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The Darkest of Places Has Eternal Hope

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In reply to an earlier post on Jul 1, 2012 7:34:33 PM PDT
Last edited by the author on Jul 1, 2012 7:44:47 PM PDT
B. says:
You Carolina, should take a small pause in your day, and give yourself a well deserved hug.
B, hugs you for being a kind and most gracious lady. :-):-)

Posted on Jul 1, 2012 7:35:03 PM PDT
B. says:
"I've got to go to meet God - and explain all those men I killed at Alamein"
- Field Marshall Viscount Montgomery, near the end of his life in 1976

Posted on Jul 2, 2012 6:59:01 AM PDT
B. says:
A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.
Joseph Stalin

Posted on Jul 2, 2012 12:37:09 PM PDT
B. says:
As my next heart beat grows further from my first
and closer to my last.
I look back into the years
and to those friends left in my past.

Old soldiers whose years now pass. Each day
our faces wrinkle our hands callous
our hair turns a shade of gray.

Our dearest friends grow old no more
Their hair will never gray
They age no more
Not a hour nor a day

They feel no pain since the day they fell.
Their brows will never crease
with worry or some horrid pain.
Our memories of them will never cease.
a promise made years ago as we stood in the rain.

I visited my friends and yes I stood tall
But no matter how much I tried
I broke and cried
As I knew those names upon the Wall.

SFC Thomas E. Ward USAR RET

Posted on Jul 2, 2012 12:49:21 PM PDT
B. says:

That Asian war you fought - was it all for Uncle Sam?
Did it seem so fair to you when the blood of America ran?
And can you still remember how "Charlie" killed your friends
And the bittersweet homecoming for the Purple Hearts that bled?

Son of America - hero of the War
Do you still remember what the scars are for?
They said you all were heroes but they didn't give a damn
They left you to find your own way when you returned from Vietnam.

Death was in the jungle - you were always on the run
Your buddies were the losers in a war that no one won
They made you all those promises that just turned into lies
One too many promises - far too many goodbyes.

Son of America - hero of the War
I know you get the feeling you've been down that road before
They said you all were heroes but they didn't really care
They threw you out onto the streets when you got back from there.

You walked out on a high wire and they pretended not to see
The prison that they'd made for you that meant you'd never be free
When you finally made it home everybody called you 'son'
But you were old beyond your years - another war had just begun.

Copyright 2002 Heloise B Riddell

In reply to an earlier post on Jul 2, 2012 2:42:33 PM PDT
Carolina says:
Thanks, B., and I give you hugs for being such an humanitarian soldier and such a great young man. I would be proud to call you my own--and that is quite an honor in my book. (:-)

In reply to an earlier post on Jul 2, 2012 4:31:50 PM PDT
Sirena says:
He staticized a good portion of my family tree including one set of great grandparents and possibly even one grandfather who just disappeared.

In reply to an earlier post on Jul 2, 2012 4:51:39 PM PDT
B. says:
Smooch, :-):-)

In reply to an earlier post on Jul 2, 2012 5:05:31 PM PDT
Sirena says:
Multiple hugs and smooches to you, dear B.

Posted on Jul 2, 2012 5:10:33 PM PDT
B. says:
Horrible headache tonight, can not sleep.

In reply to an earlier post on Jul 2, 2012 5:57:35 PM PDT
Last edited by the author on Jul 2, 2012 6:08:05 PM PDT
Sirena says:
I'm sorry B.
I just noticed the time of your post. Hopefully by now you are asleep. If not, I'll check back here in a minute or two.

I'm hoping that your absence means you are asleep. Sweet dreams B.

Posted on Jul 3, 2012 6:59:41 AM PDT
B. says:
Twinny my Beautiful, British, Beauty. B, gives you warm hugs, and friendly smooches, for celebrating another happy day with B. Where's our krazy Dane? Did you best him so badly in the limericks wars, that he's sulking and working on new material? Lil Devil has abandoned B, :-(:-(.

In reply to an earlier post on Jul 3, 2012 9:21:18 AM PDT
twinny says:
Hello darling - I do believe that the krazy dane is busy renovating his house at the moment so hasn't had much time to visit with us. Our Lil would never abandon you, she'll be back, you can count on it :)

Hope your headache is better. X

In reply to an earlier post on Jul 3, 2012 9:57:58 AM PDT
B. says:

Posted on Jul 3, 2012 10:04:39 AM PDT
B. says:
Child's Sad Eyes
  by: Thomasena Martin-Johnson

He looked at me
with sad eyes
asking for love
and care---
a blanket for warmth
and a morsel of food---
a sip of life sustaining
water---the will
to keep going
hour after hour.
He looked at me
with sad eyes
asking for love
and I gave
all I had.

Posted on Jul 3, 2012 10:07:08 AM PDT
B. says:
The Little Boy Found
  by: William Blake (1757-1827)

The little boy lost in the lonely fen,
Led by the wandering light,
Began to cry, but God, ever nigh,
Appeared like his father, in white.
He kissed the child, and by the hand led,
And to his mother brought,
Who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale,
The little boy weeping sought.

Posted on Jul 3, 2012 10:09:18 AM PDT
B. says:
Dead Child
  by: Francis Jammes (1868-1938)
    translated by Baudelaire Jones

A small house with a dog in front ...
O my love! Tonight, this rose is wet.
In the big park, by the rusty gate,
I walk with you in a timeless dream.
It drizzles outside; come here, come ... the wind
In the bay-trees sobs ... Oh! Don't be frightened!
Keep your little arms around my neck ...
Let us make our dead hearts living again.
Plunge with your soft eyes of dark violet
Into my sad and serious glance which reflects
My grief ... Hear my voice ... It is the death knell.
I lead her gently in her little dress,
The one I loved, my little dead girl
With pale face and lilacs in her wax hands.

Posted on Jul 3, 2012 10:12:58 AM PDT
B. says:
Sergeant Death
  by: Thomas William Hodgson Crosland (1865-1924)

Oh, Sergeant Death,
I've served with you,
And chanced my breath
A time or two!
I've seen brave men
Turn green as sin,
When you have coughed,
"Fall in, fall in!"
I've heard brave men
With cold fear shout,
When you have piped,
"Fall out, fall out!"
Where'er a lad
Would do his part,
'Tis you that probes
His inmost heart.
Though all be stirred
By drums a-roll,
'Tis you that finds
The soldier soul,
And takes him through
The conqueror's drill,
And helps him home,
Or leaves him still.
'Tis you that puts
In one parade
Them that were anxious
And afraid,
And them that were
Fed-up and sick,
And them that begged
You to be quick,
And them that gave
You laugh for laugh,
And bitterer chaff
For bitter chaff. . . .
Oh, you are old,
And fierce and wise,
But there is goodness
In your eyes.
And still your health
Goes round the tents--
"The Father of
The Regiments!"

Posted on Jul 3, 2012 11:31:13 AM PDT
Last edited by the author on Jul 3, 2012 8:17:24 PM PDT
B. says:
I've prayed that B, never forgets, this nameless child. For who knew this child, a waif in a land of unmentionable horrors. Politicians should never be in charge of war. Most have never experienced any violent act, maybe the dry heaves of a fraternity brother. But not the violence one experiences in civilized murder such as a war.

She lay all rumpled, her left forearm had suffered a compound fracture, the bones were protruding slightly below her elbow. Both eardrums had been ruptured, blood had trickled down both jaw lines.These injuries were not in themselves fatal. But coupled with the concussion of the shells, she must have died instantly. Her small filthy white dress was mottled with red mud, and dried brown blood. She was by best estimate no more than 8 years of age. Her hair was as black as the feathers of a raven, her eyes from what I could see were entirely bloodshot from the effects of the shells blasts. She was barefoot. A Sgt. and our medic wrapped a cloth around her body. She was then moved to a clear area about ten meters from the road. Her location was then marked by a small white cloth flag. Someone, who I do not remember, read a passage from his bible. Our Lt. then gave the order for us mount up and move out. We had all witnessed death, and the carnage that he leaves behind, but seeing this child, moved a lot of strong soldiers to weep openly. Why, I kept asking myself were we here? What good were we doing? If WW2 was a war justified, this war was the act of Satan himself. Will I ever forget, never. Will I ever forgive our nation for what we did, never.

In reply to an earlier post on Jul 4, 2012 11:34:57 AM PDT
Last edited by the author on Jul 4, 2012 11:46:29 AM PDT
Carolina says:
Heartwarming one for us, B., "Child's Sad Eyes, and if I haven't said it before I could so clearly see the contrast between my granddaughters in their beautiful clean confirmation dress juxtaposed with this beautiful, unfortunate child, covered in filth and blood. And it breaks my heartthat all children cannot be safe and clean and happy.

Posted on Jul 6, 2012 8:32:09 AM PDT
B. says:
The City in the Sea
  by: Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy Heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domes-up spires-up kingly halls-
Up fanes-up Babylon-like walls-
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye-
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea-
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave-there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow-
The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.

Posted on Jul 6, 2012 8:34:47 AM PDT
[Deleted by the author on Jul 6, 2012 8:51:25 AM PDT]

Posted on Jul 6, 2012 8:43:46 AM PDT
B. says:
Found Dead
  by: Albert Laighton (1829-1887)

Found dead! dead and alone!
There was nobody near, nobody near
When the Outcast died on his pillow of stone--
No mother, no brother, no sister dear,
Not a friendly voice to soothe or cheer,
Not a watching eye or a pitying tear--
O, the city slept when he died alone
In the roofless street, on a pillow of stone.
Many a weary day went by,
While wretched and worn he begged for bread,
Tired of life, and longing to lie
Peacefully down with the silent dead;
Hunger and cold, and scorn and pain,
Had wasted his form and seared his brain,
Till at last on a bed of frozen ground,
With a pillow of stone, was the Outcast found.
Found dead! dead and alone,
On a pillow of stone in the roofless street;
Nobody heard his last faint moan,
Or knew when his sad heart ceased to beat;
No mourner lingered with tears or sighs,
But the stars looked down with pitying eyes,
And the chill winds passed with a wailing sound
O'er the lonely spot where his form was found.
Found dead! yet not alone;
There was somebody near--somebody near
To claim the wanderer as his own,
And find a home for the homeless here;
One, when ever human door
Is closed to his children, scorned and poor,
Who opens the heavenly portal wide;
Ah, God was near when the Outcast died.

Posted on Jul 6, 2012 12:48:56 PM PDT
B. says:
The Battle Flag at Shenandoah
  by: Joaquin Miller (1841-1913)

The tented field wore a wrinkled frown,
And the emptied church from the hill looked down
On the emptied road and the emptied town,
That summer Sunday morning.
And here was the blue, and there was the gray;
And a wide green valley rolled away
Between where the battling armies lay,
That sacred Sunday morning.
And Custer sat, with impatient will,
His restless horse, 'mid his troopers still,
As he watched with glass from the oak-set hill,
That silent Sunday morning.
Then fast he began to chafe and to fret;
"There's a battle flag on a bayonet
Too close to my own true soldiers set
For peace this Sunday morning!"
"Ride over, some one," he haughtily said,
"And bring it to me! Why, in bars blood red
And in stars I will stain it, and overhead
Will flaunt it this Sunday morning!"
Then a West-born lad, pale-faced and slim,
Rode out, and touching his cap to him,
Swept down, swept swift as Spring swallows swim,
That anxious Sunday morning.
On, on through the valley! up, up anywhere!
That pale-faced lad like a bird through the air
Kept on till he climbed to the banner there
That bravest Sunday morning!
And he caught up the flag, and around his waist
He wound it tight, and he turned in haste,
And swift his perilous route retraced
That daring Sunday morning.
All honor and praise to the trusty steed!
Ah! boy, and banner, and all, God speed!
God's pity for you in your hour of need
This deadly Sunday morning.
O deadly shot! and O shower of lead!
O iron rain on the brave, bare head!
Why, even the leaves from the tree fall dead
This dreadful Sunday morning!
But he gains the oaks! Men cheer in their might!
Brave Custer is laughing in his delight!
Why, he is embracing the boy outright
This glorious Sunday morning!
But, soft! Not a word has the pale boy said.
He unwinds the flag. It is starred, striped, red
With his heart's best blood; and he falls down dead,
In God's still Sunday morning.
So wrap this flag to his soldier's breast;
Into the stars and stripes it is stained and blest;
And under the oaks let him rest and rest
Till God's great Sunday morning.

Posted on Jul 7, 2012 6:06:52 AM PDT
[Deleted by the author on Jul 7, 2012 7:34:40 AM PDT]
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Discussion in:  Fiction forum
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Initial post:  May 17, 2012
Latest post:  Mar 23, 2013

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