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Quotations Poetry
Quotations Poetry was inspired by the Raven.
Last updated on
Hello!
Welcome to my page of poetry and other things. My pages might be viewed as a magazine, it has a bit of this
and that. As you scroll down you will encounter a poem, picture or a quote. I've added some icons here and there to give the
pages a sense of life and humor.
My pages are full, but primarily poetry, links to other places of interests. I did
not entend to put as much military info & poetry of military experience here, but I realized there is a need
to remember those who protect our freedom from those who try to erase freedom as we know it. Please enjoy my little magazine
of sorts.
P.S.
Please be sure to go to page 2 and, read No More Lost Socks &
Gram, I Heard You Reading All Along_____These are my favorite poems I've written. I do hope you enjoy the message they convey.
:O )
Thanks
to our military
For our friends, family, and fellow Americans we don't even know who are in uniform...
If you are so inclined, visit the Department of Defense web page below and
sign a brief message thanking the men and women of the U.S. military services for defending
our freedom. The compiled list of names will be sent out to our soldiers at
the end of the month. So far, there are less than 103 ,000
names - what a shame.
http://www.defendamerica.mil/nmam.html
People will forget what you said.
People will forget what you did. But people will never forget how you made them feel.
Date: Mon, 17 Jun 2002 21:41:23 -0700
From: Barry Anderson <moderatingstaff@instruction.com>
Subject: What to do with found dogtags...
After a number of cable TV news stories about
lost dogtags found around
the world were aired recently, dogtags are now suddenly being 'found' in
uncountable numbers...
the majority of these 'found' dogtags are bogus,
having been recently 'manufactured' and aged by complex antiquing to
appear
a generation or more old.
Virtually everyone who "finds" dogtags expresses a personal desire to
return them either
to the veteran or his/her family. Some 'finders' hope
for a reward. Others desire publicity. Some are just lonely and want
to
contact an American family. While others are hoping for something of
benefit other than money. In most cases the
'finders' will hold the
dogtags 'hostage' until/unless they can personally contact the veteran
or his/her family.
Here
is how you can help stop the current dogtag scam...
American veterans and veterans organizations can end the 'found
dogtag'
scam by responding to all reports, whether genuine or not, with the
following message::
Officially,
lost dogtags are the Property of the United States
Government. Lost dogtags are not the Property of the veteran
who
wore them, nor are they the property of the veterans family.
Found dogtags should be mailed to the Department of Defense
or
the local U.S. Embassy.
Or, you can direct dogtag 'finders' to this website:
http://members.aol.com/veterans/dogtag.htmWEBMASTERS: A link to this website is not necessary. You are encouraged
to create your own
webpage on your site providing the information
displayed on the above website. Spread the word.
Best,
Brooke
Rowe,
Associate Librarian
The American War Library
http://www.americanwarlibrary.com
A Poem:
Remembering
How long has it been since we all were young together?
Strangers becoming more like brothers than friends. Sharing things that most will never know, building bonds that are stronger
than blood. Cat shots into a formless black night, when sea and sky are one. Only the gauges point to altitude and life. Or
into a hot, still day, when lift seems but a theory. Straining against the straps, willing it to climb. Hours strapped to
a hard seat, mask cutting your face. Seemingly alone in a universe of three. Stretching for home, fuel balanced against charlie
time. "Foul deck. Continue to hold." Can sweat replace fuel? CCA through the muck, bathed in St. Elmo's ghostly glow. Pilot
on the gauges, B/N searching for the sight of the plane guard's wake or Mustang's faint lights. Gear down. Flaps down. Hook
down. "Call the ball." Pin point of orange, two green bars. "Folder five, ball." Air speed, line up and ball. Seconds to get
it right. Pitching deck, don't chase it. "Folder five, power!" A rush of lights. Jarring hit. Scraping hook. Please catch.
Full power. Slammed into the straps. Yes! From flight deck chaos to the ready room's warmth and the LSO's dreaded review:
"High start, low in the middle. Okay three."
And there were joys that never grew old. On top of sun-blessed clouds,
little less than gods. Or high in a clear night, a billion stars humbling the soul. The low-level rush, hills grabbing for
your guts. Face in the scope, find the aim point, track. Master bomb on. "Follow BDI." Tone. Pull! Two and a half Gs.
Release. Roll. Shack! Happy hours at the club. Unplanned weekend parties. Married couples who'll feed bachelor JOs.
Off
to WestPac. Mai Tais beneath the "bang bang tree." Popcorn and "juice" in the JO bunkroom. Atsugi for hotsy baths and sake
to forget night traps. Cubi and San Miguels, "fragrant river" and "monkey on a stick." Hong Kong's good cheap suits and floating
restaurants. Pollywogs becoming shellbacks on crossing the line. Down under, where past sacrifices still bring respect. Finally,
homeward bound. "Open up those Golden Gates."
But life on the edge brings soaring highs AND crushing lows. Friends
so full of life, can they really be gone? Empty ready room chairs bring the sad truth: Fatherless kids, wives now widows and
men who will never grow old. "Glory, glory, what a helluva way to die." "And they'll never fly home again." Practicing for
war until the real thing came. The wrong war, in the wrong place, fought the wrong way. Too many good men gave their all for
so little good. Does anyone remember but those of us who loved them? The wall may be black, but the names are golden.
Now
those who remain come together in joy. So many years have flown and our bodies are weaker. But the memories and the bonds
are forever strong. And, for a moment, we all were young together again.
Author Unknown-
Floyd James Thompson, a man of undying will. He was the longest
held P.O.W. in the Vietnam War. Only recently was he duly awarded the Medal of Honor; he spent nine years as a P.O.W., and
five of those in solitary confinement. A hero indeed.
Fortune Cookies
Am on my way to war, the stuff of cowboys and Indians. The plane lands in a hollow cheeked plateau.
The sunrises with a bayonet centered between the eyes of my life.
I think of home, my children, my wife.
My steps take a stumbling, staggering shove into an eight foot hole; a rotten green stench crawls up
my leg; vomit feasting centipedes dance around my swollen feet. And I think of the fortune cookie handed over when I left
for the game of reality. “Stay tough” the message read. I hear teasing chopper blades, a shaft of blue through
a slit in the bamboo. Too many days and years I've been caged. I've forgotten the date, even my age.
There’s days of rat pellet rice, and days of black tea salted for spite. The hellish heat colors
my skin gray; the peeling flakes feed jungle ants till their bellies swell.
These snake eyed captors expect me to convert, to lie and grow a long nose; I'm not Pinochhio! And, Hanoi
Jane came grinning and, growing a long nose! Her ears big as elephants listening to their distorted philosophies.
The cold spreads a numbing chill. I feel my body curl up in a fetal fold; those ants
begin to look good if only the earthen mud was chocolate. Stale crackers take on the scent of steaks in a moment of starving
hallucination.
And these years in isolation have driven me to a madness. Tree roots knotted into prayer beads; I mold
a pillow out of raw clay patting it smooth laying down my thoughts exhausted.. God give me a strength, give me a sign to “stay
tough." Give me honor, my dignity, give me a truth .
Talk to me God,
let me live to be free-
©Bette Mioduski 2002
Remember
Those Who Gave Their Lives For Our Freedom
Remember
Those Who Died In
Vietnam
WWII
Korea
WWI
~~The Pen~~
I must tell you
the pen in this hand
has
missed terribly
the use of expressive language.
My heart and soul feels smothered,
shut off from
what was before.
There is not another
within the framework of my life nor,
will there ever be,
a replacement.
I’m most guilty of trespassing
the boundaries
of this heart,
As your own.
Today I fought against the temptation
to write
words of passion.
Lest you forget
they were ever written as you enter
the darkness; another place.
I’ve placed taboo’s and restrictions
upon my heart and lines
never to disobey the oath of a golden silence.
There are far too many
who have a gangsters heart;
I have no need
for those who might chop me up
and use my words to feed
their laughter and dress their ego’s.
For years before you ever were,
impatience caused
me
to take to wandering off a steady path,
in search of the person I knew existed.
For years now my patience
rooted to overflowing;
no longer do I look upon an
indifferent face as a potential night rider.
You’ve allowed my indulgence
to say all
I pleased until the
fall and winter of this year,
and a reason given
to change my ways.
How does one suddenly change habits
grown accustom to?
Yes, I’ve tumbled long ago off
the building
of common sense,
knocking out whatever sense existed..
My vocal chords useless,
the only thing left are symbols.
But, there must be a fairness in the winds
that
whisper and warn,
blow about my head, my wants.
Your passionate embers
will wander to the here
and there
to be considered and respected.
Who am I anyway to count
such days and hours
at my pen waiting.
Surely all my scratching
your booted heel has
not discouraged
thoughts regarding a common union.
Perhaps passages written have
tired your brow,
a tiring in what to do
with
such a small indolent creature.
Is it possible
the search for the other half
of you has been as long as my own?
I should never cease in the longing
of a winters
night.
Would you want that to be?
B. Mioduski December 2002
Lucy The Butterfly!
Mr. McLean
He would sit munching
Twinkies,
lifting a hand shaking gingerly like a
sea gull blown down by some imaginary
storm; the tea cup rattled
about the saucers
ringed surface.
He chattered endless of sea creatures.
"Tentacles of memory" embracing the
whole
ocean. His eyes bright like the ocean's
blue liquid. All the while toying
with a sand dollar in his lined palm.
Occasionally
he rose to wrests the kinks
loosen the barnacles of his fossilized bones. But, time passing
the suns dial never interrupted
his ceaseless chatter.
He wistfully spoke of the elusive dark haired mermaid he almost caught;
a picture of his
lighthouse hung on a far wall. His calico cat studied
a tuna fish can.
He tapped his fingers like ores hitting ocean
waves to each tale
of younger days; that whale was bigger than his
height of six feet; blue marlins were mere shrimps.
He pointed to his study of still marine life: samples
of sting rays fast asleep.
His eyes weary, his tongue
tied like a fisherman's knot, he
leaned near the bedroom door. He turned to see the ocean caps waving
back falling
silent again; the moonlight winked and
touched glass pebbles nearer the still waters.
©B.MIODUSKI 2002
All the poetry
on these pages are written
by me unless otherwise
stated, and copywrited.
Please do not use for
illegal or monetary purposes.
Do ask permission to use them.
David
David sits
A tangle of mental confusion,
On the window seat in daylight
David who are you?
Do you hear, see me at all?
Im right here in front of you
My fingers dance;
is there a way
To entertain you?
David, count them, tell me how many
Will it take forever to reach you
behind the locked door?
David, you spend hours lost in never-never
land
Playing games with your hands; no light in
your window
Waving shaking before your eyes
Can you tell me where,
who you are?
David, answer me. What moon star are you sitting
on?
Is it the dark, light side of that big fifty
cent piece
that hangs in the sky, is that where you are?
David, are you that far away and beyond reality?
David, let me talk to you, tell you of things
unknown,
Unknown days in your yesterdays, then tomorrow
Do you have an invisible button somewhere?
Open your minds blinded eye. If I knock will
that work?
Is there an evil gremlin playing games with
your life?
David, look me in the eye; for once you will
cry today,
again tomorrow
I wonder by day, by night why you are not
here
but, you are in front of me alive
With nocturnal eyes-
© Bette Mioduski 1999
Picture Title:
Rascal Raven-
The "Rascal Raven" is a painting by the Alutiiq Museum-
215 Mission Road, Suite 101  Kodiak, AK 99615, 907-486-7004
E-Mail: alutiiq2@ptialaska.net
All Pages © 1999 Alutiiq Museum and Archaeological
Repository - Kodiak, Alaska
Prepared by the Alutiiq Museum- a nonprofit organization that seeks to preserve the prehistoric
and historic traditions of the
Alutiiq peoples and promote a greater public awareness of the rich cultural legacy of peoples
of the Alaskan Gulf.
Love is an act of endless forgiveness,
a tender look which becomes
a habit.
Peter Ustinov-
Islamic Flower
She sat predator still,
a
red wool scarf draped
over Arabian black hair,
cascading down a shoulder, snakelike,
coiling around her neck;
her
leopard green eyes stared fiercely
into the camera lens; a toughness
encased
her diamond-cut face.
Her lips had a fullness,
sharp
peaks like the Himalaya's.
Her raven hair dangled unkept along her jawline;
she posed, never minding her
appearance,
this flowering Islamic woman-child.
Spoken
words not needed,
only a sign to give instructions.
She obeyed in her willful glare
while I took
one last shot.
I stared for a long moment
into her roan eyes.
Click: her image perfect.
She
softly walked out into a
herd of goats nibbling at her silk skirt;
armed men paraded about bullet holes;
her world
so full of war and poverty.
Her
picture haunts me;
her eyes shadow my every thought.
In dreams I search the rippling sands for her,
to
show her the picture she’s never seen.
The
season’s year of flowers spring up,
the summer heat floats
across black-tops laughing at my sweat,
the
fall leaves drift, swishing
like the skirt of the Islamic Flower.
The winter ice storm stiffens me with her eyes;
I will find her again.
Though,
I don’t know her name...
© Bette Mioduski 2002
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