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Jim Davis  Apr 2017
Touching
Jim Davis Apr 2017
In the last
three decades,
after we became one,
I touched
amazingly beautiful things,
horribly ugly things,  
unbelievably wondrous things

I touched nature's majesty;
hued walls of the Grand Canyon,              
crusty bark of the
Redwoods and Sequoias,
live corals of the
Great Barrier Reef,
dreamlike sandstone of the Wave

I touched magical and strange;
platypus, koalas and
kangaroos Down Under,
underwater alkali flies and
lacustrine tufa at Mono Lake,
astral glowing worms
in the Kawiti caves

I touched holy places;
Christianity's oldest churches,
the Pope's home in the Vatican,
Hindu and Sikh temples and
Moslem mosques in India,
Anasazi's kivas of Chaco canyon,
Aboriginal rocks of Uluru and Kata Tjuta

I touched glimmers of civilization;
uncovered roads of Pompeii,
fighting arenas of Rome,
terra cotta armies of Xian,
sharp stone points of the Apache,
pottery shards from the Navajo,
petroglyphs by the Jornada Mogollon

I touched fantastical things;
winds blowing on the
steppes of Patagonia,,
playas and craters of Death Valley,  
high peaks of the Continental Divide,
blazing white sands of the  
Land of Enchantment

I touched icons of liberty
and freedom;
the defended Alamo,
a fissured Liberty Bell,
an embracing Statue of Liberty,
the harbor of Checkpoints
Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie

I touched glorious things
made by man;
the monstrous Hoover Dam,
an exquisite Eiffel tower,
a soaring St Louis Arch,
an Art deco Empire State Building,
the sublime Golden Gate Bridge

I touched sparks from history;
the running path of an
Olympic flame just off Bourbon,
the last steps of Mohandas Ghandi
at Birla House before Godse,
******'s Eagle's nest and the
grounds over Der Führerbunker

I touched walls of power;
enclosed rings of the Pentagon,
steep steps of the
Great Wall of China,
untried bastions of
Peter and Paul's fortress,
fitted boulders of Machu Picchu

I touched strong hands;
of those conquering
Rommel's and ******'s hordes,
of cold warriors of
Chosin Reservoir,  
of forgotten soldiers of Vietnam,
of terrorist killers of today

I touched memories of war;
the somber Vietnam memorial,
the glorious Iwo Jima statue,
the cold slabs at Arlington,
the buried tomb of USS Arizonians,
Volgograd's Mother Russia  

I touched ugly things;
shreds of light in
Port Arthur's prison,
horrible smelly dust
in the streets from 9/11,
ash impregnated dirt
in the pits at Auschwitz

I touched oppressed freedom;
open ****** plazas
of Tiananmen Square,
smooth pipe and concrete
of the Berlin Wall,  
tall red brick walls
of the Moscow Kremlin

I touched constrained freedom;
heavy ankle and
wrist slave chains
in the South,
little windows
in Berlin's Stasi prison,
haunted cells in Alcatraz  

I touched remnants of madness;
wire and ovens of Auschwitz,
stacked chimneys and
wooden bunks of Birkenau,        
Ravensbruck, and Dachau,
the tomb of Lenin,
toppled Stalins

I touched hands of survivors;
of Leningrad's siege,
of German POWs and
of Russian fighters
of Stalingrad's battle,
of Cancer's scourges  

I touched grand things;
deep waters of the Pacific and Atlantic,
blue hills of Appalachia,
towering peaks of the Rockies,
high falls of Yosemite Valley,
bursting geysers of Yellowstone,
crashing glaciers of Antarctica and Alaska    

I touched times of adventure;
abseiling and zipping in Costa Rica,
packing Pecos wilds and Padre isles,
flying nap of earth Hueys to Meridian,
breaking arms in JRTC's box,
fighting Abu Sayyaf, and Jemaah
Islami in Zamboanga City

I touched through you;
wet sand beaches of  Mexico and Jamaica,
mysterious energy of the monoliths of Stonehenge,
rarefied air in front of the
Louvre's Mona Lisa,
ancient wonders of Giza,
Egypt's tombs and pyramids

We shared soft touches;
drifting in Bora Bora's
surreal waters,
joining hands camel trekking the
Outback's dry sands,
strolling along Tasmania's
eucalyptus forest trails

basking in swinging hammocks
under Fiji's bright sun,
scrambling in
Las Vegas' glittering and
red rock canyons,
kissing under the
Taj Mahal's symphony of arches

We shared touching deep waters;
propelled in gondolas
through the city of canals,
Drifting atop Uru cat boats on Lake Titticaca,
Swooping in jet boats
up a wild river in Talkeetna

Racing in speed boats
around Sydney's great harbour,
skimming in pangas in Puerto Ayora,
paddling the Kennebec for
East's best petroglyphs,
cruising Salzbergwerk's underwater lake

We touched scrumptious things;
Beignets and chicory coffee at DuMonde's in the Big Easy,
Hot *** with sesame sauce
in the walled city of Xian,
Peking duck, dimsum, scorpions,
snake and starfish on Wangfujing Snack Street

We touched delicious things
Crawfish heads and tails at JuJu's shack
and ten years at Jeanette's,
Langoustine at Poinciana's, Fjöruborðinus and Galapagos,
Cream cheese and loch bagels
at Ess-a' s in the Big Apple

I touched your hand riding;
hang loose waves of Waikiki,
a big green bus in Denali's awesomeness,
clip clopping carriages of Vienna, Paris,
Prague, New Orleans, Krakow,
Quebec City, and Zakopane,
the acapella sugar train of St Kitts

We shared touching on paths;
the highway 1 of Big Sur,
the Road of the Great Ocean,
the bahn to Buda and Pest,
the path to the North of Maine,
the trail of the Hoh rainforest,
and time after time, the way home

Yet,
I could spend
the next three decades,
in simple bliss,
having need for
touching nothing,
other than you!

©  2016 Jim Davis
A poem I wrote last year for my wife!  Posted now since it matches the HP' theme for today - "Places"
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
wasze ulice, nasze... kamienice...
    
boasting Jews of Poland...

Kraków "snow"
  (ashes from Auschwitz
falling on the old capital,
of human remains...
they called it:
     szaryśnieg -
                 grauschnee)...

the marching hybrid
song
         ich bin zu schuld...
   ich bin deutsche nicht
deutsche: ich bin
alles: europäisch...
  die letztemann!                

feminism according
to Leni Riefenstahl...
no women among
the Nazis?
my my... how sexist!
eine makellosfrau!
            eine schnellblond!

oh my! my!

mein mutter
still confuses

  joseph goebbels with
hermann göring -

did you know...
****** was a commoner,
but heinrich himmler
was of the noble sort?
yeah... why expect
a nobleman to exhort such
banality to re-compensate
                          the guillotine?

two decent Nazis though:
Rudolph Heß...
und...
       Erwin Rommel...

   die zwei!

  beside the two?
             curators of evil,
these h'amricans...
with their puritanical excuses...
always the army of excuses...
the Americans constitute
an army of excuses...
never an "ideology"...
but always the "excuse"...
purposive in being adamant
on the metaphor of good,
never the metaphor of evil...

      always the crux-built
fracture of foundation...

die dritte...

                  Karl Dönitz...

hamburger army...
sure... love you...
              Chinese Levi -
Bangladeshi shirts...
Kenyan hamburgers...
and you wonder why
there is an economic displacement?
my people were happier
under a Communist regime...
with an iron-works factory...
simply because...
McDonald's didn't provide
jobs for a hundred people,
but because the iron
factory provided work for
1000 people...

       war... there were always too forms
of war...
          oddly enough:
i'll find you the Nazis i admire...

       because, "oddly" enough,
there are some i admire...
   well... let's call them the trinity...

     you can't make the bargain of reverting
totalitarianism on all the ****...
the argument follows:
there were some,
who resisted...
            and i name, but three.

your turn to play the poker;

what did
amon goeth say about
the Polish king Casimir the great
welcoming Jews into Poland?
very little...
either gassed them,
or shot them doing
beside the menial tasks
of quasi-labor.

yes... the holocaust did happen...
6 million+ jews died...
as 6 million+ cows die in a
slaughterhause (schlachtenhauß)...
but who did really die
in the holocaust?
   beethoven died,
            wagner died,
         leibniz died...
            mozart... goethe...
nietzsche...
     they died...
der deutschegeist sterben!
                 and the german spirit
is not the hebrai spirit
                  what dies remains dead...
unless it's born from
a hebrews' stubborn pact of
agitating a god to continue his promise:
one divine intervention,
mythical at this point...
and then... yo-yo toying with
promises, with prophecy upon prophecy...
but never delivering, only teasing...
till the people believe themselves...
   and a load of other drunken *******...

lucky me to write this drunk,
the sober me gets to appreciate
the cricket world cup.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
before i begin, a pre-scriptum...
         in my hand, this minute?
                   what a rare delight...
the Beauties of Sterne:
                                with some account of his life...
printed for J. Walker,
published by J. Walker, Paternoster Row &
   J. Harris, St. Paul's Church Yard...
London... 1811!
    and being a big "fan boy" of the fiction
that a bibliophile might have an adventure:
Roman Polanski's the Ninth Gate...
   now, for a book that's... 208 years old?!
it's not in bad shape... sure...
the hardcover is missing by a half...
but all the text is intact...
              obviously colouring of the pages...
but hey... i'm not a museum...
             the book is still fiddled with...
ha ha, the opening page with a picture
reads as follows:
   there are worse occupations in this world,
than feeling a woman's pulse...
perhaps a quote about... insensibility?
   it reads as follows:
       it is the fate of mankind, too often,
to insensible of what they may enjoy at
the easiest rate (sermon XLII)...
   besides, lucky for me youtube continues
to glitch from time to time...
    now looking more in line with channels
than individual artists...
   notably? Harakiri Diat (channel)...
eh... :wumpscut, the soft machine,
demdike stare, vomito *****, feindflug
weren't enough...
          turns out... there's more...
beyond penta, matutero and GloOMy
PhAntOM... well, please, allow me:
   filmmaker - the love market,
              la ***** bianca - demian...
hell... if you want to venture into the past?
i know one band that freaked out
my ex-girlfriend... gong - flying teapot...
or that song by greenskeepers, lotion...
               i thought i'd never see someone
become freaked out about music...
curios and also highly curious, yes...
but freaked out?
                 primitive knot - puritan...
demolition group - you better...
          1986 Yugoslav minimal electro...
Bruce Roach - Gut...
              and as it turns out...
    i look from this corner of the internet and find
absolutely no need to delve into
the dark web... install Tor...
           if you really want to...
  you'll find all you need... but you need
to sift through a bibliography of a book prior
to... it's all here... this sort of material
has an inbuilt filter... it filters out
             mainstream consumers of content...
i should know...
    3 websites that banned me,
1 suspended me...
                   i crossed the threshold...
    normie poetic: outcast *****...
           yet i still sometimes happened to chance
upon a will...
           lao che - soundtrack (the whole album
is decent) -
              


.i once heard it was based upon the following maxims: bogatemu wszystko wolno (the rich are allowed anything), siła razy gwałt (force multiplied by ****)... well... over the years, that much was true... but then i conjured a reply: nie wszystko wolno bogatemu (not everything is given an allowance to be expressed by the rich) and wola odiąć gwałt (will, having substracted ****): otherwise it's still wola razy gwałt (will, multiplied by ****).

****, i only just "woke" up from
this game,
you know that game...
oh i'm pretty sure you know it...
it's called
   pass the jew along...
   rudolf höss
      cited, among the list:
ibrahim ibn yaqub,
         radhanites (there's a surd
H in there, rad-'anites)
    casimir III...
esp. the latter...
           so.. give the current h'americans,
we're still playing the globalist
nomad game of: juggling the jews,
yes, no, maybe?
so my mother tended to
two old jewish women,
because, just "because"
their sons were active in
the "economics" of passing law
and techno-literacy?
oh... right... i "see"...
                            i... "see"...
in defence, of the "neglected" ones...
makes perfect sense,
de facto 51,
                  area 51 was always
a propaganda convert term
for Israel, rather than some area
bound to Nevada, wansn't it?
wasn't it?
                      ask me again
one year from now,
did we live peacefully among the jews?
they'll tell you the joke...
didn't the jews shoot,
with riffles,
   with bent barrels / sights
aiming at themselves rather
than the nazis?
       no, no soap jokes when
it comes to yews...
the yids...
      everyone in poland just
wondered: why so pacified?
        so blatant in walking into
an inferno?
                      you know...
it took Poland longer to surrender,
while being attacked by both
the Germans and the Russians,
than it took for the Fwench
to be attacked by the sole effort
of the Germans?
    funny... that...
                               i truly admire
some nazis, for their ingenuity...
notably? erwin rommel...
   lothar von arnauld de la periè(re)...
(subtle, i give you that one,
per-y'eh...
                 'old 'ack 'old 'ck
   h-b-h-b,
                                    rein in...
otherwise perié... ergo without
                                           the -re)...
michael wittmann...
and i'm a ******...
      **** me...
they didn't bomb paris,
might as well state:
they also didn't bomb
  marienburg or most of danzig...
Warsaw? taken down,
levelled, brick by brick,
        until no brick stood on brick...
              what?!
i thought the western capitalist-ico
communist insurgents
wanted target practice?
          i thought these people
wanted nazis, no?
          i'll admit... tiki torches?
you must have never looked
at european football hooligans...
tiki torches?!
you having a bbq?
            never heard of flares?        
- mind you...
you know what's worse beside
beind ridiculed?
having your intelligence
insulted...
i.e. do i look like someone
who managed to ****
your mother with a *******
harmonica,
or, am i, bound to the responsibility,
of your parents playing
the irresponsibility card,
attempting to convey a child
into existence aged circa 50
circa 45,
and what comes out is
an autistic cucumber?!
    **** me...
try giving ****** lessons
to circa 50 year olds;
and now the paradox...
   "i'm" the "schizophrenic"...
cool cool, coolio...
     i'll just hide in that "harem's"
worth of a brothel with
the prostitutes who tell
me they get s.t.d. checks on
a regular basis, o.k.?
_____

what am i to add to this?
not much, is there...
was the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald
ever great?!
  how satisfying it is to be unable
to please the crowd....
words, after all, are not bread...
how one wishes
for an anathema rather than
a martyr's embrace...
            one begins to imagine...
then one loses interest...
then...
                    peering through
the eye of a needle
watching a camel walk through...
one spots something outside
the realm of the metaphorical miracle...
do i have to?
      what if i remain to this side
of the eye of the needle?
what riches do i have that i cling to...
books & music...
does that make me rich?
what are the sort of riches where either
people plunder readily (music),
or do not engage with to begin
with?
who are ready to read...
i can claim to be a book thief...
i stole two books from my high school
library... the quran and the scarlet &
the black by stendhal...
            "stole"... i extended their
licance of being borrowed...
how am i rich: if my riches are the riches
no one would want to steal?!
i am rich... though...
               but i am rich in a both
materialistic / non-materialistic paradox
frame...
                what i own no one wants to
steal! why steal a first cheap edition
of a dickens' novel if you're not going
to read it!
              
       **** **** ****.... if they were such
philistines... when blitzing London,
why did st. paul's remain intact?
   "coinicidence"? i don't think so...
and why did they steal all those
art-works? again, "coincidence"?

                    they were people:
i find it uncomfortable to suit them up
in transcendence,
to be: epitome evil...
  to be the übermensch...
                   they loved art as much
as they loved being the antithesis
of the golden horde: gucci, dolce & gabbana
zz top: well dressed men...

     nazis loved art and fashion,
by far the best dressed army in the world
and history...

   ol' herman and otto came back
from the eastern front to a scared wife and mother...
people! they weren't mythical creatures...
the nazis can hardly become
chimeras as they become in the minds
of pseudo-communists of the western lands...

they are hardly the epitome of evil,
i know the 21st century narrative
deems them: "the perfect example"...
come on... they're not evil embodied
with not subsequent examples to be given
to... historical capitalism of evil:
there's always someone waiting,
some group of people to stage
a competition libra... and they will...
overcome the nazis...
it's only a question of ingenuity /
imagination...
           gas chambers was only industrial...
it will become personal in the years to come...
methodologically trained cultured
barbarians woken from a slumber...

the nazis were not: philistines...
   in no defence: didn't they speed up the creation
of the state of israel?
   didn't they? **** uncle:
   lavrentiy pavlovich Beria is going to state
the matters differently?
like hell he is...

        my family also suffered in that war...
sure, not in a concentration camp:
but on the front...
             there's even a joke that my
grandfather remembers:
the jews were shooting with bent nozzles
of riffles...
   as he also remembers two ss-men
who he asked for sweets,
and they would give them to him,
he'd as them: herr! bitte bon-bon!
   sweets so sweet that he would have
to rinse his hands under water
to unglue them from the sickly in-between...
how all the insurgent soviet soldiers
were teenagers and preferred to
sleep in pigstys and among the goats
in the hay...

how did the nazis become mythological
i will never understand,
at uni i had a **** history teacher,
canadian, she really liked my essay
on napoleon... how he was a great
strategist...
akin to?  

   erwin rommel wasn't a ****...
erwin rommel was, erwin rommel...
a great strategist...
        am i supposed to thrive in this
current year of polarized *******?
it's the current topic,
i can't escape it,
  sure, i'd love to have a Wordsworth
moment, lurking in me,
or an anna akhmatova breakthough...
instead?! i'm given this sort of *******
on a platter,
  and all that's missing are the wedges
of lemon and the eager oysters to
be gulped down... lucky me!

no, i don't like how the nazis are misrepresented
as both the übermenschen:
these mythological epitomes of evil
(no greater evil is to come? really?!)
and at the same time
as philistines: they stole art,
they ensured that critically cultural
documents of architecture were left
undisturbed... st. paul's cathedral...

         it's not like some otto or moritz
didn't come back home to a wife
and children... no...
he came back to the shadow cult
of the ******* hanging over him...

you know what the most haunting experience
i have ever experienced was?
Ypres... world war I site...
visiting a german cemetary...
compared to the allies cemetary?
**** me, what a meagre sight!
           the allies were burried with marked
graves, each man to his own cross...
the german burial ground?!
  mass graves....
eh: one marker: 200 bodies in one pit...
                 and here's the 21st century with
games about shooting: zee nat'zees...

   just visit the world war I cemetaries...
the ally cemetaries? square miles...
each man with his white cross...
german cemetaries? as mass graves go...
one marker per 200+ troops...
so... not that much space required...
less: bombast!
               pride & prejudice /
   pomp & circumstance...
   which the english speaking world is...
of the latter convenience to suit the narrative.

to reiterate...
   as a ******... the whole german fetish
isn't my kind of gig...
what with my grandmother being born
on the front... given opiates at an early
age so she would not cry and allow
the soldiers to locate her and my gread-grandparents...
but...
   they were the best dressed army in
the history of warfare...
they were not philistines and they certainly
weren't the mongolian golden horde...
i.e. they stole art, notably jewish artwork...
and if a luftwaffe squadron were to drop
a bomb on st. paul's? they'd probably
be shot...
  after all... Posen wasn't destroyed,
Breslau wasn't destroyed...
        Danzig wasn't destroyed...
Cracow wasn't destroyed...
             o.k., half of Warsaw was,
but we know why that happened
(or at least i do... idealist students who
thought they could fight the enemy
with slingshots and air-pistols)...
why? the Germans were simply thinking:
oh... we'll just be moving back...
i once explained it to myself...
they weren't exactly some mythological
grand evil template...
so i started thinking about them as:
Hans von Seeckt...
  or Otto Hertz...
              or some other german random
soldier...
      well... you should travel to Ypres,
Belgium... and visit a German cemetary
from war world I... then visit
the allies graveyard...
       each soldier, individually buried...
with his pwetty pwetty weißkreuz -
mostly named...
                 now visit a german cemetary...
mass.... graves...
                they just dumped them,
heaped them...
                        to me they were people...
you can't exactly reason with a mythological
evil - an archeological evil,
   an archetypical evil...
          for an archetypical evil?
try the nuclear family...
                         ******... that sort of thing...
child abuse... too many actors
were involved in this story,
too many mistakes, too many naive blunders...
evil on this scale is easily diluted...
which is why it's taught as history,
in schools...
   no one will teach children about...
oh... say... the Wiener Blut scenario...
   Josef Fritzl...
                    i'm pretty sure this will not be
taught in a history class...
                or... the H. H. Holmes Hotel story...
but it might become a jack the ripper
tourist-fetish... might it not? well, it already is.
Lucius Furius Aug 2018
How distant my Swabian* youth seems now.
I made a glider which really flew, you know.*
Not far, but yes, it carried me! I soared!
  
Some accused me of being a showboat,
of tooting my own horn. . . . I learned early
that the laurels don't go to the meek or the bashful.
  
Yes, I was a ****. Those aristocrats
on the General Staff* belittled the Fuhrer--
but where had they gotten us?
I liked his enthusiasm and optimism.
We were in a hole; he led us out,
got the economy going again,
restored the Sudetenland and Danzig.
(Danzig where Lucie and I had been married!)
  
I thought Poland would be the end
but when we attacked in the West
I didn't shrink away.
My troops and I were the very spearhead:
strike quickly; do the unexpected.
  
Who was I to deny
Germany's world-wide destiny?
  
The African war agreed with me.
The open space gave a latitude to my strategy
lacking in hilly, forested Europe.

The victory at Tobruk is often cited
as the height of genius, military.  
I, myself, prefer what preceded it:
the retreat into Tripolitania--
salvaging men and tanks, shortening supply lines,
lulling the British into complacency;
turning and stinging at Agedabia.

El Alamein: the Fuhrer and I part company.
"Victory or Death", he cabled me.
I disagreed: my men would not die senselessly.

We were desperate for gasoline.
Ship after ship was sunk trying to deliver it.
(Lax Italian security, no doubt.)
  
We were outnumbered five to one.
I favored withdrawing immediately,
consolidating troops in Europe.
The Fuhrer wouldn't hear of it.
  
I flew to East Prussia to confront him.
He'd grown pudgier, more strident--
wouldn't give an inch.
I sensed that not just Africa
but the war as a whole would be lost.
The weight of the forces against us was crushing.
The only question'd been their willingness to fight.
That had been answered at Stalingrad.
  
I fought on in Italy and in France,
hoping to convince the enemy
that the price of taking Europe--
especially Germany--
would be too high.

I really thought we had a chance
to stop them on the beaches.
But now that we've failed, our destruction's inevitable.
  
I've tried to make the Fuhrer see reason:
surrender to the British and Americans;
don't let our country be overrun by Russia.
  
He condoned ******--
ordered me to **** the French Jewish soldiers
who'd surrendered at Bir Hacheim,* for instance,
(I didn't) -- and much more. . . . And yet,
and yet, I couldn't quite bring myself to wish him dead--
and certainly never took part in that plot--
though, yes, I knew of it . . . after a fashion. . . .
Defending myself to that group would be hopeless. . . .
Lucie and Manfred must be spared
the humiliation of hearing me declared a traitor.

I bestrode the plains of Africa--
Rommel, the invincible--
always with the troops where the battle was most critical.
I was crafty and brave,
dared to act when others shied away.
I was the apple of the Fuhrer's eye;
idol of the German people;
scourge of the British military.
All the world applauded me. I lost--
but only when outnumbered overwhelmingly.
  
Now I sit in the back of this Opel*--
an outcast, a criminal--
waiting to take a cyanide pill.

We failed to assess properly
the will of other nations to honor treaties
and preserve their freedom.
And, more basically:
Were we right to force our rule on other people?

Icarus-like, we flew too high.

We were bold and strong
but it seems, in the end,
in the end, not supermen.
Swabia: A region of southwestern Germany (around Stuttgart) which had been a dukedom in the 10th to 13th centuries.

glider: In 1906 Rommel, age 14, and a friend built a full-size, box-type glider.

General Staff: High-level officers with formal military education. Rommel, having come up through the ranks, lacked such training.

no doubt: Rommel was correct in thinking that the British knew the exact destinations and sailing times of Italian supply ships, but was wrong as to the source of their information: it was coming from German ("Enigma") radio transmissions which the British had learned to decode.

beaches: Rommel was in charge of the defense of the coast against British/American invasion.

Bir Hacheim: A fort at the southern end of the "Gazala Line" (in Libya) which Rommel outflanked in his attack upon Tobruk in 1942.

hopeless: The army's Court of Honor (Field Marshal Keitel, Generals Guderian and Kirchheim) had been presented with evidence of Rommel's involvement in the plot on ******'s life (false) and his attempts to arrange an armistice with the British (true). With ******'s approval they had given Rommel a choice of committing suicide (and having his treason hushed up) or of going before the court (and, no doubt, being hung in public).

Manfred: Rommel's son.

Opel: The car which the officers who presented Rommel with his choices had driven from Berlin.

Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: humanist-art.org/audio/SoF_020_rommel.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Mateuš Conrad  Oct 2018
rommel
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
you know what?
that fox?
that fox that came
round my house,
and then decided:
****... i'm wild...
this feeding *******
is scaring the **** out
of me!

you know what?
i think...
i think i'll rename
him...
   herr erwin rommel...
or rommel, für kurz...
   ja?! klar?!
    i said:
ja?! klar?!  
    herr romme; fuschs.
non deutsche,
nicht deutsche...
yes?
             i would never
become one of those
happily remembered
   family friendly
SS-mench;
sorry...
cynicism begot the way
to make blockage with
a bunch of *******,
aging to be 70...
and then crying...
aged 50+, while comrade
Stalin died!
Matt  May 2015
Rommel In Africa
Matt May 2015
Here comes Rommel
And his Afrika Corps

Capturing Brits
At half past four

By Mid April
He had driven the British back
His Africa Corps were on the attack

He prepared to besiege Tobruk
The Luftwaffe were called to drop bombs
My how the ground shook!

But his success did not last
Monty struck hard and fast!
Matt  Mar 2015
North Africa
Matt Mar 2015
The Italians dreamed of glory
Italian tacticians made many mistakes
The british surprised them on Dec. 9
British armor raced along the Libyan coast

Coastal towns had been turned into fortresses
They proved to be no match for the
Highly mobile British forces

One after another the towns fell to the British
The Italian army was trapped
By 1941 the British occupied the eastern half of Libya

Feb 12, 1941
Rommel took control of the Africa Corps
2 armored divisions
8000 men and 135 tanks  
Plus the light infantry division

On April 1, the Germans
Mark III and Mark IV tanks  
Outranged the British
The British were pushed back into Egypt

However one division remained in Tobruk
The infamous and stubborn rats of Tobruk

Tobruk held on at first
Barely enough food and water to stay alive

Tobruk was needed by the Germans
For their supply chain

Rommel said he would finish Tobruk for good
It fell on June 1 1942

Montgomery took control at El Alamein
Lend lease supplies came in

Axis shipping was badly damaged
By Allied air strikes


Oct 23, 1942
The British forces moved to the assembly areas

The First Battle of El Alamein began
The British halted the Axis forces from
Advancing into Egypt

Oct. 24, 1942
A vast troop convoy
Set sail from American ports
The next day, two convoys left Britain

El Alamein was the first great offensive
It coincided with the Battle of Stalingrad
And the Battle of Guadalcanal

The narrator said,
"El Alamein had been the end of the beginning.
For the Axis powers
It was now the beginning of the end."

Churchill said,
"It may almost be said, 'Before Alamein we never had a victory.
After Alemein we never had a defeat.'
Sa pagkagat ng dilim
Ibinulong ko sa iyo ang nililihim
Patagong ipinaaalam sayo
Dahil gustuhin ko man isigaw kahit malayo
Hindi ako pwedeng magpadalos dalos
Dahil kagay nga ng sinabi ni Rommel Pamaos
Ang pusong ito na akin
Mahirap na kung ito lamang ay iyong pisil pislin
Lalo na't di mo naman bibilhin
At wala kang balak mahalin
Kaya hanggang dito na lamang
Ang puso kong nagaabang
Naibunyag ko na naman na sayo
Mula man sa malayo
Ang mga sikretong itinatago
Ng aking mumunting puso
Post-Valentine's poetry? I miss posting stuff here... ;-; I was running low on inspiration mehe... but anyway... MALIGAYANG ARAW NG MGA PUSO! :) ♡
Many people get the wrong idea as to what certain abbreviations stand for, so I'll clear it up for you.

Nintendo DS: Nintendo Derek Sanderson
NES: Neely Esposito Sanderson
WC: Wayne Cashman
3D: 3 Docders
SOS: Help
PE: Phil Esposito
ER: Erwin Rommel
SD Card: Sanderson, Derek Card
RC Car: Rodney Crowell Car
GPS: Girls' Phrases ****
BRB: Bring Reagan Back
TTYL: Ta Ta You Loser
BC: Bourque Cashman
TYMDPMFGMTITMTP: Thank You MrDrProffessor Murly For Giving Me The Idea To Make This Poem
NSA: 'Nuff Said Already
Terry Collett Aug 2014
I don't like Flensburg
Dalya said
as we rode
in the passenger carrier

she next to me
at the back
the Polish girl
and her mother
having changed seats
for a different view

the Southend teacher prat
still in the front
with the driver and guide

I want to be out of Germany
my dad was in Germany
in the War
she said
she stared at the passing view
not sure where he was
he didn't say much about it

I looked at her sitting there
the green top
and tight blue jeans
her dark hair
pulled in a bunch
at the back

my old man was in Egypt
in the War
I said

what did he do there?
she said

fought the Desert Fox

were there foxes in Egypt?

he was a German general
in the north African fight
called Rommel

the fight was called Rommel?

I looked at the nape
of her neck
the love bite
still there
remembering her
in her tent
unclothed and bare

no the general
was called Rommel
I said

was your old man
as you term him
the general?

I remember her *******
like two small jelly moulds
shaking there

no he wasn't a general
he was an engineer
he mended tanks
somewhat lower
in the ranks

she pointed out a church
as we passed it by
my father said he prayed
in a church in Germany
I rememberer that
she said

I remembered her
laying there
unclothed completely bare
a soft aroma
of onions
hanging in the air.
A BOY AND GIRL IN FLENSBURG IN 1974.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2015
Preface

(not even 9:00 am and
I've wet myself

this was my to be
my Poet Palm Sunday,
when my pen is in
some room,
by other's well hidden,
and composition is a prohibition,
the hours yet to come,
come negligently but happily,
whiled and whittled,
reading the better poetry of others,
on this, a day of rest for the
body's satisfaction
and the body of the soul's,
even greater

yet a day of rest,
be not South Pole opposite
from a day of no North Pole work

this early I-am-risen Sunday dawn,
finds me focused, two dog ears alert,
forty one poems in descending order,
read and wept over and upon,
a real, not a faux Bush,
"mission accomplished"

lived long and occasionally prospered,
of poets, I am familiar some,
of writing poetry,
have learned my sums,
know what is likeable
love what is
loving and loveable

it is the poetry of every day life

of strange noises of strangers
in the mid of night,
dogs rhythmically snoring,
while you curse/overcome
the bright eyed, darkened alertness of insomnia
by word whittling yourself,
by the softness of skin of a grand kid
that momentarily manages to convince,
it was indeed,
all worth it

the zoo animals of the lawn and trees,
singing concertos in any minor they please,
as long as it's major enough
to command the world's attention

six stanzas and yet have not commenced,
the task God gave me this sabbath morn,
for the problem with seeing the world,
thru the filter of aging eyes,
is you grow vulnerable, wistful,
distracted by your own ancient feeling streams
that lie too deep in the Manhattan schist
of what others call, your heart,
but somehow still manage
to bubble up and geyser out your eyes)

~~~

Joe Cottonwood

as Patton said to Rommel,
"I've read your book"

the book of forty one poems
that are the products of
years in the making, with tools
that hang upon the belt of yourself,
that you acquired long before
the leathered and weathered
tool belt of four decades of you daily dress,
was first ever worn

you tell us of your ancestry,
thus reveal your story simple intimate,
and by the fourth or fifth essay,
our poetic ancestor,
Walt Whitman,
was readily apparent,
in the little life things
the American and all families  
celebrate

of my six decades,
I yet
still struggle for a summary definition
of who I am,
what I'm worth,
yet weep at your simple eloquence,
self described scribe and man
detailing a life well lived

Hammer nails. Write poems. Bake bread. Shake hands.

is that all there is?
Oh god there are veins
in this poet run deeper than the
iron ore that makes his nails,
the sun ray mines that electric heat
his bread oven

they are mined by me this morning

he does not write of
anguish, blood, love or scars,
that are newly born on a
summer's day youthful blush,
no, he writes of
anguish, blood, love or scars
that humans accumulate,
and in poetry encapsulate
of a life very well lived

I know you Joe,
and apologize for the
paucity of mine,
in honoring yours...


~~~
Postface**

the coffee beans grinding,
the pots banging,
the music suddenly turned softer,
surely constellation cosmic signs
that a lover's breakfast soon to arrive

so I away, but in earnest plead,
share the simple joyousness
of his poetry,
and our communal Sunday
and everyday lives
will be indeed come
as a day of comfort blessed,
the only toil,
tear removal...
If your value a skill and love
that captures more of life and love,
please read
http://hellopoetry.com/joe-cottonwood/

a single excerpt,
no two, a sampler
~
Coffee and corn bread.
They putter about with weekend chores:
she waters plants; he snakes the cursed toilet.
They take turns riding the exercise bike.
He cleans the hot tub filter;
she stretches yoga-like while listening to an audiobook.
He makes a wooden toy, gift for a grandchild;
she prepares chicken burgers and salad.
They watch a movie from Netflix
about Miss Potter, Beatrix
a rebel of another century.
In the dark, outdoors, scarred bodies
water-slick in the moonlight,
they soak in the hot tub
while a dog guards, sphinx position, ears *****
to the rustle of raccoons in the underbrush.
At fifteen minutes to midnight
as steam wafts in moonbeams
she says, “Hey — it’s our anniversary.”
Almost forgotten. The forty-sixth. Or fifty-first
in a different calculus, because at the wedding
they’d already been lovers five years. He sings
     Oh my love is a wallflower
     so pretty and so shy
She answers:
     No boy I’d ever marry
     until you gave me a try.
Under water, their toes touch.

~

old bronze
your cheek, so brown
old bronze
brushed with down
shekels of freckles
over a dusky moon

bronze is an alloy
forged in heat
shaped in art
durable as stone
darkens with age
glows when rubbed
still warm
against my lips
Stephen E Yocum Jun 2014
You know if I am all wrong and there is
a heaven and some how I end up there,
I'm sure there will be three dogs waiting
right there for me.

Rommel my Rottweiler, ******* and tan face
and head, a body like a Bradley Tank, always
watching, always loyal. Liked to stick his big
wet nose up ladies skirts and sniff what they
were hiding there. And like his master, he never
met one he did not like. Self appointed Body
Guard to my little boy and me. Would run
through smoke and flames to protect our little
family of just three, Ian, Rommel and me.

Then there is Rocky, a Boxer breed,  the best
of the best. He never made a misstep, always
knew the way. Calm and intuitive in an almost
spooky way. Could read my mind, anticipate
my moods and moves. A tower of canine power,
gentle and loving companion and friend.
I could wade a stream, casting a fly, go for
miles and never wonder where he was, turn
my head and there he stood, on a boulder,
or up on a cliff. He would follow me anywhere
and never ever stray. He was a ROCK and
thus earned his name.

Then there would be Max. Steady as a summer
rain, gentle as a baby lamb. He displayed a
kind of affability seldom seen in man, or dare
I say, even beast. Soft eyes filled with love,
you always knew where you stood. He lived
only to be near to me and what ever I would do.
I dared not speak too harshly to him, as if my
words alone could actually crush his bones.
Far too sensitive for any dog or man. Gentle
and kind as a baby lamb. Open a door and
there he'd be, always waiting just for me.

And if I deserve another chance to join
their most exceptionally congenial company,
a very lucky man I would truly be.

And how could that place be anywhere but
"HEAVEN" ?
Yesterday my 9 year old Boxer Max died.
He was not sick, their were no outward signs
or warnings. He had eaten well and played
hard in the yard with another dog.
Came in and took a nap on his bed and in
his sleep he peacefully died.
(When it comes my time, I can only wish
for such an uncluttered ending.)

He is and will be missed for I loved him so.
I buried him here on my farm so he will never
be far away. If you ever had a dog you loved,
you will know what I mean. If you have not,
maybe you should. They can teach you so very
much about yourself and what love is.

— The End —