Tommies on the way to give the Hun what he'll deserve.
As faces etched with hope and faith emerge from every glance,
fears of that, as yet unknown, are repressed by the jubilance,
the village band's melodic march begins to instrument its pride,
raw,
aroused,
ungainly steps, shift to regimented stride,
which troop's long rural arteries to pour from coastal docks,
uncertain waves are crossed amidst the pendulum hammocks,
ticking anxious time away,
toward our unknown end,
bolstered by the spirit of the British we defend.
Called up to the writhing deck, I fear the imminent array,
thrust into the turmoil
we’re showered by the hostile spray.........
Pitter-patters persist, prods and spatters me from trance,
though dull,
the droplets rise above the booms of bruising resonance
to drench the saturation,
soaking overflowing pores,
feeding fungal hunger of accumulating spores.
But, there is no melancholy from persistence of the rains,
natures tears will cleanse these carcasses of poppy stains.
Though incapacitation stops me stemming rodent feast,
they're gnawing ever nearer,
cessation won't be long,
at least.
Then from distant cloaked obscurity
elegance arrives,
a Celtic dancer, skips, revolves, rejuvenates diminished lives as
one by one, she stops to tend, extend compassions hand.
Resurrected from the cause, each ally emanates to stand.
Simple apparitions,
essence pure as time before
their zest was drawn to defend in this devastating war.
"Go my friends, climb embankments,
take your chance to leave this slough,
enact with faith, your final push.
The blisters can not burst you now".
Her movements irresistible, she skims across quagmire,
her captivating curlicue coerces eyes to tire.
Ladened lids lapse lower, till they shield me from the gore,
release is overwhelming.
I just can't live here anymore!
I know not name of angel who endeavoured to engage.
I know that her resilience enabled life till ripe old age.
I'm sitting in my wheelchair, decorated for ‘the day’,
I Remember,
but I see that other memories have gone astray.
Forgotten are those heroes,
who fought and gave their life.
Forgotten is the sacrifice, the pain that was so rife.
Forgotten are the deeds that went beyond expectancy,
so you could live your current lives and be totally free.
Now, all I see is apathy
and so I write this rhyme,
it's aimed at those who can not spare two minutes of 'their' time.
Those renegers of the silence,
it's YOU that this is aimed
and for your utter disrespect you SHOULD BE damned ASHAMED!
As a Mark of respect, on this and every November the 11th. I dedicate this poem to all of those who’ve fought and lived or lost their lives. And to commemorate their memory, there are 1111 words in this Poppy Poem.
“Lest we should forget their sacrifice”.
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Rate this:  
Comment Postyou did it again, Ma
by Bogeyman on Tuesday, November 11, 2008 (13:18:30)
you did it again, Mark! superb writing kept me glued to the screen until the last word, but the images and the message will remain with me now - i'll be coming back to this poem (added to my faves). i'm honored that i'm meeting you tonight in person, my friend! B.
 Added on: 11-Nov-2008 | Hits: 3544 |
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01: StarDust
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