I think it only fair that I keep all my nonsense in one spot, I guess. Not that there's much of it, but then at least it's only inflicted on you in one thread... 
All comments, criticism and feedback gratefully recieved. I constantly fiddle with and re-write my work, so any suggestions you may have will be taken on board, even if it's just to say 'leave it alone, it's fine as is' (doubtful, but you never know!). Thanks.
This first is an oldie, but I still like it. It was written at the scene itself in Normandy, France. The person in question was the first husband of the mother of a family friend of ours who had promised her he would find his grave for her - she had never been to see it. Weird thoughts for him: if this man had survived, then his mother would not have remarried and he would have never been born...
One in one thousand, one hundred and thirty-eight;
Row 12J, fourth or fifth from the left;
Twenty-four and only six weeks married.
One in one thousand, one hundred and thirty-eight.
All you have to do is count the graves,
English, Canadian, and German mixed,
And they're just the ones whose bodies
(What was left of them)
Were saved.
"A soldier of the 1939-1945 war",
His badge, regiment or rank (perhaps);
Many are only "Known unto God"
(At least that's something we can be grateful for);
A german grave has just one word: 'TILLA',
(One up from 'inconnu')
Part of a name tag possibly
That meant something to those who loved him;
An eighteen year old,
The epitaph signed "Mum and Dad":
He'd be seventy-two by now.
So long ago,
But the memories yet are green:
There are those who still can weep
And guess at why and how and where.
Is he the 'soldat inconnu'?
Is his the grave that remains untouched by personal marks of love,
Devoid of newly bought and cellophane wrapped flowers?
If he has a grave at all.
A German OAP can share the grief
And lay a wreath
With survivors of the ship that he torpedoed.
A veteran of the First World War
Pulls himself up from his wheelchair to a salute
As the comrade,
Whose shell-burst and mutilated body he once buried in a sack,
Is buried once again.
One in one thousand, one hundred and thirty eight.
One thousand, one hundred and thirty-eight amongst millions.
Row upon row of gleaming white,
Regimented unto the last.
The Valar are divided; Lothlorien is near to rebellion; Beleg Cuthalion and Ecthelion are on opposite sides; Elrond's sons have forsaken him to join the Elves in Black.
Silvan versus Noldor: the fourth kin-slaying has begun ... with guns.
~ "The Approaching Darkness" at Brothers In Arms ~
All comments, criticism and feedback gratefully recieved. I constantly fiddle with and re-write my work, so any suggestions you may have will be taken on board, even if it's just to say 'leave it alone, it's fine as is' (doubtful, but you never know!). Thanks.
This first is an oldie, but I still like it. It was written at the scene itself in Normandy, France. The person in question was the first husband of the mother of a family friend of ours who had promised her he would find his grave for her - she had never been to see it. Weird thoughts for him: if this man had survived, then his mother would not have remarried and he would have never been born...
Upon Visiting the War Cemetary at Hottot-les-Bagnes, August 1989
One in one thousand, one hundred and thirty-eight;
Row 12J, fourth or fifth from the left;
Twenty-four and only six weeks married.
One in one thousand, one hundred and thirty-eight.
All you have to do is count the graves,
English, Canadian, and German mixed,
And they're just the ones whose bodies
(What was left of them)
Were saved.
"A soldier of the 1939-1945 war",
His badge, regiment or rank (perhaps);
Many are only "Known unto God"
(At least that's something we can be grateful for);
A german grave has just one word: 'TILLA',
(One up from 'inconnu')
Part of a name tag possibly
That meant something to those who loved him;
An eighteen year old,
The epitaph signed "Mum and Dad":
He'd be seventy-two by now.
So long ago,
But the memories yet are green:
There are those who still can weep
And guess at why and how and where.
Is he the 'soldat inconnu'?
Is his the grave that remains untouched by personal marks of love,
Devoid of newly bought and cellophane wrapped flowers?
If he has a grave at all.
A German OAP can share the grief
And lay a wreath
With survivors of the ship that he torpedoed.
A veteran of the First World War
Pulls himself up from his wheelchair to a salute
As the comrade,
Whose shell-burst and mutilated body he once buried in a sack,
Is buried once again.
One in one thousand, one hundred and thirty eight.
One thousand, one hundred and thirty-eight amongst millions.
Row upon row of gleaming white,
Regimented unto the last.
- - - - - - - -
The Valar are divided; Lothlorien is near to rebellion; Beleg Cuthalion and Ecthelion are on opposite sides; Elrond's sons have forsaken him to join the Elves in Black.
Silvan versus Noldor: the fourth kin-slaying has begun ... with guns.
~ "The Approaching Darkness" at Brothers In Arms ~
It's not being wordy - it's all to do creating a framework within which to weave the story. In such a case, there needs to be a slower ravelling of the poem - more than can be provided within the limitations of a haiku of sonnet. This particular one works very well.
Especially as there wouldn't be much of him left in any case! 
