How to honour the memory of the dead from the conflicts of yore? Those mown down in foreign field, Or float bloated, just short of the shore. Should we redouble the forces for freedom, Clean the world through one more ‘Just War’? Could we sit down naked, talk with our cousins, Until we don’t need to fight anymore? There are no comfortable answers, But, don’t we owe them a world worth dying for?
Last Edit: May 31, 2014 20:16:47 GMT -8 by jeannerené
Jeanne: Hello visitors....Thanks for dropping by. Lets revive Poetic Horizons. I'm very tired of Facebook and have never felt comfortable posting poetry there. So look around and register. Lets get this place moving!
Mar 30, 2019 1:55:53 GMT -8
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.