The Force of His Words
The skeletal fingers of dawn folded back the
Cover of darkness revealing the machinery of war.
Battlewagons, Destroyers, Troop-transports,
Supply and Hospital ships blackened the lagoon.
Sixteen-inch gun shells split the sky, with the sound
Of tearing canvas, as projectiles passed overhead.
As if in agony the earth writhed and collapsed
As the explosives ripped into the sub-strata,
Exposing its connective tissue.
In desolation, the island lay scourged as the sea soothed
Its torment by filling its wounds with water and sand
Through the action of the healing waves.
Landing craft hugged the sides of the ship as the 81st Army
Division disembarked. Clinging to the bulkhead nets, they
Climbed cautiously down into the open maw of the small
Craft beneath them.
As a young lieutenant swung his legs over the side,
I heard him say:
'I hope the war lasts one more year.
By then, I'll have paid off my farm.'
Men were falling from enemy fire as the first wave of boats
Emptied their human cargo.
We picked up the wounded.
The lieutenant had a large hole in his chest,
He had been shot from behind.
His words, like bullets fired, could not be recalled.
His GI insurance paid off the farm
He would never see again.
poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Related quotes
The Sounds, Within And Without
have you ever listened
to the sounds of
a young boy praying
after his father and mother
have split up
have you heard the sound
a small animal makes when
it's hit by a car?
kinda like the sound a child makes
when it's split open by friendly fire!
have you felt the deep down
sound the young boy makes
when the judge sentences him
to hard time
the sound you cant see on his face
have you heard the sound
of the old man's heart
fighting to hold on
in an empty room
with the curtains pulled
have you ever heard the sound
of the wolf's howl, and
the hawk's scree
buried deep beneath
the layers that cover
your own wildness
are you listening
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Farm
There┬┤s a cockroach in my coffee
There┬┤s a needle in my arm
And I feel like New York City
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Somebody get me to the farm
I got terminal uniqueness
I'm an egocentric man
I get caught up in my freakness
But I ain┬┤t no Peter Pan
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me...
Buckle up straight Jack
Sanity is such a drag
Jellybeam thorazene
Trancendental jet lag
Sanity I ain┬┤t gotta
Feeling like a pinala
Sucker punch-blowin┬┤lung
Motherload-pigeonholed
I'm feeling like I'm gonna explode
I wanna be a Hare Krishna
Tattoo a dot right on my head
And the prozac is my fixer
I am the living dead
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm...
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I am lying on the pyre!
I am lying on the pyre
A minute away from the fire
All things ready along with wood
In grudge across the river water increased
The last relative comes late and sees my face
Forget all in grief to cover my chest
Where lay the thousand wounds
For which I died a hundred deaths.
This is my last hope and honor so I cried
Oh cruel! Take away all but keep wounds secret
Respect my last right and please cover my chest!
The fire knows the taste of burning
The salt knows the taste of pinching
I know both as I got burning wounds
Oh clown! Don't shed too much tears
Never ever try to douse the flaming fire
As the fire will end my pain forever
The Water is waiting for me in the river
Strike the stick of the box, I can not wait
Let the wounds burn secretly of my chest
Oh buffoon! This is my last appeal please respect
poem by Abdul Wahab
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On The Murder Of Lieutenant Jose Del Castillo By The Falangist Bravo Martinez, July 12, 1936
When the Lieutenant of the Guardia de Asalto
heard the automatic go off, he turned
and took the second shot just above
the sternum, the third tore away
the right shoulder of his uniform,
the fourth perforated his cheek. As he
slid out of his comrade's hold
toward the gray cement of the Ramblas
he lost count and knew only
that he would not die and that the blue sky
smudged with clouds was not heaven
for heaven was nowhere and in his eyes
slowly filling with their own light.
The pigeons that spotted the cold floor
of Barcelona rose as he sank below
the waves of silence crashing
on the far shores of his legs, growing
faint and watery. His hands opened
a last time to receive the benedictions
of automobile exhaust and rain
and the rain of soot. His mouth,
that would never again say "I am afraid,"
closed on nothing. The old grandfather
hawking daisies at his stand pressed
a handkerchief against his lips
and turned his eyes away before they held
the eyes of a gunman. The shepherd dogs
on sale howled in their cages
and turned in circles. There is more
to be said, but by someone who has suffered
and died for his sister the earth
and his brothers the beasts and the trees.
The Lieutenant can hear it, the prayer
that comes on the voices of water, today
or yesterday, form Chicago or Valladolid,
and hands like smoke above this street
he won't walk as a man ever again.
poem by Philip Levine
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At a enemy airfield
Camouflaged, hidden in some underbrush
we lay and watch with special binoculars,
scanning the enemy facilities
while the night is setting in
and twilight has magic pertaining to it
some bright lights are being switched on
and some oil or another mechanical liquid
gleams out on the tarmac
where we see some enemy Mig-23 fighter jets
being readied for war
and then some more taxiing out
standing ready for takeoff on the runway
waiting on the arrival of
a small private jet,
(maybe with military officers landing)
and with a small device
exact positions are obtained,
that we report
over a frequency hopping
two way radio system
Johnny the second in command
says that he will almost do anything
to be able to smoke a cigarette right now.
We are asked to confirm the target positions,
by another party
which is now connected to us
and we recheck and confirm
while the sound of the landing
private jet is almost deafening
and positions of other targets
and installations are asked for,
which we supply
including the control tower
and I see stars falling, falling at high speed
from the sky
making the night gleam
going off like lightning
in brilliant colors of flaming orange,
white and red
with ultra loud exploding sounds
and howitzer canon projectiles
from G5 and G6 guns are coming in,
destroying the Migs and a lucky shot
hits the commercial jet right on target
and craters are left
and the next volleys
set some of the buildings ablaze,
rips hangers open
and those deadly manmade stars keep falling,
while functioning like machines
we keep giving targeting directions.
poem by Gert Strydom
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For Johnny Pole On The Forgotten Beach
In his tenth July some instinct
taught him to arm the waiting wave,
a giant where its mouth hung open.
He rode on the lip that buoyed him there
and buckled him under. The beach was strung
with children paddling their ages in,
under the glare od noon chipping
its light out. He stood up, anonymous
and straight among them, between
their sand pails and nursery crafts.
The breakers cartwheeled in and over
to puddle their toes and test their perfect
skin. He was my brother, my small
Johnny brother, almost ten. We flopped
down upon a towel to grind the sand
under us and watched the Atlantic sea
move fire, like night sparklers;
and lost our weight in the festival
season. He dreamed, he said, to be
a man designed like a balanced wave…
how someday he would wait, giant
and straight.
Johnny, your dream moves summers
inside my mind.
He was tall and twenty that July,
but there was no balance to help;
only the shells came straight and even.
This was the first beach of assault;
the odor of death hung in the air
like rotting potatoes, the junkyard
of landing craft waited open and rusting.
The bodies were strung out as if they were
still reaching for each other, where they lay
to blacken, to burst through their perfect
skin. And Johnny Pole was one of them.
He gave in like a small wave, a sudden
hole in his belly and the years all gone
where the Pacific noon chipped its light out.
Like a bean bag, outflung, head loose
and anonymous, he lay. Did the sea move fire
for its battle season? Does he lie there
forever, where his rifle waits, giant
and straight?…I think you die again
and live again,
Johnny, each summer that moves inside
my mind.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Islands
Earth, stream and tree encircled by sea
Waves sweep the sand from my island.
My sunsets fade.
Field and glade wait only for rain
Grain after grain love erodes my
High weathered walls which fend off the tide
Cradle the wind
To my island.
Gaunt granite climbs where gulls wheel and glide
Mournfully glide oer my island.
My dawn brides veil, damp and pale,
Dissolves in the sun.
Loves web is spun - cats prowl, mice run
Wreathe snatch-hand briars where owls know my eyes
Violet skies
Touch my island,
Touch me.
Beneath the wind turned wave
Infinite peace
Islands join hands
neathe heavens sea.
Dark harbour quays like fingers of stone
Hungrily reach from my island.
Clutch sailors words - pearls and gourds
Are strewn on my shore.
Equal in love, bound in circles.
Earth, stream and tree return to the sea
Waves sweep sand from my island,
From me.
song performed by by King Crimson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Working Metaphore
Work is like an island in an ocean of time
Landing on this shore felt like paradise
But the island is small and quickly grows boring
I am standing in the water, looking out as I work
Time passes in portions of half an hour
Wave upon wave of life slipping down the tide-line
I am deciding whether to let go and wash away with it
Or hold on and climb the beach again
How many islands are in this ocean?
I gaze out and see a few just waiting for me
Can I swim to them, will they take me?
In the water between them, is there love lurking?
Changes are on the horizon, as a tsunami
Rolling towards this island invisibly, towards me
None of the islands will survive it, I fear
Or maybe only I will be washed away into oblivion
Tick, splash, tick, splash, wave upon wave of half hours
Carrying me just a little further from the dry sand
Behind me, the managers are calling from the trees
I hesitate for a moment, and let the waves wash over me
Only a few more, and I can swim for a while,
I might ride the changes to a far away place if I'm swimming
In the water I can meet another, to drown my regrets of the last
The waves wash over me, and I wait for the tide to swim
poem by Poet Dragon
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Normandy Landing
Off of the
landing craft
and running
into danger
Bullets flying
all around like
a hive of
angry bees
Fellow soldiers
falling all around
And medics running
all over taking
care of wounded
The shooting
of rifles
and the
barking of machine guns
Screaming
and yelling
all around you
Fear rising
in you like
a balloon
with every step
Not knowing
if the next
step will be
your last
Yet you
push onward
Through the sand
the barriers
and past
the bodies
of fallen comrades
Pushing yourself
to the limit
to survive
and stay alive
As General Sherman
said
'War is hell'
poem by Benjamin Hallas
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Last Landfall
'Outgoing: the Ooonah for Burnie'....
How often the radio spoke;
Till the stout little ship and her journey
Grew into a mild sort of joke.
But no longer her donkeyman grapples
His slings by the sweet island shore
For a cargo of timber or apples.
The Oonah goes sailing no more.
No more; save the landfall she's making,
The last, on her funeral trip
To the land where she goes for her breaking
Grim graveyard of many a ship.
And a few, it may be, will go grieving
To know of that busy craft's fate,
Who many times hooved with her heaving
As Oonah rolled over the strait.
There many proud, tall-masted schooners
She passed in the night, ships o' sail;
While stars winked o'er fond honeymooners
Who whispered soft words by her rail.
And tourists and grave politicians,
Who knew the old Oonah full well,
In all sorts of weather conditions,
Have had many a story to tell.
And many a soul who sailed with her,
Since Oonah first breasted the foam,
Has taken the long voyage thither,
To every man's ultimate home.
Who knows now what mystical journey
Those sail, to the sounds of high mirth
As a ghost-ships heads hull-down for Burnie,
With a complement not of the earth.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Paumanok Picture
TWO boats with nets lying off the sea-beach, quite still,
Ten fishermen waiting--they discover a thick school of mossbonkers--
they drop the join'd seine-ends in the water,
The boats separate and row off, each on its rounding course to the
beach, enclosing the mossbonkers,
The net is drawn in by a windlass by those who stop ashore,
Some of the fishermen lounge in their boats, others stand ankle-deep
in the water, pois'd on strong legs,
The boats partly drawn up, the water slapping against them,
Strew'd on the sand in heaps and windrows, well out from the water,
the green-back'd spotted mossbonkers.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Marksman Sam
When Sam Small joined the regiment,
'E were no' but a raw recruit,
And they marched 'im away one wint'ry day,
'Is musket course to shoot.
They woke 'im up at the crack o' dawn,
Wi' many a nudge and shake,
'E were dreaming that t' Sergeant 'ad broke 'is neck,
And 'e didn't want to wake.
Lieutenant Bird came on parade,
And chided the lads for mooning,
'E talked in a voice like a pound o' plums,
'Is tonsils needed pruning.
"Move to the right by fours," he said,
Crisp like but most severe,
But Sam didn't know 'is right from 'is left,
So pretended 'e didn't 'ear.
Said Lieutenant, "Sergeant, take this man's name."
The Sergeant took out 'is pencil,
'E were getting ashamed o' taking Sam's name,
And were thinking o' cutting a stencil.
Sam carried a musket, a knapsack and coat,
Spare boots that 'e'd managed to wangle,
A 'atchet, a spade... in fact, as Sam said,
'E'd got everything bar t'kitchen mangle.
"March easy men," Lieutenant cried,
As the musket range grew near,
"March easy me blushing Aunt Fanny," said Sam,
"What a chance with all this 'ere."
When they told 'im to fire at five 'undred yards,
Sam nearly 'ad a fit,
For a six foot wall, or the Albert 'All,
Were all 'e were likely to 'it.
'E'd fitted a cork in 'is musket end,
To keep 'is powder dry,
And 'e didn't remember to take it out,
The first time 'e let fly.
'Is gun went off with a kind o' pop,
Where 'is bullet went no-one knew,
But next day they spoke of a tinker's moke,
Being killed by a cork... in Crewe.
At three 'undred yards, Sam shut 'is eyes,
And took a careful aim,
'E failed to score but the marker swore,
And walked away quite lame.
At two 'undred yards, Sam fired so wild,
That the Sergeant feared for 'is skin,
And the lads all cleared int' t' neighbouring field,
And started to dig 'emselves in.
"Ooh, Sergeant! I hear a scraping noise,"
Said Sam, "What can it be?"
The noise that 'e 'eard were lieutenant Bird,
'Oo were climbing the nearest tree.
"Ooh, Sergeant!" said Sam, "I've 'it the bull!
What price my shooting now?"
Said the Sergeant, "A bull? Yer gormless fool,
Yon isn't a bull... it's a cow!"
At fifty yards 'is musket kicked,
And went off with a noise like a blizzard,
And down came a crow looking fair surprised,
With a ram-rod through 'is gizzard.
As 'e loaded 'is musket to fire agen,
Said the Sergeant, "Don't waste shot!
Yer'd best fix bayonets and charge, my lad,
It's the only chance yer've got.
Sam kept loading 'is gun while the Sergeant spoke,
Till the bullets peeped out of the muzzle,
When all of a sudden it went off bang!
What made it go were a puzzle.
The bullets flew out in a kind of a spray,
And everything round got peppered,
When they counted 'is score... 'e'd got eight bulls eyes,
Four magpies, two lambs and a shepherd.
And the Sergeant for this got a D.C.M.
And the Colonel an O.B.E.
Lieutenant Bird got the D.S.O.
And Sam got... five days C.B.
poem by Marriott Edgar
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Seashore
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
The infinite sky is motionless overhead
and the restless water is boisterous.
On the seashore of endless worlds
the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand
and they play with empty shells.
With withered leaves they weave their boats
and smilingly float them on the vast deep.
Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets.
Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships,
while children gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter
and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children,
even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with children,
and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
Tempest roams in the pathless sky,
ships get wrecked in the trackless water,
death is abroad and children play.
On the seashore of endless worlds is the
great meeting of children.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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On the Seashore
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand, and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl-fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships are wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Exmoor Verses
I. VASHTI'S SONG
Over the rim of the Moor,
And under the starry sky,
Two men came to my door
And rested them thereby.
Beneath the bough and the star,
In a whispering foreign tongue,
They talked of a land afar
And the merry days so young!
Beneath the dawn and the bough
I heard them arise and go:
And my heart it is aching now
For the more it will never know.
Why did they two depart
Before I could understand?
Where lies that land, O my heart?
-O my heart, where lies that land?
II. SATURN
From my farm, from hèr farm
Furtively we came.
In either home a hearth was warm:
We nursed a hungrier flame.
Our feet were foul with mire,
Our faces blind with mist;
But all the night was naked fire
About us where we kiss'd.
To her farm, to my farm,
Loathing we returned;
Pale beneath a gallow's arm
The planet Saturn burned.
III. DERELICTION
O'er the tears that we shed, dear
The bitter vines twist,
And the hawk and the red deer
They keep where we kiss'd:
All broken lies the shieling
That sheltered from rain,
With a star to pierce the ceiling,
And the dawn an empty pane.
Thro' the mist, up the moorway,
Fade hunters and pack;
From the ridge to thy doorway
Happy voices float back…
O, between the threads o' mist, love,
Reach your hands from the house.
Only mind that we kiss'd, love,
And forget the broken vows!
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Home invasion in Springs
Masked like the black criminals
that robs you of your car
and just there and there promises you death,
they arrived
with a mini bus taxi on the farm,
drove right through the farm gate
and at the front door
jumped out of the kombi
with five steps intruded into the house
to bring death to the farmer,
to rape the wife
and daughter.
The farmer heard the crash
at the gate,
he realized that it was big trouble
heard them in their own language command
to kill, while shot upon shot
was ringing from the front porch
and he though about the obliteration
of his whole family.
His wife was too far away
in the lounge busy with sewing
and he heard his daughter rushing screaming
to her mother
turned about hurried to the gun safe
and got hold of a pump action shotgun
with LG cartridges
and rushed down the hallway.
In the lounge four black criminals
aimed pistols at his daughter and wife
told them to strip themselves bare
and when they did not want to
one said to the others in his language
to kill them
while the farmer was sneaking
closer at the back of the lounge suite.
Just one glance from the farmer
made his wife and daughter fall to the ground
two shots came from the shotgun
lifting two of the gangsters right from their feet
and the other two started shooting
into the ceiling
and the wall of the lounge
and when the farmer fired again
they fled in fear to the outside
turning around to fire at the farmer
and another one dropped in his tracks,
the other ran wounded into the cornfield.
At the start the police, wanted to arrest
the farmer for the murder of the robbers,
but there was more than enough evidence
that it was self-defence,
even the farm workers
were witnesses
about the shooting, threat
of the robbers
and by his actions
the farmer saved himself, his wife and daughter
and the labourers praised him
as a kind and a just man
but at the church
some members regarded the farmer
as a mass killer
who had determined the fate of others with a shotgun.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Buddha, Or...
a buddha...
or just another homeless man,
standing on the corner
of the street going nowhere.
what do we hold in our hands
that will remain?
even daylight is swallowed by night,
and night disappears into the dawn.
and love in the end
is merely a moment given,
a grain of sand
on a deserted beach.
the trees shed their leaves
for the winter cleansing,
and so we lay our bodies
down into the earth's embrace!
o to be ocean,
filling the great chasms of history.
o to be mountain,
and bridge the earth to the sky.
o to be wind,
to come and go without restraint.
o to be fire,
to consume, and yet to give warmth!
and o to know,
that we are each and all,
that we are none and nothing.
both the falling star,
and the blackened sky...
and yes a grain of sand
beneath the traveller's feet,
the home that cannot be taken,
but is freely given!
and hands that have no need to hold!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Exiled
Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
Sick of the city, wanting the sea;
Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
Of the big surf that breaks all day.
Always before about my dooryard,
Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;
Always I climbed the wave at morning,
Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
Stricken with noise, confused with light.
If I could hear the green piles groaning
Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
And the black sticks that fence the weirs,
If I could see the weedy mussels
Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,
Feel once again the shanty straining
Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
Dread the bell in the fog outside,—
I should be happy,—that was happy
All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
Shells and anchors and ships again!
I should be happy, that am happy
Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
I have a need of water near.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Trench charge
Firing from his hip he was running,
with the light machinegun kicking
dressed in a brown army uniform
running towards a trench
while bullets whistled, swished past him
with some kicking up dust around him
and like a machine functioning
at perfect speed and timing
he lobbed a grenade
somewhat like a cricket ball
but with a deadly sting
into the trench
before dropping behind a small stone wall
waiting for the explosive cracking sound
giving instructions with hand signs
to the troops that followed him
and when it came
he let of a few bursts
with the light machinegun
on its folded out stand
before half-terrified, filled with adrenaline
he started running again
with his troops following him,
shooting from the hip
and at the enemy trench
jumps straight in
spraying soldiers dressed in olive green
with flaming hot bullets,
smelling the fumes of cordite,
mixed with sand and death
with every breath burning
in his chest and throat
without time to really think,
just to comprehend
and to react, noting dust flying
from the wall next to his head
were passing enemy bullets were slamming.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Let There Be Hope
Boats afloat,
across an ocean moat
Sailing away,
a tyrants torment
With joyous rapture,
T'ward a life content.
rickety, leaking boat
Let there be hope.
Boats of hope,
human tragedy afloat
Sailing away,
a homelands fear
On terrorful waves
Closer now, sanctuary near.
listing, ailing boat,
Let there be hope.
Boats without hope,
Human misery, afloat
Sailing away,
from a life content
With sorrow filled hearts.
recapitulated, now their torment.
Scuttled, sinking boat,
let there be hope.
Boats nae float,
beneath an ocean moat
Sailing away,
a savior of deception
An islands hopeless souls
shattered dreams of redemption.
Fractured, sunken boat
let there be hope.
Stop the boats afloat,
across an ocean moat
Sailing t'ward,
asylum signed veracious
People who pride, 'fair go '
ah, but leaders are mendacious.
Rickety, Leaking Shattered Boat
please, let there be hope.
poem by Phil Charters
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