Of Hallmarks and Honor

No one but God beholds the field

Where our keen wars are fought

The clash of wrong and right concealed

On battlegrounds of thought

No fellow-soldier cheers us on

Though skirmishes are rough

Our battle is beheld by One

And yet, that is enough

The aftermath of mind-fought wars

Tenders its casualties

Into the crypt of Time before

Immortal victories

No pennants of fair fame applaud

Our fetes fervid and grand

Thought-valor is beheld by God

Our trophy in His hand

For none but He beholds the plain

Where conflicts wage and groan

As demon-enemies are slain

And armies overthrown

The medal of thought-honor gleams

Not from podium or shelf

But as our kind Captain esteems

The battle-ground of self

© Janet Martin

Thank-you Cynthia, for the Old Rugged Cross coaster.

Of Flesh and Blood Compassion (edited re-post)

...when flesh and blood lies bleeding

futile thoughts against the sky

as farewell prayers, gasping and pleading

weep out life's final good-bye

...when freedom’s price is blood-bought

with a brother, daughter, son

our grief is universal

and our teardrops flow as one

...when freedom’s charge is gathered

again…again… again

we see, not their race or color

but simply women, men

With flesh and blood compassion

we implore to God above

to comfort those who deeply sorrow

for the ones they dearly love

When freedom’s price is blood-bought

charted ramparts disappear

for in death we all are kindred

and our sorrow is a tear

© Janet Martin

Is Peace Really Out of Reach?

Is there anything new under the sun?

Will ever we learn how to truly love?

Will ever there be a putting down of gun?

Love’s surest, purest part to prove

Blindly we gaze from north to south

Where autumn glory gilds its span

And while her goodness stuffs our mouths

We turn to slay our fellow-man

Will ever True Love that was spilt

On Calvary from Son of God

Vanquish the horror of our guilt

That seeps blood-red into earth’s sod

Is ever a battle truly won

Of anger, hatred, spite or wrath? 

There are no victors where the gun

Renders its deadly aftermath

Friend, enemy; are we not one

As we lie in a common grave

When our life-battle here is done

And only Love our souls can save?

Will foolish war and bickering

Forever taint this troubled berth

Of Time, ceaseless and quickening

Where love is ever its lone worth?

Is there anything new under the sun?

And will man’s striving ever cease?

Or, is earth the valley of the gun

And Heaven our hope of peace

As tiny droplets form a sea

And golden grains of sand, the beach

Ah, surely one by one thus we

Can form what now seems out of reach…

© Janet Martin

   

Blue-collar Braveheart

Blue-collar brave-heart

He’s got no medals

No badges on his

Coat-sleeve or lapel

Working class warrior

Seeking no glory

Fighting life’s battle

And doing it well

Obscure battalion

Work-force deployment

Picks up the armor

Of shovel or cart

Low-dollar hero

Invisible valor

Witnessed by He

Who sees into the heart

Courageous convoy

Gallant and glorious

Punching the clock

While nobody applauds

Silently sacrificing

Over and over

And over again because

This is love

Blue-collar brave-heart

He’s got no medals

No badges on his

Shirt-sleeve or lapel

Working class warrior

Seeking no glory

Fighting life’s battle

And doing it well

© Janet Martin

Thank-you to all you blue-collar brave-hearts, wherever in the world you are. 

He Tells Me...

He tells me the pizza isn’t ready yet

His accent is heavy…what language? I cannot tell

He tells me the price…

I search for the change to make 58 cents

He tells me not to worry about it

It doesn’t matter, he smiles

Then he tells me about the kids that come in after school; hungry

He asks them what kind of pizza slice they would like

They tell him, ‘we have no money’

He tells me how he likes to give them pizza anyhow, just to see them smile

He tells me again; ‘it doesn’t matter

It’s just money and I have enough to get by’

I tell him, 'those kids will remember you forever'
His voice is husky with emotion as he tells me 'I hope so'

He tells me then, with sudden tone change

I had two once; and a wife

He tells me about the war in Yugoslavia

Poof!  and everything he had was gone

He tells me that life in Canada is good

I ask him about his loss; how long ago?

…and he tells me; long ago, thirteen years

I tell him, but thirteen years isn’t that long

With tears he tells me, no, it isn’t

And he tells me when I ask, his first language was Serbian

His second language was Russian; no good in Canada

He tells me he took six months of English school…

He owns two pizza shops and life in Canada is good

© Janet Martin

this happened a few hours before I wrote this. Yes, it is true.

We Call it...War

They go away

These dear dads

Leaving behind

Little girls with golden curls

And blue-eyed freckled lads

To fight

Other dear dads

Who leave behind

Little girls with golden curls

And blue-eyed freckled lads

We call it war

© Janet Martin

Tonight we (myself, Matt, Victoria and her friend) watched the movie

The Littlest Rebel (Shirley Temple)

‘But how does that help?’ they ask me as they watch soldiers plunder and kill.

‘Mom, how does killing people make things better?

Mom, how can being so mean bring peace?

Mom, why do we have war?

Mom, is war sin?

Where Have All The Flowers Gone?

Etched against the cerulean sky-line

The desolate, burned-out corpses

Of stately walnut tree and stalwart pine

Mark the graves of warriors and horses

The lacy tress of emerald spire

That stroked summer’s lithesome breeze

In cannon-bursts of blood and fire

Are reduced to scorched centuries

Where have all the flowers gone

That nodded in the calm of tranquil wood?

They mark the tombs of daughters, sons

Laid to rest in pools of gifted blood

Where have all the flowers gone

That bloomed too short, before they died?

They rest within the gardens where

Humbler posies bloom with pride…

…upon the graves of heroes lost

Before conceived deliverance

To grace the tombs of freedom’s cost

Nature replies in reverence

© Janet Martin

In the movie War Horse I was struck at how swiftly

verdant beauty and tranquility was reduced to ashes and blood.

Written for: Poetic Bloomings

The Living Dead

Amelia has prayed and pleaded and cried

For somehow the Charlie she knew has died

She holds him close when the dark thunder rolls

There are no words with power to console

Or wipe the scenes from his tormented mind

For where Charlie goes, she remains behind…

The shades are drawn to subdue the daylight

But they cannot shade the mind from his plight

The sun is warm with scent of pinewood

He shivers, inhaling the stench of blood

Lassie waits, eager for Charlie to play

Her master is home, it’s a perfect day

He lifts his arm; suddenly he braces

For the explosion of grenades and faces

Lassie looks back, trying to understand

Why Charlie won’t throw the toy in his hand

But she does not hear the planes distant hum

Or marching feet to the beat of a drum

She cannot see the horror-stricken tears

Of mangled and wounded as gun-smoke clears

Her skin does not ache with memories of blood

Covering the earth in a sickening flood

He cannot see rippling wheat fields, blue skies

Darkened by images burned in his eyes

The woods, once tranquil and sweet with romance

Speak only of fear in his haunted trance

Memories of lying in its cool dark shade

Are frames of terror as history is made

When they told her he made it, Amelia cried

Now she still weeps for her Charlie has died

Janet Martin

http://margoroby.wordpress.com/2011/11/08/painting-poems-tuesday-tryouts/

Somebody's Love.....

He loved his mom’s apple strudel
His eyes were kind and blue
He loved a girl named Caroline
And oh, she loved him too
They were going to be married
As soon as the war was done
And maybe if they were lucky
Someday they would have a son……….

He always loved to play football
Was the high school quarter-back
He didn’t play for a medal
He just played for the love of it
And oh, how he loved his dog, Rover
Man’s best friend was his
Now Rover whimpers every night
And wonders where he is………

He was a generous fellow
He walked the second mile
When everybody else said no
He did it with a smile
But nobody knows his attributes
As he lies in the bloody snow
They’ve come to gather the fallen dead
…..here lies another John Doe

Beneath each cross in Flanders’ Field
Beneath the sound of a gun
Beneath the weapon or the shield
Is somebody's dear son
Beneath the watchful eye above
The dying fallen lie
Oh, pray for they are somebody’s love
…….for you and yours they die

Janet~
'son' is a generic term here.......
We pray for all the sons and daughters!