[align=center]Diogonese
(Die-odg-o-knees)

Diogonese always worked,
A Soldier, a Sailor, an Airman,
For Queen and Country.
One day tossed aside,
A wound, Mental? Physical?
Pensioned off, sacked.
Down scaling.

He knows no other life,
Guided, pushed and driven.
Only now, loneliness darkens,
around him.
The Politicians have finished,
Cheque mate, pawns discarded.
Just give him his dog and rope,
Stick and bag.

Let him tramp the streets,
Embalmed in the thoughts,
Of who he is,
Was,
Or might be?[/align]

This is based on the D Day Dodgers a song and parody of Lily Marlene from the last World War about the invasions in Italy.



[align=center]The Iraq Dodgers (Sing to Lily Marlene)

We’re the Iraq Dodgers
Out in Afghani,
Always on the Vino
Always on a spree,
Is that what you all do think of us?
A holiday, without a fuss,
Cos we’re the Iraq Dodgers out in Afghani.

Mr Blair you sent our boys
Out on combat tour,
Half the boys you sent,
Don’t know what, they’re fighting for,
Then bullets fly right over head,
There’s some alive and some boys dead,
We’re Artful Iraq Dodgers, In sunny Afghani.

The food is crap, just like the digs,
Why are we all here?
We’d rather be at home,
In Blighty with warm beer,
But no instead we’re here on tour,
We’re fighting a forgotten war,
We’re flamin Iraq Dodgers, in flamin Afghani.

We fight a war we did not choose,
The terms we did not make,
We’re now page twelve in last weeks’ news,
Oh for heavens sake,
When will this war decide to end?
It’s driving us around the bend,
We’re traumatised old Dodgers in dear old Afghani.

We’ve been hear o’er five years
And we didn’t catch Saddam,
That was left to those
In the Country near Iran,
We’re in a Country far away,
It’s good to see, but not to stay,
We’re long forgotten Dodgers in barren Afghani.

So when the time arrives
And it’s time to go on leave,
We look at one another
And what did we achieve?
Then on the transport fly back home,
With wife and kids, we’re free to roam,
We’re lucky Iraq Dodgers from war torn Afghani.

The leave is up, we must go back,
To our daily job,
Fighting for World Peace,
Only earning half a bob,
Then on a plane out to Baghdad,
Its war again we feel quite sad,
We’re not so Iraq Dodgers,

We’re not in Afghani[/align]

[align=center]Lacking

The attack went in,
Taliban Stronghold.
Tracer flew,
Like swarms of fire trailing Hornets,
Buzzing, Zipping,
Stinging.

“Re- group”, a withdrawal called.
Head Count.
One Missing.
“Who saw him last?” A decision,
Made from camaraderie, not monetary gain.

Brave men, strapped to the wings
Of a Warrior War Bird,
Searching for the lost one.
They swoop, this Heroic flock
And raise their fallen Brother.

Actions of true friends and comrades
Over come the instinct of
Self preservation and fear.
The Adversity thrown at them, flung aside.
For the sake of a man,
And his Family[/align]

[align=center]‘Of Course’

Are the Military under strength?
‘Of Course’
Are the Military under equipped?
‘Of Course’
Are the Military fighting wars for no reason?
‘Of Course’
Are you blinkered?
‘Of Course’
Eyes closed?
‘Of Course’
Being subdued? In your place?
‘Of Course’

“Of Course, Of Course
My Kingdom
For
Of Course.”[/align]

[align=center]Recruitment

In a time of war, as we are starting to know,
We see more adverts that appear on show,

To call up brave men and send them away,
A hope they come back, not be burried where they stay.

But in the present day, in wars not of our choosing,
The Recruiters are really struggling in a battle they’re loosing.

In days of old and years gone by, if men were not too willing,
The ‘Press Gangs’ used to get them drunk and accept the old King’s Shilling.

Is this what’s going to happen, when the services get too short,
To conscript our men, just like Vietnam and send to a Foreign port?

Once they’ve been conscripted and sent to a hostile shore,
Like Basra or Helmand to fight someone else’s war.

What is going to happen, have you stopped and thought,
To all our brave Servicemen on return to a British Port?

They leave the Service that they served, so strong and oh so loyal,
With a handshake and a screwed up mind, for all their years of toil.

So now you need to look, at all the reasons why,
The Services can’t recruit and the source is running dry,

Because young men who cannot see, a World without its cares,
Will end up in an institute, with problems no one shares.

For when the Government shouts, “Conscript,” because they’re in a fret,
Open your eyes and remember,
An Offensive planned for Tet.[/align]

[align=center]Soldier Soul

“Purvey me your soul”,
The Devil Cried,
To a war torn and down trodden Warrior,
“We’ll descend through the Earth,
An insidious place,
Much deeper than any old Collier”.

Looked up from the ground,
The young Soldier did,
Looked him firm and square in the eye,
“I’ve done no wrong,
Just done as I’m told
And I’ll not visit you and fry”.

The Devil looked back,
A pervasive glance,
Said, “You’ll come with me it’s your time”.
“We’ll plunge to the core,
To my sizzling lounge
And there you’ll pay for your crime”.

A cool, subtle retort,
Came from the young man,
“I’m not the reason you came”.
“In a place just like this,
Ubiquitous, you are
And you’re looking for someone to blame”.

“Blame?” He replied,
“No not on your life,
I’m looking for someone to praise”.
“He’s an equal to me,
As black as can be,

“Whoever he is,
He‘s done a good job,
Of embroiling himself in this war”.
“With reasons that are,
So way above me,
So why? Even I’m not sure”.

The Soldier rang back,
“No neither am I,
I was sent here, my job is to fight,
I do as I’m told,
Day in and Day out,
I don’t reason what’s wrong and what’s right”.

“Well you’re not the one,
I’m looking for”,
The riposte made the Soldier relax,
“There are much bigger fish,
Out there to get snagged,
In the boiling pot, now that’s Iraq”.

“So what is your name?”
The Devil asked boy,
“It’s George, I’m a Patron Saint,
“And the reason I’m here,
Is to defend against you,
The Soldiers whose names that you taint”.

The Devil’s jaw dropped,
An exchange then ensued,
A Battle of Pure Good ‘gainst Pure Evil.
With no weapons drawn,
Just colloquy and chat,
Between George and a fed up old Devil.

When they came to the end,
A decision was made,
About who would make Hell’s extradition.
Not the Soldiers at all,
Though they fight and they fall,
It must be, A War Monger,
Politician.[/align]

Some great poems in here. If you are interested in poems/poetry and in helping people (especially forces or ex forces), have a look at our sites at www.ForcesPoetry.com and www.ForcesStories.com. We publish all stories and poems you send in and are written by you, (as long as they are not racist etc).

My Nan passed away in October 2008 and my Grandfather in October 2006. He was a member of the Royal Norfolk Regiment.
Whilst sorting out some of their photos and momentos, I came across this poem written on the back of an old photo dated 17 July 1913.

A Childs Prayer for a Father

God bless and keep my Daddy safe
Wherever he may be
And when this dreadful war is over
Please bring him back to me.

God bless all soldier Daddies
Who have little mites like me
And if they cannot all come home
Please take them home to Thee.

Cracking poem 1200max, short but very sweet.

Originally Posted by schweik

And then there is this excellent WW1 poem by Gilbert Frankau:

HOW RIFLEMAN BROWN CAME TO VALHALLA


To the lower Hall of Valhalla, to the heroes of no renown,
Relieved from his spell at the listening-post, came Rifleman Joseph Brown.
With never a rent in his khaki nor smear of blood on his face,
He flung his pack from his shoulders, and made for an empty place.

The Killer-men of Valhalla looked up from the banquet-board
At the unfouled breech of his rifle, at the unfleshed point of his sword;
And the unsung dead of the trenches, the kings who have never a crown,
Demanded his pass to Valhalla from Rifleman Joseph Brown.

"Who comes, unhit, to the party?" A one-legged Corporal spoke,
And the gashed heads nodded approval through the rings of the Endless Smoke:
"Who comes for the beer and the Woodbines of the never-closed Canteen,
With the barrack-shine on his bayonet and a full-charged magazine?"

Then Rifleman Brown looked round him at the nameless men of the Line -
At the wounds of the shell and the bullet, at the burns of the bomb and mine;
At the tunics, virgin of medals but crimson-clotted with blood,
At the ankle boots and the puttees, caked stiff with the Flanders mud;
At the myriad short Lee-Enfields that crowded the rifle-rack,
Each with its blade to the sword-boss brown, and its muzzle powder-black:

And Rifleman Brown said never a word; yet he felt in the soul of his soul
His right to the beer of the lower Hall, though he came to drink of it, whole;
His right to the fags of the free Canteen, to a seat at the banquet-board,
Though he came to the men who had killed their man, with never a man to his sword.

"Who speaks for the stranger Rifleman, O boys of the free Canteen?
Who passes the chap with the unmaimed limbs and the kit that is far too clean?"
The gashed heads eyed him above their beers, the gashed lips sucked at their smoke:
There were three at the board of his own platoon, but not a man of them spoke.

His mouth was made for the tankard froth and the biting whiff of a fag,
But he knew that he might not speak for himself to the dead men who do not brag.
A gun-butt crashed on the gateway, a man came staggering in;
His head was cleft with a great red wound from the temple-bone to the chin,
His blade was dyed to the bayonet-boss with the clots that were scarcely dry;
And he cried to the men who had killed their man:
"Who passes the Rifleman? I!
By the four I slew, by the shell I stopped, if my feet be not too late,
I speak the word for Rifleman Brown that a chap may speak for his mate."

The dead of lower Valhalla, the heroes of dumb renown,
They pricked their ears to a tale of the earth as they set their tankards down.



"My mate was on sentry this evening when the General happened along
And asked what he'd do in a gas-attack,. Joe told him:
'Beat the gong.'
'What else?'
'Open fire, Sir,' Joe answered.
'Good God, man,' our General said,
'By the time you'd beaten that bloodstained gong the chances are you'd be dead.
Just think, lad.' 'Gas helmet, of course, Sir.' 'Yes, damn it, and gas helmet first.'
So Joe stood dumb to attention, and wondered why he'd been cursed."

The gashed heads turned to the Rifleman, and now it seemed that they knew
Why the face that had never a smear of blood was stained to the jawbones, blue.
"He was posted again at midnight." The scarred heads craned to the voice,
As the man with the blood-red bayonet spoke up for the mate of his choice.
"You know what it's like in a listening-post, the Very candles aflare,
Their bullets smacking the sand-bags, our Vickers combing your hair,
How your ears and your eyes get jumpy, till each known tuft that you scan
Moves and crawls in the shadows till you'd almost swear it was man;
You know how you peer and snuff at the night when the North-East gas-winds blow."
"By the One who made us and maimed us" quoth lower Valhalla "we know!"

"Sudden, out of the blackness, sudden as Hell, there came
Roar and rattle of rifles, spurts of machine-gun flame;
And Joe stood up in the forward sap to try and get on to the game.
Sudden, their shells come screaming; sudden, his nostrils sniff
The sickening reek of the rotten pears, the death that kills with a whiff.
Death! and he knows it certain, as he bangs on his cartridge-case,
With the gas-cloud's claws at his windpipe and the gas cloud's wings on his face . . .
We heard his gong in our dug-out, he only whacked on it twice,
We whipped our gas-bags over our heads, and manned the step in a trice -
For the cloud would have caught us as sure as Fate if he'd taken the Staff's advice."

His head was cleft with a great red wound from the chin to the temple-bone,
But his voice was clear as a sounding gong, "I'll be damned if I'll drink alone,
Not even in lower Valhalla! Is he free of your free Canteen,
My mate who comes with the unfleshed point and the full-charged magazine?"

The gashed heads rose at the Rifleman o'er the rings of the Endless Smoke,
And loud as the roar of a thousand guns Valhalla's answer broke,
And loud as the crash of a thousand shells their tankards clashed on the board:
"He is free of the mess of the Killer-men, your mate of the unfleshed sword;
For we know the worth of his deed on earth; as we know the speed of the death
Which catches its man by the back of the throat and gives him water for breath;
As we know how the hand at the helmet-cloth may tarry seconds too long,
When the very life of the front-line trench is staked on the beat of a gong.
By the four you slew, by the case he smote, by the gray gas-cloud and the green,
We pass your mate for the Endless Smoke and the beer of the free Canteen."

In the lower hall of Valhalla, with the heroes of no renown,
With our nameless dead of the Marne and the Aisne, of Mons, and of Wipers town,
With the men who killed ere they died for us, sits Rifleman Joseph Brown.

The best poem i have ever read is there any more of his works online i cant find any