"gunners" poems
the banners are blowing steady
(fully extended in the hot august wind)
contemporary in style
tightly trimmed
and all gloriously dressed
in the latest colors and hues
it’s a fleeting distraction though
as the caskets
and children
and grieving widows
are rolled steadily across
the burning tarmac
it’s the beginning
of that inevitable
two part proceeding
a skotoma for the ages
delusionary in nature
rich in grays
and eerily reminiscent
of that foreign reign
clipped in silence
with dark roots of fear
set deep in the bowels
of a chapter
of unimaginable sin
indifference as pronounced
as the accompanying salutes
haphazard sentiments that are
cloaked in the horror
of endless
aborted days
forgotten buggies
and bunkers
and rat packs
*how could the switch
be set so wrong?*
it’s truly an illusion
(this way of the world)
simple indulgence can grow
so beastly and consuming
try telling the tale to the
tibetan monks
or broad peak sherpas
(those boys know how to get it done!)
how to bask in
the ice cold waters
how to savor
the lava hot falls
*couldn’t the others
have figured this one out?*
the flags have settled
at half mass
and are tinted
in a charred yellow brown
the lifeless dreams
and inspirations now
in the rear view
leif running solo
(exempt of his trusted gunners)
ready for the numbered lines
his eyes open
to the ever changing
enemy at hand
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:45 PM UTC
He filled his week bag
with quick picks from the commissary
cover blades and skull cap
canned goods and half stated pearl
liquor bills and bleeders
for the flight of weary
Into the ****** bunks
of the western front
past sivana and nurture sage
past the pomp and ceremony
out of robes and into jumpers
and casings
and masks of gas
Light infantry and yelling men
muscled and scorned
fly boys high in 3 wing flight
mounted gunners filling the night
in hawkers and packards
and scabbard chape
Tarrant tabers and camels
dodge the vicker gun
skeleton hands grease the mill trap
carnage makers mark the rhineland
(buried in bunkers and pile bags and earth pack)
Trench helmets and metal back
under machine fire
minefields burn in muzzle and coil
deep in the shadows
and shrapnel and spear
the razor wire
and dead cold despair
Slouch hats and burning rats
kerosene lamps and droopers
the soldier stares down
the broken lines and limbs
a ****** holds steady
(shelved at a distance)
on ripped and rolled pipe and beam
It was an all in end game
a grapple for the ages;
*** in the fokker pursuit
over rolling hills and fallen comrades
into the bishop bullet
(and sporadic cheer)
which sealed the deal
in an empty field
off the brae corbie road
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC
For nine days the artillery barrage
rained down on us
that June of summer in the Somme
machine gunners like me waited
in our concrete bunkers deep in the earth
When the shelling stopped
we rushed to the surface
and began our job of mowing down
the slow walking British Infantry
stoically advancing as if in another war
in another time where they might choose
to die bravely and with honour
a hero fighting for his life
his king and country
But here he dies unknown
by the chance turning of my gun
in his direction at that one moment
and the random number of bullets
left to fire.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
I was sent to work at the old Repat.
It was forty years since the war,
Those ancient diggers would sit and swear
At the pain of the limbs they wore,
The wounds would open as years went by,
They’d come for another slice,
That war was never over for them,
And morphine was paradise.
I saw one veteran struggle and curse
As he ripped at the buckles and straps,
The new prosthesis had rubbed him raw
As his knee began to relapse.
He tore the leg from his wounded stump
Sat on his bed, and roared,
Then swung the article over his head
And flung it across the ward.
The others had ducked as the leg took off
And bounced off the opposite wall,
‘I’ll have to report you,’ the nurse exclaimed,
‘It’s a good leg, after all!’
‘You wear it then,’ was the man’s response,
‘For it’s driving me insane,
What would you know of Flanders Fields?
You wouldn’t deal with the pain!’
My job was to settle and calm him down
So I asked him about his leg,
‘When and where did you lose it, Dig?’
The veteran tossed his head.
‘You’ve heard of a place called Flanders Fields
Where the bullets came in like hail?
Well, I was there with the Anzac’s, son,
At a place called Passchendaele.’
‘Our Generals were trying to ****** us,
I swear, on my mother’s head,
They kept on sending us over the top
Until half of the men were dead.
The German gunners would enfilade
As we struggled against the mud,
I’ll never forget the battlefield,
It was spattered with bones and blood.
They’d send artillery shells across
At the height of a soldier’s knee,
We’d watch them come as they parted the grass,
They were Grasscutters, you see!
Well, I was running with bayonet fixed
And praying for God’s good grace,
When suddenly I was lying there,
I’d tumbled, flat on my face.’
‘It’s strange that I never felt a thing,
When the Grasscutter got me,
It took a while ‘til I saw my leg
Was gone, from under the knee.
But that was the end of the war for me,
The end of the life I’d known,
I spent some time back in Blighty, then
I came on a ship, back home.’
I never chided those men in there
Though they’d curse and swear, and roar,
For every man was a hero where
They'd trudged in mud through the war.
That Repat. job was a fill-in job
And I left, still young and hale,
But I never forgot the Grasscutter
Or the man from Passchendaele.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
Someone had blundered:
Theirs was not to make reply,
Theirs was not to reason why,
Theirs was but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging and army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunging in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not--
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that fought so well,
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of the six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble Six Hundred!
2.5k
A beastly wind with savage heat
Blew from the north with dust,
The brazen sun relentlessly
Baked skin as red as rust.
To scan the near horizon
Is to ***** the eyes to squint
And a man would **** his brother
For a cold beer from a ****
There’s orders for the gunners
To load cannon with coarse shot,
To prime them with dry powder
And ram them all till hot.
To keep the eyes upon the hills
And be ready for the call,
Because the savages are massing
And our backs are to the wall.
Release the carrier pigeon, boy,
To recall the horse hussars
Because before this day is done
Our blood may run in jars
For the drums of war are beating
And they’re sweeping from the hills
And God help the luckless fusilier
Who dallies with his skills.
In waves, the savages do run
And roar their chant of war,
Beat their spears upon hide shield
And roll their eyes and more...
A wall of pure malevolence
Descends upon us large
And we gird ourselves for battle
And the bugle screams the charge.
Black naked men pour from the earth
In hoards of shrieking mad
With rolling eyes and streaming hair
And rancid breath, so bad.
Roaring shot and cannon volley
Cut a swathe through flesh,
Spear and shrapnel fly opposed
And axe and bayonet mesh.
Swearing men are head to head
Blood and guts do flow,
The agony and roaring triumph
As blades trade blow for blow.
Good and bad are dying now
Their bodies fall like rain,
Young cry for their mothers
While the older scream in pain.
Blood is running in the sand,
Twitching bodies lie,
The jagged sound of battle dims
As vultures fill the sky.
There’s silence with the setting sun
As horse hussar arrives
Too late, by far, to save the boys
Who lay in clouds of flies.
Marshalg
@The Bach
Mangere Bridge
18 January 2011
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 7:09 PM UTC
Not ego
We go
Let go
He flow
Bestow
Hes a muh ****** beast doe!!
Ive never been anything more then what my Father has made me to be be I may have been sane but briefly cause God man is just "crazy" (the way that He Loves me.)
...
Sswwwooooo!
I AM THE FORE-RUNNER FOR UNDER-GUNNERS WHO SHOOT FOR THE STOMACH PUMPIN HUMPIN THE DURT
YOUR NASTY MIND IS SUCH A PERVERSE
PERVASIVE PILE, HOLD ON ILL LET THAT LAST ONE JUST SINK IN A LITTLE WHILE.
SATANS CRAMPIN' MY STYLE. TRIED DIGESTING THE BIAL BUT I NEED A VITAL
SIGN HIS TITLES BLIND BUT MINE IS THRU THE VINE OK JUST ONE MORE LINE
MERRY CHRISTMAS
FROM MY HEARTS OWN MIND
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
1
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
2
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
3
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
4
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
5
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
6
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made,
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
You're one to believe in god,
so tell me Grandfather;
You believe everything has a meaning
and war can be righteous
and war can be hell.
What does the rain mean?
It's not a metaphor for pushing life
into the festering corpse of a beat horse
in the late fall, early winter, is it?
Is it a drowning of that mistake?
A bed to sink your imperfections into?
What is this grey sky speaking to?
Was it WW2's tail gunners dead in the back
and pilots swarming like flies in vicious harmony?
bloodthirsty dogfights, and the folk guitarists
standing in awe,
jaws unhinged,
mouths open,
wondering,
"What the everloving **** just happened?"
You believe in God, so tell me;
They stuck your body in the dirt
over 2, or maybe it was 3 years ago.
You never told me anything about this.
You never told me anything
but empty threats.
God is a mass hysteria;
a mental disability,
a harmful fantasy.
But what does the rain mean?
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
I'm doing 380's
degree by degree all I can see
are B52's
rear gunners, point takers and what does that make us
barbarians?
the new cowboys and Indians?
Time frame,
it's an old game in a strange place with a new face that looks down the sights and yet the stars still shine.
What's mine is mine and I'm taking yours, that's mine too
rear view gunning and
point takers running the show but where do we go from here?
We're going to bomb today to the middle of next year,
it'll be different then,
we'll all be older and wiser men and yet,
Big Ben,
News at Ten
and the stars still shine.
Everything changes but stays the same,
time frame
time again,
armaments
arguments
distilling some truth 'til we dispel all the lies and in the eyes of the cat who
has seen all o' that
nothing amuses him more than the ground that he's walked over before
and
degree by degree all that I see
are the B52's
and yet
the stars still shine.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
I see things I can’t make sense of
I strive to be with attributes that don’t exist
I meet gunners every day.
I try to find happiness in the most caffeinated liquids.
But the light never shines and cannot be found
My darkest suspicions is that it’s been buried underground.
Not only can I not find a shovel but I also lack the energy to dig.
I’m feeling so empty.
Drained with nothing to give.
And there’s nobody to reach out to.
Flailing limps, discerning manic.
I can’t escape this attack.
Cortisol levels rising
And
I
Begin
To
Panic.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 9:38 AM UTC
The midway queen
And her glossy posse
Flutter in formation
Up and down the B-29s and the AN-24s;
On the prowl and on a mission
To drop the bomb on Bobby
As they swoop past his snow cone cart.
They call themselves the Wing Women.
They call themselves the Tail Gunners.
They call themselves the Shotgun Girls,
And there’s powder residue in their curls.
Tail Gunners haunt the midway strip at twilight,
Feasting on the fiddle music
And old time pedal steel
That haunt a country boy’s heart.
But the sun has already checked out,
Along with Bobby and his shop pals--
Slipped off in granddad’s Cadillac
With a jug of John Henry
And a bag of M-80’s
Billy brought down from Decatur.
They’ve headed for the low country;
Toward the clinking of green glass,
The hollering of the swamp hounds,
And the flannel sheet warmth of the river folks.
Back on the midway,
Shotgun Girls peel off one by one
Like petals from a flower,
Pedaling back to rose scented spreads
Garnished with chlorinated pools and garden parties.
But the midway queen pilots on;
Around the Stewart’s root beer stand,
Through a cloud of Blazing Swine smoke,
Past the kind-eyed ice cream lady,
And into the seedy underbelly
Where clown grins lurk behind balloon tosses
And rebel flag trailer curtains lace the landscape.
Understanding her defeat,
The midway queen retreats
To her own suburban sprawl,
Places her crown on the dresser,
And gazes through open windows
Into her Georgia sky,
Wondering what it’s like to be a constellation--
Wondering if constellations come up with five-year plans--
Wondering if she should do the same.
The midway queen quivers
In her new found old time way,
And drifts off into a glassy sea
Of crackling Tammy Wynette records
And broken heart banquets.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
Empire State Building, floor 102.
That’s where I’ll be waiting for you.
You guys are like family, I love you in a way.
I’ll be your friend and solace, strong roof over your heads.
Pull up to your wedding, be your best man, wipe your tears when it’s over.
But don’t jump off, babe, soon we’re all going to be happy.
In Empire State, someday we’ll all be free.
I wanna fall in love at least once before I die, even if it brings me down.
So don’t jump off, babe, soon we’ll all stop being lonely.
Empire State, someday we’ll all be free.
I can see the words trapped in your eyes when you look at me.
Someday you won’t have to fear it.
We’ll hold hands doing laps around Central Park in summer.
We’ll french kiss on the subway like some blazed down gunners.
Don’t be afraid of the dark when you feel it.
Someday you won’t ever have to fear it.
I’ll go to New York City, I’ll be grateful to stand where they stood.
I was in heaven when they were dying, I swear I emphasized with them when nobody could.
It’s sad when I think what my brothers and sisters have suffered while I sat on Jesus’s lap.
It’s not my ******* fault that Jesus made me gay as ****
I’m looking in the wrong places, forever out of luck.
But someday I won’t have to wander.
Someday I will open my blinds and invite the light in.
I’ll be at the beachside, old and happily married.
In a townhouse painted green which has a garden of hydrangeas, nourish me.
I’m a hemlock baby, fruit of toxicity but I’m still beautiful.
Step on me all you want, but I’ll still do lots of good.
The empathy within me is as strong as a stone wall standing tall and lingering on.
There’s radioactivity, discovered by Madame Curie and I’m carrying it along.
But I have faith still
that God loves me
I wish to love another in the same way, Lord let me.
I will give you
roof and solace
Someday you’re gonna need it before you get to give it.
I can see the scars on your soul when you expose it to me.
Someday you won’t have to loathe them.
We’ll dance with locked hands jiving to music of liberation.
Remember what they took from us, be proud of what he had.
Don’t hate yourself and don’t think you’re broken.
You’re just beautiful in a world that’s not yet awoken.
A songbird once sang to me that someday we’d all be free.
The pain that you endured, it will be your strength, it will lead you forward, it will hold your hand.
A songbird once sang to me that someday we’d all be happy.
I’ll come to your wedding, be your best man, cry with joy as you’re standing at the altar.
Empire State, we’ll throw baby showers, grow vegetables together, perform in gay bars on street corners.
In Empire State, we’ll kiss on the subway, be invisible, marry each other on floor 102.
I wanna fall in love at least once before I die, I just wanna fall in love.
It’ll be okay,
we’ll all be free someday,
Empire State, don’t you jump off.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 5:08 AM UTC
We are at the mercy of blood alchemists. They turn lead into gold and war into paper. Their sacrifice based sorcery transmutes our possessions into theirs. They just need death in the equation as well as our placation.
The blood alchemists defeated the defensive zealots to establish a new leader. Their new leader had devised a formula for turning bigotry into power at the expense of sanity. He crafted a potion to control the minds of the malleable that poisoned his brain with paranoid fantasies.
In the fascist alchemist's perception, all protesters become demons in need of exorcism. Transformers and electromagnetic waves carry his insane demands to Ukraine. He demands the death of a statesman expressing contention. This is the formula for turning dissent into fear. This is the concoction that turns power into silence, he seeks to suffocate his enemies in dirt.
Followers of the fascist alchemist believe he's a god who can do no wrong. Townspeople see through this facade trying to explain he's flawed to mind controlled dogs. His spell is stubborn so citizens start sticking to strife after he obfuscates what's wrong and right while a politician's life hangs in the balance.
Conflict is conformed into cover as he uses fear of the other so subjects won't see his gunners killing our Yemeni brothers. He buries our problems in dust, that once unsettled, erupts into a noise so loud we can't call him corrupt. Ignoring the will of man he'll even **** his clan if they still his plans. His henchmen drenched in blood are as expendable as the foes he shoves. Summoning a power vacuum, a portal to autonomy, all the cronies crammed in his chaos cabinet are ****** out one by one.
So this attempted assassination is the final straw once the magistrate catches wind of his shockwave sins. The blood alchemist must attend a hearing where enemies and allies alike adjudicate his egregious actions. The hearing will be dictated by what seers see for our future. The verdict will be determined by the brain washed judging the brain washer. Before dissent could materialize into resistance, the blood alchemists slowly eroded justice until a force field formed to protect the trickster's horns.
May 21, 2021
May 21, 2021 at 2:58 PM UTC
by next week the fellow down the street
will have the repairs on his tank complete
he'll then take me on a rumbling ride
with my head stuck out of the gunners side
I've been waiting for Dave
to get the old metal bucket on the road
twill be the best day of my existence
riding along in its pay load
we've had many a talk
about getting the beast of a thing going
so we could motor around the town
for a grand showing
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
See the splinter oak fly
two more powder monkeys fall
40 guns fire 10 and 20 pounders
ripping into their sails
Yet Nelson our captain
now fades yards away
our admired our sweet admiral
our king of the seas
Below decks you choke in smoke
the gunners mouths black as tar
the ball runners hands
are burnt to cinders
A volley of shots ring out
hit we are mid decks
yet another few fall
and Lord Nelson is dead
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
I can hear the music all around me,
The thrum of long-boat hulls against the shore,
And drummer boys with stockinged feet resound me,
And heavy hammered horse shoes pound the floor,
And gunners with their twenty-ones astound me,
And diggers crash their picks into the floor,
And cannoneers launch volley fire to pound me,
And bayonets clash like cymbals on the moor,
And fighter pilots boom above to ground me,
And tank commanders rumble to the fore,
Submariners slosh water up to drowned me,
And infantry sing heartily of the corp,
And all around I hear their music roar,
The ghosts of all our heralds gone to war.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
Is this actually possible? Considering so few pf the planes were built... i dunno...
Manchester Bomber Wreck
Manchester bomber rotting away
Different than it was before
Holes in the surface skin
Many pieces missing
Broken in two
Separated by many feet
Engines fallen free
Skeletons of the crew inside
Unknown war grave except to them
Who haunt their lost bomber
Lying under the sea bed
To them they’re still flying
In the sky above enemy territory
Fighting for their lives
With a faulty engine
Not actually on fire
Then the flak hit them
Damaging the tail unit
Followed by an enemy fighter
Who shoots them full of holes
And kills the Flight Engineer
Hitting him with a 20mm cannon shell
But not before the gunners
Down the **** night fighter
The crippled bomber flies on
Slowly losing height
They’ll never reach the target
Nor return home to England
So drop their bombs on a small town
Unknowingly killing dozens
Four tons of bombs will do that
The Manchester bomber wasn’t fired on again
Losing height was the enemy
They decided what to do and drew lots
Bail out or ditch in the sea?
They decided to ditch
It was almost dawn
And the horizon lit up
They should of made it
But the faulty engine finally died
The bomber stalled and dug a wing in
It cartwheeled over the sea
Broke in two and sank
All aboard were knocked out
And taken to a watery grave
Unknown to the world except themselves
The only remaining Manchester bomber
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 5:51 AM UTC
Teddy's Rough Riders at San Juan
Did not have their horses to ride upon.
They ran when they charged the enemy gunners.
So why aren't they called Teddy's Rough Runners?
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 11:18 AM UTC
October 30th
Words, word, and the futility of such
Or true appeal in sectioned rhymes of madness
Like Beethoven composing Blade Runner
In the midst of blue helicopter gunners
Spectator chemicals eviscerate my brain
Educationally desensitized to what I'm trained
To do, or to scream in pools of rubidium
And call back to poems of delirium
In my shelter, so deep in my room
White peroxide liquid, mangled and groomed
My heart is aqueous, love
I'm shaped by the "god-like" lingerin' 'bove
Net equation and sums enter my ear
Therefore finding themselves on paper peers
Lectures or cantankerous, droning drawls
They taste like a slave's righteous crawl
Balance life like a panther and its prey
With elegant trickles remarking on the day
And unconcievable drawings, moving fro'
The Worldwill pukes to what I sow
There is no question, this isn't one
Verses are futile under the sun
But rhyme is priority, thus authority
Digestible, like wood covered in yellow sugar
And blue butter, counting with a Cockney clock
Arrogant as he is, he smiled at her
Tick tock, and the flock is shocked
Petty Betty blessed her daughter
Loved her well 'till the police caught her
Thought-streams, and the working of the mind
Like the asymmetric butterflies of the Sistine Chapel
Oh, believe me! That's how my brain grinds
Where the world can equate to an apple
Paper on a finger, vice versa, so long
As I can keep track of Sing's King Kong
Pink-headed jubilee in old Manila
Killing time violently on the stairs
Remember the words of mouths of vanilla
And be sure to never stare
I talk to myself and tell myself nothing
Soon, over the morn', I will be nothing
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
See the splinter oak fly
two more powder monkeys fall
40 guns fire 10 and 20 pounders
ripping into their sails
Yet Nelson our captain
now fades yards away
our admired admiral
our king of the seas
Below decks you choke in smoke
the gunners mouths black as tar
the ball runners hands
are burnt to cinders
A volley of shots ring out
hit we are mid decks
yet another few fall
and Lord Nelson is dead
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
The Gunners' cry,
Where right and glory lead.
Spirits soar high,
Legacies live on
Unbroken by destiny.
Through shot and shell,
Through peace and war,
Until duty is finally done.
Ubique always,
In faith and brotherhood.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 4:56 PM UTC
-in honor of Matthew Hennigan, Vinson Adkinson and everyone else who gave the ultimate sacrifice for their brothers and sisters in arms, you are missed every day
Oh, sweet empty mountain
in your quiet majesty,
Overwatching flowing rivers
meandering through a hushed valley,
And the sparsely growing forest
littered with ruins of times forgot,
In this silent, flowing landscape
for which many nations have fought
Oh, the things you've seen oh mountain,
from triumph to betrayal
To lovers' first awkward kiss,
and children battling so playful
And in waves, you saw it change,
one year peace, the next year tense
You have witnessed arc of all mankind,
each and every sad offense
You witnessed the day when they sat
upon your steep marble mountainside,
Wrapped in ratty tan blankets,
whose purpose was to let them hide
And fingers lay on naked triggers,
muzzles pointed to the road
Cloaked men carried bandoliers,
so their gunners needn't reload
And in the early dawn of light,
the first 'crack' echoed off your side
As a battlefield erupted,
the roaring of a violent fight
Oh, you ancient hunk of rock,
overseeing all as many died
In the distance could you hear,
the faint sound as we all cried?
Rest in peace you glorious ********
I love you Matty and Vinny
I'll see you again one day
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 7:46 AM UTC