Today I watched the ceremony at Normandy, France on the 80th anniversary of D-Day. Each veteran had a nobility in their wrinkled faces and bent bodies that were humble yet had majesty. Many of these are one hundred years or older and this will be the last time they will travel to Normandy Beach. Yet they proudly stood up to salute their commander and chief. Some said they did not do it for themselves, they did it for their fallen comrades that lay beneath the sacred ground of the cemetery. It was a beautiful ceremony and honored the living and the dead. My Uncles George and Edward landed in Normandy. Both have passed on now, so I write this in poem in their honor.
They were the ones who came home
Now elderly and bent with wrinkled faces
they slowly stand with pride, to salute
their commander once more.
They come to remember battles fought, of life and death,
of blood spilled, poured out, like wine on mudded ground.
They come to remember lost legs, lost arms, lost lives
These soldiers come to tell their ghostly friends,
They are not forgotten.
As they walk among the white markers
Ghostly soldiers in battle dress walk beside them.
Voices of long-lost friends, like whispers in the wind,
Drift along with the sounds of distant battles and
trumpets playing taps.
These old soldiers, now frail and bent,
have come to accept honors of gratitude,
Not just for themselves, but also,
for their valiant comrades, who did not come home,
They are beneath sacred ground in a foreign land.
This battlefield turned into sacred ground
has countless memories poured into the soil
by the blood of young men and women.
Memories of battles, of life and death.
No medal from country, or famous men
can ever be good enough to honor these Hallowed souls
who gave all they could for their countries, their families,
Their friends, and comrades.
We who humbly stand before the valiant heroes,
the living and the dead, we promised to stop warring,
We promised to never again send our young to die.
We failed; we broke that promise.
Our native sons and daughters are again,
Spilling their blood on foreign ground.
So, once again, we have come from across the globe
to thank these valiant heroes, of ancient battles, for their sacrifices.
Let us renew our promise to end the killing of our young.
That is the only honor good enough to give the Holy Dead.
It is the only promise to give to our children, our sons, and daughters.
Ruth Jewell, ©June 6, 2024
A Quiet Walk 
I was moved by your poem and would put it on the same level of painful beauty as Flanders Field. Saddest is how many more not again will those who sit behind their desks spout before more go out to die.My hope is one day the people of the world will say, “NO NOT THIS TIME” and force those who benefit from conflicts to find a better way.
Thank you for your kind words. I also hope humanity wakes up and says “not this time”. Two of my uncles landed on Normandy Beach both returned changed men and never spoke of their experience. I keep asking how many more must die, must be deeply harmed before we say enough. I have grandchildren and great grandchildren and am frightened about their future. I pray and I hope, with all my heart, that we will wake up and end the killing of our children. Thank you again, peace and blessing.