Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
shadowfreud Mar 24
no –
i'd fall with you
coursing headfirst and abreast through the clouds
with graceful reckless abandon
we'll live a supersonic life
& go out with a boom
like a pair of

☀ ☀
Narinder Bhangu Jul 2018
life went unbridled
from one corner to another
in the busiest cities
full of activities
for luxuries
in a dilapidated
close to a place
where people sang hymns
in service of god
behind the curtain
of tatters
the hunger wrestled
with three daughters
bit by bit
while the avarice
the poor
in those cities
where digital world
the Moon
beyond Mars.

( Indeed, I felt pained for death of three daughters with hunger in Delhi.)
Narinder Bhangu.
Logan Robertson Aug 2018
The knife of life carves indiscriminately without warning
said the runts of the pumpkin patch now lined in mourning.
A farmer plucked biggest one, cutting vine, as the runts cried
a black harvest, Mama being carted off, as she died.
Sad black crows circle the day and night sky abreast and stressed
as the winds of fate wielded its teeth at the oppressed.
A blur of orange is all the crows saw amongst the quivering patch
as the farmer tiptoed the pasture wide-eyed on getting his ******.
Now at the hour of her death angels play harps of fruition
in wake of the wide-eyed farmer's wayward act of abscission.
Billows of black smoke followed, taking to the ominous  skies
as the incinerator took matters in its own hands as she lies.
Then all that was left were the ashes and whispers of the past,
a eulogy, as her quivering kin sat in the storybook downcast.
Pages cried out, tears filled the chapters of a great pumpkin patch
her roots holding each on the vines with love that's hard to match.
No day came off, of a jack-o-lantern smiling in a window frame
for in this family house cancer snatched mothers life just the same.

Logan Robertson

Dare she lies
With a three inch putt
Tap in birdie
For sure
With a **** in her eyes
She looked askance
How can this be
It was a beautiful drive
Straight down the fairway
A pitch and a roll
Fortuitous is the bounce ...  swing
Now standing abreast on the green
She takes the putter to bed
One under par

Logan Robertson

Oh my!
Michael Mar 9
I once upset a group of RSM's when I told them that foot drill was a waste of time. At the time they were bemoaning the introduction of a new rifle, not because of its small caliber, but because of its cumbersome appearance: 'It is not good to drill with' they said. Thus:

An Opinion Expressed

I was once a soldier smart,
Learned to stamp my feet, the art
Of calling out 'The Time', the thrill
Of perfect, synchronising drill.

We did it in the Sunshine glare
On what was called parade ground square.
It's something that I'll always miss.
Those halcyon days, what perfect bliss

To march along in line abreast,
Our arms swung well up to our chest.
Rhythmic, gravelled, crunching feet,
With Pipes and Drums, and pagan beat.

When marking time we'd raise our knees,
Oh what a jape, oh what a wheeze.
We'd point the toe, dig in the heel
Stay with the marker on the wheel.

Saluting dais comes in sight
So make your dressing, by the right.
Neck to collar and chest out
This is what it's all about.

Look at us performing fleas
Shoulder, order, stand at ease.
Perfect creases, looking good
Just like all good soldiers should.
You will not understand this poem unless you have undergone military basic training on the Parade ground. Square bashing it’s called and it’s a complete waste of time.
Cedric McClester Nov 2018
By: Cedric McClester

Fear of a bad hair day
Kept the President away
From a World War 1 grave site
To the Russian leader’s obvious delight
He’s a predicate recluse
Who used rain as an excuse
For not showing up
Which we must deduce

Is part of his M O
Don’t act like you don’t know
He’s a man without class
If you will, a horse’s ***
Who promotes himself
At the expense of all else
He’s a nationalist he says
So let’s keep him in our prayers

World leaders five abreast
Walked together, but take a guess
Who was not there nonetheless
Our recalcitrant President I must confess
He’s superior in his own mind
You could argue, because he’s crazy or  blind
And before he’s finally finished
In the eyes of the world, we’ll be diminished

He’s so concerned about his hair
Because he must be unaware
Most assume he wears a wig
Because his style is oh so big
And God forbid the wind might blow
Then for sure we'll see a **** show
Tryin’ to keep it all together
Especially in inclement weather

Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
Charlie Houseman Sep 2018
My life is simple, humble pleasures
The girl I love, summer leisure
‘The Duke is dead’ the prime minister says
‘Your time has come, you must do your best’.

My heart grows large, my eyes turn red
One final kiss, I lose my breath
My mother weeps, my father stares
His parting words ‘you must do your best’.

We train for the task that lies ahead
Our tools of evil, our countries crest
Brothers forever, until the end
The sergeant says sternly ‘you must do your best’.

The foreign soil, our blood it thirsts
We do not falter, we march and curse
We face our destiny, we march abreast
My father’s voice follows me ‘you must do your best’.

The fight is hard, our spirit put to the test
Death follows us, we cannot rest
Our bravery triumphs, ‘oh how our country will be impressed’
We do our duty, we do our best.

But the victory is fleeting, our brothers fall
Staring eyes, cold skin, we loved them all
Our grief immense, we lay them to rest
They were the bravest, they did their best.

The darkness surrounds us, our souls to stone
They want to end us, to send us home
I raise my weapon; one man lay dead
I have taken, life most precious, I have done my best.

The war is over, the Duke avenged
We wander home, those who were left
return to crowds, they stand abreast
They thank us all, ‘You are the best!’

The war is over, still a battle I fight
My hands tremble, sleepless nights
I see his face, where his body rests
My heart is cold, no pride, but guilt instead ‘I did my duty, I did my best’.

My parents proud, my love distressed
My suffering is silent, put to them instead
They grieve for me, the boy that left
The Man, broken, who survived, who tried his best.

A fatherless son, sonless mother
A widowed wife, man’s lost brother
Their pride is poison, a shot to my chest
I confess my sins, they do their best.

My life was simple, now changed beyond measure
The girl my wife, our children treasures
‘The Duke is dead!’ she says to them
‘Your father went, he did his best’.
A WW1 soldier struggles with his duty and his conscience.
Keith Collard Dec 2018
I thought I smelled a sumptuous air,
Nay, lurking in my Italian shoes unathletic toes Im now aware.
Aye, those lazy toes and their crusty jam, beguiled me thinking a Christmas ham.

I thought I smelled a lovely 'fume,
My train ride and the madam abreast  I did presume,
But it was my armpits with clumping stalactite hair,
Sending vapor bats out their lair.

Now, I do smell something that really stinks,
That **** baby and plain mother methinks,
With their cheeks so pigly pink,
Nay,aghast,  it is my white filmy tongue forming a germ ice rink.

Such Descarte deception, like the reed and its reflection,
I am a dapper reed  I will mention,
But under my pretty stream and surface tension,
Im in stinky sewerage so stomach wrenching.
I thought I a dapper reed,
But with further inspection,
It is I that stinks in a malicious Descarte deception.

— The End —