I saw him smoke a cigar
I saw him smoke a cigar
and the binoculars
brought him here with me.
His cap was at a rakish angle
and sweat from the early morning sun,
was running down his face.
He stood in his tank’s open hatch
and gestured and laughed
with a comrade.
It was like a moment of peace,
but my Ratel’s gun
send a deadly shell at point blank range.
He was no more and splattered
and just another casualty of war
and burning white phosphor decimated
the enemy tank’s entire crew.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Carrion
a Enemy soldier lies motionless
and his limbs are twisted,
reaching for the last
energy of live
and a hand still holds a gun.
Blood and guts
are splattered about,
where a mortar bomb
hit home
and some flies gather.
The strong sulphur smell
mixed with fried human
burns my nose,
where smoke rises
from a shot out
enemy battle tank.
Another tank stand moveless
with its barrel
still aiming somewhere
and the remains
of its occupants hatched inside.
About a hundred Cuban tanks
and twice that much
enemy armoured cars,
stand lifeless in the African bush.
The battle scene is a graveyard
and my Ratel tank destroyer drives past,
to cross the Lomba river.
Before nightfall I fight
the darkness of my soul
and struggle with God
and to this day,
still no one can answer why.
[References: => Ratel tank destroyer=>Ratel ZT-3 (the anti-tank guided missile version) . Reference are given here to the “battle for Africa, ” fought by 61 South African mechanized battalion group and 32 South African battalion group against four brigades of the Soviet-led FAPLA forces (the 47th,59th,16th and 21st brigades) in Angola in August 1987.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The road ahead dissolved into dust
The road ahead dissolved into dust
and we could not see the track
nor any of the other fighting vehicles
consisting out of Olifant main battle tanks
and Ratel armoured cars that were ahead of us.
Bushes were covering the veldt
on all sides and around us,
the early morning fog
had drifted over from the river
and worse still tried to cover things
and in the distance I heard the cannon
of a enemy tank blasting off a projectile
and almost felt the impact hitting us,
but it shrieked past
and at speed we left the track
rammed through some bushes
and the Ratel-90 armoured car
draw to a halt
and our return shot
found its mark
and we had to take another one
to make dead sure
of the destruction
of the Russian manufactured T-55 tank
before speeding away
trying to avoid being hit
and found another target
and one more and another after that
and later even filling the night
with bright flashing canon flame,
sending death out with projectiles
to whichever enemy that we found.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A shot rang out like lightning out of a gun
Goodbye to the land where the sun always shine,
to the blue sky that always is bright,
goodbye to the light that comes every day
and hello to that midnight which is cold and dark.
A shot rang out like lightning out of a gun
fading the sun while white vapour rose
out of a shot out armoured car,
I couldn’t close my eyes or look away.
Goodbye to that enemy tank stopped in its tracks
against a bank of earth
while my armoured car’s gun rang out
sending a phosphorus shell with fire from hell.
A rocket flew past with a flaming tail
like a star falling from the sky
before exploding against a tree with a blast
and goodbye to the enemy soldiers who fired it
while we moved past at speed
with a machinegun howling a great cry.
I heard that enemy commander weeping over the radio
while his frequencies were blocked
being in shock
and sounding like the voices of many men
crying in the anguish of death
as if a deadly net had been cast
and I wish that I could understand Spanish
but the noise was ear-splitting
and it was goodbye to tank after tank
and goodbye with blast after blast and going in quick
stopping, firing and running away fast
and every enemy armoured car we found
only got one shot
till the last shell had being fired
and tired we went to fetch some more,
ate in a hurry before being wished good luck
and going back to war.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The havoc of war
a Smoking and burning
enemy battle tank
stands stopped in its tracks,
like a metal coffin
with its occupants
still hatched in.
a BRDM enemy armoured car
is encased by leaping flames
and the phosphoric burning smell
is churning in my guts.
Some dead Cuban soldiers lay
cut from the stem
mangled in blood and guts
and the machinegun is still chattering
and I wish to be,
in another place and time
than to be a part
of this slaughtering.
a Bleating Gemsbok rushes past
trying to outrun the flames,
that leap through the field
while the machines of war
brings death to the living.
Shot after shot is fired
at killing range
and it’s hot and deafening
inside the Ratel,
but the wind
brushes through my hair
where I stand
in the top hatch
and trees and bushes
sweep past
as if screened in a movie house.
Enemy armour keeps exploding
and my voice sounds strange
and unfamiliar to me,
while I give directions
for the next killing.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The night is full of brown Ratel armoured cars
The night is full of brown Ratel armoured cars
and Olifant tanks
that drives and rolls in on the ground
and salvos from rocket launching trucks
that draws arcs
and in the distance howitzer canon reports
in volleys
and when a light flare suddenly falls
it is as if the bushes are teeming
with enemy tanks and armoured cars
just where I look
and it looks
like the day of judgement.
Projectiles find their targets
and canister-shot comes down exploding thundering
and it’s an apocalyptic night
for some of the enemy
who are burning,
scorched and blown to smithereens in their armour
and when a tank
suddenly appears out of the bushes
there is a hell of a red thunderclap
as a shot from another Ratel hits it deadly
and I realize that even here
a person’s time is measured out
and around me there are fireworks
like stars falling from the sky
while we stop and aim
the following killing shot.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A woman unconscious
The enemy were almost at the door,
coming with tanks, armoured cars,
rocket launching trucks,
helicopter gunship, fighter jets,
with supporting Cuban troops
under Russian command
and day after day
I prayed for it to end,
for the killing of them, to stop,
where my Ratel armoured car
send tank after tank and many more armoured cars
with phosphorous shells
straight to hell
and by calamity the future changed,
turned into a different world,
changed from the one
scared of them, dropping the annihilating bomb
of millions of people being killed and dead
and at home, the welcoming did not come
at my return
and your were not there,
were killed in a car accident instead,
were for a time unconscious
in a white hospital bed
and the evidence of how cruel
the world can be
still walks with me,
while life goes on.
[Reference: A woman unconscious by Ted Hughes.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Abdul Hameed
As a plan of defence and to reply enemy's attacks
On grenadier's positions, being repeatedly made,
He occupied a vital area in the new defence plan,
A firm hold on that place was essential to sustain.
Serious threat developed, as the enemy attacked
With regiment of tanks, intense artillery preceded;
Shelling so heavily that shells littered every yard,
In defence positions, foe's tanks penetrated forward.
Hamid, commanding a recoilless gun detachment
Seeing gravity, moved to stop the tank regiment
In gun mounted jeep disregarding personal safety,
Taking his position he knocked out a tank of enemy.
Intense enemy shelling and tank fire couldn't deter
His sustained act of bravery knocked out an other;
One by one he knocked out six with accurate fire,
Then changed his position for seventh, with dare.
By this time, enemy had spotted his position,
On him brought down concentrated machine gun.
The intense and continued fire put him in trouble
A war was continued between steel made and muscle
He fought, as not the tanks, he was made of steel
Kept on firing, with his courage and patriotic feel.
As he fired to destroy the seventh tank of enemy,
Wounded by a high explosive shell, mortally;
His bravery and steel like determination, destroyed
Six plus one tank, which took The Hero too, along
Defended his mother land with strong determination
And lived for ever, in hearts of people of his nation.
(C) S D Tiwari
sdtiwari1@gmail(dot) com
poem by S.D. Tiwari
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Till the shooting ended
The fine press of binoculars against eye,
speech apparatus against mouth,
bodies camouflaged against the ground
made burning stars
fall from the sky.
Projectiles from G-5 howitzer canons
blasting from more that forty kilometres away
crossed the sky
in parabolas adjusted fine
and smashed enemy tank and armoured car
to pieces.
Flames throwing their tongues
orange-red to the sky,
enemy weapons pierced,
a commander with cigar in his hand bended,
enemy soldiers of whom
intestines rained down in pieces
in a moment where everybody
met the maker
and pools of red blood
and shot-out scrap
was all that marked the place of slaughtering.
l’Envoi
Till the shooting ended,
men stopped dying,
when too many were killed and pierced
and a war on the backside
of Africa was lost
and even the Russians knew
to forget about any victory
and the Cubans returned to Cuba
and never again Fidel Castro
could try and clench his fist round Africa.
[Reference: The Battle of Cuito Cuanavale were South African Reconnaissance Commandos (Recce’s) and artillery gun crews played a major role.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Butch Weldy
After I got religion and steadied down
They gave me a job in the canning works,
And every morning I had to fill
The tank in the yard with gasoline,
That fed the blow-fires in the sheds
To heat the soldering irons.
And I mounted a rickety ladder to do it,
Carrying buckets full of the stuff.
One morning, as I stood there pouring,
The air grew still and seemed to heave,
And I shot up as the tank exploded,
And down I came with both legs broken,
And my eyes burned crisp as a couple of eggs.
For someone left a blow-fire going,
And something sucked the flame in the tank.
The Circuit Judge said whoever did it
Was a fellow-servant of mine, and so
Old Rhodes' son didn't have to pay me.
And I sat on the witness stand as blind
As Jack the Fiddler, saying over and over,
"l didn't know him at all."
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Phosphorus Projectile Explodes
A Phosphorus projectile explodes
burns soldiers to particles of dust
when an enemy tank fires
hitting a Ratel armoured car in a bright glare,
burns hissing right through the blood of boys,
it becomes a terrible hour
where humanity goes totally dim.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To true heroes
Under heavy fire from the enemy
into the landmine field they went,
two men went into that deadly place
to extract a lost tank,
and in they went again
to bring back
a wounded man.
Sometimes officers lead the way
scorning death in facing the enemy
and true heroes were they both.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Minefield
Thunder came from the grass
and open the earth split
tearing the wheels from a armoured car
and again the ear deafening roar
just as before lightening leaped
right from the ground
slicing at a battle tank
and then most of the armour
draw back to safe ground
and two officers went right in
through the battle din of machinegun
and tank canon
to extract a tank with a wounded man
while shrapnel fell and bullets screamed
across their heads
and at the craters edge repaired,
got that piece of armour moving again.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Captain
It’s the third day of the battle
and around us there are enemy tanks
of which the canons keep clapping
and Stalin organ rockets
that falls at places among our men.
Next to me there’s a Captain
with a three day old beard
and his eyes is red of tiredness
while he gives instructions
over the radio.
We shoot till darkness
and through the night
and thunder clap flashes
keep on shooting
the enemy out.
The morning dawns
and the sun rises over the battlefield,
that is soundless and grim
and like two ghosts
we walk around in the bushes.
He wipes dust from his face
while we drive further
through the bushes
and we look out
from the top of the Ratel IFV
and in the distance,
a single rifle shot resounds
and the Captain is dead.
[Reference: Ratel IFV=> Ratel Infantry Fighting Vehicle]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hamster In A Tiger Tank (A Poem For Children)
There’s a hamster in a Tiger Tank,
I saw it driving down the street.
Despite its furry features,
crushing cars is just not sweet.
It’s firing the big cannon,
and shooting the machine gun.
It just took a shot at Tiddles,
you should have seen that kitty run.
I don’t know where it got it,
where do you get a Tiger Tank?
But it’s clear it is up to no good,
because hamster just blew up a bank.
Oh can’t anybody stop it?
The airforce, navy or army?
But when we rang they wouldn’t come,
they laughed and said “you’re barmy! ”
poem by Jojoba Mansell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
He was lucky
The BTR-152 lowers its heavy machinegun
and starts firing,
before the 90mm shell
knocks the hell out of it.
The BTR stand motionless
and white smoke rises
from it like steam
and there’s an acrid smell
in the air.
I jump down from Ratel’s dome
and through the smoke
a Cuban appears,
with hands above his head
and there’s a man unscarred
that should have been dead.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tanks For The Memories
tank you, tank you, tank you
we told the fish, those wonderful fish
those little tropical fish, that could reboot our dreary days
we could imagine their little fish politics and why one was chased
the tail nippers, the food stealers, the baby filled fish mothers
what wonderful memories I have of the fish tanks of yesterday
and today, now that my child has befriended the fish
relax, techno man, relax
and just rest with the fishes
poem by Louis Marvin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lost Change
He stood outside
the newspaper stand
on Michigan & Chicago,
the morning winter chill
made him put on his gloves.
He lit a cigar and said
good morning to three
Walgreens female workers
smoking outside in the cold.
“ It’s almost Old Style time, ”
he proclaimed and handed
a magazine with warm beauty
on its cover to a middle age
office worker who quickly
placed it in a briefcase
and continued to walk.
“ Ain’t it too early for beer, ”
said the redhead between inhales.
“ It’s never to early for Old Style…”
The ladies laughed,
died out their cigarettes
and went back to work.
He kept smoking his cigar
as he sold another newspaper
to a passerby who gave him
exact coins and told him
to keep the change.
He looked down
at the two quarters
in the palm of his glove
and took a long drag
pulled the cheap cigar
from his ample mouth
exhaled and yelled,
“and you too have a wonderful day…”
His shift was coming to an end
while most were just starting.
He knew that soon he would
be home drinking an Old Style,
thinking about the redhead
while counting lost change
he did manage to keep.
poem by Charles Lara
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Cigar
Some sigh for this and that,
My wishes don't go far;
The world may wag at will,
So I have my cigar.
Some fret themselves to death
With Whig and Tory jar;
I don't care which is in,
So I have my cigar.
Sir John requests my vote,
And so does Mr. Marr;
I don't care how it goes,
So I have my cigar.
Some want a German row,
Some wish a Russian war;
I care not. I'm at peace
So I have my cigar.
I never see the 'Post,'
I seldom read the 'Star;'
The 'Globe' I scarcely heed,
So I have my cigar.
Honors have come to men
My juniors at the Bar;
No matter - I can wait,
So I have my cigar.
Ambition frets me not;
A cab or glory's car
Are just the same to me,
So I have my cigar.
I worship no vain gods,
But serve the household Lar;
I'm sure to be at home,
So I have my cigar.
I do not seek for fame,
A general with a scar;
A private let me be,
So I have my cigar.
To have my choice among
The toys of life's bazaar,
The deuce may take them all
So I have my cigar.
Some minds are often tost
By tempests like a tar;
I always seem in port,
So I have my cigar.
The ardent flame of love,
My bosom cannot char,
I smoke but do not burn,
So I have my cigar.
They tell me Nancy Low
Has married Mr. R.;
The jilt! but I can live,
So I have my cigar.
poem by Thomas Hood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Tinanmen Tank Man
What happened to the Tinanmen Tank Man perhaps only the Chinese Authorities do know
The brave one who stared down the tanks of a powerful Nation in time back two decades ago
He stood on the pathway of the huge tanks dancing and swinging his shopping bags above his head
In his eyes the look of sheer courage against all odds he did not show any dread.
Like his identity what happened to him is a mystery and as a mystery will remain
But the story of his act of defiance will be retold again and again
A story of unbeatable courage from the massascre of Tinanmen Square
To the oppressed of the world a true hero people like him to say the least rare.
His act of courage of the highest order to the Tank Man Tango Dance has given rise
In an act of defiance most would see as extremely courageous though some would not see as very wise
Alone he stood on the pathway of the tanks a Chinese Horatius in history he will live on
A moment in Human History that will be remembered when most other memories to posterity will have gone.
For his act of marvellous courage perhaps with his life he did pay
The hero for Human Rights on June the fifth 1989 from Beijing from here far away
He will always be remembered as the Tinanmen Tank Man the story of his bravery is told on every Shore
A story of courage that will live for centuries if not even forever more.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Terzanelle to a pet Cobra
Within your exposed white fangs
I look into the abyss
where death hangs
and with a soft hiss
you come erect.
I look into the abyss
without my own neglect
with a deadly sting
you come erect
and I see friendship in the hissing thing
being a comrade in loneliness.
With a deadly sting,
spreading your hood to some as a token of holiness
you come to peace closing the recess
being a comrade in loneliness
and sail over me as if with a pre-creation caress.
Within your exposed white fangs
you come to peace closing the recess
where death hangs.
[Reference: To a pet Cobra by Roy Campbell.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!