Page Seven
Page Seven


Mill Hill Blues


Rundown houses ...on a backstreet part of town

One of those streets you dont want to walk down

(Dont step on a crack...

you might break your mothers back)

Old mill houses...all in a row

Rubbish and briars...the yards show

Nothing... but weeds the side walks ...grow

The wind finds it lonesome...and wanders on


...Where have the good times gone...


The Mill has shut it doors...and closed down

No reason for workers to this part of town

They will issue no more paychecks on Friday

 The people have packed up...and gone away

The man from the bank foreclosed today

He ordered the locks changed on the doors

Now theyre just victims of povertys wars...

They had to leave...there was no compromise


...gone in search of good times promise...


 The neighborhood empty and forsaken, lies

staring across the street with its broken window eyes

at an old rocking chair, gently rocking, moved by the breeze,

 a place where, in a by gone era...someone took their ease

 Against a fence, abandoned bed frames are left leaning,

..............a lost offering for the junk mans gleaning

The frames have become Morning Glorys home

...with their pieces all broken and bent


Anyone see where the good times went...


The street is traffic as in days of yore

The mailman doesnt deliver here anymore

If it ever thrives will be a chore

Small boys shortcut through here to the creek,

each with dancing step and sunburned cheek

...laughing and chasing each other along,

 not remembering a way of life that has come...and gone

They pass by here, carrying their poles...and wishing


Like them...the good times...have gone fishing...



Faye Sizemore


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A Part Of God And War


I read your words that do with all hope pray,

for something better than you have today,

that is your life, or that part nearest death,

when youth in absence tires upon old breath.

No man shall speak his myths above my grave,

nor my defenceless body with false words save

for I'll not be as would his mind declare,

nor with his tarnished assumptions ever share.

I say it now, while yet all thoughts are mine,

tis after death I'll know where I might dine,

and not before, as some pretend to know,

or in illusion would their own lie sow ....

For none who live can with dead soldiers share,

a single thought, nor a single care.


I hasten though to comprehend what may,

be in the minds of those who for me pray,

for it is their love which for I'd gladly die,

thus would with this refusal friends deny.

Ah! no matter what you and I believe,

those inner truths that by fair stealth receive,

as loyal feelings from a special place,

do yet impart the loveliness of grace.

For we must dream and perhaps believe,

though we make merry or in fact do grieve,

That there is a place of peace where we shall meet,

Where soldiers can their lost companions greet.

Ah yes, it serves our veteran hearts to think,

that when we die from life we will not shrink.


Tis no soldiers choice that he advance to die,

For in his heart tis not what's in his eye,

He cant envisage himself a rotting corpse,

nor from his indestructible body know divorce,

and having seen his brothers meet their end,

he still cannot with death yet comprehend,

but retains the horror of how his brothers died,

screaming or in silence all life denied,

and of their body parts he saw expire!

where to or from did their fine spirits fly?

For all of what, they were had ceased amiss,

beyond the promise of a fleeting kiss .

Beyond imagined form in shattered waste,

where from runs all our dignity in haste.


If what I found in war doth clothe me still,

with what I learnt of life that I did kill,

Molesting me with it's coarseness on my skin,

denying that any compassion lives within.

Then I am perhaps not worthy of recall,

when I am gone deservedly to fall,

For what I gave my brothers was my love,

becoming absent of the one above,

clothed in the torment of my own despair,

denying those who loved me of my care.

Now that I die the guilty come to me,

saying prayers that will not set them free,

For I'll not justify their failures nor their quest,

to claim some holy knowledge of my rest.


If I found God he was in blood and gore,

in soldiers clothes beside me red and roar

Who wore a helmet on his noble head,

who lay there dying with decaying dead.

God I saw in the actions of fine men,

all who in fear would do the same again,

who gave their lives for love and brotherhood,

that none in absence could have understood.

They fold the flag and hand it to my wife,

who knows my love and better knows my strife,

and while she weeps a warrior is lain to rest

a spirit glowing deep in his noble chest.

.... the bugler haunts the air with mournful tune,

and in brave hearts a million roses bloom.

7/30/2003 Colin F. Jones

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Omaha Beach
I stand before greatness
...a witness to faithfulness
A picture of Omaha beach...
crosses as far as the eye can reach
...Hands helpless at my side
...on my face tears of pride...
for these brave soldiers...
who challeged Hitler`s Mob...
and etched their names in history simply doing their job

(Not far down the road...
many French people grumble... and dance
Why do they not remember... the blood of Heroes
...that bought the freedom of France...)
Faye Sizemore


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Silent Service Lost At Sea
Humming of the engine can be heard from afar,
But not one soul can hear it as it is way too far,
Sailing the sea under its foam sailing at sea, heading for home,
No one can hear the captains call, no one can hear, not at all,
Silence is deafening even at sea, silent service ships,
Sitting at the bottom of the sea, moaning sounds of distant voices,
Can only be heard in the hearts of those mourning.
Danielle N Calhoun
August 10, 2003

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