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Thread: A soldiers Christmas poem

  1. #1
    Senior Member JimC64's Avatar
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    A soldiers Christmas poem

    See below a soldiers Christmas poem. I know I roll this out every year, but please believe me it's out of respect for our armed forces ( whichever branch they may be in )
    I love this poem, really hits home

    'Twas the night before Christmas,
    He lived all alone,
    In a one bedroom house,
    Made of plaster and stone.

    I had come down the chimney,
    With presents to give,
    And to see just who,
    In this home did live.

    I looked all about,
    A strange sight did I see,
    No tinsel, no presents,
    Not even a tree.

    No stocking by the mantle,
    Just boots filled with sand,
    On the wall hung pictures,
    Of far distant lands.

    With medals and badges,
    Awards of all kinds,
    A sober thought,
    Came through my mind.

    For this house was different,
    It was dark and dreary,
    I found the home of a soldier,
    Once I could see clearly.

    The soldier lay sleeping,
    Silent, alone,
    Curled up on the floor,
    In this one bedroom home.

    The face was so gentle,
    The room in such disorder,
    Not how I pictured,
    A true British soldier.

    Was this the hero,
    Of whom I'd just read?
    Curled up on a poncho,
    The floor for a bed?

    I realized the families,
    That I saw this night,
    Owed their lives to these soldiers,
    Who were willing to fight.

    Soon round the world,
    The children would play,
    And grownups would celebrate,
    A bright Christmas day.

    They all enjoyed freedom,
    Each month of the year,
    Because of the soldiers,
    Like the one laying here.

    I couldn't help wonder,
    How many lay alone,
    On a cold Christmas Eve,
    In a land far from home.

    The very thought,
    Brought a tear to my eye,
    I dropped to my knees,
    And started to cry.

    The soldier awakened,
    And I heard a rough voice,
    "Santa don't cry,
    This life is my choice.

    I fight for freedom,
    I don't ask for more,
    My life is my God,
    My country, My corps."

    The soldier rolled over,
    And drifted to sleep,
    I couldn't control it,
    I continued to weep.

    I kept watch for hours,
    So silent and still,
    And we both shivered,
    From the cold night's chill.

    I didn't want to leave,
    On that cold, dark night,
    This guardian of honor,
    So willing to fight.

    Then the soldier rolled over,
    With a voice soft and pure,
    Whispered, "Carry on Santa,
    It's Christmas Day, all is secure."

    One look at my watch,
    And I knew he was right,
    "Merry Christmas my friend,
    And to all a goodnight."

    Respect.
    Jim

    Last edited by JimC64; 22-12-17 at 14:18.
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  3. #2
    Senior Member payno's Avatar
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    A soldiers Christmas day
    https://soldiertocivi.com/2016/12/24...tmas/#more-269

    When you pull your Christmas cracker spare a thought
    S TYPE R 2003
    BMW M3 EVOLUTION 1998
    You can not beat me in a argument
    I am too stupid to know when I am beaten

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    Senior Member PhilDean's Avatar
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    Nicely done you two .
    Hadn't seen these before.
    I'll think twice now before dropping into Meldrew Mode at the checkout this weekend.

    Phil.
    Phil Dean.
    2005 V6 2.7 JRG / Ivory - 'Green Hornet'
    'Christine' is 'up north' learning the dialect

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    Senior Member Rowley_1812's Avatar
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    Well done indeed Jim. A very touching tribute.

    BIG respect for all those in military service, both past and present.
    2005 (55) X-type 2.0d S saloon ~ Zircon/Champagne/Belize.

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  9. #5
    Senior Member Jim_S-V6_2004's Avatar
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    Both are a great reminder, thanks guys.

    In my last 2 years of Big Skool we studied the War Poems for English Literature when "Litterature" had a double "t".

    This one made the biggest impression of doom on me, of the dirtiest war.

    So I would like to share it with you guys.

    If you're squeamish please don't read further.

    DULCE ET DECORUM EST

    Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
    Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
    Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
    And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

    Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
    But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
    Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
    Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

    Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
    Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
    But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
    And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime

    Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
    As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
    In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
    He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

    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.

    Wilfred Owen
    Thought to have been written between 8 October 1917 and March, 1918
    Last edited by Jim_S-V6_2004; 22-12-17 at 19:58.

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