by John Johnson | Nov 5, 2011 | Poetry
He’s well past his middle age and his hair is stony grey and he’s learned to take the world on day-by-day, but he thinks back to days of yore, quiescent peace and times of war when he, among many others, did their bit. They don’t boast of those gory times but rather...
by John Johnson | Nov 5, 2011 | Poetry
Once we flapped in humid breeze In distant places overseas. Flew we high on battered spire, Wreathed in smoke from cannon fire. With dreadful pride and tearful eye we saw our guardians fall and die. We gave sentinel when we were hung in hallowed halls, for battles...
by John Johnson | Nov 5, 2011 | Poetry
(Flanders: Western Front WW1) I can hear the Guns, Sarge. Can you feel the thump and hear the crump? I can, son. I can. I’m scared, Sarge. I covered my ears to block out the sound and dropped my rifle to the ground. You must pick up your rifle, son; see the barrage...
by John Johnson | Nov 5, 2011 | Poetry
I set aside the comforts of home, set out for distant parts unknown, learned the abhorrent skills of war and fought side-by-side with men I hardly knew until, forged by battle, the bonds of friendship grew. When, as is the wont of war, those bonds were torn to hell...
by John Johnson | Nov 5, 2011 | Poetry
They crossed at Trichardts drift in the early morning mist and marched side by side beneath the rising sun. Three miles of growing heat aching backs and weary feet, as they trudged the winding trail toward the guns They fought the urge to flee as they climbed through...
