"crumps" poems
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of ***
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
4.1k
We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime,
Kept slush waist-high and rising hour by hour,
And choked the steps too thick with clay to climb.
What murk of air remained stank old, and sour
With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men
Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den,
If not their corpses...
There we herded from the blast
Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last,
Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles,
And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping
And sploshing in the flood, deluging muck -
The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles
Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck.
We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined
'O sir, my eyes - I'm blind, - I'm blind, I'm blind!'
Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids
And said if he could see the least blurred light
He was not blind; in time he'd get all right.
'I can't' he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids',
Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there
In posting Next for duty, and sending a scout
To beg a stretcher somewhere, and flound'ring about
To other posts under the shrieking air.
* * *
Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed,
And one who would have drowned himself for good, -
I try not to remember these things now.
Let dread hark back for one word only: how
Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps,
And the wild chattering of his broken teeth,
Renewed most horribly whenever crumps
Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath, -
Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout
'I see your lights!' But ours had long died out.
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A Poor Man’s Love Story:
I met you when I was three
I still remember how scared you were of that slide
Those days when we were so young, careless and free
I hoped we’d never change but life’s a ride
I hoped you’d never get tired of me
When we got a little older
And we became compulsive flirts
And I got a bit bolder
That first kiss under all those fireworks
I think my heart got bigger
I began to love you
It seemed like life was a big, happy game
And when the wind blew
Making the brown autumn leaves dance up Strawberry Lane
And flicked up your long blonde hair
We’d laugh, cuddle, cry and feel no fear
Hold each other till our muscles would shake
Talk on the phone when I was away just to feel near
A dream world where everything but you and me, just felt fake
I hate to see you sad
One day when I’m rich and wise
I’ll take you where you always wanted to go
It’ll be the ultimate surprise
We’ll stand on the Champs Elysees and throw
Bread crumps to the plump pigeons
We’ll gaze into each other’s eyes and not make a sound
Fall down on the rich green grassy banks of a river
I’ll always catch your head before it hits the ground
Ill cover you with a blanket for when you start to shiver
We’ll wish on the shooting stars
The world will just fade away into a distant haze
A pulsating bubble, hiding us away
Time will slow, and bliss will fill our days
We’ll feel young again, happy and gay
I love you my angel
Ill hide away your scars from the world
The cracks and scars that make you so beautiful and real
Keep your passions spread and unfurled
You’ll be with me as long as I can feel
I promise, it’ll be you and me together, forever...
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
little children are abondoned by thier parents, left to raise each other on their own, learn to survive in the streets, forced to live under the influence of drugs and earn a living from mugging. Mothers forced to labour with children on thier backs, they rather sleep with empty stomachs sacrifising only for their children. Man begging for food,they nolonger know how to give. They wear shreaded clothes and survive from the tiny bread crumps thrown into trash cans. They sleep under the fierce weathers, the wind cutting through thier skin and all that keep them warm is plastic bags. What ever happened to my country is surely brutal South Africa can never be the same again unless we change it.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
Deuce Brother States, embrace your own Define
One which assigns your Profile to be Real
Another, by flip belongs to your Lime
Which in your Comfort does merrily Steal
Is this such Bulb, which you chose to Enjoy
Even though its Pockets carry a Plague
If, by Tempt's timing by reason deploy
Morning smoothes a Tan; Evening crumps an Ague
For a Coin as Janus begot is Enough
Even as it Matures your Chronology
Would better the Memoirs be Pure though Tough
Multiply this Peace your Anthology.
You're Ripe enough, at least in your own Crop
Whilst waiting for the Owl to perch its Drop.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC