"japs" poems
Close your eyes,
now imagine yourself on an island
that doesn't need make-up to be beautiful.
Imagine yourself,
walking joyfully through an exquisite flora.
Imagine you and your family
camping in a tropical rain-forest
swimming in cool hidden pools,
great mountain streams,
and magnificent waterfalls.
Imagine yourself on a canoe,
gliding atop blue lagoons.
Or, rather than an evening at a theater,
how about a romantic evening
with your love, by the beach,
with a beautiful sunset glistening
through your eyes,
while nature sings peacefully, to you.
Imagine walking through a tunnel,
that was left behind by the **** in World War II.
Imagine going on an adventurous trip,
through a mysterious archeological ruins,
with immense stone logs,
stacked crisscross to form a wall.
Imagine all of this,
and open your eyes,
and you'll find yourself
on my island - Pohnpei.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker,
he could sell one hundred wet-down bales
of that white stuff. He could clock the miles and the sales
and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter
had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word
had been tried over and over, at any rate,
on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered
over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef:
a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war!
How suddenly gauche I was
with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home
my father was in love with maps
while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and ****
Except when he hid
in his bedroom on a three-day drunk,
he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk,
his matched luggage
and pocketed a confirmed reservation,
his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk
each night with no place to go,
opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo,
the whole U.S.,
its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones,
through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road,
his heart pushed from neck to back,
his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband,
as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool:
boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull
to the thread
and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino,
a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling,
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame,
your sample cases branded with my father's name,
your itinerary open,
its tolls ticking and greedy,
its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.
2.3k
Many houses have been cleaned on ***** window routes
Terraced rows and bungelows and other glass recruits
Customers of differant types some casual, some suits
Pleasent ones and lovely ones, some of them fun hoots
One window shined, revealed behind someones bathroom door
An awful sight giving us a fright, more than we bargained for
We went to clean it was abscene, that horrible thing we saw
Showing his snake was it a mistake, or was he just a *****
Every time we went to clean situations would get worse
We didn't want to catch a glimps, of his ****** immerse
A naked burden it bacame, why was he so perverse
***** windows should remain to conceal that bathroom curse
The anxiousness we both felt, how low he always sank
Unwanted sightings of body flesh and yanking on his plank
Disgusting ways of a deprived mind, so very dark and dank
***** windows are one thing, but not when you ******* ****
We did not want to ascend, with each ladder run to climb
knowing what awaited us we didn't want to see his slime
That bathroom window was regular, he did it every time
His kind of antics should be re-classed as a life of grime
We're not interested in plonker pulling a real discusting stunt
Nakedness we don't want to see, or a nasty shiveled front
Your ***** windows are to much so we will both be blunt
Keep your wanking to yourself and **** off your ***** ****
We don't care how many times, or how much you try
There is no necessitation to see your small **** eye
Confess your sins and tell your wife and don't you effing lie
That you've been bathroom wanking and flashing your cream pie
We told him we're not cleaning, when he dosent wear a stitch
And because he had to ******* **** and treat us like his *****
We're not your pleasure ****** when you've got that certain itch
Your ***** windows we wont clean when your mind is in a ditch
It's time us girls said goodbye you've made us ******* cross
Window cleaners we may be but your not our wanking boss
So now we're gone and you know why, my friend it's adios
And all because you had to flash and have a bathroom toss
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
If a poem or essay can end with a conclusion or its opposite, either one,
Can it be of any use to anyone?
Do the discrepancies and disparities, dualities and densities, reflect only
the dementia
Of the bearer of the pencil?
First entertain, then enlighten if you can. One stretches truth in order
to pretend,
Another leavens with levity one's inevitable end.
Most days it's not possible to bring your life into an expressible state.
Disparate hopes, arduous chores, word choices. And, of course, the
state of the state.
Driven by ideas rather than rhymes, for it is not metres, but a
metre-making argument,
That makes a poem. Convenience store or university English
department
The day's disputes, down to the meaning of the weather, leave you
indisposed
To share your heart of zero and your inner rose.
It is the strong force, the energy of the loved ones combined with
cooperation for good or war.
Dad's years in New Guinea fighting **** he said, were his best by far.
The best that can be said or done is Be where you are. Love the one
you're with
Not necessarily an adult of the opposite *** perhaps just a kid who
hates math
And school, dresses goth, reads rarely but learns a lot from movies
and YouTube,
Has the presence of mind to say I am who I am, deal with it. That's
who I want to be
And have always been. Today clean the house, again. Woke up this
morning to two thoughts:
How sweet to be alive! Life is tough.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
The coolest girls in the world put rings in the places where doctors disconnected them from their mothers. Guys put ink in their forearms. Spaces in their ears. Their parents say things like, “what the **** But even they know ink and plastic gaps are better expressions than dead Vietnamese and **** Better expressions than a vote towards Michael Reagan’s father, the movie star.
You were the fools that bought homes, cars, and color tv’s on unprecedented credit, things for your daughters and sons that they would probably disparage if only they knew the word. You were the ******** that made Sam’s Club, because Costco and Wal-mart weren’t enough. The one’s that plugged us into free AOL accounts that Stater Brother’s gave you with your purchase of Pop Tarts and Cookie Crisps. I guess you could say the ink in our arms is yours as much as ours.
The thing about ink though, is that it’s more constant than anything this generation has ever known. When our TV’s become internet, and internet 4G, and 4G spaceships, the **** in our arms will persist as what was once alive. It will remind us of the life we lived before we were tattooed with the consumerism and media that you did nothing to stop.
Maybe you should have kept doing acid, you all were much more promising in the 60's.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
Desmond Doss didn't give a toss
Cos He never carried a gun
He went to war to fight the ****
And new thy will be done.
He saved the lives of 75 men
And never fired a gun
He did this while he was under fire
And he was the only one
He was on his own on the mountain top
Looking for injured men
As A medic in the army
He did it again, again and again
Now Desmond Doss didn't give a toss
The Conscientious Objector was he
But He saved 75 Men
and was awarded for his bravery
The End
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 8:47 PM UTC
and suddenly my **** was a brussel sprout
in a pickle jar? fine, fine... leave the ******* to the
Indians and the Chinese; because a second Japan is
coming - all because you're an educated hoo-ha lady
making me want to cut my **** off and powder
my cheeks rather than roll in the hay with you...
you used to be so much fun when you weren't educated
by that ****** spearhead of feminism directing you in
only one direction... listen... it won't revise and accumulate
all the areas of interest that men had into one coherent
seagull gobble... you can't just walk in with feminism
and revise everything with it alone...
oddly enough, i don't even want to touch you -
the implementation of sterilisation was best designed
by feminism, while all the old farts and Vatican
gypsies had all the fun, we were downsizing
our erections and ***** juices; will make the bedroom scene
look like a democracy for sure - one way or another
the Chinese ****** to a billion, the **** ****** to
over a hundred, the Indian a billion to add -
we decided on a Scandinavian model -
which means, in our multicultural society
one bus every hour... imagine! one bus an hour...
the stupendous recollection of what if Saturday night
didn't finish with an angry man walking home
in the fidgety night of kicking things around -
and the jealousy ticket goes to?
you know who i have been glorifying like
a Jew.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
Uncle Sam
When will the company payout?
Just like Catch 22
All the benefits come after death
You sign on the line
And pay the cash
For the listed benefits
But you don’t see them
Not a single ******* one
They’re left to your loved ones
Don’t have a wife or kids?
Too bad then
Uncle Sam will claim your benefits
To enrich his war chest
And defeat the *** and the ****
And the Reds after that
The benefits are all his
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 3:43 AM UTC
On Father's Day, we pause,
Reflect on our dad, with cause,
A stoic, smiling, gentle man,
A gift to any woman,
But brave, a digger,
He beat the **** ripper,
Our land is free,
Because of the brave, you see,
Let's celebrate dads and liberty!
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
I watched a show by Richard Dawkins,
(I love my atheistic squawkin's)
and he observed how we've improved
the more religion's been removed.
Now, there's no greater fan than me
of love and peace and harmony
but soon these thoughts will just seem trippy
like skinheads listening to a hippy,
'cause he got old and he forgot
the little fact we overshot
and he forgot that life grows cheap
at times the clover isn't deep.
Such harmony will never do
with ten to feed and food for two
and bigotry's more suited for
survival in the resource war.
The dark ages, we find, are not
renowned for gentleness of thought;
your attitudes may shift, perhaps;
recall the war; recall the ****
and dogma helps you stay the course.
Religion's coming back in force.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
Warhawk and Nate
The Warhawks took off and flew upwards
Like angry hornets looking for trouble
Covering the frail old biplane
A flying camera with brave crew
Tasked to look for enemy locations
Flying here and there warlanes they were
American flown Curtiss fighters
Guarding the Filipino crewed Stearman
On a mission of war in the second global war
The **** were ready and scrambled planes
Nates took off and headed for battle
Each side had skilled determined pilots
Men would die today and planes be wrecked
Like something from Hollywood they clashed
Vicious little snappers reeling about the sky
Rolling turning diving climbing shooting dodging
The battle went till fuel and ammo was gone
Two planes and pilots never made it back
Both fought like demons and paid the price
Each side lost a pilot and plane
They both came to grief on the same mountain
And left comrades and loved ones behind
Bits of broken airplanes on the mountain
Lost forgotten unwanted for decades
Till the wrecks were eventually found
Some answers revealed more questions posed
Only the pilots' ghosts and God knew the truth
In this Tarac Ridge battle February 9 1942
The day Stone and Kurosawa died...
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
another one,
Burma, Indo-China
steamy burial grounds
for pilots who lost their way
or were clipped from the sky
by the ****
unfortunate chaps
who were picked clean
goggle-eyed skeletons when
we retrieved them--all so a family
a million miles gone could have
a closed casket of bones
then we got orders
to head north, to the passes
that sliced peaks too high for
our biggest birds, too cold
for fuel to burn with air
what little there was
we landed at a Tibetan strip
more slush than snow, and hiked
the full day to the site, bags for bones
on our shoulders, **** for brains it seems,
since the boys we found were frozen
solid, crisp as the day they died
two of them, staring through
a fine cockpit, dead as dirt, but
preserved by the mountains' white
air, ready for redemption while we sat,
smoked, and puzzled how to haul
them whole from the heavens
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
rations
one expedition found a key
from one of our iron rations
this was real evidence
it showed we were there
why would a fly boy eat our chow?
they ate in hotels served by waiters
those were army iron rations
eaten by us in the trenches
but food aside
we had one thing in common
we all hated the ****
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 12:50 PM UTC
The snobbish din of clinking cut-glass and a murmured ambient sound,
Of fine dining the Foie gras that seems so profound.
Seems like such a class divide from yesterday’s soiree,
Of the taste of fried chicken and chips that street food provided me, amidst its mad melee.
Tomorrow will be the oriental chimes to my ears and my palette of taste,
As I rate the **** of their culinary, taking my time and never in haste.
Never minding my late last night, quaffing exoticness in cocktails and dreams,
Amidst psychedelic lights, thumping music and frenzied screams.
For I am to decide the best of the best,
Of gastronomical delights that the nation offers, without a rest.
So awaken your senses and make ado,
For the show that’s a Tell All of the Top 10 in eateries and breweries, old and new.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
Innes was a short
tubby kid
with black greasy hair
who rode to school
and back
on a blue bicycle.
Some lunchtimes
he would come
into the playground
sweating
and sweat would
run down his forehead
and his black hair
would glow.
What did
your dad do
in the War?
he said
one lunchtime
as we stood
by the fence.
He was in Egypt
I said.
What did he
do there?
He was something
to do with tanks
I said.
He gazed at me
my dad was one
of those who landed
on D-day
he said.
Got wounded
on the beach
but afterwards
went through France
and into Germany.
I looked at him
and wondered if
his old man
was short and tubby
and made
an easy target
for the Krauts.
What rank
was your dad?
he said.
No idea
I said
he never said.
Mine was a sergeant
and has medals.
I nodded
the sky
was a bright blue
the Downs
were behind us
green and vast.
I have an uncle
who was wounded
at Dunkirk
I said.
He looked past me
at the girls' playground.
My uncle Ralph
was a prisoner of the ****
he said
came back thin
and ill looking
so my mother said.
I looked back
at the girls' playground
Lizbeth was looking over.
I liked the red hair
and her slim figure.
She waved
I waved back.
Innes stood looking
and continued
with his yak.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 3:29 AM UTC
iron
we fought against the ****
but they won in the end
we went inland
away from the coast
do you see the mountain there?
we gotta climb that
up we went
we found a crashed american plane
and the pilot
we buried him by the wreck near a big tree
we found his wallet with a calling card
we were the last to see him for decades
his location became a mystery
so many looked for him and his plane
the lost american air ace
who defended bataan from the ****
over a dozen teams and expeditions
they found his nemesis first
the smashed *** plane and pilot
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
For the 20th of January
1961 and 2021
The deed of gift was many deeds of war
-Robert Frost
Miz Hawkins brought a television to school
So we could watch the inauguration
Of a president “born in this century”
But he seemed really old to us anyway
God looked like President Eisenhower
And God was surely a Methodist
President Kennedy was a Cath’lic
(In their basements they hid shortwaves and guns)
Shortwaves tuned to the Vatican and that ol’ Pope
So could a Cath’lic be a good American?
But the nation was young, and so were we
And America was God’s best creation
And because America was the Leader of the World
And we had whipped the Nazis and the **** [sic]
All by ourselves, and invented the Bomb
We were the blessing of democracy over all
Robert Frost spoke grand words in the January frost
I was hoping for his “Stopping by Woods”
Because I had memorized that in school
But he gave us something else, “The Gift Outright”
And then with frosted breath the President
Asked us what we could do for our country
Our country later asked us about Viet-Nam
But for now Miz Hawkins shushed all us deeds of gift
The nation was young that day, and so were we –
And everything seems so much older now
Our long ago optimism a deed of gift
To angry old men whose voices rattle
Rattle from behind armored glass and barbed wire
Barbed wire left over from DaNang and Saigon
And a thousand abandoned desert posts
Each a gift outright to Ozymandias
Who late bestrode the littered Capitol steps
His wrinkled lips loud-yelping in command
Over our increasingly antique land
“Made it, Ma! Top of the World!”
The happy crowds of ’61 are sand
There are no crowds in ’21, only silence
Behind ranks of soldiers (properly vetted)
Standing in empty streets, waiting for a Traveller
References:
Robert Frost, “The Gift Outright”
Shelley, “Ozymandias”
Warner Brothers, White Heat (film), 1949
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 10:00 PM UTC