Wild berries were everywhere and butterflies danced
Dew glimmers, like the sun.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Like the Sun.

the other day it occured to me

its a terrible price for liberty.

its the soldiers who died without a fear..

leaving their families to shed all the tears.

the family that stands at the burial site

the loved one they bury in the day’s fading light.

carried home by brothers whose spirits now sag

they carry that coffin…draped with a flag.

One last tribute for the freedoms he’s won

the playing of taps and twentyone guns.

they know it can happen and there may come a day..

the ultimate price for freedom…they’re willing to pay.

defending our freedoms…these brothers in arms

they come from the cities and come from the farms.

their vision is blurred and eyes full of tears

dying too young but wise for their years.

dont be sad for them..instead raise your voice

they knew of the cost and still made the choice.

one last tribute for the freedoms they’ve won

the playing of taps and twentyone guns.

a crisp salute to family at the end of their life

the presenting of a flag to a mother or wife.

the sounds of the mourners sobbing and standing around

they are given their final peace and placed in the ground.

one more hero sent up at the end of this day

cometh the angels to take him away.

they died with dignity…they did not die in vain,

i hope you understand..let me explain.

ONE FINAL TRIBUTE FOR THE FREEDOMS THEY’VE WON

THE PLAYING OF TAPS AND TWENTY ONE GUNS.

Mike Laures-2007

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Twenty One Guns.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at you.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Why you should care….

Authors note:

This is just a little bit of imagination and creativity to give you a quick smile for your day. A smile is a good medicine that you should take daily in order to go about your day feeling refreshed and ready for anything. You can find out more in my next peice ” Recipe for a Smile”

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Messed up Poetry.

I wish to be amidst green mountains
And rivers that sing a flute
Away from all the din and tension
With just nature absolute

I wish to sit gazing day long
Across the deep blue oceans
As the gulls and pelicans fly over head
With no worry of recessions

I long to dine with serene herbivores
The fresh and juicy greens
And play and flip all day long
With no call for medicines

I wish to rest on cushioned clouds
Watching the starry skies
Oblivious of the world below
And all its complex lies

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Spread your wings.

The Chrono-Car, and used it to explore the fourth dimension.

He revved it up, and traveled back through 23 years’ history,

And then the engine used up all supplies of his magistery.

Now trapped back when his childhood self had only just turned seven,

And frequently thrown out those brown bread sandwiches with devon

His mother made; Brint chose to spare himself the wierdest meeting.
He steered clear of the school, where he’d endured a frequent beating.

He met a blond haired lady his own age, and slowly courted;

And then they got engaged, but his indulgences were thwarted.

She dyed her hair to brown, and now looked strangely too familiar.

Their three year romance took his thoughts to days of juvenilia.

For Tina now resembled all his deepest recollections:
The teacher in his sixth class year, for whom he held affections,

But couldn’t share, because of different ages and those fissures

Dividing them, because her only known first name was “Mrs.”

So “Tina Long,” her married name, before the timeline altered,

Confronted him with guilt; since he had well and truly faltered,

By stopping her from meeting Mr Long, when he had entered,

And tried to buy a life from her, which he had really rented.

Tormented by morality, he pondered all the choices,

Recalling all those recent dates in cheaply hired Rolls Royces.

Should he arrange for Mr Long and her to meet and marry,

And then seek someone single in the past, where he’d still Tarry?

Or should he marry Tina, and let Mr Long be cheated

Of destined love, if what had gone “before” was not repeated?

He thought that she should know the truth, and do her own deciding,

Confessed (except Long’s name), and hoped his teacher would start guiding.

She said, “I’ll marry you, and have no wish to still discover

Identities of might-have-beens,” which made Brent really love her,

“Why don’t you choose an alias, to safeguard your persona

From sharing names with your young self, who must remain a loner?”

Invent a name like Mr Long, and be my true intended.

Don’t worry how the broken threads of time will all be mended.”

“Did you say Long?” asked Brint, “That means the Mrs Long who taught me

Was married to my older self, while 6th class Brint was naughty.

My childhood self was jealous, while I was my greatest rival:

Your adult husband, while my younger self would seek survival

In mucking up at school. No wonder you gave much attention

To teaching him the right ways, and gave him an hour’s detention.”

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at LONG JOURNEY.

Now that I lie beneath these big blue coat,
And rest my back on these green things that float.
On these pond of the truth and the moss,
But it isn’t a pond but a flood of the laws.
The moss aren’t the laws
And the blue coat isn’t the lies
The green floating things: moss,
And the blue coat : where the bird flies.
Then go back in time
Of the sky and the moss,
And float all those things:
Your lies and your laws.

-Debojyoti Sanyal

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at The Black pond.

Here we are in this earth, counting our last sins,
Counting the last miseries, last hopes, last moments
Last lives to live with, for whom the soul laments (afterwards).

And when you go, let your breath rest
Let it take a sigh of relief, the last sigh of relief
For the breath was your best friend, it has to live.

Your breath will freeze, turning into hailstones,
Your pains will have its fatal clones,
Your body will burn in them and you all will turn into stones.

My words are not just mere words,
They are like swords, sharp, bloody swords,
Now cry and get ready to suffer in herds.

-Debojyoti Sanyal

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at The doomed prophecy.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Daddy’s Boy.