"foxhole" poems
Basketball stands for war or battle.
That's why I think about the players'
personalities, in my foxhole or squad.
Danny and Ben are fast and smart. Dan
especially can pass making him master
and commander. To defeat them as we did
is pst satisfying. Ben's five year old son
disdains to answer my question
Why are you you?
But I'm not here
to catalogue the men's personalities.
I like them. But each of us has moved on
many times, when ___________ suddenly died
the games went on with hardly a mention
and his name has since been forgotten.
But even this, absolute mortality
of not just our bodies but our names
and souls is not what I came
to talk about. Yesterday, between games,
I asked Joe how Molly his daughter likes
the high school. He mounted an impassioned
defense of reading as the indispensable skill
when I suggested math, the scientific method
and history are essential too.
Also between games
Bob diffidently asked why my kids are bald.
I was moved by the care he took to satisfy
his curiosity, concerned the subject might be
difficult. He's a political science teacher so
I took the opportunity to ask What ails
the republic? Of course I answered myself
wanting mostly to hear myself talk about Iraq
and how empire is self-correcting. For once I was amusing
I thought, treating the subject with a light touch
heretofore lacking.
But none of this is what I came to say.
A new guy, long quick and strong, a
bulldozer under the boards with a good
outside shot if needed got into a dispute
with the other Bob who likes to tell people
what to do sometimes, about an offensive
foul Bob called which we almost never do.
The new guy said If you can't take it don't
play under the boards which is what I say
when I'm ****** and don't give a ****
Bob said You've been pushing and shoving me
all day. I said He doesn't want to be
pushed and shoved which got a wry
smile out of Danny as I put the ball in play.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
I'm nervous.
Like really nervous.
Like shaking like a blender full of gravel nervous.
Like atheist in a foxhole nervous.
Why am I so nervous?
Because I have a nagging thought that soon I might just be the last-next-best-thing that ever happened to you,
Replaced by another, better next-best-thing that blows me out of the water.
Because you might decide I don't have what you really REALLY want.
Because at the end of the day, I'm still convinced that your attraction to me is the product of an elaborate facade.
So yeah. I'm nervous.
Like sweating fifty caliber bullets nervous.
Like ******** cinderblocks nervous.
Like chattering teeth cold sweats nervous.
Like dying young nervous.
Like being forgotten nervous.
And it makes me nervous that you put me on a pedestal
Because from where I stand, I didn't do anything to deserve this
I got drunk at a party and picked up a guitar and here we are almost a year later.
So I'm anxious
I'm distressed
I'm worried and jumpy
But most of all I'm nervous
Nervous because I think
You might one day figure out what I already know:
I'm not that great.
I'm lanky and goofy and kinda dumb sometimes
And I can be just as petty as everyone else
And I'm still pretty convinced you're colossally out of my league
So I'm nervous
Like shake-you-to-your-fucking-core nervous
Like really nervous.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
In an alternate universe,
the light would be more friend than foe.
I need not entrench myself
in the sturdiest foxhole...
The deepest burrow.
In an alternate universe,
shadows would not goad me
into submitting to leverage.
Spotlight would be on,
and I would take centrestage.
In an alternate universe,
the world would perceive
with magnanimous eyes.
With no malicious intent,
with no obscure motives,
all twisted and bent.
In an alternate universe,
I would readily reveal myself...
As an entity and not a martyr.
In my heart, there'll be no worry.
Because there'll be no fangs
amidst the jubilee.
Only smiles that would draw out
the best in each other.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
Texas mud, a mud that cakes
A mud that strikes fear
In boots and trucks alike
After fresh summer rain
Billowy clouds rolling a long
Singing their thunderous song
Natures long cool drink
I was muddy once
Moms words i didn't hear as i hit the back door
Thoughts of squishy toes and big smiles
A freshly made mud pie for my sister
I was muddy once
To a boy of ten 2 acres goes on for miles
A whole mess a villains ever willing to meet
The business end of my B.B. gun
And the neighbors nurf gun
I was muddy once
From the trenches of France
To a foxhole on Mars
Only fenced in by the outermost stars
I couldn't be bested
Backyard hoops to creek jumping
Swing sets to sword fights
I was muddy once
The only thought of future
Was what tomorrow would bring
New adventures, new places to see
And all you can drink sweet iced tea
I wanted to be something great when i was a kid
I wanted to be great
I wanted to be a paleontologist, doctor, lawyer, cop, superhero, captain of a yacht, a and mountain man, and never wanted to get married cause girls had cooties and dolls
As it turns out I am none of those things
As it turns out, what i needed most
Was i ran rarest away from
I became something i never thought i would be
I became something i never thought i could be
I am becoming a servant of the King
The mud which once covered my hands
Bound my heart in a thick, clogging bog
Only when i thought no longer of receiving glory
I began to poor grace out from this imperfect jar
Glory pored to a being more eloquent than I
Who hath poured mercy like wine
Love as a fire
Turning my so called foundations into Texas mud
Turns out God doesn't want me to be a doctor
Turns out God wants the willing not the able
i found something bigger
Than the thoughts i thought i knew
How glorious days of old
A tear to my eye and a distant memory
To stretch and grow is one thing
A loss of splendor another
When others think of yesterday,
Dream for tomorrow
Dream and dream big,
For God is bigger still
He rejoices in imagination
Delights in the mind of a child
Reclaim that which we've lost
For you were muddy once
I was muddy once
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
Jean, death comes close to us all,
flapping its awful wings at us
and the gluey wings crawl up our nose.
Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs,
whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle,
mine pushed into gnawing a stilbestrol cancer
I passed on like hemophilia,
or yours in the seventh grade, with her spleen
smacked in by the balance beam.
And we, mothers, crumpled, and flyspotted
with bringing them this far
can do nothing now but pray.
Let us put your three children
and my two children,
ages ranging from eleven to twenty-one,
and send them in a large air net up to God,
with many stamps, real air mail,
and huge signs attached:
SPECIAL HANDLING.
DO NOT STAPLE, FOLD OR MUTILATE!
And perhaps He will notice
and pass a psalm over them
for keeping safe for a whole,
for a whole ********* life-span.
And not even a muddled angel will
peek down at us in our foxhole.
And He will not have time
to send down an eyedropper of prayer for us,
the mothering thing of us,
as we drip into the soup
and drown
in the worry festering inside us,
lest our children
go so fast
they go.
1.8k
One cries from a foxhole
A tear splashes an urn
Some dance laced in bootstraps
Many diminished returns
Two shuffle tarots
“All in!” Shouts a third
Homesteads brandish wind chimes
Infant dreams lay deferred
A quiet malarkey
As hunger pangs ring
Piled high, bullion
Cages hearts and clips wings
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
The Flak hits the wings and body of the plane
506th Easy Company
Of the 101st Airborne
The leg bag
Tore right off
They jumped lower than they should have been
Tracer bullets burning holes through the parachute
Tracers spraying around in the air
Firing in every direction
Paul "Buck" Rogers
Lands in a tree
Some worked their way down
Through a farm area
To a hedge row
Easy Company captured and destroyed
The guns at Brecourt Manor
Saving countless lives on Utah Beach
They helped to liberate the Dutch
Angels from the sky
The black and white footage is amazing
The gratitude and love the people show
To the men is wonderful
Finally free after four years
Of Occupation by the Germans
Battling from village to village
Along "Hell's Highway,"
Easy Company crossed Holland to the Rhine River
Nine men of Easy Company
Lost their lives
Battling in Holland
By the End of the Holland campaign,
Easy Company had been on the frontline
For more than 70 days
On Dec. 16, 1944
****** launched his offensive into the Ardennes
The Battle of the Bulge would become
The largest engagement
In the history
Of the U.S. Army
600,000 soldiers would fight in the battle
Easy Company was told to hold the perimeter of Bastogne
Surrounded by Germans
Branches knocked off of trees
Holes in the ground
Artillery attack
88s, mortars, rockets
They jumped into foxholes
He could see all the shells hitting from the foxhole
The wounded got relief from battle
Maybe a ticket home
If they died they were at peace
At Berchtesgaden
They uncovered artwork
In Zell Am Zee, Austria
Easy Company helped secure
The surrender of 25,000 German troops
On November 30, 1945
The 101st Airborne Division
Was inactivated
Day after Day
They fought together
Fought for each other
Knowing some would not return
This veteran said,
"I cherish the memories
Of a question my grandson asked me the other day.
'Grandpa, Were you a hero in the war?'
Grandpa said no
But I served in a company of heroes."
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
God,
**** them *******
before they **** me.
Amen.
r ~ 9/18/14
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
there were old men
laying around the
pool
like cigarette butts
in an ashtray
burnt out and
diminishing as
their feet
dangle in the water
lapping up against
their knees
they talked about
the old war
the good war
back in a time when
there was war to
believe in
now what?
now they have their
feet in a pool
fat white skin
burning in the moonlight
while knobby knees
are canvas to varicose
veins and the occasional
scar
--oh this one from
surgery, this one
from a foxhole
dug out some
hillside near Salerno
sliced up the
side of my leg
nice and good, yessir,
killed the
**** guinea
though don't worry--
and they would hold
out their arms
to explain how
they held those old
standard issue springfield's
while arthritis shook
that imaginary
rifle to the point
of danger but
they never noticed
leaning in to stare down
the sights
aiming carefully at
some elusive
foe across the pool
they would laugh at
how much they hated those
guns
they would laugh at
the insanity of it all
how young they had been
how old they were now
how much had changed
and how much hadn't
their wives were all gone
left widowed or divorced
all it seemed they had
was Tunisia or
Italy or that French
beach early morning in
1944
the world is a battlefield
for old men
with no
weaponry but old
stories caked in dust
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
he fishes in the pond along the broad abroad
reeling in the glistening skin of fight and splish !
a twitch of atheist, in a rainbow foxhole
pleading to invisible wire
he prayed would
hit.
when Life imitates Art
the Irony
is Photoshop.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 11:22 PM UTC
i spent seven days in a foxhole
eating sand and burying the secrets
of former lovers.
i gave myself the silent treatment
for the first four days
then i sang for the other three.
i dreamed of cowboys and westbound trains
and i had an old sack full of bottles
so i wasnt alone.
i was a fine toothed comb
or a skill saw
and i felt useful for once in my life.
i crushed a box of lightbulbs on
the fourth night
and i found the prettiest place to sleep.
i hung photos on the wall of the prison
to keep me happy
and missing you.
now i live in the basement of the world
and i wish for nothing more
than a swiss army knife and
one word from you.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
It is out of habit for a poet to personify the oceans. Write about how the waves kisses the shore each time the moon tried to pull it away; and then remind yourself how when hot meets cold, they're disaster-bound. Playing pretend was a habit of yours. After all, it was a form of survival- where you get the change in your pockets.
You were fascinated by how the conch seemed to speak in waves no matter how far away you were from the ocean, as if it never depended its beauty in the place it finds itself. Its emptiness allowed itself to echo its surroundings. And if you'd uncover what was buried, you'd think it be a chest- an empty one that will finally be tipped full.
When you mimicked the sound of the ocean, it couldn't lull me to sleep. It kept me awake every night for fear that I'd drown; see, your promises came like waves, with nothing in between. You gave your words away like the weight you had been carrying in you; and I almost thought you had spat your heart out in the process of cleaning your guts. There is so many things you poured out, and I guess I managed to save some- sorrow.
When it stopped, you spoke in hushed tones and it sounded like canon shots in a distance. They say you are a product of your surroundings and you are filling yourself with everything you can find laying around, stacked so precariously high like a game of Jenga- the thrill was in watching it topple and fall. These pieces never belonged to you and you still have nothing to give when you are growing close resemblance to a shrapnel shell. When you are at war with yourself, there is no refuge: dig a foxhole until it blows over and that'd be your grave. How do you hide from yourself? Scream when you listen to the conch again- it's the sound of war.
Break your habits before they break you; times like this, I wish you were an empty shell.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
Take this violent heart of mine.
Someone pulled the pin with a kiss
spit shrapnel and blood,
cut your lips without meaning to.
Cough enough smoke, and your eyes water
phosphorus breath.
Born under the rising of a red sun.
Blood spilled this night and every night
between sheets of rain and steel
cold, heavy, stark as my eyes in the morning
when waking to the sirens.
Foxhole of fear and foot-shooter,
What am I good for?
Men may cry peace, peace,
but there is no peace.
Not in this violent heart.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
Surprisingly enough,
this little vile of some
horrible stuff
called "Pink-Pink"
is actually rather
musky.
And to think,
after three months
and then two more,
I would get six checks.
Micky Mantle captivated
the nation,
and Lars Montannaro
is captivating
this town.
All the while
Michael Moore is killing God
and God is killing us.
One must ask oneself,
did God create me,
or did I create God?
Is God within me,
or am I God myself?
Throughout John Carpenter's life
many questions plagued him,
most remained unanswered,
few allowed him to live
and one killed him.
He lies dying,
gasping for air,
with nothing but
Steinbeck and brandy
to bid him farewell.
On a bed without sheets,
in a motel without a kitchen,
in a town without a theater,
in a state without a king,
in a land without hope,
God lays dying.
With nothing but the prayers of
Mary Stein to bid him goodnight,
he prays himself.
Every man is a believer in the foxhole,
just as he is a saint.
Praying and praying,
the fire rallies
around a man,
his emancipated guts
lay spewing blood in the dirt.
Without a clear objective man is nothing.
Nothing is everything,
and everything is unexplainable
just as nothing can be explained.
The Dark sings a song it believes to be beautiful,
and the Light finds it discouraging to it's attempts
of what it believes to be beautiful.
So the Light chases away the Dark
and the Wanderers wonder where it went.
Wandering this world,
they try
and try
and try
to find it.
They are looking in the wrong world.
The man with a gun
runs to the store and back
and back
and back again.
The willows whisper a tune for their god
that the oaks find blasphemous.
The oaks chant louder and louder
so as to please their god.
Life goes on
and life goes on
and life goes on
and then it doesn't.
Then suddenly it begins
in a thousand more forms
and in a thousand more lungs
it breathes.
Life will continue to exalt God
and God will continue allowing life to breathe.
For as long as there is air,
breathes shall be taken.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
I am daylight
of a dissolving stay
in Paris
looking over
wrought-iron dreams
peering through
baroque and promises
at the ransom note
written on
a sleeping **** sunbather's
**********
where it reads:
"*...our marriage
was nothing more
than a foxhole to you.*"
~
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 8:11 AM UTC
1. If the enemy is in range, so are you.
2. Incoming fire has the right of way.
3. Don't look conspicuous, it draws fire.
4. There is always a way.
5. The easy way is always mined.
6. Try to look unimportant, they may be low on ammo.
7. Professionals are predictable, it's the amateurs that are
dangerous.
8. The enemy invariably attacks on two occasions:
a. When you're ready for them.
b. When you're not ready for them.
9. Teamwork is essential, it gives them someone else to shoot at.
10. If you can't remember, the claymore is pointed at you.
11. The enemy diversion you have been ignoring will be the main
attack.
12. A ******* chest wound" is natures way of telling you to slow
down.
13. If your attack is going well, you have walked into an ambush.
14. Never draw fire, it irritates everyone around you.
15. Anything you do can get you shot, including nothing.
16. Make it tough enough for the enemy to get in and you won't be
able to get out.
17. Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than yourself.
18. If you are short of everything but the enemy, you are in a
combat zone.
19. When you have secured an area, don't forget to tell the enemy.
20. Never forget that your weapon is made by the lowest bidder.
21. Friendly Fire Isn't.
And Mike's Three Corollaries:
1, Keep your head down.
2. Never pick up anything off the ground.
3. Never, ever, trust the locals, especially children.
Compiled by mce
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
When world war #again
Is a treaty written in headspace
When the titans and the collateral shrapnel
And children hiding in their cocooned mothers lanky grasp
All can relax a little more
Maybe a quiet foxhole
Or a foxy, quiet hole in the corner of an imaginary farmhouse
Might do the trick for where I draw my white flag
Though I can’t say
Cuz i’m unfortunately in world war. again.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
Through the tunnel, distant voices.
Through the tunnel, I see them.
Through the tunnel, the shadows strafe.
Through the tunnel, raging noises.
Through this tunnel all danger is funneled... does this keeps me protected and safe?
The inner walls, are drab and dreary.
The inner walls, comprised of the past.
The inner walls, lined with scars and sores.
The inner walls, are tired, weary.
The tunnel is caving? Yes, from pain I was braving from words, actions, and more.
A foxhole, a foxhole, only as good as its structure.
A foxhole, a tunnel, only as good as its shelter.
A tunnel, a defense, only good when intact.
A defense, a defense, will fall when punctured.
This defense mechanism is a curse and will worsen the person it was meant to protect.
This defense, this defense, is a watery grave.
This defense, this foxhole, is filling up fast.
This foxhole, this trap, no longer has purpose.
This trap, this trap, was not meant to save.
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 2:17 PM UTC
to love
deadly lies
razor sharp feelings
dynamite ***
explode
bleed
and die
for love
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 12:50 PM UTC
He tried not to cry. With his trenching tool,
which weighed five pounds, he began
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.
The intransitive Martha. Over Her letters he'd drool,
and over the burning fire he'd place the pea-can.
He tried not to cry with his trenching tool.
Bible in his knapsack, towards Than Khe the cruel
march agonized, where the burning cross would then stand
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.
He sat at the bottom of his foxhole and rubbed the wool
sweater brought by resupply choppers. The other shouted from their holes, "How'd Ted land?"
He tried not to cry with his trenching tool.
"I swear to God-boom-down. Not a word." The others fueled
the rage-rage against the dying of the light. Jim felt bad
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
Slow sparks
Vegetable love
you are planted and, nature
mirroring nature,
grow
This snail love,
rippling, wavering, creasing itself to move forward
We knit ourselves,
pulling strand through
strand through
strand to tie ourselves in knots,
weaving ourselves into the fabric of this-
our foxhole, our fort, our rampart
That implacable Indian,
the stacks of shoes,
and the gritty plates:
the objects that know our rhythms
My secret bear/troll,
wild and woolly
growling our hidden jokes and unseen whispers
unscripted for once
unprepared
Like two sailors
we frantically navigate these waters,
desperate to drown ourselves:
shipwrecked,
submerged,
surfaced, and
returned.
Outside our cave we smile in code.
You and I and the Indian
keep our own counsels.
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
These are the words that I can't say out loud;
a whole mess of sorrow I've been kicking around.
These are the feelings that I haven't found;
may they come with haste and hope abound.
These are the thoughts with which I am left;
I'm striving for first, but will take second-best.
These are the places I'm dreaming to see;
I hope absolution is waiting for me.
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 12:51 AM UTC
In a foxhole in the cold December night,
my brother next to me trying not to freeze.
No socks, food and very little ammo;
We'll freeze before the enemy attacks.
Suddenly the ground explodes next to me
like a firecracker on the fourth of July.
The sky shakes as if God is moving it,
and the sky lights up as bright as day.
My ears ring and my vision is blurry,
as I look next to me I see him.
My brother lying there motionless,
and cry medic in hopes that it's not too late.
In hopes to protect us, I aim my weapon
And I pull the trigger till my magazine is empty,
But even then I do not notice
For my shock makes everything numb as if I was on morphine.
Now I rush over to where my brother lies
In hopes that death has not grasped him,
I jump on top of him in hopes that I can prevent
Further destruction that would harm him.
As the shooting stops and the explosions quiet,
I feel my eyes water as I hold my brother's body.
He may not have been my blood
But we shared a great bond
Now I weep for him,
As the light fades from his eyes.
I can't stop cradling his head
As if he were still alive.
I watch them carry him away
as if he were a stick in a dog's mouth.
And I wipe the tears away from my face
As I ask myself, why him? Why not me instead?
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 8:10 PM UTC