Monday, May 25, 2009

Memorial Day 2009


Remember.

.

10 comments:

Mark said...

Thought you might like this.

http://www.afblues.com/?p=965

Anonymous said...

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.

Ed Foster said...

Thank You.

Anonymous said...

Pree-SEHNT....hARMS!

OrangeNeckInNY said...

Always!

Anonymous said...

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Tennessee Budd said...

Thank God for those who've given their lives for us.
Do you miss TN when you look at that picture, Tam? It's awfully flat where you are now.

staghounds said...

McCrae and Sassoon were both right.

""When You Go Home, Tell Them Of Us And Say,
For Their Tomorrow, We Gave Our Today"

Dave said...

Here, Bullet

If a body is what you want,
then here is bone and gristle and flesh.
Here is the clavicle-snapped wish,
the aorta’s opened valves, the leap
thought makes at the synaptic gap.
Here is the adrenaline rush you crave,
that inexorable flight, that insane puncture
into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish
what you’ve started. Because here, Bullet,
here is where I complete the word you bring
hissing through the air, here is where I moan
the barrel’s cold esophagus, triggering
my tongue’s explosives for the rifling I have
inside of me, each twist of the round
spun deeper, because here, Bullet,
here is where the world ends, every time.

Anonymous said...

i hope you clean the barrel and get the dirt out before you shoot it again!