"omaha" poems
each man must realize
that it can all disappear very
quickly:
the cat, the woman, the job,
the front tire,
the bed, the walls, the
room; all our necessities
including love,
rest on foundations of sand -
and any given cause,
no matter how unrelated:
the death of a boy in Hong Kong
or a blizzard in Omaha ...
can serve as your undoing.
all your chinaware crashing to the
kitchen floor, your girl will enter
and you'll be standing, drunk,
in the center of it and she'll ask:
my god, what's the matter?
and you'll answer: I don't know,
I don't know ...
7.2k
The markets up, the Markets down
For weeks it just meanders.
Alas, my stocks are always down
Each time I take a gander.
GM, Lehman, Citicorp
My broker bought for me-
And you can guess the net result-
IHe bought a yacht, not me.
Those friends who don’t avoid me
Say I’ve reversed Midas’ touch.
I don’t turn things I touch to gold
I turn gold into rust.
I’d heard dart tossing Simians
Can best the S & P
So I went to the Zoo this March
to consult a Chimpanzee.
He took the chartt, he threw the dart
And picked a stock for me-
And now I’m getting margin calls
because I bought BP.
He seemed the sage of Omaha
before he ruined me.
I should have tried Orangutans
And paid their higher fee.
They wanted five bananas
My monkey worked for three.
But now I’m bust because I used
the discount Chimpanzee.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:26 PM UTC
Shoulder to shoulder you bands of brothers landed.
Code name Operation Neptune was underway.
You noble breed, not knowing what lay ahead
Just knowing that your duty was called upon.
The bugle sounded, you all answered the call
nobly you waded those waters for all.
06/06/1944 was the day.
The largest seaborne invasion in history.
Yet, you brothers in arms were not caring of history making
Just making it to the beach, alive.
I can but humbly thank you for what you all did that day,
you that lived and those that died.
What thoughts must have played in your mind.
A lone piper played throughout, what courage you all displayed.
No wonder we that came after you, leave you feeling dismayed.
Many wars have been fought since, their courage is also undenied,
but, you, you thousands on those beaches showed the world the meaning
of pride, respect and warrior.
On the beaches of Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno and Sword,
you carved a way in. To end the war.
Nobler people I doubt exist, and soon this 70th anniversary
will fade in time, but not that date of June the sixth (1944)
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
There's a voice on the phone
telling what had happened.
Some kind of confusion,
more like a disaster.
And it wondered how you were left unaffected,
but you had no knowledge.
No, the chemicals covered you.
So a jury was formed
as more liquor was poured.
No need for conviction;
they're not thirsty for justice.
But I slept with the lies I keep inside my head.
I found out I was guilty.
I found out I was guilty.
But I won't be around for the sentencing
'cause I'm leaving on the next airplane.
And though I know that my actions are impossible to justify,
they seem adequate to fill up my time.
But if I could talk to myself like I was someone else,
well then maybe I could take your advice
and I wouldn't act like such an ******* all the time.
There's a film on the wall
that makes the people look small
who are sitting beside it,
all consumed in the drama.
They must return to their lives once the hero has died.
They will drive to the office,
stopping somewhere for coffee;
where the folk singers, poets, and playwrights convene
dispensing their wisdom;
Oh dear amateur orators.
They will detail their pain in some standard refrain.
They will recite their sadness
like it's some kind of contest.
Well if it is I think i'm winning it, all beaming with confidence
as I make my final lap.
The gold metal gleams,
so hang it around my neck.
'Cause I am deserving it: the champion of idiots.
But a kid carries his Walkman
on that long bus ride to Omaha.
I know a girl who cries when she practices violin,
'cause each note stands so pure
it just cuts into her,
and then the melody comes pouring out her eyes.
Now to me, everything else,
it just sounds like a lie.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
Gloomy skies line the beaches
Treacherous waves battering the landing crafts
Young soldiers getting sick sea in the swells
But their fate is written in front of them
Omaha, Normandy, Gold, Juno and Sword Beach
The day, June 6, 1944
Bullets flying over their heads
Whizzing by in deafening silence
One soldier is killed, then the next one
They hit the beach hard
Operation Overlord is in full swing
156,000 soldiers invade the sands
Duty, devotion and determination
Hell is about to be unleashed
Machine gun nests attack
Mowing down the enemy that invade them
Strike them with hot metal bullets
into blood soaked seas
The smell of war is everywhere
and time slowed to a ticking second hand
Fellow soldiers killed in front of you
No time to think but you have to move on
**** the enemy, **** the enemy
The beaches turn crimson with the fallen
Can not turn back
The chaos surrounds you with a deadly grip
Six days of heavy fighting to unite the beach front
10,000 wounded, over 4,000 dead
Sacrifices of so many
on the day the bullets hit the beach
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
I am riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains
of the nation.
Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air
go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men
and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall
pass to ashes.)
I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he
answers: "Omaha."
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BOX cars run by a mile long.
And I wonder what they say to each other
When they stop a mile long on a sidetrack.
Maybe their chatter goes:
I came from Fargo with a load of wheat up to the danger line.
I came from Omaha with a load of shorthorns and they splintered my boards.
I came from Detroit heavy with a load of flivvers.
I carried apples from the Hood river last year and this year bunches of bananas from Florida; they look for me with watermelons from Mississippi next year.
Hammers and shovels of work gangs sleep in shop corners
when the dark stars come on the sky and the night watchmen walk and look.
Then the hammer heads talk to the handles,
then the scoops of the shovels talk,
how the day's work nicked and trimmed them,
how they swung and lifted all day,
how the hands of the work gangs smelled of hope.
In the night of the dark stars
when the curve of the sky is a work gang handle,
in the night on the mile long sidetracks,
in the night where the hammers and shovels sleep in corners,
the night watchmen stuff their pipes with dreams-
and sometimes they doze and don't care for nothin',
and sometimes they search their heads for meanings, stories, stars.
The stuff of it runs like this:
A long way we come; a long way to go; long rests and long deep sniffs for our lungs on the way.
Sleep is a belonging of all; even if all songs are old songs and the singing heart is snuffed out like a switchman's lantern with the oil gone, even if we forget our names and houses in the finish, the secret of sleep is left us, sleep belongs to all, sleep is the first and last and best of all.
People singing; people with song mouths connecting with song hearts; people who must sing or die; people whose song hearts break if there is no song mouth; these are my people.
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There's a simple life somewhere
Out there in the cold
If it's dead, I don't care
I'm already too old
The window feels like winter
It makes me think of home
My thought's been split to splinters
On this lonely, teenage road
Have you seen my possessions?
I think I left them in Omaha
I've got no obsessions
As we pass through Arkansas
Can you play our song?
Only if you sing it with me
And if you've been driving too long
Give the control back to me
There's a ringing in my ear
It's the voice of an angel speak
Tell me, I want to hear
Your stories awaken me
This wheel's on fire now
Just like our skin and our hearts
And before it's over now
Can you tear me apart?
I've been in here too long
I can't stand the engine noise
I need to get back home
And have a drink with the boys
Can you fill up the tank?
Can you bring me to the end?
Don't take this to the bank
But I want to see you again
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
gulls cawed, so loud their calls
echoed off the cliffs behind us, a ghost flock answering,
though not shrill enough to rouse us
they flew crisscross patterns
and dove into the surf, but not one landed
on the carrion strewn across the sands
not like the vultures of my youth,
ravenous black hawks that began their devouring
at the first scent of death, or a moment before
no, these creatures merely called
to one another, a curious conversing
about the carnage below
perhaps their strange song
our dirge, as they swooped to and fro, wings
slicing currents carrying our souls
Omaha Beach, June 6, 1944
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
THE ONE ABOUT...
"Did you hear the one about..."
Death's
already laughing
"...a fireman, a butcher & a janitor
walked into a War..."
Death loves to tell this joke
Sometimes Death changes the details
"...a guy from Omaha, Ohio & Nebraska
walked into a War..."
"...and the shell fell into
the hole they were cowering in..."
Death cracks up
"...an 18 year old & two guys of twenty
walked into a War. . ."
"Wot's yer poison?" Death snickers
"...some guys called Sam, Hank & Frank
walked into a bar in a War and
they don't ever ever walk out..."
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC
The markets up, the Markets down
For weeks it just meanders.
Alas, my stocks are always down
Each time I take a gander.
GM, Lehman, Citicorp
My broker bought for me-
And you can guess the net result-
I’m broker now, not he.
Those friends who don’t avoid me
Say I’ve reversed Midas’ touch.
I don’t turn things I touch to gold
I turn gold into rust.
I’d heard dart tossing Simians
Can best the S & P
So I went to the Zoo this March
to consult a Chimpanzee.
He perused the chart then flung a dart
to pick a stock for me-
And now I’m getting margin calls
because I bought BP.
He seemed the sage of Omaha
before he ruined me.
I should have tried Orangutans
And paid their higher fee .
They wanted five bananas
My monkey worked for three.
But now I’m bust because I used
a discount Chimpanzee.
I might have dodged a massive loss
And profited besides
Had I but heeded the baboons’
Sell signaling behinds
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
I never leave the West when it isn’t raining,
My brother says to me through the phone.
He is on his way back
over the Rockies and through Nebraska.
He’ll never make it intact—
hands fuse to the steering wheel
like nylons on a burn victim,
knees and elbows bolted in
precise angles keeping the car straight,
tires pulling everything forward.
One foot is the pedal, one becomes the floor mat.
Shoulder to armpit with a semi truck
hauling jet wings from Denver,
he notices the paths of rivets
like bread lines in Omaha.
Some of them are starving.
But where is the rest, the airplane body
without its wings? A hollow silo,
pilot in a cockpit
not going anywhere.
I think airplanes molt this time of year.
It’s still raining or it will be,
the white-lined highways
will carry you here unscathed.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 12:05 PM UTC
THE MOUTH of this man is a gaunt strong mouth.
The head of this man is a gaunt strong head.
The jaws of this man are bone of the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachians.
The eyes of this man are chlorine of two sobbing oceans,
Foam, salt, green, wind, the changing unknown.
The neck of this man is pith of buffalo prairie, old longing and new beckoning of corn belt or cotton belt,
Either a proud Sequoia trunk of the wilderness
Or huddling lumber of a sawmill waiting to be a roof.
Brother mystery to man and mob mystery,
Brother cryptic to lifted cryptic hands,
He is night and abyss, he is white sky of sun, he is the head of the people.
The heart of him the red drops of the people,
The wish of him the steady gray-eagle crag-hunting flights of the people.
Humble dust of a wheel-worn road,
Slashed sod under the iron-shining plow,
These of service in him, these and many cities, many borders, many wrangles between Alaska and the Isthmus, between the Isthmus and the Horn, and east and west of Omaha, and east and west of Paris, Berlin, Petrograd.
The blood in his right wrist and the blood in his left wrist run with the right wrist wisdom of the many and the left wrist wisdom of the many.
It is the many he knows, the gaunt strong hunger of the many.
2.3k
RED barns and red heifers spot the green
grass circles around Omaha-the farmers
haul tanks of cream and wagon loads of cheese.
Shale hogbacks across the river at Council
Bluffs-and shanties hang by an eyelash to
the hill slants back around Omaha.
A span of steel ties up the kin of Iowa and
Nebraska across the yellow, big-hoofed Missouri River.
Omaha, the roughneck, feeds armies,
Eats and swears from a ***** face.
Omaha works to get the world a breakfast.
2.2k
Into the blue river hills
The red sun runners go
And the long sand changes
And to-day is a goner
And to-day is not worth haggling over.
Here in Omaha
The gloaming is bitter
As in Chicago
Or Kenosha.
The long sand changes.
To-day is a goner.
Time knocks in another brass nail.
Another yellow plunger shoots the dark.
Constellations
Wheeling over Omaha
As in Chicago
Or Kenosha.
The long sand is gone
and all the talk is stars.
They circle in a dome over Nebraska.
1.7k
The day is hot, no hint of a breeze
As I kneel down on ancient knees
At the grave of you, most brave,
who died in Omaha’s first wave.
Our mother never did recover
from losing you. Like many mothers.
she, ever after, hid the scar.
Poor recompense is a gold star.
Rows of crosses on the plain
Each bears a date, a rank, a name.
Lives ended by the chance of war.
Never to see home once more.
Was your sacrifice in vain?
One tyrant fell, but more remain
The ***** that fell now better known
as the common market Euro zone.
Europe’s Jews gained a respite
From Hitler’s hate and krystalnacht
Yet soon the surging Moslem tide
May again erupt in genocide
My grandson helps me to my feet.
and steadies me with his strong arm.
The campaign ribbons on my chest
belongs, in truth, to these who rest.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
It seems the battle now has passed me by.
I walk unhindered on the ****** beach.
I cannot hear the screams of shot and shell.
I am immune and quite beyond their reach.
Some men I knew deploy a Bangalore
And blow a hole in Hitler’s grand defense.
Machine guns sputter but I heed them not.
For me the battle has lost all suspense.
My kit and rifle are light upon my back.
My rage is spent; I lack the urge to ****
There are others who make up my lack
Here there’s blood in buckets to be spilled.
I meet a German, sitting on a rock.
His tunic bloodied there about his heart
He offers me a smoke and I accept,
Although I’ve heard that smoking isn’t smart..
We speak and somehow understand each other
As we watch our younger brothers play at war.
He apologized for his part in my ******
I assure him that I’m not the least bit sore.
He asks if I’ve brought coins for the boatman.
I fish through my pockets and come up with dimes
With images of Mercury on the obverse,
rods and Fasces on the other side.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
The human mind
and the human heart
~
Curiosity
and the scent of a woman
~
Omaha Beach
and the poisoned sky
~
Technology
and the rhythm method
~
Morse Code
and one too many icebergs
~
Mighty dollar
and what is never laid to rest
~
The human mind
and the human heart
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 2:50 PM UTC
The sea is a disaster of churning
LCU's buck like horses
From behind is heard the guns of destroyers
run aground in the shallow channel
Sixteen men shiver though the air is humid
Fifteen men know
they die today
Guns erupt from the cliffside
geysers of flame and water erupt all around
Craft is tossed
moving at snail speed
As death slowly approaches
Tongues of flame flash from pillboxs
the first man falls
Useless helmet fatally flawed
The boy begins to giggle
he tries to light a cigarette
his thumb refuses to flip the wheel
The ringing ping of ricochets off the hull
a rhythm of massacre
tears of a soldier singing his deathknell
Bow meets beach
gate goes down
Into the surf the soldiers leap
Clothing and gear turns to wet suits of armor
that do not protect from anything
Everything is screaming
****** bits blasted back into the sea
from ruptured flamethrower
Waves crash crimson and ******
pink foam forms
sickly **** of slaughter
Men cut down like wheat
the horror not complete
until Kraiss and Goth
order retreat
By then
three thousand men
lie dead in the waters
To the victor the spoils
blood and death like no other
The end begins
on the red shore of Omaha.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 8:03 AM UTC
I would make an attempt at reaching Hell one morning , I shall return with an omen or some type of sign . Search for the infamous Lake of Fire , the Prince of Darkness himself or demons flying about ! The Sulphuric Abyss of Christian fable , Kingdom of Hades as told by the ancients ! A gold piece placed in mouth to pay the oarsman , skipped across the River Styx without fear of retribution ! I dare any demon to replicate the horror of Vietnam or Afghanistan , Iwo Jima , Gettysburg or **** of Nanking ! Walk in the shoes of the Veteran that witnessed Omaha , Utah and Normandy Beach ! The Underworld is not for physical torment nor payment for Earthly sin ! Hell is the black hole of space , swallowing souls , returned to mans past , reliving the atrocity of war forever and a day !
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
THE HOUSE OF DUST
A Symphony
BY
CONRAD AIKEN
To Jessie
NOTE
. . . Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American
Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review". . . . I am
indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden"
in Part II.
This text comes from the source available at
Project Gutenberg, originally prepared by Judy Boss
of Omaha, NE.
1.3k
The Flame of Blessing
America’s warriors face dangers untold in a country unlike our own where violent war is a way of life
In evils caldron that burns with natural order hate, teaching laced with poison and ****** is honorable
This can only thrive in a society that kills truth and then in falsehood their black robes invite all strife
Chaos butchery all manner of anarchy is used to try to subdue a people’s God given right to be free
Our troops in one way or another are set to burning Miss Liberty is in their hearts although latent
All that is needed to cause liberty’s flame to blaze is put these blessed ones in contact with tyranny
Every insult and criticism is leveled at the U.S. we need improvement but let evil show and be blatant
Ordinary kids from American streets will rise the last thing you will see is freedom blazing in their eyes
Black hearts are tuff pushing the weak and there fanaticism pretends at being brave every bully’s trait
These cannot be reasoned with madness has one cure annihilation this fight not for the faint hearted
The enemy needs a history lesson Tara, Iwo Jima; Omaha beach a brother hood reborn gun barrel strait
You posses by ideology penned by hell’s most convincing liar we come bearing truth then arms
God’s shadow first then Miss Liberty looms then the unquenchable prayers of a nation they pray for you
Peace, tranquility is worth our sacrifice you are left with a tattered rag a soiled flag marred by carnage
To bleed, true honor the making of a house of arms it will succeed in all war and conflict peace to accrue
We take God given might temper it with mercy and justice for all we are not timid in freedom’s fight
This is the my candle burning
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 3:18 PM UTC
Phileas Fogg,
On a brigantine sledge,
Braved the Omaha wind
As it twirled.
So, Jules Verne might say
That a full eighty days
Is plenty to travel the world.
Amelia Earhart
Crossed the sea –
The quickliest feat
…For a girl –
In twelve hundred forty
Short minutes, you know:
Others failed, but gave it a whirl.
Rosemary Doyle,
Our wonderful mum,
Exceeded these
Feats of grand scale!
She has crossed oceans faster,
Breezed over Great Plains,
And – without perspiration – prevailed!
Carefully, casually,
She raised five kids:
‘Neath our burden
She never collapsed.
Loving and giving
Us lives we are living.
Have there – really – eight decades elapsed?
Octogenarian?
Silliest word:
It sounds like
A sea creature’s vet,
But if you want true fun,
Then just orbit the sun
Eighty times, like our mom: It’s no sweat!
© 2Mar2018 DracoTalpus
For Rosemary N. Doyle
On the occasion of her 80th birthday
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
Nebraska, snowfall.
Grey streets leading to grey lives.
The cold hammers deep.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 2:51 PM UTC