"ambushes" poems
What a strange title
When I went to Aden (South Yemen) in 1964
It was to fight infiltrators from North Yemen
How to spot where mines had been laid
Where ambushes could take place
Trained in how to **** at long and very close range
But nobody mentioned the bugs
Camel spiders almost four inches across
Now they gave us great fun because we would catch them
Then bet big money on the outcome of a fight with
Another spider or a big scorpion
Most times the spider would win but would then die
But by then the bets had been paid
Stephen E Yokum and Jonny Angel
And thousands of American and British ex military
Know about bugs
Centipedes 9/12 inches long and stinking like you'd never believe
Get one of those crawling on your skin and pull it off the wrong way and bingo
You end up with a permanent tattoo
Because their feet dig in
We did have the good ones though
Chameleons, we would keep them in our tents
And feed them crickets and in return they would keep the flies down
We learned to live with BUGS
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
The oxygen tastes so familiar
I’m sure that I've breathed this before
The day trickles in through the curtains
The draft shuffles under the door
The sunlight ambushes my pillow
And forces me further a field
The cat at the door wants his breakfast
The bells of the church are all peeled
But there's little to gain by awakening
To remind me of all that I miss
When I hold you its like you're a statue
And you push me away with a kiss
The cars rattle by on their business
And the postman enrages the dog
The wind asks around for directions
And leaves all the shutters agog
My quilt is beginning to stifle
And my neck, with a threatening creak
Gives a preview of oncoming headaches
In a language too easy to speak
But uncomfortable I persevere
With a risible snore and a hiss
Because soon I'll turn over to face you
And you'll push me away with a kiss
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
up on Boot Hill
the sun sets early
the soaked anguish
of grieving mothers
swaddled in
twilight's vestments
mourn the death
of another murdered
child
we roll our eyes
and speak in tongues
tiny prayers
incant
RIP
these reflexive bits,
our shattered votives
litter city boulevards
on each solemn
street corner
new alters
of desecration
are erected
then despoiled with
the wasted wax of
misspent novenas
our extended families
are bloodlines of fear
spawning
prostrate men
tattooed with
multicolored pain
who refuse to cover
body marks
bespeaking epic tales
of sorrow,
divisions
countless separations
also marking
righteous reasons
of seething
resentments
eager to settle
accounts
sweet vendettas
clever ambushes
carefully deliberated
for generations
by discordant clans
believing in malice
exalting guns
shared loss
is our
common
affliction
uniting everyone
in envelopes of sadness
becoming live
Dear John letters
bearing news of dearly
departed loves
atop the coffins
of dead children
votives pile high
with scrawled eulogies
of fevered graffiti
solemnly pledging
“gonna make someone suffer
gonna even the score
never forget you
RIP”
and we all die
looking stupid as hell
lamenting
love don’t rest in peace
hearing
it scream from the grave
witnessing
the hallowed earth
churning with revulsion
accepting the bitter ashes
of another dead child
for the love of you
is your funeral march
love don’t RIP
it stalks the tomb
of indifference
it mourns
the ambivalence
of its devaluation
it haunts the
day dreams
of what could
have been
it restlessly
flits among
the playgrounds
of our minds
cluttering the rooms
of our homes
with grief
up on Boot Hill
we clasp the
small hands
protruding from
shallow graves
groping to find
a graceful sleep
for love don’t
rest in peace
Stevie Wonder:
Love Is In Need of Love Today
Written to honor
Love Appreciation Day
jbm
Oakland
1/19/13
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
Dinosaur
vicious and fiery
slithering, roaring and fighting
he quietly ambushes the unsuspected
Allosaurus
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 2:21 PM UTC
“Lord help us remember that freedom isn’t free.” -Anonymous
Ready
Aim
Fire
End of the Civil War.
President Abraham Lincoln dedicates a day to remember those brave men who have fallen on the field of battle in a pool of their own blood.
For their country.
Ready
Aim
Fire
World War 1.
Soldiers come home in body bags
Or without their own legs.
Arms.
Or eyes.
Men come home with stories they’ll never tell or ever want to think about.
Most men stay where they have fallen.
Ready
Aim
Fire
December 7th, 1941
Japan bombs Pearl Harbor killing well over 2,400 soldiers.
June 6th
1944
American boats touch the soil of Normandy Beaches.
73,000 pairs of American boots run along the trenches.
Most of them never leave.
Ready
Aim
Fire
1950 to 1953
Americans were shot at and killed in Korea.
Hidden in the bushes,
Korea only battled with ambushes.
Ready
Aim
Fire
A conflict in Vietnam from 1955 to 1975.
“Do not shoot unless shot upon.”
One of the bloodiest wars American’s have seen.
Men came home to be welcomed as villains
To be littered on and verbally **** upon.
Many men committed suicide.
Ready
Aim
Fire
September 11, 2001
Hijacked planes flew into the World Trade Center’s and the Pentagon.
War has broken out against Al Qaeda, the Taliban, and other armed rebels.
War is out in Iraq and Afghanistan.
A shot in the dark for those men and women who get shot in the dark,
Peacefully in their sleep.
By men they have trained.
Vehicles blow up and lives are taken every day.
Ready
Aim
Fire
During an average day in 2013
22 war veterans commit suicide.
Every day.
Thank you.
Ready
Aim
Fire
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
I.
Your socks, tight with sweat—
An early advertisement
that spring has arrived.
II.
Spring needs a waking-
bed: pungent mulch ambushes
your April nostrils.
III.
Sunshine plashes down.
Through warm waves you saw days
Unfold at your feet.
IV.
Frail infant stems stretch
through your toes and scan the scnee:
thin grass, sunbathing.
V.
And there’s skin on skin.
Come on! Get naked it’s spring,
the season for sin.
VI.
When it rained, your eyes
dripped clear drops, their spring fragrance
as fresh as water.
VII.
There are nests, eggs; still,
I wonder, do the birds grasp
the meaning of spring?
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
A single soul among many...
Struggling against the pushing desires of the engulfing mob.
Searching for a chance to break free,
To induce the life that he needs.
A single soul among many...
Enters the throng with known purposes,
and becomes one with it.
The water flows over his soul and he barely lives.
The drowning water of the other side's essence
barely leaves room for breath.
He discovers the core of his soul,
The single pulsating, vibrant core
and suckles energy from it,
like a newborn baby feeding from his mother's breast.
He feeds and feeds
focusing his entire being on that core,
until he is full yet once again,
breaking free from the shackles that hold him into this existence.
He flies on the knowledge of his empowerment,
relishing the other dimensional view.
Until a well placed negative thought
ambushes him from behind,
and the clanging of shackles closing over his soul yanks him back to the old world.
He has to reteach himself the old ways.
An endless cycle, each time
he flies higher and longer,
each time harder then the last.
Apr 17, 2011
Apr 17, 2011 at 10:30 PM UTC
Sometimes I mine for echoes
Ghosts of sounds within me still
Cicadas and the clash of boules
Soft voices from the hill
Two young boys tongue-tied in the sun
Barefoot on summer's shore
Soft feet licked clean by freedom's whim
With oceans to explore
My mother nurtured flowers
Drowning shadows out with paint
The brightness of geraniums
The patience of a saint
My father cut the grass too much
And ran to clear his mind
Until the echoes of the Angelus
Beseeched him to unwind
My brother lined his time with books
He tore through Willard Price
And towed me just behind him
Through the fronds of paradise
Marauding hornets launched their raids
From castles in the attic
While Stanley mined for longwave gold
From seams deep in the static
And all the while
My granny kept her patience in the shade
Her deck of cards adorned with birds
Their feathers slightly frayed
The swallows scythed through open skies
Back home where they belonged
And like Narcissus, swooped from height
To kiss the surface of the pond
The wasps built paper palaces
The geckos froze on sight
And midwife toads woke from their doze
To tune up for the night
As daytime took its leave
We sought out satellites and stars
Then lay in quiet contemplation
Watching Venus waltz with Mars
I remember cowboys’ breakfasts
With my father by the lake
Freewheeling with the moon roof open
For freewheeling's sake
We wore our bike tyres paper thin
Climbed castle walls unseen
Dived into lakes to race for ducks
And ruled the world at just thirteen
We fashioned bows and arrows
From the saplings in the wood
Sprung ambushes from chestnut shade
And fell dead where we stood
We roamed the dust-filled houses
On the back streets off the square
An ageless band of soldiers
Feigning death without a care
We raced around the wood yard
Sometimes scuffled in the dust
We traded glances with the neighbours' girls
And felt the nascent tug of lust
We sought out mischief in the hills
Stole naughtily from shelves
Smoked roll-ups in a Dutch girl's car
Unclipped our wings and helped ourselves
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 5:42 PM UTC
Young men and women are lying in the street soaked in their own blood. Simple disagreements are now solved with a gun. A generation is being lost to uncontrolled violence. Kids are soldiers in a war that has no boundaries. Drive by shootings are the form of combat. Ambushes in back alleys and at parties are the new form of gorilla warfare. There are senseless killing over nothing of consequence. Guns are color blind and bullets aren't biased. Both **** equally when wielded by persons who do not know how to solve their problems without violence.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
Idealize them once they’re gone.
Pity is bestowed by victors;
Evening thus recalls the dawn—
Truth revised by truth’s depicters.
Swooning for the Noble Savage,
That comes later. First comes war.
Conquerors arrive, then ravage:
Dominance worth fighting for.
The conquerors, in retrospect,
Describe their subjugated foe
In shades politically correct
(After they’re defeated, though…)
Ambushes and scalps for dinner—
Pretty pictures of the past:
Airbrushed touch-ups from the winner;
Real depictions cannot last.
Idealizing distant lives
While snug inside your comfy home
Is fine; your living standard thrives.
But Gaul had other views of Rome . . .
Apr 17, 2023
Apr 17, 2023 at 3:37 PM UTC
Colds sweats awaken me,
I rise breathless
with visions
of jagged trails
& camouflaged
face paints
& L-shaped
ambushes.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
Sweet, sweet tea of the morning
& a glass of old-style
Kool-Aid I insist
cos its summer
& we'll need it,
& then we stroll on out
down Main Street
& over the bridge
just past the station
to the old
Baptist Church,
where I suggest
we rest awhile
just to take
the weight off
our feet,
& we sit all
relaxed & resting
& there's a
slight discomfort,
I can feel it,
oh relax I say
just enjoy
the quiet,
& I feel it myself,
the waves,
the shimmering
& the colors
from the glass windows
shine so brightly
& we talk
so objectively
about this,
all logic
& such,
but then it hits
& you all get nervous
& wonder what
is happening,
& I confess
to the plan
& say just
go with it,
go with it,
all will be well,
& light talk goes on
all thought & surmise
& the figure so sweet
all compassion
& sacrifice
grabs hold
& we still chat
but slowly,
slowly,
& Look at the Windows
I say,
& we gaze so
way up there
and the jeweled
light cascades
all reds,
yellows,
blues,
& from inside
after the chit-chat ebbs,
comes flowing
the grace
& the love
& the power
& the Divine
is with us now,
right here
from us
right now,
& we weep
& God is Love,
& we weep,
& we weep
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC
I was a sixty gunner once.
Don't blame me.
It wasn't really my choice,
I had more muscle,
carried twenty-five pounds
(or more)
of belted ammo.
I loved tracer rounds
the best,
they would
light up the night
& you could stay on target
much easier,
especially during
those early-morning
L-shaped ambushes.
You had to
expend rounds quick
because it would not take long
until you became
the next target
during the attacks.
But I was lucky.
I made it back intact,
I survived
a shitload
of missions.
The number is still classified,
I think.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
We got drunk to forget
our loneliness & how
we walked through hell
battling terror.
Hangovers meant nothing,
we would leave our post
during the daylight hours
(the ambushes were at night),
knowing the trauma to come.
And who were these people,
barking out endless orders
to sweep this sector and that one,
mopping up those bearded guys
& veiled spooks
we considered less than human.
But nobody really knew any better
as we strolled armed to the hilt
running on high tension
telling each other,
"What happens in Helmand province,
stays in Helmand province."
And thank God we did,
'cause nobody really wants
to hear about brutality,
blood and guts &
drunken revelry
to forget the things
people don't teally
want to talk about.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
dilated black pupil
i watch take shape
grin of pink with form so clean
ambushes grey soul
touch like feather
greets
fist of gold
bold strikes, put to rest
by feather of gold
untethered
she pilots soul
i pilot soul
never fly so low
always take high to zones unknown to globe
havent felt this way in yrz.
finally warm
finally free
finally home
then,
she's gone
ow...
solo|w|
again.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
I am disgusted by illness
Of yellow **** and festered skin.
Fierce gusts may leave me motionless
But the lotions form an ocean
To fail curing oily excess.
Thus this venom sinks into skin.
The blackheads of the king cobra
Rear up in ambushes, bushes
And murky water. Cadavas'
Rot appearing on fresh faces.
For my face, I don't care
But with women it affects how I fair.
The skin is beyond my control.
Though it's only surface deep
It pains me to my soul.
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 9:13 PM UTC