"enola" poems
Trip over the high density of our constant lies
We're all out to break and hurt the non-elite
Words and phrases they never meant a thing but to lure you in
This facade of love that we send soldiers like cattle
Down an assembly line to build and protect
A fake America, burning towers tumbling down
Bellowing the sweet sorrows of victims
Whose screams we replay the audio over and over
To divert you from seeing the real culprit
We are sick minded human beings with the thirst for enemies
We'll kiss everyone we meet on the cheek
And continue to fake what we tell you we'll be
We prefer a stabbing to the back
Never a full frontal attack
And we have puppets
We'll always find someone to replace the current like the forty four before
The people's memories will fade and burn like corpses caused by the Enola Gay
We''ll drop a bomb to wipe out everything mankind has worked for
Because in the end we do not need peasants
We have everything and everyone else has absolutely nothing
And 99% will lay to waste and ruin in the ruins we leave to burn
We'll pity so we can mislead to false hope
Send small portions of rations to schedule feeding underlings
Flouride in the drinking water to better control
Corruption in the oval office classified, uncovered, never shared
Always kept underwraps, never revealed just a hoax.
Lips to ears do the whispers carry.
A promise for a better tomorrow but a date will never be set for peace
So we keep telling you that it only gets better
And we'll think apologies fix everything
Truth is we meant nothing in the first place
Because we'll keep remaking mistakes that we apologize for
Misery is our job
Eating and breathing and surviving on the pain of lower humans
Like clothed animals rampaging through a corrupt society
So we'll let the people let their guard down for a quick second and us, vultures
Will devour them quick in that moment
To find you are empty inside,
We've starved you of what you've needed
Because all along, and everything we've ever done
we never realized once you've all revolted
this 1% would surely fall to pieces.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:59 AM UTC
I plunge into the cold water on that warm July day
no goggles, only the loose-fitting swimming trunks
I swim through the blur of chlorine
pushing through the water
when a familiar tune I heard hours earlier traps itself in my brain
and I suddenly become weightless, a plane high above in the air
The water is pure blue sky, below me the clouds
And at the bottom the city in ruins
I take my plane and dive down below the clouds
past the blur, until the city is in view just below me
I level the bomber and let it soar low above the ground
Over the pale white shells of buildings
I remember the museum exhibit that inspires this flight
I walk through, studying the pictures and the uniforms and the weapons on display
when in the distance of the room beyond I hear the familiar tune:
Brian Eno's "Ascent (An Ending)". It brings me closer, and I move past the exhibits
at a quickening pace, past the slow browsers
glancing only briefly to read, to catch a glimpse of an object, a photo, a map
I keep going, "Ascent" on a loop, its minimalist beauty entrancing me
until I find a large television in a small corner.
A few people are gathered around, solemn,
the television entrancing them, the music washing over the room.
First the white words centered against the black screen: "The Bomb".
The come the white-and-black photos and footage of the mushroom clouds hovering above Hiroshima, then Nagasaki,
standing tall like ungainly trees in an empty field.
The soundtrack to the short video before me is "Ascent",
or rather an excerpt, a piece of it, stirring strange emotions
Familiar ones that I give attribution to when I listen to it on my own.
Yet it feels different coming from this;
on the screen a few photographs of corpses and burnt victims flash by.
And then the screen fades to black, a moment of silence
before it all starts again
I hear this loop and see these images before me as I fly above
the imagined city in ruins
And for a brief moment I am the Enola Gay;
I will only know it at the bottom of a hotel pool
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
Obedient
Superfluous minced rubicund aqua Phoenician
Our orphanage spills blood from picnics
Menopause conniptions lipstick
Her sons learning curve
Popstar gentleman suicide
The preschoolers last taste of Apple juice
Enola gay is soaring above the vain
Potential future poets and mathematicians
Bright eyes and innocent giggles
The souls of peace
Molecules disintegrate of wondrous dreams
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
We set their air afire,
Just as they'd set our ships
Afire,
So,
With a great killing,
We brought to a stop,
Their killing,
A fairly rapid stop,
Perhaps too fast a stop,
Too fast for some,
For sure,
But who could know,
That these horrendous things,
Would come to pass but once more,
Thankfully.
And now that bell tolls yearly,
Its lonely voice sings
“Never again,”
“We hope.”
Let us be sad For those who died,
But let us not regret.
Their deaths bought life,
For others
Who did not have to fight.
Let revisionists glory in their guilt,
Their guilt is not ours.
We can pay our respects
To Enola Gay,
And to this day
Say “well done.”
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 9:18 PM UTC
Michiko would never know
the strange creature that opened its bowels
that day, was named Enola Gay
she would remember the fine feel of the water on her face,
the taste of tea she had with her pears, and the odor of chrysanthemums through her window
the same window through which
her mother would stare, there, at the morning sky
at the smothering smoke of all creation
her brother was left a shadow
on a wall, nothing left at all of her father
who stood at ground zero
Michiko, only double digits the day before
would follow her mother down the long road
to the smoldering fires and scorched skin
and the stalking stench of the dead
on the path, along the way
but only that day, Michiko would see the black giant
growing in the summer sky
a magnet to her eye
more beautiful than all
the sweet flesh and shrines that fed it
a billion years in an instant
that August morn
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
I never want to be a shadowman burned into a wall
Ashes falling down
rubble everywhere.
Enola gay I wish you hadn't come
you brought the light
you brought the sun.
A peaceful mans dreams of numbers and things
turns to that
that haunts our dreams at night
that haunts our dreams at day
and turns us against each other.
Apr 14, 2010
Apr 14, 2010 at 7:13 AM UTC
She slices the ribbon of an old tape cassette
Alone, she sits perched on the charred remains
She breathes in slow motion and recites the alphabet
Alone, she sits and embraces the inevitable change
A delicate flower of truth, love, and regret
A pulsating fountain severs the deepest vein
Flowing emotions puddle underneath the bed
Alone she sits, she is always alone
Jun 10, 2021
Jun 10, 2021 at 4:22 AM UTC
Someday maybe | gnitiaw fo derit worg ll'I
As I wonder about of you | ?yhw wonk t'nod i sselpleh oS
Hear my heart that say... | ...enola lla ereh m'I taht
Of our sweet memories | yawa spils tsuj ti tsaf oS
That is here to stay, | ,emit ni eud nettogrof tuB
Of my love to you, Forever | og tel ot esoohc uoy evol ruo fo
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 3:07 AM UTC
This guy was on the bar steps,
but mentally by the tap, mentally
lip-locked with a long neck lover
mentally on a beach in Vietnam.
"Red Beach Two," I swear he said.
It could've been "we beat you,"
aimed at the Vietnamerican
bartender straining Manhattan
Projects for faceless suits toasting
by the jukebox beating out Springsteen.
Something about a bomb, millions of lives,
and innocent Satan. But that war's over now.
This guy must have seen some ****
because he kept his arms down
and eyes at attention like a death
march. He watched everything
like a liquid sky slowly draining,
leaving the Sun tacked up
to the cosmos. He pushed the crescent
moon over to get a better look
at Andromeda's guts, and tore
a hole in the pool lining. He revealed
more ocean with U-boats and Albatrosses
and the Enola Gay sobbing for what it had done.
And bombs / bombs / bombs. And Nagasaki,
we did it. It's our fault. "We're sorry"
spokesung to the beat of a two-finger
tremolo on a stretched hide drum.
And Hiroshima, we're sorry. We didn't know,
but we did. WE ******* KNEW ALL ALONG.
We made the bomb, we tested it in the desert,
we put a bow on it, and left it on your doorstep.
We left it beneath the arch. THE ARCH.
That arch I've seen in my dreams.
This guy,
broke and begging for a beer,
has seen it.
He is it.
He was the atom bomb and the bomber
and Hiroshima and the universe.
He is it.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
On May the twelfth of nineteen forty-two,
A project was started by Franklin D.
A plan was penned to make the bombs we threw,
On Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
The bombs were named after a boy and man,
One of them little and one of them fat.
Both of them made by project, Manhattan,
No one can guess why they named them like that.
The project was held in three locations,
Hanford, Los Al’mos, Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
And with sci’ntists from three diff’rent nations,
The US, Great Britain, and Canad-ee.
The bombs that ended the second world war,
Began as the scientists’ idea.
They didn’t see then the fam’lies they tore,
They didn’t hear the “Ave Maria.”
The project was kept top secret for fear,
Of Germans, Japan, and all the Russians.
That all those countries’ spies would steal and hear
Their newfound ideas and discussions.
The morning of August six, forty-five,
The Japanese city, Hiroshima.
People awoke with no thought to their lives,
Just after battle in Iwo Jima.
Little Boy fell, over nine thousand pounds,
Plopped from B-29 Enola Gay.
Pilot Paul Tibbets in far above bounds,
Dropped Little Boy to heed orders that day.
The Fat Man fell just a few days later,
August ninth on city, Nagasaki.
A bomb of this force, made by traitor,
Not so, it’s made by those from Milwaukee.
Thousands of pounds of explosive power,
Tens times efficiency of one before.
Dropped on a village within an hour,
Explosion, explosion upon the shore.
By Robert Oppenheimer it was led,
With help from General Leslie R. Groves.
They felt great regret for all that were dead,
Those people they killed in shadowy droves.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC
It was just on the stroke of midnight,
I was going to go to bed,
But I had to pass by Charlie’s room
So I hung back there, instead,
I could hear the rattle of drums that came
From under his bedroom door,
And then the sound of a French ‘Huzzah!’
From a Napoleonic war.
I thought, ‘He’s at it again, he’s got
The Frenchies marching east,
He’s going to Borodino, where
He’s got a chance, at least,
He’s leading the French Grand Armée
As Napoleon did before,
But I couldn’t get in to stop him, as
He’d locked his bedroom door.
I shook my head and I went to bed,
There was no point hanging round,
For Charlie, he’d be up all night
‘Til the Armée went to ground,
By dawn he’d have them dragging back
From the Russian ice and snow,
And wouldn’t be fit to go to school
‘Til he’d had a sleep, you know.
He wasn’t a kid like other kids
He wouldn’t play with a phone,
He didn’t get into computer games
But he spent his time alone.
He didn’t make friends so easily
For he never went out to play,
But stuck his head in a history book
And would read and read all day.
They said he must have been gifted in
Some strange, abnormal way,
He used his imagination for
The games he wanted to play,
His mind reached back to another time
Where the personae were dead,
And brought them back for a second chance
On the counterpane of his bed.
I caught a glimpse of the action once
In a crack through his bedroom door,
A galleon moored in a harbour by
An armed Conquistador,
He saw me there and he slammed the door
And he said, ‘Don’t interfere!
I’m trying to raise the English Fleet
And I can’t if you’re standing there!’
His mother took him to town one day
To see a psychologist,
Who said, ‘He lives in a world of his own,
I think he’s really blessed.
We all grow out of our childish ways
And I think he’ll be the same.’
He thought it was all in Charlie’s head
‘Til the day that ‘Little Boy’ came.
He’d read and read of the second war
For a month until that day,
When I heard the aircraft engines I
Just knew, the ‘Enola Gay’,
I beat and beat upon Charlie’s door,
Broke out in a cold, cold sweat,
But the plane took off, and I grabbed the wife
And we’d still be running yet.
We were out in the road when the roof blew off
With a mighty blast and roar,
And the mushroom cloud was curling up
While we lay, flat out on the floor,
Charlie had gone from our lives for good
With his gift, and his bag of tricks,
Hard to believe that he had the power,
For Charlie was only six!
David Lewis Paget
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
Lucifer, to the Enola Gay
by Michael R. Burch
Go then,
and give them my meaning
so that their teeming
streets
become my city.
Bring back a pretty
flower—
a chrysanthemum,
perhaps, to bloom
if but an hour,
within a certain room
of mine
where
the sun does not rise or fall,
and the moon,
although it is content to shine,
helps nothing at all.
There,
if I hear the wistful call
of their voices
regretting choices
made
or perhaps not made
in time,
I can look back upon it and recall,
in all
its pale forms sublime,
still
Death will never be holy again.
Published by Romantics Quarterly, Penny Dreadful and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: Hiroshima, Enola Gay, atomic bomb, explosion, mushroom cloud, death, Lucifer, Satan, Devil, chrysanthemum, sun, moon, voices, choices
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 1:00 AM UTC
The human being.
The doer of such good.
Also the doer of some of the darkest most
nefarious behavior ever witnessed on his planet.
The human being.
So imperfect.
So bi-polar.
So frenetically unbalanced.
Flawed.
The matter of factly cold blooded murderer
which doesn't bat an eye after its despicable
display of carnage .
Carnage that not even the creatures we call
"animals" are capable of.
Flawed.
You know the ones.
General Paul W. Tibbets, pilot of the Enola Gay.
The pilot that dropped "little boy" and murdered 140,000 people.
The pilot that was spared his own life to the age 92
while ending others before they even begun.
Flawed.
You know the ones.
The human "animals" such as...
the Charles Manson's.
The Saddam Hussein's and
the Adolf Hitler's of his world.
The fallen angel Satan, cast out of the heavens
during a war in the heavens never to return.
Flawed.
The drunken drivers that **** the innocent everyday.
The texting drivers that **** the innocent everyday.
The complainers.
The annoying bi-polar human being that complains
it is too hot.
Only to complain a short time later,
they are too cold.
Flawed.
The annoying human being that complains that their
garden and grass is in desperate need of rain.
This is the same human being that I have to listen to
complain in a supermarket checkout about how
they will have to dodge the raindrops when leaving the store,
such an inconvenience for them,unreal.
Flawed.
The humans that promise,
only to be filled with empty promises.
We live in a world full of empty promises.
"I swear to God" they strongly avow!
Perhaps that is their biggest problem in life right there.
Flawed.
The animal abusers and murderers that will one day
have to answer for their heinous crimes upon
God's most tame creations.
The alleged animals.
Only, they aren't the true "animals" that roam
and destroy God's Earth, no ,not at all.
That title belongs to the irrevocably flawed human being.
The ones that they themselves have brought many of
God's creations to the brink of extinction by their sheer ignorance.
Just to think....
It all began so so long ago with a man named Adam,
and a woman named Eve,
and we as God's most flawed creation
have never recovered.
Simply looking around me everyday,
I now see that we never will.....
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 6:24 AM UTC
By the time the nuclear bombs blast
Peppering the terrain in every corner of the world
We'll be so weary of the world
We'll bow before the flash bulb shock
And thank the Holy Law of Physics
For delivering us from it
A place where compassion requires too many limits
Where looking out for number one reveals
Number one is a right *******
No better than number two
Who won't be satisfied until he's number one
We've seen too much with our eyes
Too many times shown the weakness in our values
Trust no one, least of all yourself
It's only the grace of wonder
That keeps us from slaying each other outright
So it can't come soon enough
Christen AWACs the new Enola Gay
And load them with enough warheads to take out the coasts (for starters)
Give this cursed species a good dose of radiation
After the flood
God said he would never again annihilate man
So the task has been turned over to us
Those of us who love truth and justice
In their undiluted form
To wipe the Tarmac clean
Set back and wait for the poison rays to tear us up from the inside out
O, to be the last man standing
The one who gets to say
"Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven
Amen"...and then fall to the ground
Exhaling the last breath of God
The singularity the last thing in his field of vision
None of it mattered
None of it meant a ********* thing
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC
It is said that if you read a poem called Tomino’s Hell
If read out loud things will not end well
As it is a way to summon Tomino who was cast down
For questioning & challenging Gods word
When he fell there was a crack, even the living had heard
Tomino fell from heaven, straight to hell
His mouth sowed shut for no secrets can he tell
He was not prepared with the hell he was shown
As Lucifer sits upon his mighty throne
With a surprisingly gently voice he says to not be afraid
He was not as what is imagined or portrayed
He is beyond the concept of beauty, its hard to explain
The torture, once you think there can’t be a higher pain
It gets worse; seemingly endless you start to go insane
Like heaven, each hell is designed just for you, none are the same
In Tomino’s you are constantly ripped apart
And a sensation, like someone squeezing your heart
Then it gets really dangerous & bad when you start to yearn
For the pain and the sweet, agonizing burn
Some may escape to the land of the living, but they always return
Especially Tomino who always brings a soul in tow
So whatever you do, don’t read aloud the poem below:
Tomino’s Poem
(Don’t read it, especially out loud!)
Enota ot nwod tsac neeb evah yam onimot
Enola ti o got sesufer eh tub
Oot nwod uoy gard lliw eh denommus si eh nehw os
Odnu ro epacse on si ereht, seod eh ecno
Od ot evah uoy lla s’that, doula meop eht woleb daer
Uoy rof emoc lliw onimot dna
Eurtnu si nettirw saw tahw rof
Uoy dniheb kool llew, daeh ruoy ni daer uoy fi, oob
Lley dna maercs uoy sa nwod uoy gard lliw eh
Lleh s’onimot ot emoclew dna seye ruoy nepo
Try reading it if you dare
But please beware
Because once you do
Your soul is sold to you know who
And while you are tortured, the scars on your soul adorning
Don’t say you had no warning!
Based On An Urban Legend
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 1:10 AM UTC
Dripping, a heavy metal teardrop
From the hatches of Enola Gay
A quiet moment to court gravity
Before judgment is passed down
In a blinding flash, murderous circumference
An unholy force lifting trees from the ground
Invisible fire encompassing all
Laying low flesh and ideals
Shadow triumphant, stare into it's glowing face
Turn around knowing
**** Sapiens crowning achievement
And all it portends
Only the dead were spared
The realization
They are the lucky ones
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
There was a footnote with
an NB after the PS at the
end of his last email to me.
The main text of his missive
was about how dangerous
USA was due to their Nukes.
Can't be trusted, they used
them before in Hiroshima
and Nagasaki, did you know?
Well I did, but I refused to go
see the Enola Gay when I was
in Washington D.C.
Ended up with the NB which
said that I could kiss my ***
goodbye if Imran hits on Modi!
The thing about it is, we might
have Niobium's to kiss if they
decide to do what America did!
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 12:59 PM UTC
I have grown so accustomed to being alone
I crave the solitary nature
But I wouldnt mind spending alone time with you
And planning out our future
Because you're not just another human
So carelessly wasting my time
You're a part of me
And I'd love to call you mine.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
Seventy Three Years Since 1945
(August 6 and 9 respectively)
Robert Oppenheimer manned
"The Manhattan Project",
a top secret World War II mission
which constituted "Little Boy" codename
for a uranium gun-type atomic
bomb dropped at 0815
exploding 580 metres above civilians
with15 kiloton blast yield reduced
400 year old city to dust
Colonel Paul Tibbets, the pilot/ bombardier
of the Enola Gay (the Boeing B-29 Superfortress
unleashing nuclear warfare
seventy three years ago today)
gives cause for this baby boomer to revisit
mentally, the annihilation,
extermination, incineration
the first of two storied Japanese enclaves
realizes how trifling my current bout
with mania paranoia, pneumonia
(from northern exposure)
contrasted with sinister malevolent
evil tower ushering
thermonuclear age epitomizing
coup de nada so graceful means
maximum military mutilation
though unwell, this inflammation poised
to be cured unlike subsequent
generations of victims
who survived atrocious, egregious, hellacious,
judicious slaughter can only
poorly be described
by this mortal with a curable
bacterial/viral infection
aghast at such wanton killing, moreso
via weapons of mass destruction
more devastatingly grisly than
those "experimental" bombs
loosed upon the innocent population,
whereby 75,000 people killed or fatally injured
with 65% of casualties nine years
of age and younger
whence offspring of survivors
evincing excess genetic anomalies
with fiery windy surface
temperatures topping 4,000C
upon terrain hallowed by ghastly
horrible deathly dominance
amidst shadow of a mushroom cloud.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 7:15 PM UTC
Desmond Tutu died.
Not left behind in Afghanistan.
He didn't drown in a comet induced Tsunami.
The lava flow from la Palma didn't fry him.
Aids, Corona, measles, small-pox or Enola didn't infect him.
World fires didn't **** the oxygen from his lungs.
He didn't dehydrate in the Sahara.
No plane fell on him, nor did he fall out of one.
His size indicates it wasn't a self-imposed hunger strike.
Desmond Tutu just died.
A two year old with his father's handgun didn't do him in.
He wasn't struck down by a falling tree, or speeding car.
I'm sure he fell lots of times, but he always got back up.
He doesn't hang from a cross; he wasn't tossed overboard.
And he wasn't lynched, electrocuted, injected or shot standing.
He died,
Naturally, on St. Stephen's Day, when stoning is popular.
It's a **** good thing he led such an exemplary, meritorious life, or we wouldn't know
Desmond Tutu died.
Dec 27, 2021
Dec 27, 2021 at 10:07 AM UTC
It's nothing like in the magazines
scarves wrapped around the throats
of human beings and scenes of utter desperation mock me down at Stratford station.
I expected something more on Monday than thoughts of Friday
getting in the way of mining a
morning from the gaping chasm of
people yawning.
The underground
a breeding ground to flounder in
or possibly it's me
jaded by time
and drowning in my misery
happily
I find it's not
this really is the melting ***
and we're all being
slowly stewed.
Here be no interlude
no
Kia-ora to slowly sip
just
the trip and yet they say
the journey
is
what makes the day.
The Monday matinee
when I wish it was
still Saturday
well
I would wouldn't i?
A voice in my ear
says relax
or maybe it's wax.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 2:23 AM UTC