"wwi" poems
Beginning in WWI,
The men were at war,
Fighting, killing,
Causing their own Post Traumatic Stress.
And we stayed. Our country, our families needed us.
We replaced them. The men. We replaced them
In their jobs. We did as they did.
We kept the country and the troops
On their feet.
Created weapons.
Kept businesses running,
Did the banking.
The women took charge for once.
The war and the economic trouble got us
On our feet and we did the same
For our nation and our men.
Some did not like that we were working as they had,
Walking in their shoes, but we sure did.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine,
Air, space, land and sea;
Sailor, Corpman, Airman, Soldier,
Pilot, Ranger, Medic, SEAL,
or Merchant Mariner;
Barbary, 1812, American Revolution,
Civil, Spanish, Texan and Mexican,
WWI, WWII,
Korea, Vietnam,
Gulf, Iraq and Afghanistan.
Khaki, green, white and blue,
Ship, tank, plane... all boots.
Knife, pistol, bomb or rifle,
Weapon, bandage, or Bible instead,
Each one’s veins filled with red.
Hostage rescue, protect and shield,
Capture, conquer, overcome, never yield;
Freedom, heartbreak, loss and grief,
Foreign, home, border, sky,
Ocean, desert, mountain, plain,
Water side, hillside, bedside, grave.
Parent, child, father, mother,
Auntie, uncle, niece or nephew,
Sister, brother, spouse and lover.
May your sweat on furtive brow,
Rouse our tribute, take knee and bow.
Buried, missing... wounded all,
Respect, endure, honor, release,
Forever may you rest in peace.
*To each of you
Who’s paid a price,
With years, with limb,
With blood, with life,
For each of these,
Oh, warrior ferocious,
Wrapped around
A heart that’s precious;
My voice it sings,
Let freedom ring;
My heart, it bleeds,
My eyes, they weep;
My hand, it rises in salute;
And my soul is filled
This day for you
With pride that swells,
With love that beats,
A song of deepest,
Heartfelt
Gratitude!*
Oh Warrior, you this day I salute!!!
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
"I can tell you that Dada was a leftist,
anti-bourgeois, non-Art birthed from WWI
and not some aleatory root to postmodernism
off-shot from a lurid acid rain.
I know that diffraction can be seen
on horizons in the early morning hours
of summer along smooth or dentate curvatures
and that it can have hues of blue, purple and
a soft-handed massage of orange that gingerly
applies pressure to your retinas with sugar-water.
If only eyes had lips that opened and closed.
"It is said that action is the birth of Manyness
and that non-action brings one's soul back to the Sage Mind,
the universe of Oneness, the cup longing to be fulfilled and how
upon brim overflow it longs to be empty once again
because of the relationship between Yin and Yang
and how one cannot Be without the other
and why perspective can change "full" to "empty"
so that the vicious cycle can never truly, truly end.
The difference between French Vanilla ice cream
and plain Vanilla is the degree of creaminess.
Fill up a bathtub and let it soak into my skin.
"There is no way for me to avoid being prolix about the things
I speak about in normal, day-to-day conversation. Science and reason
have accursed me to traverse this reality with the utmost care and precision
of language and society has forced pseudo-logic down my throat like
a bird screeching as it is forced past my pharynx and larynx.
Its sounds are amplified, beak-blared from my nostrils, and its wings are violent,
stretched against my neck skin, creating a pale-skinned, ship anchor image from my shoulders up.
I'll try to sing for you when you reach my trapdoor, I don't wish to eat you.
"I do not believe in anything because with everything comes a something,
a reason for its being. They are, 'from reason,' 'in reason,' and/or, 'for reason.'
There is no escaping this thought.
There is no escaping criticism.
I will find the Truth, mathematically calculated to infinity
from knowable circumstance and perception.
I will know everything and I will believe nothing."
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
I do not know of WWI
Because I know not of drowning on land
But what hypocrisy it is to say I
Cannot speak on mustard gas
But I will design you a bomb
That kills for days if not
For always
Call that genius if you feel the need
To me it is the call to arms
Every man feels
It is the essential want to take to the sea
It is the secret urge to make
Another man bleed or change the way
He gets up in the morning
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 7:46 PM UTC
My mother always said to get along with people.
I made allies, I worked with people, and I stayed away from
Fights that were not mine.
My allies and I have had fights, but we worked it out.
(WWI and the treaty of Versailles)
It all changed though, when nearly everyone around me
Began to hate each other.
One of the kids I knew, but never played with,
Began to bully the others.
He said he hated Jews.
(Germany/ ******
He was a part of a promise my friends and I made,
Because he was a part of our fight, before.
He broke the promise
And he began to... Collect.... My friends
And take over their lives. They were controlled and
Manipulated and suppressed by him.
(Taking over Rhineland, Poland, etc.)
We decided to leave it alone. We didn't want to
Get involved again. (France/ Britain appeasement)
He promised that he would leave a few kids
Alone, but he lied. He controlled them, too. (Italy and Japan)
He had his friends that helped him,
But I think they were just scared of him
And acted like they were his friends.
When my other friends got involved, I wanted out,
But if they needed my help with some things,
I would help them if they gave me a cookie (cash).
After a while, I started to help my friends more,
But I wasn't really fighting... I did, though, when one
Of the bullies friends (Japan) threw a crayon at me.
It hurt really bad and I got angry.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
Another adventure begins
On a day to remember
On the 11th hour of the 11th day
Of the 11th month in 1918
WWI ended
But the war continues
Between the material and spiritual
The Grand Inquisitor in all of us
(Dostoevsky)
Tries to encapsulate the formless
We're all searching for the magic pill
Red or blue
What would you choose?
Fortunately, there is no choice
You become who you are eventually
It just depends how many lives
It takes for a full realization
Of this reality
A spiritual warrior is always in transition
I'm spending the next few weeks traveling from
Portland to Los Angeles
Maybe on to Peru from there
I plan on writing in realtime
In spacetime, I'll be riffing
Suggestions of where to explore are appreciated
That would put a big smile on my face
I told my Cree friend of this journey
She laughed and called me Thotin
Thotin is wind; wind in all forms
I told her I identified with water
She nixed that:
'water is too predictable, wind is just ****** nuts'
We lol'd
I guess the wind is blowing west
:)
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
The Last Doughboy
went marching home
mustered up to heaven
to rest in perfect peace
never went over the top
when he was over there
drove an ambulance to save
the last dying bits of humanity
excavated from the craters
reeking with mud and blood
the turgid stench
of blessed death
wafts through the
muddled labyrinth
a ghastly kingdom
of rats and men
intractable mazes
of hate, hope and waste
led by inept generals
vainglorious politicians
promising triumphant victory
while begging disastrous defeat
bold shouts of advance
lead to routed retreats
global trench warfare
the sweet earthen coffins
empathy's last gasp
compassion's last stand
gurgling lungs
gagging on gas
imploding on
clotting blood
liquid ammonia
sears sensitive retinas
wafting flash of fire
burns eyes forever shut
concussive bursts
bludgeon eardrums
ripped bodies of friends
splayed onto comrades
the macabre rouge
a terrible war paint
liberally applied
with stunning result
by the industrial rattle
of cantankerous Gatlings
better minds thought it
the war to end all wars
the horrific scenes of waste
the pleading lips of starved children
the last Doughboy saw it all
a lucky Johnny who marched home
he thought the horror of WWI
would be enough to end all wars
yet all is not quiet
on the western front
Johnny's still got lots
of gruesome guns
distressed humanity
remains very busy
carting away human rubble
from our apocalyptic trenches
go to your reward
valiant Doughboy
*"leave us citizens
of death's gray land,
drawing no dividend
from time's tomorrows."
Siegfried Sassoon*
Dedicated to
Frank Buckles
(February 1, 1901 – February 27, 2011)
Godspeed Beloved
Oakland
3/1/11
jbm
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 9:11 AM UTC
Bacardí , ooh la-la (yuppie
kicked in the shins))
half of my head is in Bacardí , ooh-la-la (
new york yuppie kicked in the shins))
she took me back to Finca Vigia , la-la-la
ooh, but my head is in content
workings of a message in a bottle
(without, the Police)...
there's something about her pride
on mixing cola and lime... (ooh la-la)
Bacardí, ooh la-la (new yorker yuppie
kicked in the shins)
she didn't walk up to me with 'you "need" a drink?'
(like that Frank Sinatra quote
about a day well spent and feeling
even better after a martini)...
(when she came in the room
i forgot i was sleeping)
she said there's a lot of boys she can do with (ooh)
(but i can't without you)
i knew she forgot in a minute
about the ginger Scotch lass
ms. amber...
(that summer night that turned to
be every night of the entire year from then
on in)
and mama says i'm a drunk...
but she doesn't mind a drunk that
steps up to do the dishes, cook...
and washes the toilet with bleach...
after telling her to the question:
why are you sighing, puffing like
a red-riding hood like that?
eased up?
what from?
took a **** like a german zeppelin
just dropped a bomb on London
during the WWI night raid...
**** me... funk! **** bosh!
sank like a meteor or a grenade
into the water...
but **** me, you ever read
the mini story on these bottles?
ha ha... the Cubans call
the distillers... maestros!
it's like symphony for them!
de ron Bacardí... ahem...
maestro de ron Bacardí!
one night,
i'm allowed that...
given that
i already know with tender meat poetry...
like you do with tender meat in general...
you tenderize it.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
Marquis de Sade was arguably
the most dangerous man alive; until
the Reign of Terror & Napoleon; who
was arguably the most dangerous man
alive; until Jack the Ripper, who was
the most dangerous man alive; until
WWI & ****** who was the most dangerous
man alive; Al Capone was the most
dangerous man alive, until Hoover,
who was the most dangerous man
alive; Malcolm X was the most dangerous
man alive, until the AK47 & AR-15; now we
can all be the most dangerous person alive;
but human beings have always been the
most dangerous species on earth;
the nuclear bomb was the most dangerous
thing on earth until climate change; now
the earth itself is the most dangerous thing
on earth
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
It was a week of miracles
Christmas til New Year's Day
WWI was put on hold
And Peace had final say!
There they were in trenches
Only feet apart
German soldiers lifted song
Then the Brits would start
Singing Christmas carols
They lit candles for to light
The faces of the warriors
Who wished to
End war's night
One by one they exited
The trenches with hands raised
Saying, "Don't shoot!
We are unarmed!"
Then more & more... unfazed!
The shook hands,
Told Christmas tales
As every soldier sang!
They knew it was a miracle
And their laughter rang!
And so for a wondrous week
They shared this hearty mirth
It's a tale of greatest hope...
*Goodwill and Peace on Earth!*
SøułSurvivør
12/26/2017
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 3:19 AM UTC
The maple was neither proud nor noble.
No more than a buck in the cross-hairs.
Chance is out with certainty.
The tree is pieced out,
Like fingers in a cigar clip gangster clip;
Or a gangerous WWI leg.
The sound the tree once made
By catching the passing wind,
Falls to the ground,
Never reaching the roots.
The cutters are as sure as orthopedic scalpels.
They notch limbs that give the final thump.
A sound I dread.
And yet the most pleasant irony
Is the chipper.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
VC
CV
CCTV
STD
STI
FYI
DTF
EFTS
FTW
***
WHO
WOW
POW
WWI
WWII
WTH
TTPA
HTTP
TOFTB
OTP
SMH
IMHO
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 7:20 AM UTC
How can we do it?
We line all our men up in straight lines
we make them walk through three foot of mud and mines
towards positioned machine guns through fields off lead.
How many men can we **** in four and a quarter years?
Ready steady go!
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
my dearest poetry world of poets,
did you know there are anti feminists out there
who hate women who moan and ***** about their good men?
Did you know there are German supporters
who cry for the shed blood
after WWI.
Germans massacred by armies
bodies melting in the asphalt.
Horrors certainly.
Death of all men,
except those who should die.
Loss of value of all men,
women should love their men more.
I sit in the dark on these issues,
until just recently.
The illumination burst in my eyes,
I was shone the annihilation.
Yes, men die, they are whipped by the tongue of the woman,
they are wasted and not cared for in a manner suited by men.
Men have a life, so much so, we may not play a role in the show.
We may not fit their needs,
and so to the slush pile with us we go.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
Two Men
Two Sides
One Goal
Protect Home
Screams Heard
Tears Falling
Men Dying
Flags Waving
The Trenches
Bombs Exploding
Two Men
Have Courage
Venturing Across
No-Man's Land
Meeting in
the middle
To save
The
Creature
In need
Walking Back
Resuming War
Their Treaty
Soon Forgotten
By All
But The
Two Men
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 5:39 PM UTC
I went to a
WWI museum today
And as I looked at the
poorly built trenches
and the weapons used
and the gas rising from the ground
and the ships sunk and planes shot down
and the foot shortages and blockades
and the unimaginably high numbers
of the deaths of soldiers and civilians
my stomach twisted and turned
and I realized how terrified I was
of another war
and how every step our country takes
leads us ever closer to one
and how I don’t want another flower
to become a symbol of war
like the poppies that surround
cross-shaped graves
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC
29-03-2020 23:49
Seven hundred kilometre away from my home,
Constant depressing news each morning,
I in this solitary city of Delhi speculate for the future.
I now feel what it meant to be free,
And what freedom meant for those who were enslaved for thousand years,
And why they fought ****** wars to get it.
It was all bestowed on me and now I realize.
Staying home all day by one's own volition
Is not similar to being ordered to stay home.
But why I complain about the necessity.
When Socrates was asked, "What does a man learn in his life?"
He replied, "Complaining, Glaucon."
I don't know when all of this will subside
What and who will be spared to read this, like I used to read
All the ****** wars in history-
WWI and WWII, recessions, depression.
Now I feel the psyche of people after WWII
And why Existential Philosophy evolved from it.
Going out to buy essentials is like walking on a tight rope
only a touch here and there and you will fall in the abyss.
Yesterday, I heard the news, a man locked for two days came
running down the street naked and bit a woman to death.
Will our psyche be affected by it?
What changes these days will breed in us?
The exodus of migrants are walking back to home amid lockdown
and walking not for 20-30km but 200-600km.
The fear not only of dying with the disease but of hunger, malnutrition is looming in the remote villages.
Turn your neck whichever way,
the talks of this disease everywhere.
How did the dark ages fight the plague?
A few weeks ago, reading the plays of Shakespeare,
I read in the introduction
Theatres were closed for two years because of Black death.
How trivial it looked to me reading from the distance of five hundred years.
But now when I see the cinema, parks, roads, rails, airways, closed in my own world-- I feel the magnitude of loss.
Have we really progressed?
Will the future generations will read this the same way I did?
Yes, Distance dampens the magnitude.
It's pretty late now, perhaps I should sleep now.
This quote
of Whitman is ringing in my head--
"How all times mischoose the objects of their adulation and re-
ward,
And how the same inexorable price must still be paid for the same
great purchase."
Good Night!
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 3:07 PM UTC
and the difference between
a higher tier whiskey
and a lower tier whiskey?
higher tier: pale amber...
lower tier:
tickling caramel bourbon...
and yes:
i like my alcohol with
a story of its own,
one of exploring
the palette...
yes... glen moray:
there's certainly
butter-scotch in it...
but the lemongrass?
not with every glass,
which is why
i find connoisseurs
suspect...
not from one
glass,
and certainly not
from a sniffing around...
unlike *****
drank properly:
shoved into a freezer
and then drank
smoothly like
a gômme syrop...
whiskey:
the profanity of
sipping it straight...
or mixing it like
some British WWI
colonel
with some soda water...
on ice...
one minute delay...
culls the bite
of any excess Smokey
Fitzpaddy left...
neck on the guillotine!
oh but i have drank
to the brain-drain
body numbing
stages of youth's exploits...
famously
Edinburgh's snakebite:
half a cider, half a lagger
topped with blackcurrant
concentrate...
what?! not lagger?
what then... lager,
i.e. lay-ger?
digger not dye-ger
of diger?
no via
no why as to why:
it's dein-ger
for danger
and hop-hop for
the dagger of Brutus?
et tu: tutti ******* frutti...
hop-hop:
Easter bunny softy,
as i...
et tu:
as an epitaph with
no grave...
and however
many maxims...
said puppet in
the fiddly tongue-tied
aspect of death's
philosopher stone:
the Hindu wild-eyed
traffic of reincarnation...
epitaph contra
maxims:
life's load
and a foot dent
on the earth like:
the one that they won't
take a photograph
of: as they did
of the one on the moon...
pointless going
to Mars...
not taking random
earth objects
to the moon...
to see:
funny-whacky
gravity do don't:
sample some
clock-ticking
on the father
to the daughters of
the tides,
the rains...
and all:
and they minded
the egoist...
while they shoved
the whole universe
in their minds with
cthulhu receptors:
and...
well... it wasn't exactly
1990s television static...
or... what the sight
of Belzeebub looks like...
the whole lagger
not lager "debate"?
i don't even want to bring
diacritical marks into
this...
and i won't!
first prize: silver sputnik
of brunswick...
now all i'm missing
is a banjo... and a toothpick...
as ever this medium:
concentrates upon the motto:
sequor lepus albus.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 8:19 PM UTC