Most Liked Patriotism Poems (214)

To all poets who entered or took part in any way in
"Mizzy's Green Challenge" I would like to extend my
warm thanks. I must say I was bowled over with the
response. You are all such a great bunch of people
and such fantastic poets, its simply a pleasure to
be part of the corner. I think it helped to bring us closer,
as Paddy's Day brings the world together in Green.
A special mention to Lady Odette (Josephine) for all
the lovely sentiments throughout, and to Robert for the fun.

Thanks again, Slàn libh go lèir.
Mick. ( Mizzy )

No court here played to feathered Kings
of once grand plumes and pompous things,
long since quenched and forgotten lie,
thier wanton greed doomed so to die,
riding high from the storms of fate,
the pen of justice did to all await,
to walk anew the sun blessed road,
relieved, once the down trodden native abode,
as now, beneath life's tranquil shade,
a monument to peace, here forever laid,
no glory plied or ingenious shame,
just freedoms unconquerable name,

its banners claim no marked grave,
just homespun joys they cherished gave.

coming out enchanting
sparkling shamrocks on
a harp playing
bewitching music
from the irish sea
from the mist of hibernia
entering a cold mystical island

a lonely teddy bear out in an ocean
dressed in her forty shades of green
her lush finery
from the land of the leprechaun
king of the fairies

tales of a land of forever young in the fianna
soldiers of the king
magical blossoms shades her beauty
classical in her name eire
modern irish emerald green
jewel of her color
arising from the land
of eternal winter

geographers strabo
pomponius melba
quoting describes a cold chilling land
inhabitated by a bunch
of wild savages
who feast on the flesh
of their dead fathers
despite the cold
the grazing was so tasty
very lush sweet
that cattle exploded fat
if allowed to eat unchecked

in a new kingdom
penunnular broach
used to fasten her shawl
son of the high king
fiacha finnfolaidh
his father was overthrown
killed in a revolt
by the king of ulster
tutathal's mother
who was daughter
of king of alba

britian at the time
because alba became
the name for scotland
later on fled to britain
with her son 20 years later
he returns to eire
defeating his father's enemies
turns in history

subduing the
entire country
he became the high king
of tara
there he conveyed
in a conference
were he established
himself law in the land

he annexed territory
for each four provinces
creating central control
in the province of meath
four fortresses where built
one for each our green fields
span an irish republic

I drag my weary feet
To the last meeting
tis the end of freedom
we are all doomed.
All venues are closed
Now we are defeated
Let us drink comrades
To the world’s ending,
And a new beginning.
I weep overcome by sadness
For the world’s madness
So I drink to feel no pain.
Now I am drunk and broke
I feel no pain but weep,
now for my weakness.

Another poem perhaps
nothing from the Muse
and yet I feel the glimmer of thought:

As I ride the waves of time
There have been many lives
Reading the histories of the Crusades
I felt myself at the gates of Jerusalem
The excitement of victory
The sadness of slaughter and mayhem
Vague memory of a Viking drowning
in a storm unable to die in battle
of entry into Valhalla despairing
The end of the Celtic World
And the bitternsss of defeat

I shrugged off these morbid thoughts
And had recourse to lunch al fresco
A cheddar sandwich and a glass of beer
and drank to past comrades in arms.

well hello there
can i take
your spare thoughts
in the air
of your mind
standing a picture
one beauty of
a rose blossoming

hands outstretched
kneeling holding
your soft hand
tenderly kissing fingertips
each fluttering heartbeat
swooning across skies
resisting lips
ruby red
with desire

bowing gracefully
humbling meeting
such a beautiful soul
teardrops dew
sun shining loves
jewels smiling raindrops
coloring lights rainbow

happiness tarzan
beating upon
the chest
echoing drumbeats
i will wait
for you jane
within the jungle
of honey baby
golden beautiful
in our life

Lessons learned
by first the Chinese
then France
and the Unites States...

Never underestimate
unconventional units
or guerrilla warfare
supported by regular units...

Dien Bien Phu
Bernard B. Fall
called it
"Hell in a very small place"
soon after 1954
America walked the "Street without joy"

The Viet Minh
attacking satellite positions
seven in all
such names as

"Huguette"
"Claudine"
"Gabrielle"
"Beatrice"

General Giap
former school teacher
later besieged Khe Sanh
saved only by B-52 air strikes...

What men will die for
makes less sense
as time goes by...

Perhaps it is
the unspoken honor
among comrades
and brothers...

Still they soldiered on
60 years has passed
and around the world
the madness has grown...

He is all one of us,Serves all for with time....
And we remember them only,by murmering few lines.
He is also one of a son,Who serves for the country...
And all such sacrifice let,nation grow like a tree.

Lets think of them also,only salutes are not enough....
They serves us all boders by,either some day dont have dough.
Let be not so selfish all,We enjoy all eve with our members....
For them nation only is family,The one thing only they remember.

The soldier engulfed in a common confusion,
Torn from green grass, planted in dessert sand,
Grasping at courage, his roots the only anchor,
As terror shakes the ground on which he stands.
Willows weep, though the sky is arid,
Autumn leaves scatter as family trees sway,
Painting the sands of the hour glass crimson,
The soldier shall be planted in green grass again.

Please buy a poppy to remember their sacrifice.

The blood of the patriots has dried,
no longer staining the fabric of our dreams
fervent ideals remembered
in dust ensconced history books.

And we are as Javert,
blinded by the comfort of law
mute to the cries
of today's Fantines.

Rest not in peace Mr. Kennedy,
Mr. King, Mr. Chavez
your work remains deficient
for the palette is absolute.

And the cities give birth
to tomorrows patriots
in barrios and ghettos and hoods,
those born to the cries of their brothers.

With callused hands and hungered belly
they will raise their fist
and the thunder of their march
will be the tolling of the bells.

And we the elite
with our Visa's, Clubs and SUV's
will demand of our leaders
the end of this strife.

It is then we will find
once our leaders have fled,
that we have armed the new patriots
for they did the work that we dread.

The new hero's will be different
from those in our past
for finally the colors will mix
in this palette of blood.

~SAS~