The Poetry of a Sappers War.

June. 1944/2004
What follows is dedicated to all those young Sappers that never came home.

I am Ex Sapper Guy, lately of 246 Field Company Royal Engineers. A unit of the Third British Infantry Division; Monty’s Ironsides.

From the Fields of Normandy I bring back many memories.
Beneath them. I leave many friends,

For they are;

Les Fleurs de Normandie.

On Norman soil, they fought and died.
Now young men's graves in rows abound.
In Mother Earth's arms, now sanctified,
The fragrant flowers of our youth are found.

And yet, to rise again, as in a distant song.
Small voices that call, in dead of night.
Fleeting figures only in our dreams belong.
Alas, they fade, in dawn's bright light.

I see them yet, a sad, forgotten throng.
Shadowed, lost faces, marching on.
Over dusty roads, and high golden corn.
The call of long lost friends are borne.

We must not forget, the flowers of our days,
Lest they lay unquiet, in numbered graves.
For we lived, and loved, and life was sweet.
Still yet, for us, awaits our last retreat.

Flowers of our youth, now long since past.
Our sweet autumn days are fading fast.
We, who are left, flowered in our prime.
Enjoyed golden moments, on borrowed time.

Remember our friends, who passed this way.
For all our tomorrow's, they gave their today's,
On Utah and Omaha, Juno, Sword and Gold.
Oh! Dear Lord! See that they grow not old.

Poetry or verse? If Sapper has something worth while to add to thus thread...Why Not?

Quietly! Quietly! Whisper my Name.

So many long years ago I died, under Norman apple trees.
But now my Spirit wanders, as a warm and gentle breeze.
Hush! Quietly, Whisper my name, in that long forgotten place.
Then feel the warmth of my Spirit, caress lightly on your face.

For now, I am the jewelled Summer Lark, that soars on high.
Bright in heavens concert hall, my song will fill the sky.
I am the tumbling cloud’s that rise, to touch the face of Joy.
No longer held by earthly bonds, a once young and vital boy.

In an instant life was swept away, in a brutal savage war.
Look not for me in Normandy, for I am there no more.
I am the peace in woodland glades, in veiled cascades of green.
Feel me close, in your times of joy, sensed, but never seen.

Whisper my name, and hear my voice, in cascading woodland spring,
Or England's flowered primrose banks, wherein the bluebells ring.
Don’t mourn for me, quietly call my name, I'll visit in your dreams.
And, fill your mind with the beauty, of heavens joyous scenes.

Hush! Hush! Just whisper, quietly, call my name.
Whisper quietly.

Brian Guy. (Swordman)
For all our Friends of long ago.
any more then swordman ????
Should anyone go back to Normandy.... Try listening early on a Summers morn.....
Can you hear anything. No distant sounds. No faint rumble of guns? No voices calling? Or have the Echo's of war now died down beyond our hearing??

Summer days in June.

Do ghostly battles still rage across
The green misty fields of France?
And if we listen ever closely now?
hear the sounds of their advance.

Do the ghosts of British infantry,
Still in open battle order march?
Was that a man’s last despairing
scream, across the river marsh?

All at once; a hot steel splinter,
A quick sudden spurt of blood!
Flesh flayed down to ivory bone,
Soaks the blood bespattered mud.

In that quiet moment of early dawn,
The sound of war, now echo far away.
Hear the wounded lonely voices call?
Cries that linger, another summer day

And yet in this quiet lonely moment,
When all of natures voice came still,
Across the ripe swaying corn fields,
The Bocage! where we came to kill.

Can you still hear the guns of Normandy?
But that was long ago, in the distant past,
The loss of friends, when we were young,
May their memory forever last.

Sapper Brian. December 2004

bravo swordman.
Normandy. 6th of June. 1944
Hermanville sur mer Church. The broken Church Bells rang out on D. Day.
The first joyous Bells of freedom to ring out in France since the Nazi occupation. Oddly enough, I do have a tape recording of the Hermanville Church as it was then, and as it is now. Given me by my old mates Jacques and Colette of Hermanville......

"Freedoms Bells".
Veterans! Now that we are old and frail.
Our gift of Freedom, still prevails.
On Englands green and pleasant land
No foreign troops have laid their hand
Listen! Hear the Bells of Hermanville?
We who fought there, hear them still.

Across the years, our memories saved.
Of fine young men, who's lives they gave.
No song of lark, there, in darkened sky.
In front of Caen, we all came to die.
In high golden corn, our wounded fell.
Then burned to death, for Freedoms Bell.

Pegasus Bridge, came under fierce attack.
Our friends are dead, No! don't look back.
Listen? Is that the English Bells we hear?
From across the sea, to drown our fear?
For Mother Earth claims those that fall.
With soft Norman earth, to cover all.

For what lay ahead, fear gripped my soul.
For the guns must be paid, a human toll.
Pounded in our Norman orchard here,
While men went mad, and died from fear.
Tell me? is that the call of Freedoms Bell?
Or is it the harsh strident chimes of Hell?

Time will not heal, the wounds of soul.
Nor still the Bells of Freedoms toll.
For young men that died, are waiting yet.
Across the years, their hands outstretch.
"Forget me not, just speak my name.
And call me back, from where I've lain".

For Freedoms grace, is valiant won.
Fought for, by Brothers, Fathers, Son.
Unfurl the flag, that they died to save.
Then fly it high, and recall the brave.
Now Freedoms Bells, are muted, still.
Our hopes and dreams are not fulfilled.

On darkened, late, Mid-summers night.
With restless dreams, before dawns light.
Familiar faces gather, call my name.
Come! for Freedoms Bell, lets fight again!
Then into battle, with troubled dreams.
Watch men die, scream, curse, blaspheme.

For we, who are old, the guns still roar.
And long forgotten, young voices call.
Searching mortars, for humans seek.
To maim and kill, and wounding's wreak.
Hear the screams of men, in mortal pain?
Are those the Bells? That dread refrain?

Now, Freedoms Bells no longer ring.
The debts not paid, and greed is King.
We, still live the years of mighty deeds.
And grieve for our fallen, our wounded bleed.
Who will ring the Bell of Freedoms song?
When we are gone? When we are gone?

Brian Guy.
Sapper! Veteran! Old Buffer!
246 Field Company R.E. Eighth Brigade.
Third British Infantry Division.
Monty’s Ironsides
Getting away from the war. Lets write something amusing.

Skin is such intriguing stuff! On girls it's smooth, on men it's rough.
It covers us from head to toe, keeps out the rain, and dirt, and fluff.
Some of it grows hairy bits, that sprout in the most unusual places.
For skin stretches as we grow, and wrinkles! Specially on our faces!

Skin covers those funny things, that most men keep in their trousers.
Women need it to cover, and hold in place, the secret bits that bounces!
Skin can itch where you cannot scratch, and drives you up the wall.
But then! it serves to keep us all together, if we should have a fall.

Without our skin we'd all fall down, like a crumpled ball of rags,
Then we'd have to carry ourselves around, in several plastic bags.
There are some skins that are nice to touch, just above girl's knees!
For female skin has a delightful feel, and fill men's hearts with glee

Women paint their skin with brushes, and colour their lips bright red.
In the morning men have to shave their skin, before they can be fed.
Ladies skin is silky smooth, scented stuff, and covers their lovely shapes.
While men's skin can be hairy all over, and makes them look like apes.

But the cleverest bit men's skin can do, is to expand ten times it's size.
Sadly, I cannot let you see this! for it would open wide your eyes.
Skin can be silky smooth when young, yet sag in our older age.
Think! What fun, if we had a zipper, to undo this skin, our cage!

Skin is found all round the World, and in different colours too,
White, Black and Brown, and Yellow, and sometimes even Blue.
For that is in the Winter time! When the temperature is very low.
For then skin comes up in goose pimples, when the icy blasts do blow.

I wish! I wish! I could have nice new skin, for mine is getting old.
The hairs that sprout all over it, are now no longer, young and gold.
But then, one must not complain, it's has kept me warm for years.
And in that time it's sad to say, it has contained! far too many beers.

Now it's stretched and showing its age, with wrinkles all around.
Now there are brown patches on my skin, many that I've found!
What I need to buy, is some brand new skin, just enough for my face.
But the trouble is, the older bits inside, will still be there in place!

Brian's educational and very sensible poems.
Excellent Sir, I've read all of your posts but never commented.

Unfortunately I'm not a Sapper but from an Infanteer you are inspirational. I hope you had a brilliant Christmas and New Year mate.



(PS - Keep up the writing!)
Now for you married men....Or those trying to impress someone very dear to you?
This little poem may well earn you some "Brownie points" from your better half.

Love is!
Love is the unexpected kiss upon my cheek.
A squeeze of hand with no need to speak.
The smiles that only we two can share.
The knowing glance that my soul lays bare.
Her hectic bustle when the work is done.
Her pleasant word for everyone.
Love is
Heaven in her laugh, like silver bells.
The comradeship, that within us dwells.
Her patience shown, when times are dire.
While her beauty sets my heart on fire!
Without her now, I'd be lost, alone.
Desolate, barren, with heart of stone.
Love is
This gentle Lady who lights my life.
And soothes my anger when all is strife.
Warm gentle cuddles in each other's arms.
She overwhelms me with her charms.
But her greatest asset in my book!
This darling girls a smashing cook.

Brian Guy.
December Year Two Thousand.
quality swordman, quality.
A long time ago I happened to see an old woman that promtpted me to write this.....
Perhaps you know someone like it? What ever, Even though I wrote it, it still makes me grin...
If you do know someone that fits the bill, let me know..... Even bigger grin!

The Little old Lady!

I am a little old lady, with grey fag ash all down my skirt.
Some folks call me Mary, but then, my real name should be Bert.
I wear old fashioned knickers, but the worn lace keeps falling off.
My chin is blue and stubbly, and I have a chronic smokers cough.

I have a beer pot belly, and suspenders, to hang my stockings on.
The bloody belt slips under my paunch, and my air supply is gone.
Thick red hairs grow from out my nose, as stiff as a bristle brush,
On my face a large bulbous nose, bright red, with boozers flush.

My legs sprout thick black hairs, that sheer stockings cannot hide.
My best petticoats are all a dirty grey, and ride up my backside.
The lipstick smeared, can’t get it right, half way down my cheek.
To make matters worse, my only dress, of stale beer urine reeks.

I’ve tried so hard to find a size fourteen, dainty pair of courts.
Till then I’ll have to wear, the huge knee length boots I bought.
I’m sure I’ll look so beautiful, in my new skimpy mini skirt
But the trouble is, that under the hem, hangs my flannel shirt.

Perhaps I’ll buy nice a new wig, with ginger curls around.
Long enough to let the hair, these cauliflower ears surround.
My black stockings are all laddered, my toes are poking through.
But! I’ll still look a damn sight prettier, than any one of You!

Only Joking! Oh! I don’t know though? On second thoughts!
Brian Guy. (Swordman) October 2004

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