"burma" poems
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Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
O brother dwimalu!
Why did you bring the white elephant?
In the country of misfortune bodo race!
One of the next one to the king
Country attack in the feet of your own feet.
How glad we had!
You are in the country to increase!
Like to give the flowers to god
The king dwimal to give to the prize
How much happiness was you
The white elephant of burma country.
But the knowledge of the bodo
Knowledge in mud like a bath,
Not to have mercy for the chief minister
Tolerate can't be punished by the king!
Not water to fire
Not stick to elephant
No gun molten to lead
So much injustice did you finish!
O brother dwimalu!
Charlatan and scrooge
Step up mother and then how to believe?
But loved, had food for dinner!
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
From the starting point in Poland
To the hedgerows of France
High above the English countryside
to the depths of the Atlantic
In the sand-ridden dunes of Egypt, Libya and Tunisia
to the foothills and mountains of Sicily and Italy
From the Pacific to Asia minor
we fought
Storming the beaches of Normandy
to taking back France
From Guadalcanal to Okinawa
from Burma to China
We fought
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
sinusunog na mga bahay,
sinasamsam ang mga ari-arian,
sinasaktan pati ang mga bata,
ginagahasa ang mga babae,
at pinapatay ang mga lalake.
ganito araw-araw ang kanilang sinasapit,
hindi sa kamay ng mga tulisan o rebelde,
hindi sila ang salarin sa pang-aapi,
kundi ang estado at militar ang pasimuno.
sila ang pasistang halimaw na naninibasib,
pagkat gusto nilang maubos ang mga Rohingya.
hindi daw sila taga Burma,
latak daw sila ng mga Arabong dayo,
kaya kailangan na sila'y malipol.
walang magawa si Aung San Suu Kyi,
pati s'ya hawak sa leeg ng militar.
walang ginagawa ang Amerika at UN,
palibhasa wala silang mapapala sa mahirap na bansa.
isa na naman ba itong Rwanda,
o katulad sa Gaza?
walang gustong tumulong sa kanilang walang pakinabang.
maramot ang saklolo sa mga madaling maloko,
hindi kinakalinga ng langit ang mga tunay na api at kapos palad,
sapagkat ang mata ng kasaysayan ay nakatuon lagi sa Europa
at sa mga bansang masagana.
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 4:04 AM UTC
Her name is Chang Champoo,
translated as ‘Elephant Pink.’
Met on the street in tourist Thailand.
9 years old.
6 months pregnant.
A beggar in an urban landscape.
Hungry,
grabbing sugar cane from my fingers.
Desperate for food.
Destined for an early grave.
“Where are you from?”
A question to her mahout,
in Thai hauled from fragments of memory.
“The border.”
Seemingly obtuse but not really.
Only one nearby.
Burma.
Elephants,
born in captivity,
used in logging,
now unemployed.
Teak forests of old but a distant memory.
Did I only fuel her belly
buying over-priced sugar cane?
Or did I also fuel
rampant exploitation
of disadvantaged animals?
Not everything in life
Is black and white.
Sometimes it is grey,
This night it was Pink.
How could I refuse her sustenance
when confronted by those
mournful pachyderm eyes.
The question lingers…
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 1:55 AM UTC
The Hawker Hurricane is a British fighter design from the 1930s. Some 14,000 Hurricane and Sea Hurricane fighters and fighter-bombers were built by the end of 1944。 August 1940 brought what has become the Hurricane's shining moment in history: The Battle of Britain. RAF Hurricanes accounted for more enemy aircraft kills than all other defenses combined, including all aircraft and ground defenses. Later in the war, the Hurricane served admirably in North Africa, Burma, Malta, and nearly every other theater in which the RAF participated. The Hurricane underwent many modifications during its life, resulting in many major variants, including the Mk IA, with interchangeable wings housing eight 7.7mm (0.303in) guns;the Mk IIC, with a Merlin ** engine; the Mk IID, a tankbuster with two 40mm anti-tank guns plus two 7.7mm guns. During the war, Hurricanes were sold to Egypt, Finland, India, the Irish， Persia, Turkey and the USSR Air Corps.More in http://www.rangorango.com/124-series-c-1_5.html
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC
Sometimes in life we feel so depressed,
but unlike you, someone somewhere is not so blessed.
Somewhere in Burma a Muslim weeps,
while the rest of the world sleeps.
Somewhere in the west, Muslims are labelled as terrorists,
after the turn over events of the 9/11 twist.
Somewhere in a country a Muslim struggles to follow the Islamic lifestyle,
while its government gleefully smile.
Somewhere a Muslim brother dies in the midst of war
while he has nothing to do with all the deaths galore.
Some where a poor dad cries,
when he cant help his family to a bowl of rice.
Somewhere, a Muslim mother painfully sighs,
for his child the last time it closed its eyes.
Some where, a man ponders if Muslims are to be blamed on themselves.
After all, these are their countries and their affairs dispersed on the shelves.
Somewhere the hypocrisy and double standard of the super power countries
towards the Muslims is indeed shocking to see.
Somewhere someone in the world believes people are trying to destroy Islamic values and the Muslim Ummah,
which is against any human law.
Somewhere, someone is praying "Oh lord! Save this Ummah! and save this people"
from this killing needle.
Somewhere in this world some one must see that Muslims in this world are not totally free
which every suffering soul shall sadly agree.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 6:19 AM UTC
I held a Mother in my arms,
With love
&
tears of mournful abandon,
Watching as she passed to paradise.
In time,
I heard a Father’s breath of silence;
His silver cord too, shredded.
Oh my soul!
We have been force fed a lie;
That real men don’t cry?
for it is written;
“and Jesus wept.”
A son shouldn’t search such unsearchable sorrow...
But it's right that children bury their parents,
&
Not the other way around, a painful truth;
our caretaker's are now in the ground.
How long before sunshine’s healing rays
Dissipate this institute of grief?
&
When will the Son rise?
(G-d have mercy on us all.)
~ © Qwey.ku
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
Journeyman Pictures
Will take you on a journey
The DVB journalists
Jailed and tortured
They showed the military
Shooting at protesters
They hid on the balcony and filmed
They got footage
Of the Japanese journalist
Who was shot by the military
Another journalist
Helped make
An award winning
Documentary
About the devistating
Cyclone that hit Cambodia
In 2009
He was captured and jailed
For years
He had promised to write
The girl he met
From his documentary
But could not because
He was jailed
He made his own guitar
While he was
Wrongfully jailed
He is a good man
He just wanted to show
What the people were going through
Now he has been released
An executive from DVB media
Came to talk
With the Burmese officials
In 2009
About having their own
Official office
Some of the journalists
Have spoken out
About how they
Were tortured
Things are improving
Although it is a process
I hope DVB succeeds
And is not pestered
Or persecuted by the government
Any longer
This poem is dedicated
To the journalists
Who went through
Great hardships
To show the injustices
Of their government
Who wanted to document
What the people
Went through
After the cyclone
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
"They call him a magic man"
"There's no such thing as..."
"As what, magic?"
"..."
And the coffin hit the banks in Burma
Mud on the feet of a white man, stranger
"I came in search of truth, can you help me?"
The two men sat awake, drinking alcohol
Fermented and brewed by hand and the locals watched
Flaking hut, the bamboo was broken, he wondered how
"They say he has the power to heal"
"And yet I don't believe you"
"Find him"
The trees were dusted and the Antelope were grazing
In the Kalahari I found my guide, we smoked and died
By the fireside, I lied about the tide
He took my hand, I lost my stride
The Nile ran red and I awoke covered in sweat
Phantom structures of glass and brick, apparent not to I
A world of stars and the translucent eyes of a **********
The grinning dawn was mournful as we fell from barriers
The guards were boiled alive but their guns survived
And the California beaches were beckoning
I lay down on the road, calling out to Kerouac and receiving nothing but a jolt as the cars massaged my flailing back, and the monkeys were howling as a witch doctor calls
The small boy read the lacquered book with glistening nails adorned
The tide was vile, washed him away with a sly smile
A great **** at the doors of a church, masks discarded
The preacher man watched with a snarl, upturned lip
Gripped by fear the small boy clawed his way to the banks
He banked on life
Gambled with a choice and won
Burmese man-child, hashish in the pipe
Tell me of the story of your life
The bamboo pipes
A lighter falling through space, as the astronaut suffocates
Nicotine daze and a greyish haze, through the eternal maze
And we lay awake for days and days
A tank would fall from the mountain top
Crushing just one daffodil
and the bamboo mourned
Muddy river ran dry
Today, the day I die
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
~
the language of love,
it has no equivalence,
we speak what we hope,
we seek what we love;
vacillating? perhaps,
but there is no ambivalence.
lovers whisper, lovers shout;
alternating between holding it in,
or getting the words out.
whether sweet words of friendship,
or letting the heart go,
each tells a tale, a heartbeat,
one the spirit only knows.
is it the “shemomedjamo” of Georgia,
the “overindulgence that
cannot stop this appetite;”
or “lagom” of the Swedes,
who speak of moderation?
where what i have and what i see,
is perfect, just right!
the words, “koi no yokan,”
from the culture of the east,
Japanese speak of the instant of knowing
a love that’s “meant to be.”
there is “mamihlapinatapai,”
used by those at the tip,
of Tierra del Fuego’s windswept cliffs,
a lover’s wish they can’t set free;
further north Brazilians speak,
of “cafune,” the sweet tugging
at her long and flowing hair;
a love that reaches,
strokes, so tenderly.
the Thai use “greng-jai,”
for love that defers...
and to sacrifice refers;
the French have “retrouvailles,”
a love that sparks rediscovery,
where distance knows no separation;
“onsra,” is a love
soon to be a thing of the past;
used in Burma and India when spoken of
a love that cannot last.
the “saudade,” of the Portuguese,
of love that can no longer be,
though it may have been consuming,
is now but bittersweet.
and then... there is Arabic’s “tuqburni,”
a love that says so gently
“without you i am dying!”
each, it has no English equivalent
yet somehow we manage...
we find our true love,
in relationships, in marriage,
for love is a catholic language;
even when there are no words,
where touch, where tender looks,
translations of the unheard thoughts;
where pillows hold the notes of longing,
empty bars and stanzas filled;
oh love, oh boundless one,
under steeples pledge your troth,
to death’s door you take your oath,
to forever sing your universal song!
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
She doesn't think
I'm much of a guy...
I meant much of
An interesting guy.
I did say "interesting" before...
Didn't I?
Why?
Why does it matter?
Oh I love her I think...
We will go well together,
Like bread and jam
wait.. a better rhyme...
Like bread and "butter".
I must tell you...
The amount of efforts I make!
Even wrote her a poem to which
She said "For God's sake!
We are not in 19th century. Get new..."
It made me feel like leftover cake.
"Swag", she said
Something you lack ***
I opened net and googled it
After our short conversation.
The guys must do this and that
Looking at it I went into depression!
(Have you seen the latest trends?
I'm soooo far behind. oh good heaven!)
Back home I sunk in my sofa low
I was ****** exhausted,
Nothing I did pleased her
Didn't get her one bit excited;
She wanted someone bad and strong
And all she got was a guy ********
Why is it that...
Her crush drinks a bottle of whiskey down,
In one gulp and calls her cutie pie.
And I can't even pull off a leather jacket,
I'm just a ******* teetotaler orange juice guy.
In this world full of jibber-jabber,
I look at her as if She's my only high!
Okay!
So I'll love her silently and pray,
Like how Earth keeps Moon
Neither too close nor far away;
A miracle is all I hope for
(like the guy she loves shifting to Burma)
Then she'll have no other way!
I know...
I'm not a bad boy!
Why o God you've made me this nice?!
She loves to play with fire and you've
And you've...
Made my heart outta ice!
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 2:53 AM UTC
(Give me a London girl every time…)
*- I want to push my hands into your hips and smack you back to front against the wall, bunching your **** little skirt in my fingers, unclipping those fifties plastic beauties that cling to your thighs and I want you to be a right proper girl for me, a right proper girl -*
(…I’m gonna find one, I’ve made up my mind…)
So she got her phone out and
Smiled her Madonna-Gap smile,
Fine lines floundering
Like speech marks
Either side of her mouth.
So romantic!
A girl with a face of
Punctuation!
***** pennies,
she said,
Your eyes are
*****
*******
Pennies*
She would finger the holes
In my tatterdemalion
Charity coats,
And my shop-bought medals.
She would jab her fingers
Against each point
Of the Burma Star,
Spookily,
As though it were a
Pentagram.
She’s a washboard,
Her ******* are thumb-tacks
In a cosmetic shade of
Gold,
With a crucifix stamped
Like a dagger glyph
Right between them,
like a silver sneer,
on her precious metal chest.
*- I want to take your photo -
I want you in Pippi Longstockings
And to angle you just so, my no-knickered **** with her goosebumps on show -*
I’ll never forgot when she told me
She owned a leopard-skin
Pill-box hat ,
And I said
* “You’d have to be dead
Not to fancy that…”*
I’m not sure how aware she is though,
Of how many people
Tongue- to- the -floor want her.
She plays bored on purpose!
I’ve watched beautiful boys
Go to pieces
Trying to entertain her
With a curly straw.
She’s a real cheekbone feline,
And around her pupils
Rages a ring of jagged orange,
Like a jester’s ruff.
And I think of all this,
Whilst she stands there,
Moving from toe to toe
In her zig-zag heels,
And wooden bracelets,
And her little lycra
Landmine that
Shop assistants sell
To girls like her.
And then she clocks me.
and she doesn’t say a thing -
she just swims smilingly over
Through a parted gaggle,
Letting me grab her
Like I mean it,
Spanning her waist with my
Hands like
A corset -
And the fairylights
Are just smudges
Across her sequins,
And her mottled shoulders are
Ten shades
Of mostly white.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
They cry turmoil thru my web-pages,
pages on pages of Tribunes and Suns and Times
and Quarterly
"Free Burma!"
it's all turkey and pig-latin to me,
just "dunno!" like a dunce-capped miscreant,
inept of their vitriol
as i was not so great at geography
i got by before junior high.
Where-the-tarnished-nation is it?
"Free Burma!"
Notice the elephant in the room
like a whale named *****
attempting to escape
brothers of all of ours
engulfed in war
some ocean somewhere someone is dying;
notice that elephant in our laptops
ivory and blue tooth and iphones
telling me, showing us
to care
i do / want to
we should and we must
yes
"Free Burma!"
will i need to donate a dollar,
two, three? will i receive
a correspondence
of a child i am saving
a face of a country
i'm ignorant to...
will it's big sad puppy eyes be
commercialized?
i am no less as educated for not
following the strife of thousands
my own is as heavy here as an orca's leap
"Free Burma!"
what cage, bear or mouse trap
have they gotten themselves
and ourselves into?
if it's anything like Yayo or Martha
business
i have a better "good thing" to do
but if it is
like famines in Africa,
Mendelson, or Tibetan Monks
on strike with kung-fu skills
i will join U2,
(and if she's aware) with Oprah power
activate!
(fist to fist)
"i will be a well of spring-water!"
and she a holy cow, a worshipped saint
"Free Burma!!"
free water
free of fear
free everyone, i pray,
under this sky
wipe away all tears
free you of your worries
free of all chains
free of mines
free of lies and borderlines.
Free to be
together
free to live and choose to see
A planet a place
A peace
"Free Burma!"
Freedom
as one
community.
For you, for me.
Home.
Free...
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, Sister Maria, the refectorian, had said, Sister Teresa remembered walking passed the refectory, touching the wall with her fingers. God is my witness and guide, she translated, feeling the rough brick beneath her fingers. She stood; turned to look at the cloister garth. Sunlight played on the grass. Flowers added colour to borders and eyes, she thought, letting go of Maria's words as if they were balloons. Ache in limbs; a slowness in her movements. Age, she muttered inaudibly. The war had taken her cousin's sons in death. Two of them. Peter and Paul. Burma and D-day. Three years or more since. She brought hands together beneath the black serge of her habit. Flesh on flesh. Sister Clare had touched. Not over much, not over much. Papa would lift her high in his arms as a child, she mused, her memory jogged by the sunlight on the flowers. Higher and higher. Poor Papa. The spidery writing unreadable in the end. She sniffed the air. Bell rang from church tower. Sext. She looked at the clock on the cloister-tower wall. Lowered her eyes to the grass. So many greens. Jude had lain with her once or was it more? She mused, turning away from cloister wall and the sight of grass and flowers. Thirty years since he died. Blown to pieces Papa had written. Black ink on white paper sheet. Flesh on flesh; kiss to lip and lip. She paused by church door; allowed younger nuns to pass; so young these days, she thought, bowing, nodding her head. Placing her stiff fingers in the stoup, she made cross from breast to breast. Smell of incense; scent of wood; bodies close; age and time. She walked to her place in the choir stall, bowed to Crucified tabernacled. Kneeled. Closed eyes. Murmured prayer. Heard the rustle of habits; clicking of rosaries; breathing close. Opened eyes. Sister Clare across the way. A nod and a smile, almost indiscernible to others, she thought, returning the same. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; chant began; fingers moved; sign of cross; mumbled words. Forty years of prayer and chant; same such of fingered rosaries; hard beds; dark night of soul and such. She sensed Papa lifting her high in thought at least; Mama's touch on cheek and head. Jude's kiss. Embrace of limbs and face. Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, she recalled: God my witness and guide. Closed eyes. Sighed. Sister Clare had cried; had whispered; witness and guide; witness this and guide, she murmured between chant, prayer, and the scent of incense on the air.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Follow me through skies of Grey
through murky marshland mire.
Accompany me through forest
labyrinths and fields of pale rye.
Step carefully through old mine
fields and feel my chest fall silent
for momentarily my heart skips,
caught by the long grass stalagmites.
The imagination coils up horrifying
imagery, a moment in time where
warriors flee, outmanned and gunned
down, the indigenous falls to his knees.
Look up and seize my thoughts
from falling into the past, for life
is like a bike ride, and in order
keep a grasp, head forward
following an orbit and do not
lose sight of the tunnels end
for satellites which go off track
crash, break, smash and bend.
Sat in the grass staring up, you
giggle and pull my legs, I trip
on accord and hear the twang
of an IED before crumpling
like folded paper, onto a jagged
boulder, feeling a pain in my head.
I roll onto my back and face up to
the battlefield where hungry farmers
fend off intruders who gun them
down again, blink and they’re shackled
as the decorated men of war crack
out cigars, sip from crystal and cackle.
Scrunch these lids and rub my eyes
the image raids from red to yellow
crimson streams appear to mellow
as your face above me, draws calm
overhead, forget the cries of war-torn
towns and villagers who bled
to keep their crop in the forlorn
era which saw many a soldier dead.
A soul escapes and floats past
your face we pause and marvel
as it pirouettes smoothly, spiralling
slowly into the fog and falling back
down in the adjacent swamp. Trudge
and trace footsteps west of the border
As the scenery picks up, you nudge
my ribs and point down the valley,
towards the green and golden leaves
of Burma where our journey ends.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Burma-Shave
I remember........
Getting hit in the head with the swing set;
Doctor sewing up my scalp at home,
While setting on the step.
Taking the bus downtown with mom,
Car shopping for dad.
Picked out a Ford with a windshield sun visor.
A two tone black and cream collage
Mom using it to "move the garage".
I remember family vacation:
Driving to Florida before the interstate
Before Disney became a nation
Motels with pools, swimming laps,
And all those tourists traps:
The house that reverses gravity
Burma-Shave signs leading the way
To where the fountain of youth lay
Driving to the lake,
Dad forgetting his hat
At the halfway restaurant cafe
Finding it still there the next year.
Those were special days
Weeks at the lake catching turtles
Cleaning fish guts and scales
Swimming and skiing on glass.
Great fun and no care of details
No telephone at the cabin
Copyright 2014
Richard L. Ratliff
Published in The Indiana Voice Journal
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 8:47 PM UTC
I spent my childhood in
Club Quarters hotels and 747s.
We were members of every hotel chain in existence.
I know my way around cities you've never seen before.
Cities you've never heard of before.
The Dallas/Fort Worth airport was my second home.
but I can
give you directions to anywhere in
New York City,
Redlands, California.
Marshall, Texas.
London, UK.
Yangon, Burma.
I am perpetually packing and
unpacking my trusty
suitcase.
I should have given it a name by now.
It's unsettling, spending weekends in the same place
that I spent my week.
Never running errands,
never rushing through airports,
never finding books to read on car rides.
never moving, never home
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Grandpa Tinker died a few years after I was born. I'm told he met me before he left though I was still asleep then. Lulled in a cradle, in a peace made possible by men like him. A Marine Corp officer stationed at Pearl Harbor who awoke to the sound of shouts on a day the world would never be allowed to forget. Mother said he never spoke a word about the war. Maybe that was his way of forgetting; his gift to my mother's generation was to bury that pain. He let it die inside so the fear, the anguish, the terror could not touch the ones he loved. The world gave him something he could not forget, something so painful he buried it in his heart with the memory of fellow marines and sailors in watery graves.
Grandpa Harry was a gunner on a B-29. The son of orthodox Jews, a first generation American born in New York. When he was stationed in Texas he met a young W.A.V.E. who would become my grandma. They couldn't wait for the war to end before getting married. When Granpa Harry was shot down over the Burma theatre they sent grandma a letter. Heartbroken and desperate she prayed. He and the survivors of his crew were picked up weeks later in the jungle, but not before contracting maleria. They went on to have 8 children, 3 their own and 5 adopted. Grandma always loved children. She became a school teacher. Grandpa Harry died before I was born, the world gave him something he could not forget either.
I do not like to think of the war as a battle between nations of this world. Good and evil do not fight under banners of nations, they have no borders, no anthems, only memories. They fight and die on battlefields of hearts that have buried hate, pain, and terror. My grandparents' hearts are memorials. Gleaming white tombstones on a field I cannot see, and cannot forget.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
The realist idealist
Marxist on acid
Unruliest Julius
Social class bashin'
Hash waxin' Jet Jackson
I'm back in it, packin'
My 9 days of fastin'
And rockin' my Rama
Like Lama of Dalai
To Burma, Malawi
I'm thirsty for Mali
Diwali to light up in spite of the plight
From the right, I'm so left that it's theft
All I own is the night
I been deep in the jungles
Apocalypse Now
Reading little red books
About chairmen named Mao
But like Gandhi's ahimsa I'm teaching them how
We make no man's land peace
From they cash Curacao
Where I see water everywhere
But not a drop to drink
Just hydro-frackin' krakens
They're unleashing on your kitchen sink
And still the rising Apartheid
Brings death before the dioxide
Insecticidal suicide
And herbicidal genocide
Colombia? That's classified
It's why I build my ark from FARC
Embarking on my Narcos kick
A fix fit for a Bolshevik
For now my journey never ends
Until I cure this homesickness
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
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Feeling aimless
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 7:29 AM UTC
I never knew until now,
Dear Dad, though
I listened to the stories you told,
Of War that re-ignited after the one supposed,
To end all wars, or so it was proclaimed.
You went abroad, your Varsity
Stalled, dreams put aside,
Long before I was born,
Before you met my mother or I was named.
Instead, you wanted to fly,
High above the Bay of Bengal
And the Andaman Sea,
Above the carnage, or so you said.
And that must have seemed a way to save
That sanity
You needed to take you through,
To come back and marry a beloved girl.
I watch the newsreels now,
They are old, with time and victory ingrained.
I can see you flying that high,
Himalayan peaks shining in your eyes,
Cold death above and horror below.
You told me stories, I recall,
Too young for me to imagine.
Now too old for me to hear them all.
You never piloted again
Except in your nightmares.
On a road between moon and sun
In your own history you flew
The infamous, undying path
Of The Burma Run.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 12:05 AM UTC
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Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
When in the medium wade
Off town houses and pent coops up two
When the forces fade
Down the road popcorn is good.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Jade
green
a Chinese murmur
Burma
mining
refining the trade
conditions laid
bare
but the fare
is
Jade.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC