"conscripts" poems
Over there a young boy falls
And over here a woman weeps
When bugle and clarion call
Not mothers, but army keeps
Children of the country then
In unsullied discipline when
Bugle and clarion cry for war
So father, son and brother fall
The awaiting woman's despair
Smell death and cordite in air
Fall flailing to the sister's woe
Fall weak with strong sorrow
To the old wife's fresh sadness
Fight, hero and fall with madness
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
Tribute to the fallen
Guardians of the union
Accolade to the warriors
Combatants sworn
Standing straight
Before their Lord
Eulogy to the brave
Salvo of respect
Applause to the Eagles
Conscripts of the sky
Medal of the departed
Proud on their shoulders
Offering to our cadaverous
Salute to our gone brethren
Gone, not forgotten
We think them dead
We perceive them not
Living are they,
in their love of the Lord
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
The pitched shrill of the whistle sounds
the explosions can be felt deep underground
the mass of men scream and shout
the conscripts are all moving out
the Germans sit there waiting for us
all we can do is move forward, its a must
They took over our land, it makes me so mad
So I am here, at Stalingrad
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
Without a suitable rival, the sad brigade lingers
Conscripts for an unpopular and non-believable cause.
After a drawback, the sober war machine parades.
The collective forces mimics a ploy of belligerence
The transient atmosphere moans a superfluous order.
A wit decides a banner epic for its backlog to dictate
In the ***** populace there waves circular innocence.
The twisted ranks value the immediate imperative
This sudden attitude dresses into a signature.
And a written tragic script obscures their pain.
While the reluctant ones wait for peace to break out.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
both my grandfather and father
were army conscripts
without the benefit of a choice,
it was conscription...
Marshall Law was introduced,
hungary didn't feel like a satellite any more,
nor did Czechoslovakia in the 60s...
the poles were eager to keep the empire
intact like the Vietnamese, ironically
without as much violence,
just empty supermarket shelves...
i wasn't given such a benefit,
i had to learn a "woman's" trade,
being enlisted in the army would
have assuredly given me a
chance progression into a suitable life,
even a lifestyle! i'd be earning enough
to distract myself with theatre and opera!
alas! i'm not that well instructed
to enjoy a comfortable revenue and
the comfort of sadistic ballerinas
(what i mean is an education in taking orders
and not daydream, kept order, a clean
pair of shoes, a suit that's not creased)...
i know, modern pop and the 8 minute long
prog rock piece... let's test our attention
spans and care for distractions of
digression off the rhythm...
it's not necessarily rap worded,
nothing about the ghetto,
it's not exactly jam-rock Kingston town
aphrodisiac... i call it a shared salute,
a black panther with a shaved head.. well,
somewhere along the line we need a feeling
of being in it together.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 5:58 AM UTC
The Ninth Battalion (Australia)
By Sun-filled day and frosty night,
O’er rugged hills and desert sand,
We learned to work as teams, to fight
In jungles of another land.
From every city, State and town,
All the lovely countryside,
Impelled by grim war’s cold, bleak frown,
Gathered we at fair Woodside.
And some of us were volunteers,
But mostly we young conscripts were,
With youthful hopes, ambitions, fears;
Young men’s dreams of love were there.
And lusts, for we weren’t choir boys,
Nor simpering wowser, nor old maid.
We searched for brawling, drinking joys
And chased the girls of Adelaide.
Oh Adelaide, what wondrous pubs,
The Rundle, Gresham (Mind you Roy?),
The Western, Finden, all were hubs
Of social, sinful, youthful joy.
But scarce the city trips sublime.
Beneath the awesome stars our home.
And Sun-bronzed we became with time,
Leigh Creek, Cultana, ours to roam.
At Murray Bridge we fired our weapons, honed our drills;
Formed Section and Platoon at Humbug Scrub, and that was fun.
We dug-dug-dug to prove to them that be our skills,
And by night stood freezing piquet on the gun.
Canungra’s forest, where chilled to bone
We learned to ambush and by sudden flare to ****
The Flinders Range, those hills of stone.
Shoalwater Bay did prove our skill.
And at the last and having passed our nation’s test,
(for some a final accolade)
And to that question answered yes,
We made farewell to Adelaide.
At Murray Bridge we fired our weapons, honed our drills;
Formed Section and Platoon at Humbug Scrub, and that was fun.
We dug-dug-dug to prove to them that be our skills,
And by night stood freezing piquet on the gun.
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 2:51 AM UTC
A soft, imploring cry
peels from far and wide
from the silted lives of
mercenaries and conscripts,
the coagulated blood of still lifes
leached from stented veins
and strained for national pride
A quiet, solemn echo
bounces off re-sodded hills
and re-capped mountains
of voices muted in their prime
so that indentured revelers
might joyfully trumpet
an unrequited melody
of garnished freedom
and varnished liberty
The curdling wind plays taps
to the itinerant bones
on reefs and ocean bottoms
now hollowed by corrosive waves
of land-faring vagabonds who
continuously pare their calcified genes
Bottled tears that will never drain
remain untapped on distant shores
as their pilfering descendants
salt the museums and memorials
with their gratuitous patronage
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
Due laden leaves.
Fog spun in webs
Draped loose on
Fading trees.
A Forrest on it's knees
Bleeds honest tears of autumn,
Pleads solace from the slaughter,
Screaming "Is this all that we can be?"
The wisps of white washed memories
Haunt the glade for those that see.
Conscripts of the ancient mist,
Souls called forth then cast to sea.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
God's on a slide rule back down in the old school and teaching defensive tactics to back street medics,
Logarithms dance classes with bow tied girls wearing opera glasses and Father is stood by the door,
there's a movement in here in the final year and the war outside has begun,
'run baby run' on the transistor radio and the party of the first part gets tangled in the barbed wire of comments in the free press which presses out the conscripts.
Strip away the lies and see what lies inside, see what others try to hide.
Confide if you must in the wise and the just before you die.
The war's out there in chapter one and God has gone to Sainsbury's to bury all his feelings in food aisle twenty three, nothing's free, not for you, not for me and
not for God on food aisle
number twenty three.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
Family Tree
They come from far and wide
once a year to mingle and snack
on catered shrimp and small talk
in the long line that snakes around
the room to the open bar besieged
five deep, the beating heart
of the party until the string band
starts up and everyone hits
the dance floor, limbs loose,
knees high, hair down, skirts hiked
generations of farmers and drifters,
rail men and conscripts, schemers
and failures, a cacophony of native
brogue and broken English, long
lazy vowels stretched to breaking.
The men have my nose, the women
your eyes, but neither you nor I claim
the crazy cackle coming from
a skinny gal with electric
hair or the flat, vacant gaze of
a fellow in coveralls,
hands like hay rakes, yellow
fingers balled into fists. The bar
closes at twelve, they start to drift
away, arms draped, propping each other
up, telling the same old tearful tales,
falls down wells, battle axes
to the head, starvation in alarming
numbers and many iterations of
pox and croup, ague and catarrh,
bilious fever, dropsy and the flux,
melancholia, milk leg and screws,
a miserable game of one-upmanship
savored by all as they disappear
into the night, fore-bearers eyeing
us at the door, polite yet taciturn,
playing things close to the vest
mum on the matter of the higher
branches of our family tree.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
Are we to be knights, valiant and courageous?
Who leap into the fray with eyes ablaze to drown in blood of foes
Or grudging conscripts, having held just enough ground, with
Sullen faces due the touch of the next dawn
Whose names never make it into tales
They detest bald carrion-cleaners so, they do
Even as winged beaks rend the flesh of fathers, sons, brothers
Stripping carcasses from putrid decay to liberation, clean-picked white bone
To spare their loved ones the odious descent into pestilence
Misguided hate hovers in place of black clouds of flies
Weep! Bemoan! Execrate! For all the use it may be
Brick by brick watchtowers fall and signal flames choke into trails of smoke
A portent; walls recede, the castle shudders and recoils
Screaming crow murders knell the looming storm
Are we to be knights?
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
The officer’s whistle blew and we rose up
into the stiff wind of German fire.
Whole companies disappeared in the smoke
While tangled up in razor wire.
Our generals were exposed as fools;
Their tactics drawn from earlier wars
Our young conscripts, bayonets fixed,
were fed into the cannons maw.
Nineteen thousand young Brits dead,
Thirty thousand wounded more.
We gained so little ground that day
so little for that blood and gore.
A generation raised on tales
of the glory and romance of war,
has learned today the hard harsh truth
Wisdom gained through suffering is universal law.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
Lets pretend
There's no wars going on at this very moment
Hell let just write about beautiful things that make us happy
Those people hiding in foxholes and dugouts are not real
Ukrainian conscripts and dead Palestinians children...
All conspiracy theories, go back to dinner.
Why would we lose sleep?
Lets pretend and forget about being free.
Aug 27, 2024
Aug 27, 2024 at 7:00 PM UTC
A sparrow sang for breakfast
the robin sang for tea
Death by misadventure
the magpie holds the key
The jackdaw sang for supper
the nightjar at midnight
The major sips his sherry
as the conscripts fight the fight
Then as the sun rises
and the day begins again
The salmon swims the river
and the deer runs the glen
So, the fisherman packs his tackle
and his glasses for the sun
While the hunter wore his stalker
and loads bullets for his gun
Then we ponder at life's menu
as we drink a glass of wine
Whose time will it be tomorrow
it could be yours it could be mine
Apr 22, 2024
Apr 22, 2024 at 5:53 AM UTC
It picks me up when I'm stuck feeling down
Conscripts my lips to smile
And relieves my mug of frown
Peps up the steps and moves my heart to pound
If I did not know better
I'd say my true love I've found
Apr 7, 2024
Apr 7, 2024 at 12:01 AM UTC