"commandos" poems
Millennials at Work and War
Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us
Now thrown into the existential struggle
Surrendering their youth and taking up life
They muster in the fields and factories
And in their elders’ undeclared, shadowy wars
Uniformed in an unappreciated sense
Of duty and dignity while scorned by those
Who take their ease upon the couches of sloth
And fling cheap mockery at millennials
Who take up tools and work and love of life
Sometimes to die in deserts still unmapped
While generals dismiss their casualties as light
Despised as snowflakes by keyboard commandos
Who never got closer to any war
Than a John Wayne ketchup-bloody movie.
Some work long double shifts through university
In a sawmill, shop, or fast foodery
Only to be dismissed as slacker layabouts,
But expected to trust those who condemn them
For not being the greatest generation
As defined by those who never served at all
And while being criticized they will grab
A quick cup of coffee for the night shift
Staffing the hospitals and police patrols
That keep their sneering critics alive and safe
They drive the trucks, they man the ships, they work
They drill for oil, these useless millennials
While idlers lounge long in the coffee shops
And YooToob computered jokes about them
Millennials have no time for coloring books
Or comfort animals or revolution
For they are weary with study and work
The best of them make no demands, but, sure
A little respect, hard-earned, would be nice
If only the scripted singer-songwriters
Would pack up the tired old stereotypes
And see millennials as they truly are
But darkness falls – they must go back to work
On the eleven-seven, the graveyard shift
They do not burn draft cards or Medicare cards
Instead through work they illuminate this world
And build it up with continued sacrifice
Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
valley mountains high,
cattle there to serve us,
rugged men are men,
sheep are very nervous,
megan's dentures in a jar,
pug face snoring porker,
drove llambo to his wellies,
the mountain mutton stalker.
valley commandos camouflage dress,
headband, wellies, wooly string vest,
llambo llewellyn up to the test,
heads for the hills searching his quest.
english may laugh,
and label us sinners,
while we **** sheep,
they eat them for dinners.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 11:57 AM UTC
Little ant, so small and insignificant
Yet in numbers up an elephant’s snout
How easily you make him indisposed
Lesson to learn: strength in numbers
Maxim to remember: unity of purpose
Oh termite, thou destroyer of civilizations!
How mighty when surreptitiously you creep in
Such ingenious civil engineering feats everywhere
Orderly highways with neither jams nor congestion
And tall imposing castles kissing the air proudly
Result: new architectures plagiarizing your prototype!
And you wasp of constricted waist and mean toxin
You make no attempt to hide or disguise your dwelling
Yours is a house built upon a hill for all to see and tremble
They say when a man has no obvious protection keep away
Lest you trigger subtle forces that mesmerize and pulverize you
Lesson from this: commandos are modern day human wasps
Everybody owes the bee everything, from sweetness to health
The bees a-buzzing speak of persistence and how it breaks barriers
In the end you listen because the message is ceaseless and urgent
And oh sweet bee of the hot sting shot from your posterior
No cordon bleu chef anywhere can ever approximate your finesse
Your formula and patent are hedged with natural mystery
Lesson to learn: the bitter and the sweet in judicious mixture!
Now little man recently so puffed-up and conceited and ever so inadequate
Hear ye this and know it well lest you stumble and fall into dark precipices
You’re nothing and you’ve created nothing; there’s a prototype of everything
In nature’s wonder store of huge surprises and unassuming wisdom
Lesson from all this: one day the other world will rise up and assert it itself
So steer your course differently and beware of those who bide their time
Grim in their purpose and determined in their unshakable resolve
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 4:00 AM UTC
As the vultures cautiously defend their broken gift , a panic stricken , innocent creature lays mortally wounded , another tribute to suburban encroachment , killers quite fittingly cloaked in orange attire , warning the civilized world of their presence , roam unchecked throughout Georgia's woodlands .
Paper doll wannabe commandos , indignantly evoke prayer and 'god given rights' , esteem their kind as protectors of the environment . An obvious cover for blood thirst and killing instinct , blanketing raw , scheming , murderous culpabilities ..
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
.
I touched the field of amber pleadings
with eyes only sure enough to find that hidden light
Long lost in the sea of forgotten grasses,
brown from the sun, parched by a drought,
exhaling diversions as I stand facing time,
expecting faces to appear but hands caught the sorrow,
passing it down to an earth that is baked and sore,
thirsting for more, a longer plain in this universe
Weeping cocoons snug in the brambles
oblivious to what the outside wears,
blend in with the endings slowly creeping
awaiting metamorphosis
as a tree falls, no noise, no energy for that
Rooted in dismay, clogged by last season’s air,
pausing only to capture one final view
of the smoke stacks, brick faced commandos,
circular spewing pillars
where beneath wealth is created
but eternity is shortened at wholesale prices
Grey skies, a constant color
pressing doom and gloom
into the landscape, fitted like wedges
force fed in spoonfuls of ignorance
Gathering place settings at my feet,
stirring up dust, blurring the wishers
wondering where the water went,
dry beds, serpentine emptiness,
spilling into garbage piles where lakes once
reflected the ripples as they slowly left,
as not even mud stands a fighting chance
When on a hill I see them, the youth,
our future, backpacks and bubblegum,
ear buds and sunglasses, well meaning,
looking for the next iphone, not being taught
that an apple is actually a fruit
Reading comic books about heroes,
caped crusaders who will save the planet
(that must be what the S stands for)
one colored page at a time
And I sit in the dirt, leaving my impression
for that is all I have left, no answers that
have not been asked, no solutions
that remain passed over, just a wild hair
out of place in this take all world
as highways trickle across farm lands
and corn fields are as barren as my stare
But there is hope…there is always hope...
I hope
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
My local is not for the faint hearted. Lovers turned~haters brawl. People get poisoned, cops are beaten and a reveller once fell and died after a nonsensical fight with a friend he had been boozing with
It is the sort of place you keep one eye open. Your wallet could be swiped from your hind pocket, carjackers could trail you and work on you right at your gate
Anyway due to all this shenanigans, security is paramount. The first line of defence are watchmen who spend the whole night preventing people who are too drunk to fight, from attempting to make a nuisance of themselves.
Then we have bouncer the clubs elite commandos. When idiots start clobbering each with broken beer bottles, it's their duty to raid that corner of the pub and fling the villains out
But you know what the bouncer does. Every morning, without fail, irrespective of whatever time he eaves the pub tired like a dog, he holds his little girls hand and walks her to the bus stop to catch the school bus
Every morning, without fail.......
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
END THIS MENACE SOON
Leaping flames and rising fumes
Billowing through shattered panes
Of Mumbai's majestic Taj Hotel,*
Choked the helpless inmates
Who knew not why and what
Had caused the terrible blast:
Trapped inside burning rooms,
Scampered and struggled in vain
To flee from the spreading flames
And bullets fired from Kasab's*
guns.
Shocked and stunned,
the whole nation
Watched with horror and bated
breath,
On TV screens the terrorists' siege
And the commandos' daring acts
To rescue victims and seize
the fanatics
Who maimed and killed innocent guests
And left painful scars, indelible,
On the minds and hearts
of survivors.
When will the world find strategies
To end this menace of
recurring crimes
And save peace loving people
in all nations?
***** M.G.N.Murthy
Hyderabad, India.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 8:58 AM UTC
Inside the child was waiting
She just needed a few drinks more
Wave goodbye to inhibition and find the dance floor
A few more and shes ready, the table yeah its next
Dancing like Coyote uglys, the tables now a stage
Not to be out done her friends are dancing to
Its party time in Oxton, the girls have had a few
Her legs look rather splendid kicking in the air
Thank heaven she remembered to wear her underwear!!
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
A young mother cradles her broken child
Amid the fragments of her world, her soul.
Blood drips. Rain-sodden insulation drips.
Stillness between storms. The trees are all gone.
A dark Sargasso Sea of shattered wood,
Bricks, clothes, books, toys, rags, glass, papers, bodies.
In the gasping heat the rot begins now.
No houses. No lights. A helicopter
Floating valley boys with plastic boxes
Taking cruel pictures and O-My-Godding
For the telescreen (between soda ads).
And in fortresses of personal affronts
(Safely far away)
Keyboard commandos leap into inaction:
P*eople who choose to live there deserve it.
We told you that global warming is true.
We didn’t have these things ‘til they kicked Jesus
Out of these here schools. And paddling, by God.
It’s Obama’s fault. Or is it George Bush?
It’s the Republicans. Public schools. Gaia.
British Petroleum. Coal. SUVs.
Suburbs. Not reading the Bible. Comets.
You’re stupid. Well eff you back. Eff you more*.
While in the second lowering line of storms
A young mother cradles her broken child.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 3:25 PM UTC
The Social MePhone Justice Commandos of Toxic Doom
In the unending quest for social justice
Schoolroom shootings, unisex bakeries
Tornados, a steak, a snake, get off the plane
They’re all the same to the Omigod cult:
“Omigod Omigod Omigod O
Migod Omigod Omigod Omi
God Omigod Omigod Omigod
Omigod Omigod Omigod O!
“Chapsnat bookface tubeyou my relationship
It’s complicated Omigod Omi”
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 7:39 PM UTC
Upon Learning that the Southern Poverty Law Center Maintains an Enemies List
Does anyone maintain a list of friends?
The construction flagman who smiles and waves
The neighbor’s boy who visits for a game of chess
The Friday morning coffee commandos
The waitress who flirts with all her old men
The helpful sackboy at the grocery store
The man who repairs your air-conditioner
The nurse-practitioner who makes you all better
The crossing guard who keeps the children safe
Does anyone maintain a list of friends?
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
*Summon the Strategic Air Command
The world could use more rock bands
Load the B-52's with Ludwig drum sets
and Marshall stacks , tie a twelve string
around the paratroopers backs
Saturate the zone with music books , score pads
and stands
Run missions non-stop , send commandos behind
operational lines bearing SG's and Les Pauls
Microphone stands and PA's , Roland keyboards
on every corner , continue dropping supplies till the world comes
to order* ..
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 12:24 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
The Dime-Store Philosophy of Kahlil Gibran
How The Prophet Made Kahlil Gibran a Household Name in
America ‹ Literary Hub (lithub.com)
The dime-store philosophy of Kahlil Gibran
(“Daddy, what’s a dime-store? And what’s a dime?”)
Reposing mostly undisturbed on brick-and-board shelves
The free-verse love-salad of Rod McKuen
And Lord of the Rings in 50-cent paperbacks
The Seekers played over and over on the phonograph
(“Daddy, what’s a phonograph? Is it something bad?”)
Have you heard The Mamas and the Papas’ latest single?
Peter, Paul & Mary in “stacks of wax”
Three-chord commandos in every coffee shop
Looking back - it wasn’t the greatest stuff
But for the time and place, it was good enough
Feb 25, 2024
Feb 25, 2024 at 4:24 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
The Compensatory Manosphere
For our cabinet-room commandos
They are loud with their manly talk of war
Scripted by John Wayne, chopped-salad cliches
Rat-tat-tatting like studio machine guns
On the Flanders’ fields of grade-school recess
They never heaved a buddy’s chopped remains
Into a dust-off barely touching the ground
Rotors screaming, wounded screaming, blood
Instead, they polish their torpedoes and CVs
“Signal ‘Charge!’”
Is their computer keyboard battle cry
Their wives listening in as young soldiers die
Apr 28, 2025
Apr 28, 2025 at 8:44 AM UTC