Every Day is Remembrance Day

A neighbor dropped by this morning. We drank coffee, laughed at the antics of the little guy I baby-sit; fear for our safety never crossed our minds.

To tend with ever-loving care

The splendid little plot

Of loam that I call home-sweet-home

This is a gift, oh God

To serve, not with a heart of greed

But with humility

For you saw fit to spill a bit

Of happiness to me

And not to overlook the joy

Of simple blessedness

That we are free to drink our tea

In peace and quietness

…and in response to those who serve

On front-lines far away

I’ll tend this loam of home-sweet-home

With gratitude each day

© Janet Martin

Just read this poem. In the wake of being reminded of the cost of freedom it spoke in raw newness to me…

Easy Service

When an empty sleeve or a sightless eye

Or a legless form I see,

I breathe my thanks to my God on High

For His watchful care o'er me.

And I say to myself, as the cripple goes

Half stumbling on his way:

I may brag and boast, but that brother knows

Why the old flag floats to-day.

I think as I sit in my cozy den

Puffing one of my many pipes

That I've served with all of my fellow men

The glorious Stars and Stripes.

Then I see a troop in the faded blue

And a few in the dusty gray,

And I have to laugh at the deeds I do

For the flag that floats to-day.

I see men tangled in pointed wire,

The sport of the blazing sun,

Mangled and maimed by a leaden fire

As the tides of battle run,

And I fancy I hear their piteous calls

For merciful death, and then

The cannons cease and the darkness falls,

And those fluttering things are men.

Out there in the night they beg for death,

Yet the Reaper spurns their cries,

And it seems his jest to leave them breath

For their pitiful pleas and sighs.

And I am here in my cosy room

In touch with the joys of life,

I am miles away from the fields of doom

And the gory scenes of strife.

I never have vainly called for aid,

Nor suffered real pangs of thirst,

I have marched with life in its best parade

And never have seen its worst.

In the flowers of ease I have ever basked,

And I think as the Flag I see

How much of service from some it's asked,

How little of toil from me.

Edgar Albert Guest :