"redcoats" poems
for Susan O'Neill Roe
What a thrill ----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge
Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they one?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to ****
The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man ----
The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux ****
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence
How you jump ----
Trepanned veteran,
***** girl,
Thumb stump.
23.5k
In the presence of the enemy
He split his force in two.
His red coated invaders
displayed contempt for the Zulu.
How else to explain their failure
to fortify the camp?
Twenty Thousand warriors
Put them in a deadly clamp.
It was a fearsome slaughter
redcoats falling by the score.
Thirteen hundred swept away-
No prisoners of war.
assegai thrusting spears struck home
The Sun would shine no more.
The Thin Red Line was broken,
each man fighting his own war.
With ammunition running out
They fought with blade and ****
Until knobkierrie clubs struck home
And stabbing spears found gut.
The officers with horses,
without honor, fled the fray.
Escaping only with their lives
No storied heroes they.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC
That day was brutally hot, and the cannon incessantly roared
It was the twenty eighth of June in the third year of the war.
Mary Hays was with her soldier, John, as he fought against the King.
Men would call out “Molly Pitcher” and she brought water from a spring.
The action began badly; Cornwallis pushing back Charles Lee.
Who’d have bet a continental that this would be a victory?
Then Washington brought up fresh troops and held Cornwallis back
Rebel cannon from Hays’ battery stalled Cornwallis’ attack.
John Hays , at his cannon, had succumbed to wounds and heat.
But his gun must not go silent or we would go down to defeat.
That was when Mary Hays decided she would take her husband’s place.
She ran to serve his cannon and kept up the firing pace.
She narrowly avoided death when the Redcoats returned fire
But bravely stood her ground and fought, and a legend was inspired.
Mary Hays survived the war and lived a ripe old age.
She was honored for her service and a State pension was paid.
That day at Monmouth Court House, we proved we could stand and fight.
The British army left the field in the darkness of that night.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
Out on the marsh on a lonely night
The wind soughs through his rags,
The hat that’s pinned to his painted face,
Flutters and soars, then sags,
His eyes are wide and his mouth is grim
As an owl is put to flight,
And nothing but shadows will venture there
For the Scarecrow rules the night.
And back in the manse in a window seat
The Parson’s daughter sits,
She stares at the fluttering coat-tails, but
In truth, is scared to bits,
She watches the sails of the windmill turn
And creak and groan in the gloom,
As clouds come stuttering over the marsh
In the rays of a Harvest Moon.
The father is out in the donkey cart
To tend to his aging flock,
He’s left Elizabeth waiting there
By the tick of the hallway clock,
But out on the moors and beyond the marsh
There rides one Highway Jack,
A frock coat topped with a bunch of lace
And a gold trimmed tricorne hat.
He’s whipped the horse to a lather
In a retreat from a new affray,
For the magistrates have gathered
Vowing to ride him down that day,
The redcoats wait in the village Inn
For the sound that they know too well,
When the curate sees the approaching horse
He’s to toll the old church bell.
But the curate lies in a drunken fit
On the floor of the old church nave,
And soon, by matins his soul will flit
From life to an early grave,
Elizabeth sits in the window seat
And thinks of the coin and plate,
As the highwayman dismounts, and ties
His horse to the manse’s gate.
He beats on the door, ‘Please let me in,
I’m weary and faint, that’s all.
I wouldn’t abuse your person, but
I fear my back’s to the wall.’
She leaves the seat and she slides the bar
For bracing the oaken door,
‘I dare not, sir, I fear for my life,
You’re safer out on the moor!’
Their voices echo across the marsh
Like fear, distilled in the night,
And something shudders out in the gloom
And lurches to left and right,
It seems forever, but now a sound
Tolls out, like a final knell,
For something, out in the church tonight,
Is tolling the steeple bell.
He barely makes it back to his horse
When the redcoats stand in line,
Their muskets fire a volley of shot
And his coat turns red, like wine.
They go to the church when the deed is done
To say, ‘You have done well!’
But the curate lies on the cold stone floor,
The Scarecrow tolled the bell!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Five months on the front
Between Arras and Albert
Both sides hunt
For the other
Redcoats and Frogs side by side
Putting away their hate
Both filled with pride
To fight
Drain the Fritz of their resources
Push them back as far as they could
But the enemy observes
And are waiting
Huge frontal attack, approached on foot
Ordered by General Haig
The Germans stayed put
And killed from afar
July 1st was day one
November 18th was the last
When all the guns
Were dead
It was the bloodiest battle anyone saw
Over one million deceased
No mortal law
Ruled here
13 Kilometers were gained
Using tanks and heavy gear
Reserves were drained
Yet no one cared
Friends, fathers, husbands, brothers,
Fought and lost their lives
For the children, sisters, wives and mothers
Who were left behind
Only gravediggers make money here
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
(Happy 150th, Canada!)
Canada Day - Just One?
With love from an ‘umble Yank
But every day is Canada Day!
The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada
The Muskogee never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, complete
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada
Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway
Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest
The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?
To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada
Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”
Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read
The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada
A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada
Though Canada goes on, these scribbles must not -
Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
With eyes of black obsidian
And eagle's beak of nose
Black turban of the Taliban
Worn everywhere he goes,
Warrior of God's mountainside
Mujaheddin, known by name,
Pashto is his verbal tongue
And Allah's quest, his fame.
Razored knife in braided belt
Long"Jezail"musket points to sky,
A gimlet glint to garnet gaze
One thoughtless move , you die.
Gliding fast from rock to rock
Gazelle like in his easy grace,
Silent as an adder's strike
Assassin black with turbaned face.
For centuries invaders came
To vanquish this stark land,
Persians,Romans, Russians
And British redcoats tried their hand.
And recently the Yankees
Came with automated war,
To find themselves engulfed
And fleeing for the exit door.
Inexorable Afghanistan
Has bleached their bones as one
Vendetta for the insult
While there's air to breath and gun.
Like Shah Massoud, the warlords
Descend from mountain cave
To slaughter all who venture
Be they terrified or brave.
Tribally disconnected
From Islamabad to Kabul,
Tajik versus Pashtun
Versus Koranic Islam's rule.
No prisoners are taken,
The women always use their knives
And ravines echo shockingly
As tortured slowly lose their lives.
But the sunsets are glorious
Valley mists by morning rise
And row by row of fractured peaks
Rise in grandeur to blue skies.
And the children croon to goat herds
As they graze high meadow's green
And above the taloned goshawk glides
Ever watchful and unseen.
Hulks of Russian gun ships
Litter valleys and the plain
And the ghosts of many nations
Walk these dusty roads of shame.
For the legacy of the Afghans
Is a ****** litany of war
And the road to their tomorrow
Is paved with promises of more.
Marshalg
Wanganui
30 December 2009.
www.worthyofpublishing.com
www.hellopoetry.com
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
The air was chill and darkness fell as bells rang and the rabble gathered.
A British sentry had struck a lad; some said his jaw was shattered.
Some four hundred Bostonians were milling about his station.
Eight Redcoats, each with rifle cocked, tried to defuse the situation.
The crowd was in an ugly mood; they would not let this slide.
The soldiers were pelted with rocks and snow, but as yet no one had died.
Private Montgomery was knocked down And muttered **** you, Fire.”
He discharged his weapon into the ground, and that shot provoked their ire.
Captain Preston never issued the command, but a ragged volley was fired.
Eleven colonists were hit, three of them expired.
The crowd in panic then dispersed, and the troop of men retired.
A black man, Crispus Atticus, was among those who had died.
The mood was tense in Boston and those troops were charged and tried.
John Adams won acquittal, he was brilliant in defense.
But the crowd still felt injustice, and there's been no peace since.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
The verdict has been rendered
And George Zimmerman goes free.
(I still would not bet money
On his life expectancy)
There is anger in the streets this night
in our divided land.
One mother’s son was shot and killed
by this George Zimmerman.
The Jurymen have heard the facts
and ruled it self-defense.
Far too many in the streets
Take acquittal as offense.
Long ago, in Boston town,
were British redcoats tried
for the ****** of six colonists-
“A massacre!” folks cried.
John Adams got the soldiers off
with a plea of self-defense.
He must have had great courage
and, in Justice, confidence.
How difficult it must have been
To face his neighbors’ angry cries
The principles he fought for live
Unless we let them die.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
Two. Two things that I keep forgetting, they are robbed
Out of my bank vault.
It is full of chlorine, my body reeks of it,
Taste the beautiful chemicals that are my mind.
My history.
The organization is horrible, no constellations made in my skies because
The sun is always out, masking stars and burning holes in my sockets.
I need to fix this.
Pull the beaded string dangling in this dismal room, cement walls crumbling as I dig myself
Out of this well, bricks are chucked down by laughing children.
They don't know that my ghost resides here.
I live in this dark room, where the sun never shines through the heavy velvet curtains.
Paper butterflies catching the heat from candles, singed at the edges, blue turning black,
Bruises deep, ****** knuckles wiped on your dress. Silk ruined, intimate apparel
Discarded by blood. Burn the evidence, escape the nightmare and awaken from this
Sea of chloroform.
You've been sleeping all of these years; the war, you know which one, is still being
Fought, redcoats stained with more.
That was long ago. Just sit and listen to the lecture of stories that we will never
Need to know, take notes in a screen that the pencil will scratch.
Scratches tangle, knot in my hair, so I cut it off.
Collections on the floor. Sweep the water out of the room because the flood has passed.
The house is not worth saving now.
Demolish it, destroy the silence that resonates with shadow.
Bring as one the silly waves that crash on your shores.
Correct what was always wrong.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC
Have you ever sat and wondered who gave man power over all?
Have you ever watched and thought man will cause it all to fall?
And if you sit in wonderment and fail to see my view
We have so little in common and Ill say goodbye to you.
The people of Hiroshima, when they realized their loss
In the name of new technology, were told to bear their cross
When our starving brothers begged with outstretched scrawny hands
Food began to mount and pile in other richer lands
The human life thats taken, without a struggle or a fight
Is condoned because abortion is a mothers given right
The ones that fight for justice are quickly locked in slime
Tortured by the oppressor, a punishment for their crime
When I see our battered children, so innocent and small
Its then I really wonder, who gave man power over all?
If you want to hear a lesser side, Ive plenty as you'l find
For mans intolerance and violence, to man is not confined
Man have caused the bulging eyes of a fox held in despair
as its body is slowly severed, by a cruel and ugly snare.
The sight of badger bating, has brought to many glee
Blinded by their takings, the suffering they cant see.
walking through our countryside, could cause your heart to shudder
At the sight of a baby rabbit with a meximatosis mother
If our graceful otter in his water bed is found,
they will hunt him to exhaustion, on his skin they see a £
On the hare with all its beauty, man will place a hearty bet,
before its torn apart, and left to die an agonizing death.
Our biggest shame, the ***** redcoats, on their bugles loudly hail,
They sleep with easy conscience, their prize, his bushy tail.
A bird of the wild is quiet common to find,
imprisoned to sooth mans warped and twisted mind.
To test our beauty products, animals live in pain,
although synthetic fibers if used would do the same.
I find it so disgusting, unnecessary and cruel
that animals go on suffering to improve the ugliness of the fool.
Take your beauty products and put them in the bin
and be assured young ladies, that beauty is within.
I could go on forever of the wrongs that man has done
I hope by now you realize its all for greed or fun.
When the book of mans achievements, is finally unveiled
The one that gave such power to man
Will see that man has failed!
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 1:38 AM UTC
Standing in the dewy grass
I hope and pray that they will pass
But they may not
but come to stay
I know not
If I die this day
The Redcoats come a thousand strong
their battle line is wide and long
What's ordained
I can not say
I know not
If I die this day
We stand apart but look across
to the other line and toss
a look of nervousness
then pray
I know not
If I die this day
Commanders yell, Commanders bark
their orders all along the park
but then a shot rings out and in
the confusion, it begins
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
Canada Day? Just One?
With love from an ‘umble Yank
But every day is Canada Day!
The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada
The Muskogee 1 never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, completing
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada
Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway
Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest
The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?
To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada
Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”
Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read
The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada
A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada
Though Canada goes on, these scribbles must not –
Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
My fingers flit across
ivory keys
like irate flies, landing
for a moment before
restlessly taking off
again – this is not
where I should be,
they say, and
continue searching,
until finally the flies
and I
find a chord, but it
won't come out right, and
I can't yell at any
one fly in particular
because I don't know who
it is that's
******* things up, so
I just keep banging on
this **** monster
of an instrument and there's
anger in the middle
of Debussy, and he never
wrote me anger, it's just
a moment of unrestrained emotion
where it shouldn't be –
I kind of like it
a little – I like all
emotion, because truly,
it's so ******* hard
to come by, but –
it shouldn't be
there, I shout,
in the middle of ******* Debussy,
and now my fingers
are bleeding a bit,
leaving behind pretty little
droplets of a scarlet
me, and Plath called them
redcoats, and I think
that's so much nicer
than what they actually
are – a bright red
trail of mistakes – and
Bukowski said
I should be doing this
drunk, and I
listened, but I'm
no ******* Chuck,
so all I'm left with is
a mess – I ruined
this baby grand piano –
but I can feel my
heartbeat in the tips
of my fingers, the
flies, and maybe someday,
I think, I can put myself
in the music and not have to
bleed all over
the keys just to
see myself in something – maybe
have some restraint,
just enough so that
a meager audience
can't see my blood, just
hear my heartbeat –
the flies' collective
heartbeat – so
I push out my bench and
stand up and stretch
before I walk away from
the piano, leaving
the blood to clean up
tomorrow, and
this is poetry.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
bells is the only cheap whiskey at £14.99
(why the 99 though? penny short or something?)
that actually tastes like whiskey,
the husky smoked taste of it,
you're pretty much drinking acorns
by the end of it... the husky smoked
taste of it... all the other stuff
is just alcohol, you're not there
for the aesthetics, the flight to Bombay
via Dubai (potato, tomato, bomb bye bye i
due an A.I.), anyway fusion style mongrel metal,
Japanese, called kawaii
or simply cute... **** cute... well anyway
hello cannibal kitty... awadama fever... spring blossom?
i never heard of them... i'm just interested
because they mentioned a guru they called Fox God...
and the journalist just said: 'made-up'.
my encounters with foxes have been frequent...
so each godhead of the animals passes through
man, i'm facing the redcoats and hounds...
it's too impractical for monotheism...
unless you're a hammer, or a ***** or a chisel -
who ever heard of a myth about such things
unless not attempting to invoke Thor?
anyway... Moses... yeah, that one... he wasn't
a godhead... he was female genitalia...
no prince, whether in egypt or elsewhere spoke
the tongue of construction workers...
Harry... Philip... William? none spoke Polish...
so Moses didn't speak Hebrew...
i really would like the risotto... ah **** the Rosetta stone
applied to the old testimony... i don't
care for the new testimony... it's too Byzantine,
which isn't even Greek.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 7:17 AM UTC
The puppy seemed happy to see me
when I seen her at the park that other day.
you coulda seen it right away.
So the shrink lady she say, so what?
Dunnno, jisayin' somebody seemed happy
after seeing me naked paraded before all
who may have noticed,
maybe not.
What if nobody noticed and I am happily
seen a naked thing I am
unnoticeable save for seekers of knowns
believed to be known or
knowable
by you, down in the slew, Bunyan's slough,
ya got iron in yer blood?
ya areckon.
Yer Uncle Sam needs ya, boy,
you leave that Kansas lass to
stare at those July buttermilk skies,
there's a war awaitin' for Rough Riders,
Arizona reared and steered
Say what, sir? Steered? Not me. Done my time.
Played footballs, by damtotell, at Fort Bliss,
I threw hand grenades,
Football was Ft. Huachuca, autumn, 1967
Bien Hoa was in the spring, one day after
My Lai, my country's legacy from my year
beyond the whole idea of war. History said,
if we are not the Redcoats, we are the Hessians,
at least.
Allegiance to a legion because they are many?
Perish the thought.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
Standing in the dewy grass
I hope and pray that they will pass
But they may not
'stead come to stay
I know not
If I die this day
The Redcoats come a thousand strong
their battle line is wide and long
What's ordained
I can not say
I know not
If I die this day
We stand apart but look across
to the other line and toss
a look of nervousness
then pray
I know not
If I die this day
Commanders yell, Commanders bark
their orders all along the park
but then a shot rings out and in
the confusion, it begins
Standing 'cross an open field
neither of our lines will yield
one line of blue
the other gray
I know not
if I die this day
Often seems we've fought in vain
and 'long the march have caused much pain
I've left good comrades
along the way
I know not
If I die this day
My brother serves 'neath Mile's Flag
I serve beneath a diff'rent rag
and if I **** him
what's to say
I know not
If we'll die this day
Commanders bark, Commanders yell
and call us to the gates of hell
then all at once morn's silence splits
as men are shredded, torn to bits
My craft rocks gently through the sea
and towards the beach on which I'll be
to face a wall
and see Death play
I do think
I may die this day
"Keep your heads down" Sergeants call
as on us squalls of lead rain fall
some will succumb
and fall away
I do think
I may die this day
As we close on norman sand
to bear the brunt of Swastic hand
around me tough men
kneel and pray
I think that
I may die this day
Commanders shout, Commanders scream
and seconds turn to awful dream
then a bump and ramp unfolds
for many luck no longer holds
Desert sand fills hair and ears
It seems I've been at this for years
It's over now fore
Death holds sway
I know that
I will die this day
The day was normal as it could
we took precautions as we should
but life's one
IED away
I know that
I will die this day
Soon I'll be with others who
have given up their own lives too
for keeping our
home country's way
I know that
I will die this day
And through these fading eyes of mine
I see generations who've crossed that line
and as colors
fade to gray
I know that
I will die this day
All I feel are grains of sand
that arid winds wash 'cross my hands
what happens next
who's to say
I know now that
I die this day.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
I really wanted to make a more secure case comparing the cardinal to those redcoats of yore, but, ah....
(sonnet #MMMMMMCxxVii)
I have a scarlet lover who, ere pale
First hints of dawn, begins to court, til thence
Smiles and soft laughter thus ensue fr'intents.
His perky voice and deep red coat avail
Long-cherished loves, as I think Brits to scale
So perfect; aye, put on the kettle hence
Tae brew a *** of rosy lea to fence
My porridge, while my cardnal'd sweetly hail.
Wee sparrows are my playmates as they stir
Such happiness as only lovers do.
If Tyler swears he loves me, Shakespeare fer
All that gives me perspective as he'd woo.
Perchance I shall be independent: your
Wish, Baby. But then I will not need you.
30Apr18a
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
i can still look into the velvet depths of the night,
whether in forest or perched on a windowsill grazing
my eyes into the night, and still see nothing except myself;
or you should see me walking down for a refill
of ice-cubes listening to ***** & the maytals'* 54-46
that's my number - i know whitey boy albino given
an injection of rhythm, well at least you were given
a creative outlet under the stiff-upper lips of the redcoats,
the jews weren't even told to build the pyramids under ******
you gave us the blues, jazz, and pirate reggae,
what could the ******* jews offer us to compensate the atrocities?
**** all apart from memorable guilt and autobiographies!
oh yeah, and german industrial music, what fun!
ha ha... robo- -boy with alias Kraftwerk.
in my long gone list of artists i forgot to mention
Alpha Blondy & Barrington Levy - high fidelity poetry
by someone not called nick hornby.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 7:21 PM UTC
A purple sky,
Full of fire,
Smoke,
Cannon shots,
A loud sound,
Echoes in the night air,
Washington peers at the redcoats,
Marching at them,
A bugle sounds.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
The windows up on the second floor
Peered out through the mist at dawn,
Through what seemed a couple of eyelids,
Peeping out, when the blinds were drawn,
They scanned to the far horizon
Past the billows and foaming waves,
As if to seek a solution
As they scowled from their architraves.
‘How long, how long,’ was the question that
Had hung in the air for years,
How long to a sure destruction like
A fabric, when it tears?
The sea surged up to its doorstep with
The king tide at its peak,
And whispered its evil mantra, ‘House!
You haven’t another week.’
The House had stood five hundred years,
It had seen them come and go,
The coaches bringing their ministers
Of church and state, below,
Armies had been sequestered there
Beneath the sheltered eaves
Conspiring to hide the redcoats ‘til
The rebels made them leave.
It had sheltered friend and foe in there,
And had made no judgement call,
Its spacious rooms had been welcoming
To anyone there at all,
But now that its greatest enemy
Was surging at the lea,
‘Who will come to my aid at last
To save me from the sea?’
The time was once when the sea lay back
A mile or so from the shore,
But long decades of its slow attack
Saw it conquer, more and more,
Its progress so very gradual
That some generations hence,
Each single lifetime lost just yards
From its seaward farmland fence.
A wall of sticks and boulders rose
That the sea had overcome,
Had buried under its surges while
The work was being done,
A hill of sand and flotsam that
Was bound by bush and tree,
But the sea reclaimed its contraband
Washed the sand back out to sea.
And now, five hundred years had gone
The tide lapped at the brick,
And softened the old foundations as
The window-eyes looked bleak,
The king tide then had abated and
Sank back, to mutter its lack,
‘Have no fear,’ it grated, ‘House!
For I shall be coming back!’
But with the sea lying dormant,
Men approached with great machines,
With bulldozers and graders and
Huge tip-trucks in a stream,
And when the sea had resumed again
With its king tide of assault,
It beat forlorn on a concrete wall
With pathways of asphalt.
The windows up on the second floor
Peered out through the mist at dawn,
Through what seemed a couple of eyelids,
Peeping out, when the blinds were drawn,
The rain had hidden a couple of tears
As the House had heard men say:
‘We have to preserve our history,
And keep the sea in the bay!’
David Lewis Paget
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
With old Henry Knox we marched past river and rocks.
Twas 75 and Redcoats had to die.
So over them mountains came my Cannon and I.
The winter set my body to freeze and the cord cut through flesh with ease
As we marched on to Boston.
The rope burns my hands and the ice bites my feet
Frost bit feet and rope burned hand
But when we win, hell, will it be grand.
Them Redcoats thought no threat would e'er come nigh.
But look up high 'cause here come I. With cannon to make the Redcoat die.
With my frost bit feet and my rope burned hand.
And when we take to Boston, hell, but it will be grand.
Dec 16, 2019
Dec 16, 2019 at 11:05 AM UTC
In the heart of Kolkata lies the palatial palace of the redcoats
The centre of architecture served as the residence of the empress of India
The weapons of war, antique jewellery, charismatic gowns and magnificent paintings gleam with pride
The sharp eyes of the queen catch everything around her as she sits on her throne and is ready to accept the crown
Carved is the coast of arms and the last supper in the abode of the angels
Spacious corridors, stained glass windows, classic architecture, lush green gardens form this cognisant seraglio
The crows and Robbins are her messenger or maybe even the prima donna in disguise
And every morning the angel of the sun turns around and announces the beginning of a newfangled day
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC