To all those who died,
Or who lost the ones they love:
I dedicate this.
To those left behind:
I wish it could be more than
A few empty words.
Tag Archives: Honor
Sonnet IV: The Valiant and the Craven
So valiantly hast thou thy battles fought
For everyone we love, as well as we.
Our fathers and our mothers lived to see
The grandchildren thy blood and valour bought.
And what a crime that none today are taught
The sacrifice thou chos’t as thy decree,
The horror thou hast braved so valiantly,
Thy blood with which their apathy was wrought.
How they will rage when next the bugle sounds
And none are left to stand before its call.
How they will curse thy gravestones one and all;
Yet none may wake thee in thy hallowed grounds.
With ramparts left unmanned, they’ll know the why,
And know thy sacrifice before they die.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 4: They who Know
To all those who know:
I recall when first I knew.
It awed and shamed me.
Sonnet III: The Vigilant
“I teach the use of ordinance to boys.
It’s just a job, not so unlike your own.
I wake up every morning to the drone
Of my alarm, and teach them what destroys
“And kills. A job like yours,” he said, “employing
Skills ones discipline requires. Condone
The harm or not, my job inspires alone
Young men who sought this life. When mine deploys,
“We, rough and ready, make the day our own.”
“But can you quit?” I asked, “you’ve pledged to keep
It–like a wife–for better or for worse.”
“And, quit or fail, I won’t be sought nor thrown
In jail; nor watch my wife, from heaven, weep
Upon my empty coffin in a hearse.”
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 3: To November
“We sleep soundly in
our beds because rough men stand
ready in the night
“to visit vio-
-lence on those who would do us
harm.” – Winston Churchill
Sonnet II: The Devoted
So fine are ye who hold the line unsung
By any but those proud few men who know–
By virtue of their own devotion; though
They boast not how they crossed an ocean; young;
An age at which so few would broach, among
Themselves, such grave and worldly things; who show
The world, by deeds, that matters which bestow
Such life! such death! affairs of kings! who slung,
So rife with breath, together, tales told
And sung, and written down, with reverence;
Who know the price which, sometimes, must be paid;
Who, though as any, fear malevolence,
Dare throw down tyrants, numbering untold;
Who pay with blood–the sum that freedom weighed.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 2: Nothing
Nothing I can say
Nothing that I can conceive
Can express my thanks
Nothing will ever
Be enough to help them feel
My esteem for them.
David Emeron: Sonnets 