Re-Union, Wizard Award For Veterans Everywhere Options

[Guest__*]

Faery Award

*Graphic provided by
Celtic Castle Designs

*Graphic provided by
Celtic Castle Designs

Re-Union

The sound of muted voices, heard from another age.
Spirits of long dead soldiers who'd turned their final page.
Old Joe sat in the corner, left all alone at last;
Hearing the secret whispers as he relived his past.

He'd met here with his comrades for over sixty years;
Fighting those ancient battles, the love, the joys, the tears.
Tonight the hall was empty, as Time, Immortal Foe
completed all that carnage, begun so long ago.

Old soldiers can be stubborn; Joe sat, and waited for
a lad named Tommy Atkins to march in through the door.
For Joe, and his pal Tommy  had walked through shot and shell
Their loyalty and friendship surviving years of Hell.

Old Joe recalled the moment his leg was shot away,
and good old Tommy Atkins had saved his life that day.
Tom carried him to safety, and then, an old spent round
caught Tommy in the temple. He fell without a sound.

Both of the wounded heroes were invalided home,
They swore that they'd be comrades, wherever they might roam.
Now, at their last reunion, Joe sipped his tepid beer,
and waited with a deepening dread, for Tommy wasn't here.

Joe looked around in dark despair, his heart was sick and sore,
and then his face lit up with joy as Tom walked through the door.
Joe gasped in sheer amazement, for Tommy's face was clean.
The blemish of the bullet's scar was no more to be seen.

Tom stepped up, young and sprightly, saluted his friend Joe.
"Come on old pal, the bugle blows, its time for us to go"
Old Joe stood to attention, they marched out side by side.
Out to the waiting regiment. Those comrades who had died.

The barman watched Joe's corner, and said with some dismay,
"Old Joe seems awfully quiet. I think he's passed away."
But a miracle had happened, Joe found once more his feet
and rank and file with his soldier Pals,

marched off to the drummers beat.
.


.

[Guest_Jox_*]

Tom, hi

The Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh Month of 1918.

At the going down of the Sun and in the morning we will remember them (and, lest we do forget, each year we'll make sure that more are slaughtered). The Cenotaph ceremony and the British Legion Festival of Remembrance this year included tributes to the memory of the military personnel killed in Iraq this year. Another was killed a couple of days ago and the Americans are losing even more than we are.

I believe that, since the end of WWII there has been only one year in which some British military personnel have not been killed on active service somewhere around the Globe. This poem then is not just about All out Yesterdays; it is about Today and our Tomorrows.

But death is comparatively good compared with having to live with some injuries. Atkins being shot in the temple reminds me of a Nottinghamshire lad killed in The Falklands War of 1982. To have to live with such an injury does not make easy thoughts. I am very “pleased” that you have brought all these thoughts to us with a superb fresh look at the subject.

As you may have seen from my many ramblings, after Shakespeare, Wilfred Owen is my favourite poet. I do think that you have captured something of his message in this (given the gap of years).

I am not sure anyone was disagreeing with you but, for the record, your use of the semi-colon is precisely the same as mine. I fear the chap is being phased-out but you and I can fight that battle.

Another punctuation mark under threat is the apostrophe. (How's that for a link??) I have spotted that you missed one... “drummers beat”... or was it deliberate to indicate one or many?

“Time, Immortal Foe” - do all these words need capitals? I would have thought that “Time” might have as you are naming it but I could not understand the capitals for the following two words.

I thought that Cleo understood the “unscarred” face point - I took her question as rhetorical. Nevertheless, your clever introduction of a ghost(ly presence) is clever here.

I agree that, strictly speaking, part of the poem is surreal. However, it is well within the genre of ghost story (poetically expressed) so I think it is easily understood by all.

The use of "Tommy Atkins" is clever in this. (Tommy Atkins is the generic nick-name for any British soldier).

Just one phrase glitched with me as being the wrong side of sentimental...
"his heart was sick and sore". This is, perhaps, more a personal thing than a general crit but I don't like hearts being given emotions; they are pumps for blood. I think that, perhaps, using the heart in this cliche manner somewhat undermines the excellence of the poem as a whole. I don't know if you can (or wish to) find a way round that?

Well done, Tom. Most enjoyable and fitting.