New Adventures of Queen Victoria by Pab Sungenis for November 11, 2009

In Honor of Veteran’s Day:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

By the dessicated skull of Mogg’s grandfather, that sandwich looks good…

A moment of silence for our fallen heroes. In particular I honor my uncle who perished on the Enoura Maru, one of the infamous hell ships.

Thanks for that memorial, Marg.

Maybe Your Majesty should not eat the apple? Anyways, Your Maj seem to have passed the point of no return, weightwise…

“At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun In the wild purple of the glow’ring sun, Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, They leave their trenches, going over the top, While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!”

The Old Wolf, you’re welcome.

margueritem, thank you.

From the loving granddaughter of a veteran who has gone on to join the ranks of the eternal host.

My great great grandfather served the Grand Army of the Republic with the Thirteenth Kentucky Volunteer Cavalry and both my ggg grandfather and his father fought with the Revolutionary War soldiers at the Battle of Kings Mountain. Without them and countless others like them down through history this country would be far different than it is today. God bless ‘em all.

a poem by Doris Kenyon, the actress

FOREKNOWN

Lieut. E. B. F., killed in action, France, Sept. 14, 1918. Reprinted from “The Harvest Home”

I dreamed and I awoke, the morning light Streamed o’er my bed it was no longer night.

He died in France, and I was with him, though We were three thousand miles apart; for lo! He called me to him and I saw him die A hero’s death; beside him there I knelt, My arm beneath his head. He knew I felt Repaid while sharing his great sacrifice, In that wild night beneath the alien skies.

I did not need to hear the fatal word That came at length; already, when I heard The woful message, it was known full well That yonder in the awful din, he fell, Laying upon the altar of his God The blood wherewith he dewed the shell-torn sod: And though I miss him, yet my heart the while Like his is tranquil, for I saw him smile.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!–An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime… Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,– My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

Thanks for the memorials. My great, great grandfather fought with the 1st KY CAV (USA) in the Civil War, and his grandfather fought in the Revolutionary War. I also had a great, great uncle in World War I.

A couple of years ago, my mother and I took a trip to Charleston and Savannah. Included was dinner at Paula Deene’s restaurant “Lady and Sons.” I was not impressed. Of the 4 dinners that were included, that one ranked the lowest. Buffet was running low on food. What there was tasted good, but no better than many other places. Perhaps my expectations were too high. I’ll take my local Golden Corral any day.

Having several war veterans in our family, I too salute our fighthing men and women, and fallen heroes.

On a lighter note, yes, Paula Deen does have an unnerving knack for making even the healthiest foods as un-heart healthy as possible – but then, we just have them on special occasions, not as our daily menu! :-)

reading the recipe online, somebody suggested skipping the butter and browning the bread in the bacon drippings - just to make it even yummier !

Thanks to everybody for the beautiful thoughts and poetry today

Priceless, absolutely priceless. I nearly died laughing. Thanks Pab!

Also, thanks to everyone for the poetry and remembrances…