Today we eschewed the biscuit in favour of the poppy as inspiration.
War by Jegan
As we remember, those who to be frank, gave everything.
Not just their lives but their futures too.
Who is this message addressed to anyway? Survivors?
Is there a goal in War?
Poppy by Olly
The poppy used to symbolise
The death of Tommy and his demise,
But also grown in far of lands,
For uses that are not so grand.
The history is quite ying and yang,
As England's where it all began.
The Victorians greed for laudanum,
Now mass produced in Afghanistan,
Where we fight the Taliban.
Ironically used to represent
The men who died in Flanders,
The soldiers and commanders.
This beautiful flower,
Has so much power,
To evoke feelings of patriotism,
And the misery of addiction,
Which is no joke.
Why Me? by Terry
Why should I go abroad to die?
Why should I sacrifice my life for a lie?
Why should I travel that far to breathe my last?
Why should I fight those who have never been defeated in the past?
A man who never wanted to kill,
A man who could just about pay his gas bill,
Leave me alone, my life to fulfill,
After all the enemy bore me no ill,
Aren't they humans after all?
Why fight one another at someone's will?
Give a thought to those at home,
Love ones and children left alone.
Soldier by Peter
If I were to die
would you think this of me
that here a piece of me may lie
blown on a wave of heat and dust
because I stepped so daintily,
so gingerly upon an IED.
When I come to die
will you think this of me
that here the heart of me may lie
as my swathed and belted body breaks and splits apart
because when you and all of yours depart,
these mountains and this swamp are still my country.
In the Name of ...... by Shan
When a soldier fires his gun,
the deed has already been done,
the lazy greed of grasping MPs,
in their will that has been decreed.
The snivelling faceless pushers at the MOD,
blood spilt flows from their pens,
the heroic troops sweating out their lives,
worthless apologetic letters can never make amends.
As our men wearily tread in a combative dance,
those in power recline in blissful ignorance,
for their country the lionhearted risk life, future and limb,
their deaths appear as numbers on a cheap piece of newsprint.
A No Go Area by Jamie
The blood stained mud that clung to my boots
and the stench of human decay
bits and pieces of soldiers, all good,
around me lay.
Such sorrow and pain, and my heavy heart,
their emotions now all gone,
the faces of my comrades in arms
so sad, so forlorn.
I do not wish to feel or understand
the death and destruction that covers the land
nor a wish and a prayer from a dying man's lips.
What has happened to humanity? I'd say it has flipped.
Contemplating Remembrance Sunday Lunch by Jo
As I sit, squashed in, bottom numb on the hard pew
My mind wanders; thoughts of lunch, gravy browning, potatoes too few?
The sombre tones of an army cadet break through my reverie,
Her voice honours the names of the dead unapologetic, deafeningly.
"1914: Large, Herbert; Crabb, Thomas; Browning, Arthur; Large, Alfred."
"1915: Potts, George; Large, George; Smith, James; Large, Bill."
The Large family mourned a loss too huge to comprehend,
Four vital sons, left dead on battlefields, an agonising end.
How their mother coped with her pain, I wish I knew,
Did her thoughts wander to gravy browning, potatoes and sons too few?