.
Today is Veteran’s Day.
the little girl
and her doll
among the veterans
--(from November Nuggets, 2003).
Veterans Day
so many of them marching
behind the flag”
--(from Connecting Our Houses).
some have returned
carrying war’s pieces
like shrapnel
--(from The Last Windfall Pear, 2011).
crisp autumn winds--
praise all veterans who fought
for our liberty
--(from Before The Frost, 2005).
Lastly in this section, a cinquain:
REMEMBERING.
On this
Veteran’s Day,
I think of two uncles
who served: Rolla—Marines; and Bud--
Navy.
--(from November Cinquains, 2021).
One year, early in this century,
when Poets Roundtable of Arkansas met monthly on second Saturdays, the meeting
fell on November 11. Whether or not we each brought a poem to read, or whether
we had a contest each month—that detail has escaped me. BUT I did write a poem
that I took to the meeting that month. Written as early as it was it does not
include many of the last two decades’ wars. Slashes mean new lines; paragraphs
mean new stanzas.
A SALUTE. “It’s Veterans Day,
and in my mind/ I see the flags and guns aligned,/ parading down the
thoroughfare,/ cheers and chanting everywhere.
With wholeness gone, but proud
and free,/ from wheelchair, an amputee/ waves tearfully, perhaps through pain,/
and hopes it was not all in vain,/ his sacrifice.
Memories, still vivid, swirl,/
blitzing those who served at Pearl;/ The Rangers now, though all old men,/
smile proudly as they think again/ of Normandy.
Gunner’s mates, ensigns and
chiefs/ remember all their various griefs/ and hells, awaking still to screams/
of slogging through the swamp in dreams/ of Vietnam.
Returned to glorious accolades,/
the troops of Desert Storm parade,/ proud of their work in blinding sands/
defending Kuwait’s borderlands/ on Persia’s Gulf.
And in my mind’s projection
room/ I hear the drum’s resounding boom,/ reminding me of sacrifice,/ of pain
and death; the awesome price/ of freedom.” (published in the Hot Springs
Sentinel-Record, November 10, 2001).
Finally, the John McCrae poem
written in May 1915, IN FLANDERS FIELDS:
“In Flanders fields the poppies
blow/ Between the crosses, row on row,/ That mark our place, and in the sky/
the larks, still bravely singing, fly/ Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago/
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,/ Loved and were loved, and now we lie/ In
Flanders fields./
Take up our quarrel with the
foe:/ To you from failing hands we throw/ The torch; be yours to hold it high./
If ye break faith with us who die/ We shall not sleep, though poppies grow/ In
Flanders fields.”
God bless our veterans.
