The Corporal
In basics the Corporal was no
Christian parent’s son
since no person
could give birth
to a demon
that liked to press
others with his boots
into the dirt.
Not grown up yet
his two stripes
went straight to his head
and the PT-instructor’s crossed swords
glowed menacing on his arm.
Through ash-holes with broken glass,
gravel roads with piercing stones
he made us leopard crawl
while live bullets
whipped up dirt
and running with truck tyres
on a pole
to him was fun
until some men fell
exhausted to the ground.
Personal letters he ripped open
and read aloud
for everyone to hear
and called unmarried people
with children bastards
and visited prostitutes
during the night
that well-off troops paid for
while his fiancée waited at home.
l’Envoi
One night I saw that Corporal run
when he disturbed me
at three am
in the truck park
where I were on guard
and I cocked the FN-rifle
and it sounded
like feeding live ammunition
into the barrel.
He tripped over
something on the ground
and got to his feet
and started running away,
jumping right over
three barbered wire fences
and hysterically shouted
at me not to shoot
and suddenly life felt really good.
[FN-rifle= Old R1 rifle with wooden butt.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
Basic training out of the eyes of a trooper
Encamped upon a plain
raw recruits twelve companies strong
run up and down to every fence,
crawl through ash holes
with live bullets buzzing overhead
while instructors with continuous curses
and sarcasm drives them on.
National servicemen called up
like ants in a crowd
loose individuality,
become just numbers,
are barbered with hair cut
prisoner style and length
and dressed in brown overalls
and plastic green helmets.
The food is gut wrenching
and slops into everything else
on a silver tray
and gives everybody stomach flue.
Every platoon has a PTI-corporal
who lets you run,
fall and crawl
the whole day long
and laughs when you bleed.
At times people wonder
from under what rock,
or out of what hole
did that that bugger crawl?
Some inspections
in the middle of the night
leaves cupboards and beds
strewn upon the floor,
although every thing
is just right
and clean and sharp
with punisment following immediately.
It’s a hell of a thing
with buddy pt, running
with poles and truck tires
till one day,
that you are super fit
and laugh at the idiot
with the stripes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Klipdrift basic training camp
The sun inspects
rows and rows of trees
and at night
the moon is at ease while every thing freezes
and when as a citizen you pass the gate
you become part of the machine
that hurries up and waits
and even if you have a brazen soul
some idiot with two chevrons
and crossed swords on his sleeve
makes you run to and fro
as if there is nowhere else to go
and you will not leave
this hell of a place
before he has made you run, leopard crawl
carry the pole and pee in the hole ten thousand times
and with the morning chill
a rascal with a red moustache
who drilled his son to death
and has nobody to bequeath
plays the leader of the parade
makes you stand for hours
on attention in the hot sun
while he waits for who knows what
before detonating in curses
while walking stick-straight
up and down
with a big ugly frown
and then bored to death
a fat giant appears
wearing two castles
and last night’s beer on his breath
and later from the rear
the brigadier general draws near
with gyppo guts, dysentery
and commands every new recruit
and sometimes even officers
in neatly pressed military suits
at times group together
like sheep in chilly weather
and later you get your new best friend
and carry it along, even to the loo
and sometimes to the shower
and into bed
and its name is rifle
and certainly not gun
since you came with one
from birth
and in this place as things go
this was just the fun and games
before they teach you what you need to know
and running with your mate in your arms,
running with poles with swinging truck tires,
crashing up and down through rubbish holes,
running with ammunition chests while under fire
and learning to shoot to kill and not to expire,
to throw hand grenades, launch mortar bombs
and rockets and sometimes to heal the men
is only the beginning
of what others call boot camp.
[Reference: Heartbreak camp by Roy Campbell.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Johnny Goes To War
At the age of eighteen
just after writing his final matriculation exam,
Johnny is called up to do military service
and when the pickup on the farm
have two flat tyres
and Johnny cannot get to the station in time,
he is fetched by three broad shouldered
military policemen who initially
want to arrest him
and shove him into a waiting military pickup van.
In the army he receives food
that gives him stomach flue
and for the first week
is almost stuck to the loo
and the mash potatoes
coming from a packet as powder,
runs into everything and has no salt in it
while the Colonel, the officers
and non-commissioned officers
have a feast in their mess,
having roasted beef and chicken
and eat as if they are truly blessed
and his hair is cut just above the scull,
he’s forced into an overall,
feels and looks like a criminal
while the instructors, the officers
and commanders wear normal uniforms
and he is chased up and down,
has to run to some trees
three kilometres far and back,
to bring a leave
and every time it’s not the right one
and the passing black citizens
at the railway tracks and on the road
shake their heads
and think that white men are nuts.
Day and night the instructor
slanders and curses at him,
he is put on duty
to guard armoured cars and trucks,
forced to run with poles and truck tyres
and to be just like his fellow military men,
even his girlfriend’s love letters,
are read by the instructor to the rest of them
and he is given a rifle and taught to love it,
while the instructor makes sure
that he knows the difference
between his rifle and his gun
he is forced to sleep with it like a fiancé
while movement and fire tactics
is being drilled in,
while life bullets whistle past him
and a bit later he knows about hand grenades,
mortars and rockets
and then he is shipped out
by train, truck and helicopter
to the war on the border
to meet the enemy
who is waiting for him
and while on patrol with some Unitas
he faces Cuban armour, a huge battle tank
and fires a rocket propelled grenade
at point blank range straight at it
and the trooper next to him,
looses his head, it’s blown off
and Johnny is scared out of his wits,
wishing to be dead
but forced into another firefight instead.
When after two years of being a soldier
he gets home
Johnny is totally nuts, bomb happy
and nobody knows him
when to his mother, his girlfriend
he is is somewhat strange
while life in the town goes on
like it did before
and Johnny becomes a farmer
and trusts in the Lord,
cares for his cattle and sheep
and not one night he can sleep right through,
without having a nightmare
and the president PW Botha, his whole cabinet,
the military officers have a great life,
ignores his mothers letters,
doesn’t care about her tears,
about Johnny’s state of mind
and before long
he is called up for a military camp
and when he doesn’t appear
he is fetched by the military police
and sent back once more
to war, to killing and death.
poem by Gert Strydom
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His Red Dirt Life
So many red dirt roads he’s traveled
Along his long red dirt life
Children born and raised with
His charming red dirt wife
A home was built and furnished
Upon his red dirt land
He’s done the very best he could
Always taking a red dirt stand
Red dirt roads that lead up to
A bridge to the other side
He tries to go right with the flow
Along life’s red dirt ride
And during that ride it seems
There are some pot holes in the road
But he just keep pluggin’ along you see
Just carrying his red dirt load
The streams and valleys continue
Until the end of his red dirt time
And when the sun beats down on him
He loves to see that red dirt shine!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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I Hung My Head
Early one morning with time to kill
I borrowed jebs rifle and sat on the hill
I saw a lone rider crossing the plain
I drew a bread on him to practice my aim
My brothers rifle went off in my hand
A shot rang out across the land
The horse he kept running, the rider was dead
I hung my head, I hung my head
I set off running to wake from the dream
And my brothers rifle went into the stream
I kept on running into the salt lands
And thats where they found me, my head in my hands
The sheriff he asked me "why had I run"
Then it came to me just what I had done
And all for no reason, just one piece of lead
I hung my head, I hung my head
Here in the courthouse, the whole town is there
I see the judge high up in his chair
"explain to the courtroom what went through your mind
And well ask the jury what verdict they find"
I said "i felt the power of death over life
I orphaned his children, I widowed his wife
I beg their forgiveness, I wish I was dead"
I hung my head, I hung my head
Early one morning with time to kill
I see the gallows up on the hill
And out in the distance a trick of the brain
I see a lone rider crossing the plain
Hes come to fetch me to see what they done
Well ride together til kingdom come
I pray for gods mercy for soon Ill be dead
I hung my head, I hung my head
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hung My Head
Early one morning with time to kill
I borrowed jebs rifle and sat on the hill
I saw a lone rider crossing the plain
I drew a bread on him to practice my aim
My brothers rifle went off in my hand
A shot rang out across the land
The horse he kept running, the rider was dead
I hung my head, I hung my head
I set off running to wake from the dream
And my brothers rifle went into the stream
I kept on running into the salt lands
And thats where they found me, my head in my hands
The sheriff he asked me why had I run
Then it came to me just what I had done
And all for no reason, just one piece of lead
I hung my head, I hung my head
Here in the courthouse, the whole town is there
I see the judge high up in his chair
Explain to the courtroom what went through your mind
And well ask the jury what verdict they find
I said I felt the power of death over life
I orphaned his children, I widowed his wife
I beg their forgiveness, I wish I was dead
I hung my head, I hung my head
Early one morning with time to kill
I see the gallows up on the hill
And out in the distance a trick of the brain
I see a lone rider crossing the plain
Hes come to fetch me to see what they done
Well ride together til kingdom come
I pray for gods mercy for soon Ill be dead
I hung my head, I hung my head
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Legend
The blacksmith's boy went out with a rifle
and a black dog running behind.
Cobwebs snatched at his feet,
rivers hindered him,
thorn branches caught at his eyes to make him blind
and the sky turned into an unlucky opal,
but he didn't mind.
I can break branches, I can swim rivers, I can stare out
any spider I meet,
said he to his dog and his rifle.
The blacksmith's boy went over the paddocks
with his old black hat on his head.
Mountains jumped in his way,
rocks rolled down on him,
and the old crow cried, You'll soon be dead.
And the rain came down like mattocks.
But he only said,
I can climb mountains, I can dodge rocks, I can shoot an old crow any day,
and he went on over the paddocks.
When he came to the end of the day, the sun began falling,
Up came the night ready to swallow him,
like the barrel of a gun,
like an old black hat,
like a black dog hungry to follow him.
Then the pigeon, the magpie and the dove began wailing
and the grass lay down to pillow him.
His rifle broke, his hat blew away and his dog was gone and the sun was falling.
But in front of the night, the rainbow stood on the mountain,
just as his heart foretold.
He ran like a hare,
he climbed like a fox;
he caught it in his hands, the colours and the cold -
like a bar of ice, like the column of a fountain,
like a ring of gold.
The pigeon, the magpie and the dove flew up to stare,
and the grass stood up again on the mountain.
The blacksmith's boy hung the rainbow on his shoulder
instead of his broken gun.
Lizards ran out to see, snakes made way for him,
and the rainbow shone as brightly as the sun.
All the world said, Nobody is braver, nobody is bolder,
nobody else has done
anything equal to it. He went home as easy as could be
with the swinging rainbow on his shoulder.
poem by Judith Wright
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In a far off summer
These are the fields, bushes and trees
where a boy cried heartbroken
in a far off summer,
when the bull
swiped his darling filly
with its horns
while she was drinking
at the trough
and that horse fell twitching
on her back
with her guts ripped out
and she had to be shot
and his older brother
brought the.303 rifle
with only one bullet
and was determined
to take the shot,
but the filly moved her head
and the bullet when up her nose
and there was blood everywhere
while she neighed in pain
and he ran as fast as he could
while weeping
to get some more bullets
and without a word
took the rifle from his older brother
put a bullet in the slot and cocked it
brought the firearm to his shoulder
and took a deep breath
before squeezing the trigger.
His favourite horse was slain
and the pain was great
and almost unbearable for him
and his brother tried to comfort
but there wasn’t anything
that he could do or say
to take that pain away.
poem by Gert Strydom
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My Fate Decided
D day
The icy spray of the sea
The soft murmur of men
The retailing of packs
The wait of mine secured on my back
My fate decided
The blow of a whistle
The thump of the 88`s letting lose
The rattle of bullets hitting the boat
The caused cry
The scream of men
The roar of metal ripping apart
My fate decided
The boat stoping
The men confused
The red water linking in
The ramp is opening
My fate decided
The whistles blown
The line a broken
Pushing men not wanting to leave
The water red and cold
The pounding of bullets
The scream of men all around
My fate decided
Blood bleached sand thick and red
My rifle a swung on my back
The clocking of wet rifles
The explosion of a boat
The cry of men, metal and guns
My fate decided
The sicken sight
The feeling worse
The pounding of feet
The rocks
Can we make it?
My fate decided
The rifle unsung
The rocks and shelter still far away
Can we make it?
Falling men hitting hard to the dirt
Is this where we should all now lay?
My fate decided
The shade of the towering stones
Now directly over me
Have I made it?
Yes voice from nowhere bellowed
On your feet a war to fight
Find the strength I think I might
My fate decided
Men still falling, still crying, still screaming in pain
I am here fine feeling only a dull numbness
Rifle clocked and ready to go
Firing on impulse as it would seem
Another round shot another man falls
The bullets flying all around
Hit men and picking them off at a steady past
Claiming their targets resting place
My fate decided
Stumbling into the trench
On top of the men which had fired at us not long ago
Their resting place now sealed in a bloody hole of mud and grit
Would this be me?
My fate decided
The loading of a rifle
Pulling me back to reality
To the blood soaked uniform
To the job at hand
To the war we must fight
My fate decided
poem by Mike Cochrane
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The spoor
We were flown in
by a Puma helicopter
hot on the tracts
of a group of terrorists
who had attacked some farms.
A Bushman tracker was in the front
on the spoor, armed with a old R1,
two of the section
was armed with LMG’s
and I carried the a short barrel R5
and it was very hot
under a merciless sun.
The tracker told us
that one of the enemy
was wounded and at places
we saw drops of blood
and it looked
as if he was dragging his leg
in the way that he walked.
The going was fast
as we didn’t want to let them pass
the chop line back into Angola
and we were at a jog.
Suddenly in the distance
there was a firefight
and some shots rang out
sounding like AK-47’s
and locking our weapons
we hastened,
not knowing if another patrol
or who or what
had run into the enemy.
When got on the scene
the wounded terrorist was dead
trampled by a African Buffalo
who gored him
before setting on its enemy’s tracts.
He was left behind
by the group
who had come across an African Buffalo
and had fired at it,
only wounding that black beast
and had run away in the front of it.
The Bushman smiled and shook his head
laughing because of the actions
of the stupid terrorists
and we were hot on the tracks
of the Buffalo
following through a rocky dried out wadi
past some bushes
and into longer grass
when suddenly the eyes of the tracker
went huge as saucers
and he turned around
stumbled past me
and dropped his gun
on the ground right
next to me
running as if for his life.
This was quite awkward
seeing a man run
who had fought numerous
firefights with me
without a whimper of fear
now running as if
the devil himself
was on his heels
but the Buffalo
had turned around
on its tracks.
I saw that African beast
with eyes glaring almost red
and nostrils wide open
and horns lowered
and knew that my rifle
wouldn’t stop it
and if I didn’t I would be dead,
but the R1 would probably
since its larger full metal jacket bullets
could rip right through trees.
It must have been the quickest
that I have ever
picked up a gun
exchanging it for mine
bringing it to my shoulder
and started firing
and I could scarcely
believe my luck
when that buffalo bull
dropped there at my feet.
[References: R1= A rifle similar to the Belgian FN. R4= A rifle similar to the Israeli Gaelil. R5= a Shorter barrelled version of the R4 with folding stock, sometimes used by paratroopers and other special force soldiers. LMG= Light Machinegun. Chop line= Cleared aria on the border between South West Africa (now Namibia) and Angola.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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0121 4 a.m.11 November 1918
A still night; crescent moon; the faintest breeze.
Some wit might say, 'Peaceful, innit, Tommy? '
Two hours before the usual time for attack.
I wonder what they've got up their sleeve for today.
A bit too quiet right now, I'd say
Careful how you breathe or talk
this chilly night, out there in the open trench;
frozen breath will draw the sniper's rifle sight
The sharp nose of some human terrier
passing over the familiar smells -
cordite, rifle oil, linseed for the wooden butt, the stench of death,
yesterday's corpses half submerged -
may detect, just over there, the unmistakeable smell
of fierce French 'Caporal' cigarettes;
there in front, strong German 'Zeppelins';
round here, cheap Woodbines linger in the air
hardly a human difference
worth fighting over.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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4 am,11 November 1918
A still night; crescent moon; the faintest breeze.
Some wit might say, 'Peaceful, innit, Tommy? '
Two hours before the usual time for attack.
I wonder what they've got up their sleeve for today.
A bit too quiet right now, I'd say
Careful how you breathe or talk
this chilly night, out there in the open trench;
frozen breath will draw the sniper's rifle sight
The sharp nose of some human terrier
passing over the familiar smells -
cordite, rifle oil, linseed for the wooden butt, the stench of death,
yesterday's corpses half submerged -
may detect, just over there, the unmistakeable smell
of fierce French 'Caporal' cigarettes;
there in front, strong German 'Zeppelins';
round here, cheap Woodbines linger in the air
hardly a human difference
worth fighting over.
[revisited]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Read em & Weep
Ive been trying for hours just to think of what exactly to say
I thought Id leave you with a letter or firey speech
Like when an actor makes an exit at the end of a play
And Ive been dying for hours trying to fill up all the holes with some sense
Id like to know how you faded and you threw it away
Id like to give you all the reasons and what everything meant
Well I could tell you good-bye or maybe see you around
With just a touch of a sarcastic thanks
We started out with a bang and at the top of the world
Now the guns are exhausted and the bullets are blanks
And everythings blank
Chorus:
If I could find the words then I would write it all down
If I could only find a voice I would speak
Oh its there in my eyes so cant you see me tonight
Cmon and look at me and read em and weep
Chorus
Ive been whispering softly, trying to build a cry up to a scream
We let the past slip away, and put the future on hold
Now the present is nothing but a hollowed out dream
And Ive been dying for hours trying to fill up all the holes with some sense
Id like to know why you faded and you threw it away
Id like to give you all the reasons and what everything meant
Well I could tell you good-bye or maybe see you around
With just a touch of a sarcastic thanks
But now the rooms are all empty, the candles are dark
The guns are exhausted and the bullets are blanks, and everythings blank
Chorus
Its there in my eyes and coming straight from my heart
Its running silent and angry and deep
Its there in my eyes and its all I can say, cmon and read em and weep
Read em and weep - for all the hours well be spending alone
Read em and weep - for the dreams well ignore
Running silent and deep -
And all those promises we promised to keep, they wont be kept anymore
Read em and weep - for the magic that our bodies had made
Read em and weep - for the blood that we lost
Running silent and deep - and all the secrets that we somehow betrayed
For whatever the cost
Read em and weep - for the memories still alive in the bed
Read em and weep - for the lies we believed
Running silent and deep - and all the things that can never be said
Why dont you look at me and read em and weep
Cmon and look at me and read em and weep
Its there in my eyes and coming straight from my heart
Its running silent and angry and deep
Its here in my eyes and its all I can say
Cmon look at me and read em and weep
song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Comrades An Episode
Before, before he was aware
The 'Verey' light had risen… on the air
in hung glistering..
And he could not stay his hand
From moving to the barbed wire's broken strand.
A rifle cracked.
He fell.
Night waned. He was alone. A heavy shell
Whispered itself passing high, high overhead.
His wound was wet to his hand: for still it bled
On the glimmering ground.
Then with a slow, vain smile his wound be bound,
Knowing, of course, he'd not see home again -
Home, whose thought he put away.
His men
Whispered, 'Where's Mister Gates?' 'Out on the wire.'
'I'll get him,' said one….
Dawn blinked and the fire
Of the Germans heaved up and down the line.
'Stand to!'
Too late! 'I'll get him.' 'Oh the swine,
When we might get him in yet safe and whole!'
'Corp'ral didn't see um fall out on patrol
Or he'd a got um.' 'Ssssh'…
'No talking there.'
A whisper: ''A went down at the last flare.'
Meanwhile the Maxims toc-toc-tocked: their swish
Of bullets told death lurked against the wish.
No hope for him!
His corporal, as one shamed,
Vainly and helplessly his ill-luck blamed.
Then Gates slowly saw the morn
Break in a rose peace through the lone thorn
By which he lay, and felt the dawn-wind pass
Whispering through the pallid, stalky grass
Of No-Man's Land…
And the tears came
Scaldingly sweet, more lovely than a flame.
He closed his eyes: he thought of home
And grit his teeth. He knew no help could come….
The silent sun over the earth held sway,
Occasional rifles cracked, and far away
A heedless speck, a 'plane, slid on alone
Like a fly traversing a cliff of stone.
'I must get back,' said Gates aloud, and heaved
At his body. But it lay bereaved
Of any power. He could not wait till night….
And he lay still. Blood swam across his sight.
Then with a groan:
'No luck ever. Well! I must die alone.'
Occasional rifles cracked. A cloud that shone,
Gold-rimmed, blackened the sun and then was gone…
The sun still smiled. The grass sang in its play.
Some one whistled, 'Over the hills and far away.'
Gates watched silently the swift, swift sun
Burning his life before it was begun….
Suddenly he heard Corporal Timmins' voice: 'Now, then,
'Urry up with that tea.'
'Hin Ginger!' 'Bill.' His men!
Timmins and Jones and Wilkinson ('the bard')
And Hughes and Simpson. It was hard
Not to see them: Wilkinson, stubby, grim,
With his 'No, sir,' 'Yes, sir,' and the slim
Simpson, 'Indeed, sir?' [while it seemed he winked
Because his smiling left eye always blinked]
And Corporal Timmins, straight and blonde and wise,
With his quiet-scanning, level, hazel eyes,
And all the others… tunics that didn't fit….
A dozen different sorts of eyes. Oh, it
Was hard to lie there! Yet he must. But no:
'I've got to die. I'll get to them. I'll go.'
Inch by inch he fought, breathless and mute,
Dragging his carcase like a famished brute….
His head was hammering and his eyes were dim,
A bloody sweat seemed to ooze out of him
And freeze along his spine… then he'd lie still
Before another effort of his will
Took him one nearer yard.
The parapet was reached.
He could not rise to it. A look-out screeched,
'Mr. Gates!'
Three figures in one breath
Leaped up. Two figures fell in toppling death;
And Gates was lifted in. 'Who's hit?' said he.
'Timmins and Jones.' 'Why did they that for me?
I'm gone already!' Gently they laid him prone
And silently watched.
He twitched. They heard him moan,
'Why for me?' His eyes roamed round and none replied.
'I see it was alone I should have died.'
They shook their heads. Then, 'Is the doctor here?'
'He's comin', sir, he's hurryin', no fear.'
'No good….
'Lift me.' They lifted him.
He smiled and held his arms out to the dim,
And in a moment passed beyond their ken,
Hearing him whisper, 'O my men, my men!'
poem by Robert Nichols
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The Hunter
The Hunter
The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of
the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of
obscurity, was clear today. The floor of
the dale is flat and scattered with large
boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy
plants and an imponderable, stillness that
follows sins of wilful nonappearance.
Was here, with my dog Stella, to look
for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw
a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it
in the head with my 22 calibre rifle;
still convulsing when I came up to it,
kicked it to death with the rifle butt and
saw it was not a gregarious mammal.
Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats
looking at me from every boulder and
holes in the ground. I moved backwards
didn’t dare turn my back, but they came
closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood
her ground defending me till I could get
up on the road of cowardice yet again.
I shot into the melee of rats till I had no
bullets left, but I could not save my dog;
fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled
the ravine packed with phobias, odium
and fear of the indefinite; one day I will
be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear
the valley and built a temple to purity.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Drunkards (Story-Bullying)
There was three of them in an old pickup truck
After drinking all night at the GOLDEN DUCK.
As the sun was coming up they was screamin and cussin
As to what to do next - they was fussin.
When seeing this sixteen year old riding her bike to school
They started acting like the drunken fools.
They started screaming and howling and giving wolf cries
As the girl rode on by.
They wasn't just satisfied with their howls and cries
They wanted her by their sides.
They turned the truck around and cut her off
They was going to show her ' who was boss'.
They tried to grab her from the back
But she was prepared for any sneak attacks.
She had her guardian angel with her from heaven
And she had been learning KUNG -FU since the age of seven.
When the first one reached out to grab her
She grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand straight up and back
Till she heard his wrist crack.
As the second one came running up
A round house kick in his face
Sent him flying into space.
The third one came at her with a tire iron in his hand
As she crotched down and took her stand
When he was about two feet away and open wide
In his crotch her kick did fly.
All three men lay on the ground
as she picked up her bike without a sound
Put her bike on their pick up truck
With this girl they was s- out of luck.
Then drove the truck into town
and told the sheriff where they could be found.
They was charged with 'drunk and disorderly manner'
And on the high school there flies a banner.
'Protect yourself and don't give in
Being a bully you will never win'
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nameless Soldier
A bayoneted rifle stuck in the ground
with a soldier’s helmet on it
lies as a marker for a solder buried there
in the haste of battle.
No more will he see the joy again
within his loved ones eyes.
No more will he feel the tears on his cheeks
as they leak down from his eyes.
His is just a lonely grave
that is crying out for a name
like hundreds there with just a rife as a marker.
At home, and mothers weep for their lost sons
who fell before their time
leaving their ghost to roam
across a soon forgotten battlegrounds.
The grave will lay unattended
all the time fighting prevails.
Only a rifle stuck in the ground
will tell all someone is lying there.
The nameless soldier
whose flesh had been torn to shreds
lies silent and at peace
in a land far from his home.
22 May 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hot
she was hot, she was so hot
I didn't want anybody else to have her,
and if I didn't get home on time
she'd be gone, and I couldn't bear that-
I'd go mad. . .
it was foolish I know, childish,
but I was caught in it, I was caught.
I delivered all the mail
and then Henderson put me on the night pickup run
in an old army truck,
the damn thing began to heat halfway through the run
and the night went on
me thinking about my hot Miriam
and jumping in and out of the truck
filling mailsacks
the engine continuing to heat up
the temperature needle was at the top
HOT HOT
like Miriam.
leaped in and out
3 more pickups and into the station
I'd be, my car
waiting to get me to Miriam who sat on my blue couch
with scotch on the rocks
crossing her legs and swinging her ankles
like she did,
2 more stops. . .
the truck stalled at a traffic light, it was hell
kicking it over
again. . .
I had to be home by 8,8 was the deadline for Miriam.
I made the last pickup and the truck stalled at a signal
1/2 block from the station. . .
it wouldn't start, it couldn't start. . .
I locked the doors, pulled the key and ran down to the
station. . .
I threw the keys down. . .signed out. . .
your goddamned truck is stalled at the signal,
I shouted,
Pico and Western. . .
. . .I ran down the hall,put the key into the door,
opened it. . .her drinking glass was there, and a note:
poem by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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That Was Almost
Me now travol trom home
To town me find a lot of pipo running away
Me don know wat has happened
Me suddenly find da police van pull up
Dey say they want to take me
I ask dem wat I have done
Da police laugh and dey hit me in da belly
Me triy to run dey thro me down
One police man shouted he didn't do wrong
Me triy to say dey hit me in da belly
Now wat happened was a night mare
They hit me in da belly
Dey rolling me like a chicken
Dey called me thief
Dey kicked me a lot but me started to cry
Dey laugh and laugh but I stoped to cry
Now what happened was heaven
I got up I hit one in head
And he started to cry
Den suddenly all of dem ran after me
Me started to shake almost urinated
Suddenly dey caught me den me started to sing
Dey laughed dey laugh
Den I started to remove my cloths
Dey now thot I was mad person
Dey quickly got back in the van as they thot dey caught da wrong person
Den me ran home
I told my mom dat was so close
poem by Tanaka Chirombo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kill Somebody
This is a rifle, this is a gun
This is for killing and this is for fun
This is a rifle, this is a gun
This is for killing and this is for fun
This is a rifle, this is a gun
This is for killing and this is for fun
This is a rifle, this is a gun
This is for killing and this is for fun
When the boys cry, in the morning light
And they take their guns and leave their girls and step outside
And they all feel blue, ´cause theyre waiting still
For the enemy on the other side theyre going to kill
You better kill somebody, you better kill somebody
You better kill somebody, you better kill somebody
You better kill
When the bombers come, with the rising sun
And the dreams of glory and blue eyed heros all have gone
On the other side sits the enemy
And Im sure he wont invite for a cup of tea
song performed by by Fury In The Slaughterhouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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