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Poem For Veterans

Sergeant Smokepole #29248L

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I did this a few years ago. on a thread here on the Wire. This is a time to remember those that have given their last measure.




A Soldiers Poem

By Sergeant Smokepole aka Bruce Rapa


June and July are steamy times

for playing cowboy games.

But now I'm sitting, making rhymes,

as a man with a strange name.

People ask how I settled on this,

my moniker so trite.

I tell them that it came from an abyss

handed down from a Sergeants Right.

I am one as a Lawdog, true

And am as a retired Marine

I wear my colors proud.... Blue

And keep my Honor clean

Just like the hymn that means so much

to every Marine since their Corps began

In my heart a little touch

from those before me, by their hand.

So Honor is an outdated code

many these days sound out.

But to a Marine Honor is everything

Who cares about dishonorable louts?

So here I end my verse of old

Like Marines have always done

We, The Few, The Proud, The Bold

Semper Fi until the setting sun


Limbers Up! Cry the battery commanders as shells explode over head

The Infantry needs our support before they are all dead.

Load powder, shot and tamp the shell.

Pick the charge, prime, fire and give them yanks hell.


Men cry from fear as the battle rages,

hoping that someday, their loved ones they will see.

Nothing about this in storybook pages.

Fear so bad it'll make you pee.


Not for Country, Flag or money do they fight

these good men of The South.

But for their brothers alongside them that night

They hope to make the rout.


Over hill, dead bodies, trenches and shell hole

they try to make a low crawl.

To stop the invaders of their land

Those Confederate Infantry.


Piles and piles of limbs in the rear

from those who have been wounded serious

like discarded pieces of broken gear,

those brave souls, they cry delirious


Quickly, they reach their intended goal

with only one thing in mind

Let's take this hill, my mare's in foal,

Home is a word so kind


Roads of wounded, dead and scared

they go for miles and miles.

In hope that they would soon be spared

their limbs dropped in those piles.


So many die in that field of blood.

And keep their honor true.

The ground's soft as if after a flood,

From those invaders wearing blue.


The call goes out to one and all.

We're out of ca'tridges, fix bayonets, prepare to charge.

They stand and face the cannon ball

like Men, both small and large.


Until the time when all wars end

this scenario will continue.

Kill, die, cry for a friend

As Men of Honor do.


Victory is not always to the right

As history has shown.

As men cry and die through the night

for what is for a flag flown


Whiskey given to the dying Men

because the ether has run out.

And all of this will start again

at the whim of political clout.


Exactly why do I feel this way?

Some read it here and ask.

It's because I too fell in battle that day

completing my assigned task.


Yankees came and took our land

and gave us not a penny.

They raped and pillaged the defeated as they can

And cared not any


Zealots fought to the bitter end

as true Patriots always do.

When Gentlemen of The South

Fight rabble wearing blue.


Violets are blue.

Roses are red.

We must remain free

or we're better off dead


Unless I'm mistaken

Zeb missed the progression.

The side road by him was taken

as a senior moment procession........


Some days are better than most.

Your gate is slow or fast

Walk a battlefield, feel for The Ghost

Of Soldiers of the past.


True to a Soldier's Creed

No Brother left alone.

They search for those who bleed

and those of broken bone.


Unless you have walked that path

it's really hard to describe.

The pain of a battle's wrath.

without a diatribe.


Victors write the history books

and give the views they share.

The losers must put on the hooks

if anyone is to care.


Win or lose, it's all the same

for Soldiers on The Line.

North or South, whatever the name

of the Soldier in the pine.


Xactly why do I say these words

about soldiers who died in pain?

The Angels all will sing their chords

for those in battle slain.


Yankees or Reb, it doesn't matter

which flag that they fought for.

They all meet as brothers and gather

when they meet at Heaven's door.


Zero is what each had gotten

from this world under the sod.

Their bodies now lie broken and rotten,

But their souls are beautiful with God.


After a battle, the dead they retrieve

and lay them in their resting place.

Their evils in life, God give's reprieve

and smiles upon their face


But those who die in honor's name

we all hold close and dear.

History may give them glory and fame

but all they felt was fear


Call the rolls, the missing mount

never will they muster.

The numbers they will all amount

to piles of limbs in clusters.


Dead scattered throughout the land

They kept their Soldier's Code.

They always lent a helping hand

and shared their Brother's load.


Even a foe, was given aid

when asked and worthy due.

Water, food and medicine were given and not paid

For the butternut and blue.


Friends opposed on either side

this war that crushed our land.

Brother in Battle, true and tried

this madness should be banned.


Gathered at the Hand of God

These Men in battle's strife.

They broke bread underneath His rod

and celebrated each other's life.


Helping a dying foe

shows more of what's in a Man

Than anything that could be bought in a store

in wrappers or in can.


If you think I'm making this up

and that I'm a little rattled.

You're right, I've shared my cup

with a foe, fallen in battle.


Just a word from one who's been there

to those who never have.

A soldier will always care

for a soldier that they must save.


Kill or be killed is the word

that always stays with you.

Fear is strongest like an attacking bird

staying with you till the battle's through.


Life for a Soldier is tough they say

and this is no lie.

Fighting for your brothers

until it is your turn to die.


May wars decrease until no more

and no more mortars to lob

idealism’s will stop at the door

and Soldiers will have no job.


No chance of this you say,

You just may be right.

I leave you with this thought today.

Hug and kiss a Soldier Good Night.



It could be their last.



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