Soldier Age Poems

THE EVER DWINDLING FEW
				      At Juno Beach

At Juno Beach an old man stands and limps down  to the shore,
Where...

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an actor he was typecast

a soldier hit by a blast

but as of right now

he milks a sad cow

farming a dramatic past.
...

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The soldier retires
Seating at home,
Remembering how he fired 
His friends even foes

Friends come to greet
Happy they are 
But sad he's,even the sun hiss
Bloodshed,remembering how it...

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Tik tok goes the clock
With each set of time
Her energetic vibrant being
turns frail
She who i'll never call by her name

In retrospect,she raged
Against this decadent diabolical...

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What?

You think you’re f’king right?

You think that flag you’re fighting for makes this  f’king tight?

He’s dying.

He’s not more than a f’king child.

And yes I’m...

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The beach has slowly eroded
Waves breaking further away
Creeping closer

The sand’s remaining grains
Tease my fragile fingers
Taunting the distance

Time’s tide rolls slowly
Chasing a sand crab
Looking for me

Swirling...

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Was this a bold  endeavour or worst-case high risk plot?
 In one sense I was caught between two poles apart  concerns.
One must never...

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old soldier
tells war stories
some true...

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We held a lady in our arms
She was the highest in the land
We felt her cloth against our cheek
Her closeness in our hand.

We held that...

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Oh Mondseer: the muck cob brie muenster saga..., 
which I can prov-olone huck curd 
(within Trump con feta ration) – as cheesy poem!

Yea of course...

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T'was in the 1960s in South Africa. There was a brand of sweets that fascinated us young ones. Inside the pocket of sweets were toys...

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Wrestling with impasse to contentment

Dispense sing with fidelity blithely agog
just me and mine dark shadow 
slinking along the edge of night doth blog
passivity, the path...

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Once a Christmas 

The sun was blood red looked like a big wound
on the flank of an elephant shot by poachers.
Dripped blood on white, wholly...

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What do I call that young coquette? 
My shadow self; my silhouette.
Those clothes, that hair, a cigarette.
The joie de vivre; the vain regret.
What sort of...

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Trained to kill.
Trained to see a human as a thing
A walking target.
A bullet from an assault rifle does not distinguish between anyone or anything.

Trained to...

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