<strong>The</strong> Poets’ Place... THE THOUGHTS OF A SOLDIER’S WIFE Loving a soldier it not always gay. For a broken heart is the price one must pay. It’s mostly having and not to hold, It’s being young and feeling old. It’s sending a letter with an upside-down stamp, To a far-away love in a far-away camp. Being in love with merely your dreams, Brings thoughts of where your love light gleams. You wish it were possible for him to phone, You want him to say, “I’m coming home.” And when he comes, there’s laughter together, Unconscious of people, the time or the weather. It’s having him whisper his love for you, It’s whispering that you love him, too. <strong>The</strong>n comes a kiss, a promise of love, Knowing that you’re watched by the Father above. It’s waving a soldier good-bye at the train, And wondering when you’ll see him again. And painfully, reluctantly letting him go, When inside you’re crying and wanting him so. You watch for a word that he is well, You wait for days, no mail for a spell. And when that letter comes, you bubble with joy, And act like a kid with a new-found toy. Loving a soldier has unfounded fears, Crying until there are no more tears. And hating yourself, the world and the war, Because it took the one you adore. And going to church, you kneel and pray, Knowing that God will hear what you say. And though you know he’s, far away, You keep loving him more and more each day. And proud of the job that he’s helping to get done, You’ll love him till he’s a hundred and one. You know for his country, he’s doing his best, Protecting you, like all the rest. You’re tired, you’re weary, doing your share, For someone you know is not there. Loving a soldier is bitterness and tears, It’s loneliness, sadness and unknown fears. No, loving a soldier is really no fun, But, it’s worth the price, when the job is done. HEAR YE Poems printed on this page are not excluded from use on back page. To Tin Can Sailors across the land Who sailed our ships, crew on hand To battles wide, we sailed afar Some of us, still bear a scar But all of us, who sailed are ships To great large ports, and tiny slips Weather changes gave us rock and roll But our great slim ladies were in control <strong>The</strong> water pushed us up and down and listed to 30 degrees With decks awash those topside had wet dungarees We bounced around like a cork in a can Enjoying sunshine and getting a tan And that my mates is what got us fame Tin Can Sailors, that's our name Ron Bennett Final Roll Call Did you hear the sad news today? Another veteran warrior has passed away. Called by the Supreme Commander over all. Today he has made his final roll call. Come fellow vets; let us reverently bow and pray For our valiant comrade, who has fallen this day. We’ll drape his casket with a banner of beautiful hues, Those glorious American colors: red, white and blue. That star spangled banner he gallantly fought to defend, Unyielding and undaunted, he fought to win. He fought bravely and he passed the battle test. Now the Supreme Commander grants him, “eternal rest”. With dignity and honor, we’ll commit his body to the ground, <strong>The</strong> bugler will sound “Taps” and we’ll fire the volley rounds. <strong>The</strong> final military honors we’ll render somberly and ever so sadly; “Old Glory” we’ll solemnly precisely fold and reverently give to his family. Each Memorial Day we will recall our fallen comrade names, And attest that their selfless sacrifices were not in vain; For this lasting legacy they gave to all generations; “It’s honorable to respect our flag and to defend our great nation. “ So close ranks aging warriors, for our ranks are thinning. We must keep on fighting and keep on winning. With pride and honor we’ll march and stand tall, And we’ll proudly - proudly - salute “Old Glory” ` til we too make our final roll call. By Carrol R. Michaud By Ms. Joan Onstott At the time of this printing I have many more poems sent in by members and friends. I intend on printing them all. Some are hand written which will take some time putting into type. I am trying to print the oldest postmark first of those that are typed. <strong>The</strong> non-typed ones will be intermixed in order to not delay this and other issues. Please try to type all poems and articles if you can.—Editor. Page 64 <strong>The</strong> <strong>Graybeards</strong>
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