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Grandad's ww2 poems no. 4 and 5

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posted on Oct, 12 2015 @ 11:07 AM

These simple things that I have learned to love,
Are better far than things I used to know.
The smell of new turned earth, the trees, the sky above,
The joy of watching a self planted garden grow.
Fool, that I was, in thinking, just last year, that I could find true happiness in town;
In parties, in women, wine, so called good cheer,
I thought perhaps my troubles I could drown.
Those weekends when we drank until the dawn,
Made drunken love and sang our silly songs!
Lay, repulsively half naked on the lawn,
And thought ourselves contented, like the throngs
Of pleasure, mad fools all gathered there like sheep,
Too busy at their futile play to note
The moon above the trees begin to creep,
Shyly, in its pale, star spangled, cloudy coat.

Ah no.
No more synthesis pleasure will I seek,
Tis' all a disillusionment, I find.
I want the whispered secrets of a creek,
The soft caressing breeze to soothe my mind.
I want the tang of woodsmoke in the night,
The warm sun's rays on naked back and thigh.
The ever changing, awe inspiring sight,
Of sunset, with its flaming golden sky.
All these I love and want, but they would fall
Short, life would be incomplete,
Were you not there with me to share it all.
To make them still more perfect, still more sweet.
We two, the simple things, the quiet content
That comes from peace of mind,
A job well done, will make our lives, our happiness,
So heaven sent, so easy
- just a place in the sun.

Written by Maurice Peter Hathaway
(R.A.R depot - Borrowdale Salisbury Southern Rhodesia - January 1944


Why do I do these things?
I do not want to die!
I have my life before me,
And I want to try
To make it something,
However small or unworthy it may be
And yet I lie here, amidst this filth,
Shivering and sick and scared.
The stench of death permeates the air, the
Comrade next to me chokes,
At last he's free.
Merciful death rattles in his throat.
What has he done, this youth so fair
To merit this foul agony?
The barrage lifts and I go forward
In a stumbling run!
The man before me gives a cry
Of sheer, stark pain,
And crumbles at my feet,
And writhes and mouths inhuman.
And yet again say I,
Why? Why? Why?

Written by Maurice Peter Hathaway - 1944

(Thank you for you comments and interest guys! Keep it up! More to follow tomorrow.)

posted on Oct, 12 2015 @ 11:20 AM
Thank you for posting - stark and raw. The pain in those words describe the reality of war better than any movie or novel.

My grandfather on mother's side was just about to board a ship for North Africa (in South Africa) when he came down with cerebral malaria and nearly died. After months spent recovering, he was medically discharged and sent back to Southern Rhodesia.

He was the only survivor of his original unit.

But for a mosquito, I would not be alive.

posted on Oct, 12 2015 @ 04:19 PM
Thought provoking and powerful! Thanks for sharing these!

posted on Oct, 12 2015 @ 09:10 PM
Thank you for this. Where all did he serve (locations)?

posted on Oct, 20 2015 @ 10:52 AM

I love these poems! But you've broken your promise. Over a week and nothing! Please share

posted on Oct, 20 2015 @ 11:08 AM
Interesting prose for that day and age. The sentiments are clear and profound, a treasure you have there. What he says sounds much like my great uncles accounting of the wars as well. Hopefully you have more of his writings? If so make a book and sell it. People like pictures so be sure and add some to the book, I will buy.

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