Battle of Milvian Bride, By Me

Spear Of God, whom thou has awaken

Exclaims the Man, who’s heart be taken;

Somber Moments, On the field,

As Warriors take; the weapons they wield.

Across the grass, as black as night,

Stands Maxentius, whom he shall fight.

Pagan Arch, Constantine will fold,

If not a sign; he beholds-

-Chi and Roe, the sky exclaims,

Cross appearing above in flames.

Claim of Augustus on His Breast,

Now the armies clash without protest-

-Ten to one, in Maxentius’ favor

But Constantine’s army shall not waver.

Maxentius; the heathen, as dark as night

Cannot rebuff the army of light

Across the bridge he falls this day,

For the wraith of God he cannot deley.

So until the day, when memory abridge;

Remember the fight, for Milvian Bridge.

Battle hymn of the Republic

I have so many good ones it would be impossible to post them all here. Check out my webpage under "other good stuff" (http://www.suporrtusheroes.com) and you can read them. I'm sure I'll be adding some of the ones I've seen here, very soon. Anyway, lately I've been on the St. Crispians Day speech from William Shakespeare's, Herny V.

He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day and live old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors
And say "Tommorrow is Saint Crispian.”
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say "These wounds I had on Crispin’s Day.”
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
For he that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day.

4.3 Lines 40-67
Henry V by William Shakespeare

HOOOAH!!!! "LEST WE FORGET"

I am the flag of the United States of America.
My name is Old Glory.
I fly atop the world's tallest buildings.
I stand watch in America's halls of justice.
I fly majestically over institutions of learning.
I stand guard with power in the world.
Look up and see me.
I stand for peace, honor, truth and justice.
I stand for freedom.
I am confident.
I am arrogant.
I am proud.
When I am flown with my fellow banners,
My head is a little higher,
My colors a little truer.
I bow to no one!
I am recognized all over the world.
I am worshipped - I am saluted.
I am loved - I am revered.
I am respected - and I am feared.
I have fought in every battle of every war
for more then 200 years.
I was flown at Valley Forge,
Gettysburg, Shiloh and Appomattox.
I was there at San Juan Hill,
the trenches of France,
in the Argonne Forest,
Anzio, Rome and the beaches of Normandy,
Guam, and Okinawa.
The People of Korea , Vietnam, and Kuwait know me as
a banner of freedom
I was there.
I led my troops.
I was dirty, battle worn and tired,
But my soldiers cheered me
and I was proud.
I have been burned, torn and trampled on the
streets of countries I have helped set free.
It does not hurt for I am invincible.
I have been burned in my own country, and by the ones who severed with me in battle, and when it's done by those, it hurts.
But I shall overcome, for I am strong.
I have slipped the bonds of Earth and stood watch over the uncharted frontiers of space from my vantage point on the moon.
I have borne silent witness to all of America's finest hours.
But my finest hours are yet to come:
When I am torn into strips and used as bandages
for my wounded comrades on the battlefield;
When I am flown at half-mast to honor my countrymen;
Or when I lie in the trembling arms of a grieving parent
at the grave of their fallen son or daughter;
When I lie in the arms of a child or spouse who will have to go on without one who gave their life to save the life of another,
I am proud.
My name is Old Glory.
Long May I wave!

Howard Schnauber

JUST A COMMON SOLDIER~
Author Unknown

He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the Legion telling stories of his past
Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies~~they were heroes, every one.

And tho' sometimes to his neighbours, his tales became a joke,
All his Legion buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke
But we'll hear his tales no longer, for old Bill has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer, for the soldier died today.


He won't be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary, quick and uneventful life
Held a job and raised a family, quietly going his own way
And the world won't note his passing, tho' a soldier died today.


When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state
While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great,
Papers tell their life stories from the time that they were young,
But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed and unsung.

In the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land
One guy breaks his promises and cons his fellow man
But the ordinary fellow, who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his country and offers up his life.


A politician's stipend and the style in which he lives
Are sometimes disproportionate to the service that he gives
While the ordinary soldier who offered up his all
Is paid off with a medal and perhaps a pension small.


It's so easy to forget them, for it was so long ago
That the old Bills of our country went to battle, but we know
It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys
Who won for us the freedom that our country now enjoys.


Should you find yourself in danger with your enemies at hand
Would you want a politician with his ever~shifting stand
Or would you prefer a soldier who has sworn to defend
His home, his kin and country and would fight right to the end?


He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin
But his presence should remind us we may need his likes again.
For when countries are in conflict then we find the soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.


If we cannot do him honour while he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage at the ending of his days
Perhaps just a simple headline in a paper that would say,

"OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING, FOR A SOLDIER DIED TODAY !!"

FREEDOM ISN'T FREE


I watched the flag pass by one day.
It fluttered in the breeze.
A young Marine saluted it,
and then he stood at ease.

I looked at him in uniform;
so young, so tall, so proud.
With hair cut square and eyes alert,
he'd stand out in any crowd.

I thought, how many men like him
had fallen through the years?
How many died on foreign soil?
How many Mother's tears?

How many pilots' planes shot down?
How many foxholes were soldiers'
graves?
No, Freedom is not free.

I heard the sound of 'Taps' one night,
when everything was still.
I listened to the bugler play
and felt a sudden chill.

I wondered just how many times
that 'Taps' had meant 'Amen',
when a flag had draped a coffin
of a brother or a friend.

I thought of all the children,
of Mothers and the Wives,
of Fathers, Sons and Husbands
with interrupted lives.

I thought about a graveyard
at the bottom of the sea,
of unmarked graves at Arlington.
No, Freedom isn't free.!!!!!

The Marine stood and faced his God
Which must always come to pass
He hoped his shoes were shining
Just as brightly as his brass.


"Step forward now, you Devil-Dog,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To my Church have you been true?"
The Marine squared his shoulders and said,
"No Lord, I guess I ain't "
"Because those of us who carry guns
Can't always be a saint."


I've had to work most Sundays
And at times my talk was rough,
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the streets are awfully tough.


But, I never took a penny
That wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime
When the bills just got too steep.


And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear,
And sometimes, God forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.


And I know I don't deserve a place
Among the people here,
They never wanted me around
Except to calm their fears.


If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand,
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't , I'll understand."


There was a silence all around the throne
Where the saints had often trod
As the Marine waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.


"Step forward now, you Marine,
You've borne your burdens well,
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in HELL."

In a crowd, you're bond to spot him:
He's standing so very tall.
Not too much impresses him:
He's seen and done it all.
He's hair is short, he's eyes are sharp,
But his smile's a little blue.
It's the only indication
of the hell that he's gone through.
He belongs to a sacred brotherhood,
Always faithful 'till the end.
He has walked right into battle
And walked back out again.
Many people think him foolish
For having no regrets
About having lived through many times
Others would forget.
He's the first to go and last to know,
But never questions why.
Or whether it is right or wrong,
But only do or die.
He walks a path most won't take
And has lost much along the way.
But he thinks alot of freedom;
It's a small price to pay.
Yes, he has chosen to live a life
Off the beaten track,
Knowing well each time he's called,
He might not make it back.
So next time you see a Devil Dog
Standing proud and true,
Be grateful of all he's given;
He's given it for you.
Don't go up and ask him
What's it like to be in war;
Just thank God that it's your country
He's always fighting for.
And thank him too for all the hell
He's seen in cammie green.
Thank him for having the guts
To be a United States Marine.

by Geraldine A. Mihalko

I don't know if it's a poem, but I thought it worthy of my webpage and of this forum.

The average age of the military man is 19 years.

He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his country.

He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father's; but he has never collected unemployment either.

He's a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.

He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and 155mm Howitzers.

He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk.

He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark.

He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must.

He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional.

He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is told to march.

He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity.

He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry.

He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle.

He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts. If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food.

He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.

He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job.

He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay and still find ironic humor in it all. He has seen more suffering and death then he should have in his short lifetime.

He has stood atop mountains of dead bodies, and helped to create them.

He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed.

He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'square-away' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful.

Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom.

Beardless or not, he is not a boy.

He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 200 years.

He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding.

Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.

-Anon.

This almost made me cry the first time I read it. And yes to those who are wondering by the shear volume of my post in this topic. It is true, I have no life. lol

A SOLDIER'S NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

'Twas the night before Christmas, and 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 whom in this home did live.

I looked all about, and 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 a far distant land.

With medals and badges, awards of all kinds,
A sober thought came to my mind.
For this house was different, dark and dreary,
It was the house of a soldier, I now 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 disorder,
Not how I pictured a United States soldier.

Was this the hero of whom I had read?
Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?
I realized the families I saw on this night,
Owed their lives to this soldier, who was willing to fight.

Soon 'round the world the children would play,
And grown-ups would celebrate a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom, each month of the year,
Because of the soldiers, like the one lying 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,
And 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,
And I couldn't control it, I started 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.
The soldier rolled over and 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 Good Night!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!