"gunner" poems
Canned latte, water, fruit punch Rip-It
Gulp it, down it, chug it, sip it
In the gunner's sling, sway side to side
240B in the cradle, M4 right side
Talk of ***
Talk of food
It's all allowed
Nothing's too crude
Sometimes you talk
Sometimes you listen
Don't talk later 'bout what's said on mission
Check alleyways, balconies, traffic, rooftops
At five miles-an-hour, this convoy never stops
Red Bull, Gatorade, citrus Rip-It
Gulp it, down it, chug it, sip it
In the gunner's sling, sway side to side
240B in the cradle, shotgun left side
In the distance, flashes of white light
Watch them bloom throughout the green night
Was it dust lightning? Was it a bomb?
Don't matter to us, this mission carries on
Two hours to dawn, eight hours 'til we're done
Check balconies, traffic, alleyways, rooftops
At five miles-an-hour, this convoy never stops
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
This isn't about front lines and deep mud,
it's not about sacrifice and bands of brotherhood.
It's not calling for silence or for national pride,
it's not about cenotaphs and those left behind.
No, this a thank you to one Ernest Page,
Gunner Sergeant, Royal Field Artillery, 182nd Brigade.
Thank you for ducking, thank you for dodging,
thank you for lasting, thank you for living.
Thanks for returning back home to Brockley.
Thanks for asking Gran and building a family.
Thank you for dad and for little Aunt Betty,
for Pam and for Pete and for cousins aplenty.
Thanks for Rose Cottage, for trips round the lake,
thanks for loud laughter and sleepy eyed late
mugs of hot chocolate and medeira cake slabs.
Thanks for my sisters, thanks again for my dad.
Thank you for surviving, and all that implies.
I owe you it all, I owe you this life.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
Quiet are the fields
with ghosts
from pennants past
the aces
and cutters
set idly away
from the maple
spread fall
soft sounds
of Sunday
(chilling on the boneyard)
telling tales of
validated stars
and wheel house legends
the rally cap sluggers
with mahogany eyes
Mustard colors
in floating mists
give a hallowed glow
to sublime skies
scattered walkers
trip to the hole
their spit buckets
and spigots
pressed loosely into
pure life form
bikers and loners
and curious coffee goers
mill about the horn
whispering numbers
from an old
Keelman heaving
Alley lookers
and Mendoza lines
screachers, bleachers
from years gone by
dancing fingers
and cracks at the bat
moonshots
(from the big time Timmy Jim)
the 9th inning gunner
with sinker
and slider
and imposing
brush back ballz
the game day citizen
and dugout warrior
who lit it all up
in Rockwell fame
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
I dont know how to say goodbye to a man I never knew.
Clifton. Tail gunner ,Lancaster bomber.
1942.
I tried to write his story but I came up short. Black man fighting to free the world in his Majesty's air corps.
1944
A man who answered the call.
One of many. One of a kind.
A man from the colonies..Belizean..
Family man, father, patriot.
Has fired his last round.
R.I.P.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
Tender weather summer
slumber ponder hunger
cover wonder lover
runner hunter comer
mainly gravely greatly
rainy daily ready
achy heavy crazy
lazy safety lately
hunted spotted haunted
solid gauntlet granted
plotted started halted
flawless gunner wanted
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
I only have one photo of Grandad
from his years of service in the Great War,
and in it he’s wearing a leopard-skin leotard.
My paternal grandfather, Grandad,
was brought up in Brockley, South-East London
In his teens he was conscripted
and became a gunner sergeant in the Royal Field Artillery.
I still have his stirrups and his French/English phrase book
which includes useful words, like dysentery,
(think of the movie, ‘War Horse’, and you’re almost there).
He fought in the mud in France and put a lot of horses out of their misery.
Apparently, he enjoyed the stage – a song and a dance,
and almost went professional after a string
of successful nights at the local Roxy,
all of which makes me want to have known him better,
but he died in my teens.
He laughed a lot, loved his vegetable garden
and had a collection of handy-sized, hard-back books
giving details of how various circuits and wiring worked.
I recall his bear of an armchair
and how it was in easy reach
of a slim stack of shallow drawers
from which he would take slender tools or small curios
and sit and explain their significance to my bemused child self.
I have the brown photo somewhere -
it’s not one I’d like to frame as it raises too many questions for me.
Like – is that bloke next to grandad meant to be Robinson Crusoe?
Like – what prompted grandad to ‘black up’ from head to toe – is he Man Friday?
And now, I stare at the photo handed to me by my friend of his grandfather, complete with rifle and medals,
and again I silently ask my grandad – why?
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:11 PM UTC
IN FLANDERS FIELDS THE POPPIES BLOW*
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Here my comrades and I are laden
We fought for King and Country
Here we are---the fallen.
‘Be proud’, was the national proclamation
‘ You are the chosen’
We left home and our loved ones
Here we are—the ill-begotten.
Some of us once upon glorious corridors
Of Cambridge and Oxford had trodden
The best and most fertile of young minds
Here we are—the forgotten.
How strong we then were, riding on the back of youth
Its dreams so sweet and resplendent
Rained by bullets in the battlefield
Here we are---death has spoken.
Pro patria gloria, dulcis pro patria mori
(Never mind if our hearts were cruel and rotten
We must **** all enemies over the fence)
Here we are---the terrible who were chosen.
Were we born to destroy and mutilate?
But in the battle-front ---all we loved and espoused had been stolen
Buried in dark pits of hate and revenge
There we were----inhuman and despondent.
Those whom we slaughtered and maimed
Didn’t they like us once did hold dreams just as golden?
Weren’t they who happiness sought as we did?
Here we are—to bemoan all the precious from such that had been stolen.
In Flanders fields the poppies weep
For us who are far from home and have nowhere to return
With the wind’s nightly melancholic sighs whispering in our ears
Here we are----empty, with dark sins upon us—for absolution is all we yearn.
• inspired by the opening line of John McCrae’s poem IN FLANDERS FIELDS published in December 1915 (Flanders is in Belgium where a million died or were maimed).
John McCrae (1872—1918) was a Canadian doctor who joined the army as a gunner but later transferred to the medical service.
IN 1918 he was made consultant to all the British armies in France
but died of pneumonia before taking up the appointment.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC
Is this the place where garland grows,
Among the olive branches low?
Splattered, cindered, clay abode,
Am I so alien?
Encircled those, in khaki drab;
Paying homage to the bags;
Which hold remains of brave, young lads;
Will I feel again?
Surrounded, chains of un-lit lights,
Which only shine in day, not nights;
Illumination betrays the plights,
Should we become aglow.
A tree of polypropylene,
Adorns the tower, so serene;
A branch of steel hid in-between,
That only gunner knows.
The air of diesel, not of Myrrh,
As pre-fab dwellings start to stir,
Indifferent as they observe,
Fading of the Star.
A failed attempt at lone ‘SandMan’
Adorned with boots, bayonet in hand,
Iraqi winds displace his stand,
Re-formed in Kandahar.
T’was yesterday, on Christmas Eve;
A day ahead of promised leave,
When Paul, Eric, Mark and Steve,
Took leisurely patrol.
In Tikrit, where he was born,
Some sixty years before this ‘Storm’,
They’d set-out on this early morn.
Assessing evening’s toll.
Among the buildings, scattered ruins;
Charred men, like shadows, on the dunes;
From temples soar cremated plumes;
One hour had gone by.
In the distance, beyond the spire,
Come ‘reports’ of skirmish fire,
Incessant screaming of the dire;
Then screams dissolve to cries.
Approach, inside a city square,
Where once a fountain teemed, right there,
Smoldering flesh, low burning hair;
A family splayed together.
Rank and putrid pieces strewn,
Mother’s face, shrapnel-hewn;
Attending Allah far too soon--
All their hands were tethered.
Domestic dogs, now on their own,
Fight for human flesh and bone;
Such holy image sets the tone,
As chorus strikes ‘Jihad’.
Eric stumbles, exploded knee,
Bearing witness to comrades, three,
Souls reclaimed near instantly;
Christmas in Baghdad.
Is this the place where garland grows;
Among the olive branches low?
How I miss New England snow,
This Christmas in Baghdad.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
A famous "Barry Hodges" poem!
I was strolling along the Normandy beaches
In the close vicinity of Caen one day
With a very tasty piece of arm-candy to hand
When I found a bleached human femur on the beach.
Oh dear me, what thoughts this conjured up in my brain
As I imagined whose bone it might have been!
Perhaps some pathetic soldier boy landing in forty-four
Who got slotted by a gallant German gunner,
His eyes feasting on the sacrificial cannon fodder
So foolishly supplied for his target practice.
Then, as I grabbed my lady friend's juicy ****
Causing her to turn and sink her tongue into my earhole,
We sank onto the sands in order to sate our lusts,
(enflamed by a very delicious meal of moules marinières
and a bucket or two of well-chilled Muscadet sur Lie)
I thought, what the **** does it all matter?
This is now, and that was then, and this old world
Has become a much nicer place nowadays;
But how mistaken I was in that fond thought;
Oh what an idealist I am in a world of woe.
For, all of a sudden, a contingent of fat dwarfs appeared,
Totally naked apart from their luminous Uncle Sam hats
And the Stars and Stripes hanging from their arseholes;
How I marvelled at their disgusting shapes
(and how surprised was I to find their genitals
were of normal measurements and thus
rather intrusively large by comparison
with the rest of their miniature bodies).
O dear Lord and alleged Father of Mankind
Forgive their horrid ways verily and forsooth.
With a whoop, those demented military retards, [see note below]
The famous 118th battalion ****** Marine veterans,
A contingent of whom emerged from a portable toilet
(which must have been a bit of a tight squeeze),
Chopped my girl-friend up with their bayonets,
Whereupon I crapped myself in terror and pity,
Before retrieving the purse from the eviscerated corpse,
Realizing that her PIN number was still useable
Until 'les flics' discovered her unfortunate remains
After the shore ***** had partaken thereof.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
Ross was a fullblooded
bronze-skinned buddy
from the Navajo Nation.
He was a diehard Okie,
and a machine gunner,
carried the M-sixty
with twenty pounds
of extra belted-ammo.
He was a big guy,
had brown deep-set eyes,
high cheeks and
not a single hair
on his burly body,
but some high and tight
pitch bristles on his head.
He had a weakness.
Pure Straight Whiskey.
Whenever he had too much,
he was an F5 tornado,
a wild Tasmanian devil,
to be reckoned with.
I remember when he had
his front top teeth knocked out
by some civilian bouncers
at a local drinking establishment.
He kicked the **** out of
three huge muscle guys.
It was him versus them.
A regular melee.
Ross won.
Once on a Saturday night,
drunk as skunks,
we made an illegal turn
on the Interstate south of Denver.
We ended up flying down the highway
with four hundred feet of wire
attached to wooden poles,
sent sparks flying everywhere.
I never saw a guy laugh
so hard in all my life.
He ****** himself hysterically.
We gave Ross his first Native American name.
We were out in the field,
just hanging out
in battle gear,
shooting the ****
around our APC.
We called him Prancing Moose,
Moose for short.
He loved it when
we called him that,
gave us a toothless grin.
He was a warrior to us.
In another time and place,
he might have been a Chief.
He was courageous,
fearless and
a good friend
to have in your side.
From time to time,
I think about him,
and pray he's okay,
still alive.
He was our blood brother.
We were in hell together.
I miss him, too.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
a refugee from Yale, and the stale stench
of old money, he took a job with the park service
where he maintained outhouses,
and got high in the cover of cottonwoods
this crap crew job gave him no
deferment from the draft, so he landed in Can Tho
he didn't clean outhouses there--little people did,
stirring his dreck in burning diesel for 75 cents a day
when his Huey was shot down in the
Mekong, only he and his door gunner survived
they hid, submerged in paddies until dark
hearing faint but ferocious voices of the VC
who never found them--and they made the
miracle mile back to base camp, covered in muck
that smelled like dung; a scent that stuck
with him in dreams, no matter how much he bathed
when he came home, he again labored
for the forest service, and asked for ********* duty
fearing if he lost the smell,
he would lose himself as well
.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
“ sticks and stones
may break my bones but
words will never hurt me ”
What a lie
What a scandal
What a stupid quote
We are Human
We aren't immortal
We aren't immune
to pain and words
If words can't hurt me
Then why do they bleed
Into my ****** wrists
And scarred thighs
Why do they stun me
Into tears and heartbreak
Why do I reach for the razor
And mix bitter tears
With red liquid
On the white bathroom floor
Why do they cause
Broken hearted lovers
To keep from bridges
Tear stained faces
To be mourned for
At funerals
Why do they cause
A gun to be shot
And the bullet
It will hit
The gunner
“ sticks and stones
May break my bones
but words will always **** me. ”
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
night
under jungle canopy
was dark as a cave.
at twilight
you crept
two hundred meters out
from the perimeter.
you and another.
the radio,
two claymore mines,
M-16s-three clips each-
half a dozen grenades,
pop-up flares,
and four canteens of water.
fear fed thirst.
you opened two packets
of instant coffee,
spilled them into your mouth,
washed them down,
and felt your head jitter
all night long.
there was always sound.
jungle rats or snakes,
maybe even tigers,
or NVA probing the lines.
if there were many of them,
you sent up the flares,
fired into the dark,
detonated the claymores,
and were the first to die.
(I was M-60 machine gunner with the Ninth Marines in South
Vietnam, 1968. LP is a military acronym for ’listening post.’ )
Jan 29, 2010
Jan 29, 2010 at 5:20 AM UTC
Four Crows fly over
the rear gunner ***** twice as hard
to keep his mates
Gaps in his Wings
from history with a Predator
Clammy weather
preceding
grey summer rainfall
Aug 15, 2023
Aug 15, 2023 at 4:22 PM UTC
I don't mind when it strikes and it hurts
Eighty miles per hour
It won't ache it won't irk
Discover when you've been lied to
And the ones with blood on their hands
Just wipe it on your face and kiss your cheek
I don't mind when it wounds and it shoots
The alcohol tastes so sour
Though it claws at the memory from its roots
And the times spent in your room
Dissolve with the tears from the fumes
Sons of bedeviled thorns and pistols
They take you in
And they swallow you whole
They take a shot
At your chest, at your brain
They take a shot
And they can't really explain
Hotels filled with lonely corpses
A beautiful face seems the only source
That might get you out of your mind
When you are sick and you are lying
Discover that the ones with blood on their hands
Are the only ones who take a stand
With their sins and knives behind their backs
And a smile, and a laugh,
You have to know where you're at
You spell an apology letter by letter
Yet the sky would know better
Than to clear up on a day like today
When it can strike your soul
So fragile and so frail
And your hands
So skinny and so pale
And your smell
So old and so stale
And your heart
I can almost hear it fail
There's no light at the end of that tunnel
There's no mercy for merciless gunner
Maybe next time they'll think ahead
Before their words shoot you dead
But right now I don't mind
If it stabs from behind
Eighty miles per hour
And I still can't race past my mind
And right now don't you mind
Of your hit and run
Are you blind
To the damage done
I hope the sound of the drums
Drowns your cries
Where my soul once lied.
p.t.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
It's the tactical brilliance of the Boss that makes the opposition bite the dust....
Not 'money', not 'Fame'; for him Club's loyalty comes first!
Such is his greatness; for all ''Arsenal'' fans one chant is a must,
Always +forever ''IN ARSENE WE TRUST''
Great to watch Van Persie follow the footsteps of a legend and a true champ.....
Definitely having a Dutch connection; he is Arsenal's future ''Bergkamp''
Defenders you never let him go; never set him free
Making you pay big time; a legend & king of ''Highbury''
The former Jersey no.14 & the name is ''Thierry Henry''!!
Replacing the impeccable ''Vieira'', the Club has a new hero
Clever & ''Fab'' captain; the king of ''San Siro''
We may be half the age; we may be half the size,
With tremendous hard work above all we rise,
Behind our great success a huge secret lies...
It's the hard work of the support staff & ''Arsenal legend'' Pat Rice!
Passing, passing & passing until the opposition dies...
Our strikers on a rout; opposition defender cries,
Then into the empty net the 27 inch ball flies!!!
With such ''Classy'' talent we can fly high in the sky.......
Each & every member will give it a very best try
We pray to the Lord that the ''BOSS'' will never say bye
As for ''ME'', I will be a ******** ''GUNNER'' till I die!
By A huge supporter Jigar Mehta
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
Often I think of Billy,
with his great white eyes
& his tats,
arms full of grinning devils,
scorpions & pentagrams.
He was a hellacious gunner
& he loved to use the kabar
& we missed him
when he rotated
back to the world.
Often I think of Billy,
with his great white eyes
& his tats,
arms full of grinning devils,
scorpions & pentagrams.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 5:17 AM UTC
It was the running Roman Legionary,
Who hid from troops his own,
And spoke of evil men did do,
For it was why he ran alone.
It was the serf, an ex-soldier,
Who spoke against the sword;
Yet for these words which he did speak,
He earned the sword as his reward.
It was the humbled noble Lord,
Who wrote from tower's tall;
Against all endless border wars,
As it caused good men to fall.
It was the musketman in red,
Who stepped-on out of line;
Opting not to die so still,
As he said, "This life is mine."
It was the trenched machine-gunner,
Who chose his targets quick,
And wished for more than anything,
To cease this endless click.
It was the Spaniard,
Who fought Spain,
And knew the truth was dark;
Yet fought-back fists of fascist pride,
His mission now, to leave a mark.
It was the Frenchman,
Chased by fright,
Who scrambled for the shore;
Escaping from his bled homeland,
He died of bombs in Britain's war.
It was the prisoner of Korea's gore,
Who sat down with the Reds;
Speaking in appeasing awe,
He saved his severed head.
It was the man in Vietnam,
Who was forced the cross the sea;
To fight a war he wasn't for,
Against his will, he stood as free.
It was the Roman,
And the serf;
It was the noble Lord.
It was the musketman in red,
And the dead Spaniard,
Who fought for freedom,
Spoke for peace,
And dreamed to see with their own eyes,
The human mind, taught to be wise,
And cease these endless lies;
To end the "me's" and "mores" and "my's,"
And to remove mans dark disguise.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 7:43 PM UTC
I knew Pearl, comely, calm Pearl
eyes as blue as the skies
that warmed her sands
where we walked and talked
dreamed the days away
her voice so sweet on the Pacific winds
it made me forget about home
I was breaking daily bread
dipping it in the
yellow yolk promise of eggs
when little gunner Joe
said come down below
to see the kitty he found
crouched in the shadowed corner
no bigger than the rivets
get her some milk he said
when we placed the offering in front of her
she roared a lion’s roar…
and the roar kept coming
and the young living
thing
disappeared into the darkness...
the stench of smoke
the screeching screams
the fierce rocking of the hull
and blackness
which came too fast to touch
all spoke with equal madness
telling us doom
can come on a sunny Sunday morn
in Pearl’s land
falling,
is something we all know
in the flat land of dreams
in the lucky light of day, and
on that Sunday morn,
in the boiling bowels of our ship
slowly,
with some giant hand in command
the water, the water,
the water we all had grown to love
now taunting our feet,
then our knees
the pounding began
the eternal pounding
the pounding of the hopeful
in Pearl’s blue skies
and our pounding,
the pounding of the ******
without any eyes
the water
now at our waists
now at our chests
and then only our frozen faces
against the hard steel that had been our home
had the last few breaths of air to breathe
heard the last few gasps of desperation
and the feeble futile pounding
of those in Pearl’s darkened sun…
now we rest in this sunken tomb
the guests roaming above
with cameras and tearless eyes
for they were not
the ones who heard our cries
those who did, do not return
for Pearl is no longer a sunny beach
and a stroll in a dream
but a place where the pounding started
and never stopped
and where the world changed forever
when the first bomb was dropped
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
Grandpa Tinker died a few years after I was born. I'm told he met me before he left though I was still asleep then. Lulled in a cradle, in a peace made possible by men like him. A Marine Corp officer stationed at Pearl Harbor who awoke to the sound of shouts on a day the world would never be allowed to forget. Mother said he never spoke a word about the war. Maybe that was his way of forgetting; his gift to my mother's generation was to bury that pain. He let it die inside so the fear, the anguish, the terror could not touch the ones he loved. The world gave him something he could not forget, something so painful he buried it in his heart with the memory of fellow marines and sailors in watery graves.
Grandpa Harry was a gunner on a B-29. The son of orthodox Jews, a first generation American born in New York. When he was stationed in Texas he met a young W.A.V.E. who would become my grandma. They couldn't wait for the war to end before getting married. When Granpa Harry was shot down over the Burma theatre they sent grandma a letter. Heartbroken and desperate she prayed. He and the survivors of his crew were picked up weeks later in the jungle, but not before contracting maleria. They went on to have 8 children, 3 their own and 5 adopted. Grandma always loved children. She became a school teacher. Grandpa Harry died before I was born, the world gave him something he could not forget either.
I do not like to think of the war as a battle between nations of this world. Good and evil do not fight under banners of nations, they have no borders, no anthems, only memories. They fight and die on battlefields of hearts that have buried hate, pain, and terror. My grandparents' hearts are memorials. Gleaming white tombstones on a field I cannot see, and cannot forget.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
caffeine crutch
restless midnight rush
memorize words to pinpoint precision
leaning on a coffee cup
fuel for cognitive ignition
unproductive nocturnal emission
of restless sighs
and tears from tired eyes
mesmerized
hypnotized
out of mind
passing time
dreary dreamer
2am alpha wave fighter
front line gunner
of disappointment in the making
time wasting
consciousness fading
daylight breaking
clock resetting
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
Wait for it wait for it wait for the noise, let it build up build up from the ground up, can't shut it up, you not loud enough, tough enough,
you can't fight it, bite it, no slight of hand to deny it, defy it.
Don't shy away, stand and stay, don't fear the fray, there's still time to pray that you won't become the prey.
There's no running for a runner, no gunning for a gunner, no stunning for a stunner.
Ride hard or ride high, die hard or just die. I lie but I'm no liar, **** but not a killer, steal but not a stealer.
I beguile for the thrill, **** with skill, and steal with ease. Life's no joke but death is a breeze,
live ****** and get sleazed, die grimy get clean. This is no scan no scheme, up my sleeves nothing is seen.
No tricks for sick kicks, relax. stress is taxing take a deep breath and step back. Okay I've lost track.
Of the bars and the cars, the stars, and Mars. My thoughts are now in a different language, ego speaking spanish, Jorge can it.
**** it now its in Italian , I may be a horse but I'm no stallion. Shake my head, I'm going to bed,
let these words die, bury them dead, but make it shallow, just in case my thoughts aren't fed.
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 10:12 PM UTC