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War,
A life's direction
opens the window to man's soul
ultimately,
is part of the soul's purpose.
War and redemption,
A thunderous doorway opened too soon by silence-
two minutes of silence for the glorious dead.
Tho the sacrifice was bitter
Peace is preserved
by men of distinction
Giving official resolution to a ceasefire
for the served.
Ceased fighting at the eleventh hour
of the eleventh day,
giving silence to a moment without war.
At the end of the country
curators of power meet
giving treaty to open a doorway
to a prelude of peaceful negotiations-
an Armistice for the cessation of hostilities
a doctrine that initiates sacrifice of a bitter war,
two minutes of silence for the world to rejoice
on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day.
A day to serve as Holiday
one that gives homage to those who served in wars,
Holiday for those who buried an unknown soldier
in a memorial of lilies far from home-
homage to those who died in one war
leaving children for war to take in distant decades.
There is no greater sacrifice than to sing
Hymns of praise to the fallen
to the ones we salute as heroes
on their walk back to the homeland
with head in hand,
hats off to the veteran
whose wretched legs unfurl the flag
in a twenty-one gun ode.
War Marches to the cadence of a celebratory song
no celebratory song can abolish memory -
the memories of war stories in their eyes,
memories enshrined on a memorial
that comes years after the names on the tomb.
Come one! Come all! To bear arms of War!
Hear ye the words echoed by every
uniformed airman, sailor, soldier -
those child-like voices of suicide war advocates -
an echo of words
spoken that fabricates a common thread
of country devotion -
"Be all one can be for his country!"
And When torn peace is threatened,
deliver War to celebrate on the eleventh day.
Written by Gail B. Stewart Garber
Lakewood
A life's direction
opens the window to man's soul
ultimately,
is part of the soul's purpose.
War and redemption,
A thunderous doorway opened too soon by silence-
two minutes of silence for the glorious dead.
Tho the sacrifice was bitter
Peace is preserved
by men of distinction
Giving official resolution to a ceasefire
for the served.
Ceased fighting at the eleventh hour
of the eleventh day,
giving silence to a moment without war.
At the end of the country
curators of power meet
giving treaty to open a doorway
to a prelude of peaceful negotiations-
an Armistice for the cessation of hostilities
a doctrine that initiates sacrifice of a bitter war,
two minutes of silence for the world to rejoice
on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day.
A day to serve as Holiday
one that gives homage to those who served in wars,
Holiday for those who buried an unknown soldier
in a memorial of lilies far from home-
homage to those who died in one war
leaving children for war to take in distant decades.
There is no greater sacrifice than to sing
Hymns of praise to the fallen
to the ones we salute as heroes
on their walk back to the homeland
with head in hand,
hats off to the veteran
whose wretched legs unfurl the flag
in a twenty-one gun ode.
War Marches to the cadence of a celebratory song
no celebratory song can abolish memory -
the memories of war stories in their eyes,
memories enshrined on a memorial
that comes years after the names on the tomb.
Come one! Come all! To bear arms of War!
Hear ye the words echoed by every
uniformed airman, sailor, soldier -
those child-like voices of suicide war advocates -
an echo of words
spoken that fabricates a common thread
of country devotion -
"Be all one can be for his country!"
And When torn peace is threatened,
deliver War to celebrate on the eleventh day.
Written by Gail B. Stewart Garber
Lakewood
Long Beach is a treasure trove of architectural styles. This poem is a tribute to a popular type of home originating in Bengal, India, the bungalow.
Some live in lofty mansions,
made of brick or stone.
But if I had a choice
of any house to own,
give me the double gables,
sweeping broad and low,
the porch and vine-draped pergola
of the bungalow
Columns and brilliant fanlights
on grand estates look handsome.
Though I prefer stout porch piers
and the art-glass transom.
Chandeliers wrought with gold,
within fine buildings glow.
But hammered-copper lanterns
dress the bungalow
A fireplace of travertine
adorns palatial style,
the craftsman's cozy hearth
wears Batchelder tile.
Porticos and vaulted halls
to grandeur art bestow,
but the soul of art itself
is the bungalow
Written by Diane Rush
Some live in lofty mansions,
made of brick or stone.
But if I had a choice
of any house to own,
give me the double gables,
sweeping broad and low,
the porch and vine-draped pergola
of the bungalow
Columns and brilliant fanlights
on grand estates look handsome.
Though I prefer stout porch piers
and the art-glass transom.
Chandeliers wrought with gold,
within fine buildings glow.
But hammered-copper lanterns
dress the bungalow
A fireplace of travertine
adorns palatial style,
the craftsman's cozy hearth
wears Batchelder tile.
Porticos and vaulted halls
to grandeur art bestow,
but the soul of art itself
is the bungalow
Written by Diane Rush
Once I met a man
Who was old and wrinkled,
But those bright blue eyes
Still held a twinkle
He would never tell me
What he did for a living
But I remember one thing
He was always giving
Perhaps he was
An angel in disguise
But he knew what to do
When the kids would arrive
They would stop by
And ask for money
He would hand them some coins
That would send them off running.
That old canvas bag
Never seemed to run dry
No matter how many kids
Would try and re-try.
After a few hours
He would leave his post
And return the next day
To again act as host.
I watched this happen
Week in and week out
But he disappeared one day
Now all they do is pout.
Written by Leonard Schrick, 97
Who was old and wrinkled,
But those bright blue eyes
Still held a twinkle
He would never tell me
What he did for a living
But I remember one thing
He was always giving
Perhaps he was
An angel in disguise
But he knew what to do
When the kids would arrive
They would stop by
And ask for money
He would hand them some coins
That would send them off running.
That old canvas bag
Never seemed to run dry
No matter how many kids
Would try and re-try.
After a few hours
He would leave his post
And return the next day
To again act as host.
I watched this happen
Week in and week out
But he disappeared one day
Now all they do is pout.
Written by Leonard Schrick, 97
The Blues
Whenever you feel blue,
Have nothing better to do,
Just take a walk in the sun,
Put those blues on the run.
If those blues won't leave,
You still must believe,
That it does take time,
Just to clear your mind
If you believe in fate,
Then it's never too late,
Just look to your star,
The most brilliant by far
It's up there that sign,
It might take some time,
But when you do see it,
It will make you sublime.
Whenever you feel blue,
Have nothing better to do,
Just take a walk in the sun,
Put those blues on the run.
If those blues won't leave,
You still must believe,
That it does take time,
Just to clear your mind
If you believe in fate,
Then it's never too late,
Just look to your star,
The most brilliant by far
It's up there that sign,
It might take some time,
But when you do see it,
It will make you sublime.
By Leonard Schrick
97-years-old
"Sacrifice"
A Memorial Day poem in memoriam for all those
who made the ultimate sacrifice for our country
No one wants to be here.
There're better things to do.
But freedom and duty are calling
So you halt your life for a few.
The sacrifice shows on their faces:
The horror, the pain, and the grit.
And they ask themselves and each other
"What numb-nut got us in this pit?"
He's torn asunder by a b-trap
As his newborn, far away, screams her first breath
But he will never know his daughter;
She'll never know the details of his death.
You know she's the best damn shot in the unit
As she sits missing her kids: six, five, and three.
"Eagle Eyes" is what we call her
She sacrificed herself so those kids stay free.
The single Mom with one strong son
She raised him on her own
She begged him not to leave her
In a flag-draped coffin, today, he's back home.
Tears stream down your cheeks
As you remember each one fall.
We all gave some part of us
But some of us gave all
By Doug Seagraves
U. S. Navy veteran
Villages at Cabrillo in Long Beach
97-years-old
"Sacrifice"
A Memorial Day poem in memoriam for all those
who made the ultimate sacrifice for our country
No one wants to be here.
There're better things to do.
But freedom and duty are calling
So you halt your life for a few.
The sacrifice shows on their faces:
The horror, the pain, and the grit.
And they ask themselves and each other
"What numb-nut got us in this pit?"
He's torn asunder by a b-trap
As his newborn, far away, screams her first breath
But he will never know his daughter;
She'll never know the details of his death.
You know she's the best damn shot in the unit
As she sits missing her kids: six, five, and three.
"Eagle Eyes" is what we call her
She sacrificed herself so those kids stay free.
The single Mom with one strong son
She raised him on her own
She begged him not to leave her
In a flag-draped coffin, today, he's back home.
Tears stream down your cheeks
As you remember each one fall.
We all gave some part of us
But some of us gave all
By Doug Seagraves
U. S. Navy veteran
Villages at Cabrillo in Long Beach
