LEST WE FAIL TO REMEMBER - A trilogy

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Maureen K Clifford
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Joined: Tue Nov 09, 2010 10:31 am
Location: Ipswich - Paul Pisasale country and home of the Ipswich Poetry Feast
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LEST WE FAIL TO REMEMBER - A trilogy

Post by Maureen K Clifford » Sat Apr 09, 2011 9:16 am

AGE SHALL NOT WEARY THEM

Old eyes are softly misted with the tears of long remembrances
of years long gone, and dreams long past, of time so long ago.
And yet in every heart there is still a depth of feeling
as they group around the Cenotaph before the mornings glow.

The sad notes of the bugle, linger on the morning air
with an echo, just an echo of the past.
As the flame that glows so brightly, and so steadfastly there
reminds all, of those who gave their very last.

They were brothers, fathers, uncles, cousins, lovers, sons as well.
Each one left a grieving heart behind at home.
And on this day each one of us - we will remember them
and hope their spirits know they're not alone.

For they fought bravely for our country and they fought beneath our flag.
They did it then and they are doing it today.
And each year the aged get fewer and the ranks begin to swell
but it's younger men for whom the bands now play.

But old eyes are softly misted with the tears of long remembrances
as they stand beside the Cenotaph and pray,
for the soldiers who have battled and have died beneath our flag.
They remember young lives lost each Anzac Day.

'Lest we forget ' – are words soft spoken in every RSL
Do we regret? I'm sure they do - those who have heard the deathly knell,
when every day draws them closer to each other.
Be they Father, Uncle, Brother. Son or lover.

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
and never will those living forget to remember them
at the going down of the sun and in the morning
we will remember them, with love at each days dawning..


Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
at the going down of the sun and in the morning
we will remember them.



Maureen Clifford ©



DAY IS DONE Maureen Clifford © 25/04/2010

Day is done, and all my work is finished.
Gone the sun, now evenings creeping in.
From the lakes I hear the wood ducks calling.
From the hills, Corella's nesting din.
From the sky the warmth of sun is fading,
all is well. I'm happy to be free.
Safely rest, carefree until the morning.
God is nigh. He watches over me.

Fading light, as the day fades to darkness.
Dims the sight. But eyes that close can't see.
And a star, is twinkling so brightly.
Gems the sky. Brings memories to me.
Gleaming bright and gold like wattle blossom.
From afar, I glean a memory.
Drawing nigh the comfort of your love Dear.
Falls the night. And all is well with me.

Thanks and praise, to God and all the Angels
for our days so precious on this Earth.
'neath the sun whose warming rays surround us
'neath the stars who once witnessed our birth.
'Neath the sky a blue blanket above us
as we go thankfully about our day,
this we know. That there are those who love us
God is nigh - to him each night I pray.

*****


The original words of The Last Post


Day is done. Gone the sun.
From the lakes. From the hills.
From the sky. All is well.
Safely rest. God is nigh.

Fading light. Dims the sight.
And a star. Gems the sky.
Gleaming bright. From afar.
Drawing nigh. Falls the night.

Thanks and praise. For our days.
Neath the sun Neath the stars.
Neath the sky As we go.
This we know. God is nigh






AFTERMATH


When the bands all cease to play and the last drummers gone home,
on the Cenotaphs sandstone steps sits a man all alone,
with a bottle in his hand and a tear upon his face
in a baggy worn out suit - doesn't he look out of place?

Passers by don't meet his eye, they barely spare him a glance,
thinking just another drunk , one who doesn't have a chance
of being worth a mention in their oh so busy day.
But they cannot see the medals that he has hidden away.

Faded ribbons, tarnished silver that he once wore on his chest.
Now he cannot bear to wear them for the heartache in his breast.
Once he proudly wore the uniform and bravely fought the fight,
but he's now beset by demons that come visiting at night.

He's a fear of enclosed spaces, and a dread of unknown noise
and no longer does he walk the streets with dignity and poise.
He is just a homeless person, one of those down on their luck
and it's only the medication that stops him running amuck.

His dreams are filled with shots and shells and red and flaming flares.
The sobbing of the wounded is more than a man can bear
and the steaming humid jungles and the thick lantana vines
full of snakes and ticks and poison pricks and camouflaged land mines.

The noise, the smells, the screams, the cries are livid in his mind.
He sees the faces of his mates those that he left behind.
He sees his younger brother fall, and that was the last time
that he saw him, for a thrown grenade exploded, made him blind.

He was returned to Aussie shores, but his brother was not.
He lies somewhere in Vietnam in Jungle green and hot,
and to this day his Brothers can recall that final glance
and the grin his Brother gave him. Before loosing his last chance.

So he doesn't march on Anzac day and wears the green no more.
He's the flotsam and the jetson, the sad detritus of war.
And of course he is a hero but that hasn't helped him much
for he's fallen through the cracks it seems..completely out of touch.

And he is just one of many, and no doubt there will be more
shattered souls and lives who find their way back home to Aussie shores.
So though war may make men heroes and we acknowledge their giving,
on Anzac Day honour the dead but fight like hell for the living.

Maureen Clifford ©
Check out The Scribbly Bark Poets blog site here -
http://scribblybarkpoetry.blogspot.com.au/


I may not always succeed in making a difference, but I will go to my grave knowing I at least tried.

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