# Remembrance Day Poem/Story



## Rice0031 (9 Nov 2006)

I didn't write this, I read it on a website I frequent. I thought I'd share it with you all.

Remembrance Day
The average age of the Canadian military man is 19 years. He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his country. He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father's; but he has never collected unemployment either.

He's a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student,
pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy,
and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left,
or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.

He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and 155mm howitzer. He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home
because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk.
He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark.

He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must. He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional. He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is told to march. He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity. He is self-sufficient.

He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry. He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts.

If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food. He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.

He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job.

He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay and still find ironic humour in it all.

He has seen more suffering and death then he should have in his short lifetime.He has stood atop mountains of dead bodies, and helped to create them.

He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed. He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'square-away' those around him who haven't bothered to stand,
remove their hat, or even stop talking.



In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful. Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather,
he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the Canadian Fighting Man that has kept this country free.

He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding.
Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.

And now we even have woman over there in danger, doing their part in this tradition of going to War when our nation calls us to do so.

As you go to bed tonight, remember this shot..
A short lull, a little shade and a picture of loved ones in their helmets
--anon


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## Boogilywoo (9 Nov 2006)

My name shouldnt be at the bottom. I did not write this, I just recieved it in an email and passed it on.


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## mainerjohnthomas (9 Nov 2006)

The Long March Home

Innocence lost in the blink of an eye,
dreams died with friends in the fire.
Escape alone from the wreckage of his shattered tank,
alone save the screams of the lost.
In the flames burned the boy who dreamed of his home,
in the flames forged the soul of the man.
A new tank, a new crew, to the old hell return
the Grenadier Guard's rolling home!

Somehow in the cannon's roar,
in the sharply barked commands,
In the madness of the dance of death
he was never more alive!

Come home to a land now strange to him,
to a folk who do not know
What hell awaits when he close his eyes,
save the nights in loves embrace.
Freya's gift is forgetfulness;
thus her half of the slain is earned.
For those souls that have walked on the battlefield,
know a part of you doesn't return.

Sons follow fathers, and grandsons too,
each walk for a time in the fire.
Glory and horror, friendship and fear,
leave their marks on the ones who survive.

Gather them now in the Legion hall,
an echo of Odin's own.
They come to remember the men that they were,
and the brothers who've passed beyond.
To drink and laugh, to boast or play,
with eyes that too have seen;
For those who've seen the wolf called war,
are home only with their own.

When comes the time the Valkyries ride,
to bring the lost ones home.
To reclaim the souls that marched from the field
Odin call the survivors home!


This poem is dedicated to my Grandfather, Benjamin Mainer, who has rejoined his
comrades in Valhalla, and my father James, whose march is not yet done.


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## Wynne (11 Nov 2006)

Silence

Here I stand before you all,
a tear falling down my cheek.
For us you did finally fall,
peace I know you now seek.

I look on you with weary eyes,
in Flanders fields the poppies blow.
I see as each life lives and dies,
between the crosses, row on row.

I stand here and remember,
each thought is now of you.
How you never wished to surrender,
remaining are solemn few.

I hear your words, my heart yields,
loved, and were loved, and now we lie.
In Flanders fields,
our souls cry.

Your care fought for us as our shield,
we shall not sleep, though poppies grow.
In Flanders fields,
I feel your woe.

The silence lingers ever more,
in the shadows of this place.
Thus I'm hurt unto my core,
I give to you your last embrace.

Thank you all for your lives,
to let me walk this earth.
I remember as my world thrives,
from the moment of my birth.​
*I wrote this poem a few years ago for a school assignment.  The highlighted words taken from the poem "In Flanders Fields" by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae.  And I think it only fitting that this great poem be posted here.*

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.​


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## Paul Gagnon (11 Nov 2006)

I just wrote this. It probably doesn't deserve to be with the others but I wanted to share anyway. 

As I sit here in my warm house staring out the window at the falling snow and reflect upon the sacrifices made by so many I can't help but think that but for war I would not exist. I owe my life to you who have gone to war, not for saving the world from evil but because I am your grandchild. Not just the grandchild of the parents of my parents but the grandchild of my brothers. The feeling I had when buttoning my tunic was not pride in myself but pride in following your footsteps. Thank you.


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## larry Strong (11 Nov 2006)

Don't know who wrote it:



They ask for 60 seconds once a year and that is all,
When we will recognize them, those who stood so brave and tall.

They spent their 60 seconds, all in fear and all in pain,
those horrific 60 seconds spent for freedom we would gain.

60 seconds took so long as he watched his buddy die,
60 seconds for a nurse who knew she had to try.
60 seconds went so fast as the bombs came pouring in,

Only 60 seconds to find courage from within.
Another 60 seconds and he would face his greatest fear.

Those endless 60 seconds as the wives waited to hear,

They asked for 60 seconds so we'd know the price they paid,
when they spent their 60 seconds and in hell our freedom made.

They asked for 60 seconds once a year and that is all,
to stand in peace-filled silence and hear the bugle call.


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## ameliat (11 Nov 2006)

I just read a poem the other day that i sort of forgot about. I remember taking it in school in about grade eight(and that wasn't yesterday haha).It is called "Why Wear A Poppy?". It is a very sad poem but also a very nice poem


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## ameliat (11 Nov 2006)

Poem

"Why wear a Poppy?"

"Please wear a Poppy", the lady said,
And held one forth, but I shook my head,
Then I slopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.
A boy came whistling down the street.
Bouncing along on care-free feet.
His smile was full of joy and fun,
"Lady" said he, "may I have one?"
When she'd pinned it on, he turned to say:
"Why do we wear a Poppy to-day?"
The lady smiled in her wistful way
And answered: "This is Remembrance Day",
"And the Poppy there is a symbol for
The gallant men who died in the war".
"And because they did, you and I are free 
That's why we wear a Poppy you see".
I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
"He loved to play and jump and shout.
Free as a bird, he would race about.
As the years went by, he learned and grew,
And became a man-as you will, too".
"He was fine and strong, with a boyish smile.
But he'd seemed with us such a little while
When war broke out and he went away.
I still remember his face that day.
When he smiled at me and said good-bye.
I'll be back soon, Mum, so please don't cry"
But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
"His letters told of the awful fight
(I can see it still in my dreams at night)
With the tanks and guns and the cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and the fire".
"Till at last, at last, the war was won -
And that's why we wear a Poppy, son".
The small boy turned as if to go.
Then said: "Thanks, lady I'm glad to know.
"That sure did sound like an awful fight.
But your son - did he come back alright?"
A tear rolled down each faded cheek;
She shook her head, but didn't speak.
I slunk away In a sort of shame.
And if you were me, you'd have done the same;
For our thanks, in giving, is oft delayed,
Though our freedom was bought - and thousands paid;
And so, when we see a Poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country's call
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a Poppy! Remember - and give!

Home  Click here to  this page.


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## mainerjohnthomas (11 Nov 2006)

Hail the Einherjar (Valliant Dead)

Who answered the call to arms,
but cannot answer now,
Who never broke the faith,
with those they left behind
.
Raise a voice to praise them
who matchless would not yield
Raise a glass to toast them
who died upon the field
.
Raise your children for them
speak of the dreams they had
Raise their hands to honour those
Who rest with the Battle-glad
.
Now the roll is called out,
"Sir, they do not answer"
Raise your voice to shout out
Their names we will remember!


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## Buschgirl427 (28 Nov 2006)

this is something I wrote for a quick history exercise to sum up what total war encompasses.

The War at Home

The waiting in line,
To get our food,
No cookies or goodies for me.
My Mother always said 
"Waste not want not"
So no extra rations were sought.

My Daddy's away, 
I hear Mommy say,
All the time he's fighting for peace.
Once all is done, and
Provisions are won,
My Daddy may see again,
His son.

I see the war, 
It's everywhere,
The battles 'cross the globe,
They talk of the Germans,
The Russians, the Brits....
All nations are feeling effects of the hits.
 :warstory:


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