Mamella called her flying army to her side
they came in the form of twenty crows
we are taking out the trash, she said with pride
ready to tear people apart, as everyone knows
the rest of us hid inside
Raggedy Army
As morning bathes in spring sunshine
A raggedy army stands in line.
Unkempt and ragtag, oddly sized,
Unarranged, disorganised.
Red, a splash among the grey
A new parade at dawn each day.
Some heads drooping, some held high,
A handful gazing at the sky.
Fresh and bright to start the morning,
Most won’t see a new day’s dawning.
In summer’s heat, the same routine -
A new head where an old had been.
In autumn’s fading dying light
A hardy few keep up the fight.
But then to hide in winter’s snow,
Till spring’s warmth says it’s time to show.
And bursting forth and standing proud,
Though scattered, battered, thrashed and ploughed
The raggedy army stands again
Eternal homage to fallen men.
A time,
that we celebrate two hundred fifty years
A time,
filled, with sweat, shed blood, and tears.
A time,
when many answered their country’s call.
A time,
when many, were required to give their all
A time,
when many were called to fight in foreign wars
A time,
for beach landings on some far away shores
A time,
that I see “an arouse my memory” parade
A time,
for remembering the price many have paid.
The silence here is not of peace—
It hums like blood beneath the skin,
A hollow hush that will not cease,
A quiet carved from what has been.
No birds, no breeze. Just broken ground,
And boots that whisper through the dust.
Even echoes fear this sound,
Where dreams break and memories rust.
I used to hear the laughter loud,
My brother's voice, a cigarette spark—
Now silence wears a heavy shroud
And wraps the camp when it turns dark.
It tastes like ash, this voiceless night,
Like letters burnt and prayers gone still.
The stars don't speak. They watch in spite,
And silence marches, cold and shrill.
**********
********** o n a i r l a n d a n d s e a
**********
********** w e n t to w a r a n d g a v e t h e i r l i v e s ~
**********
t h e y f o u g h t f o r f r e e d o m
salvation army
she wore purple because she liked it.
hanging stiffly on the store rack,
yellow goodwill tag with smudged blue ink,
was it a three or five?
she argued for three, willing to pay five, she did.
her breasts had followed the alphabet
from a to b to c to d
and settled back on c
after some of the air had escaped her life
and left her haggling over purple dresses.
somehow salvation was unreachable
and the army refused to go home,
but she had purple swatches to mend the holes
and fingertips that blended too well
with gunnysack purple and bruised memories.
she remembered life in yellows and orange
bright colors that worshipped the sun.
but that was when she dreamed while still awake
and wished without a penny.
purple happens to life.
and it did.
tolbert
They all wanted to be
“Real men”
So off into the cruel seas they go
In a big scrap of metal..
Might as well be going to their coffins..
And so they did, i never saw them again..
And when i think of them,
all i can see is the pain and
suffering they had been experiencing
I wanted to be a real man too.
So off into the fields of sand I go..
The skies were a dark indigo.
And i look down at the ground below
My feet
And I see
A small blue forget me not..
Lying dead on the sand..
And then I too, lie on the sand..
I have fought wars in my head
And wars with my gun
I have buried my friends
Because they wanted to be
“Real men”
Forget me not solider.
For i am your dearest friend
Okay I now understood what they meant by the school
academy
the uniform is a brotherhood
of man,
tis the gun is yet unknown but only for a little a thing,
little a thing.
How often in our town we often might have thought
this is a kind of cinema or video or news
this is something powerful and fine.
Once it is said let find a school , let do it, and let it be
true for the uniform it admire
and for the uniform is something.
Okay, the world was once a small house that now
is growing, Okay twenty years now passed by- fresh
- and tender.
What does it mean is for-to- concerning this kind of
thinking of school academy?.
At the Spitfire factory love was found
Not long before off to war I was bound
To do my duty to God and all those
Whose lives were dreadfully threatened by foes.
I joined the army, though aptly afraid
Meeting up with a brave band of comrades
There I trained to become an engineer
Fixing motors, an army gadgeteer.
It was horrific in the mist of war
Sounds of bombs exploding, gunshots galore
Sleep didn't come comfy, the nights were unkind
Missing home and the love I'd left behind.
We were married when I came home on leave
Soon some sensational news I received
Our first, and only child was on the way
Joy filled my heart on that historic day.
War ended, our family was complete
I held the son I'd been longing to meet
From that day on life was pure utter joy
For me, my wife and our bonnie young boy.
* * *
Walter Edmonds
What they don’t tell You
What the recruiters tell you:
“Be all you can be.”
“An Army of one.”
“Fly high with the Air Force.”
“Join the Navy and see the world.”
“Be the best. Be a Marine.”
“Join the National Guard and get an education and keep your job.”
Things recruiters leave out:
Watching your friend(s) go home in body bag(s).
The dirt and sweat.
C rations, K rations, MRE’s.
PTSD, suicides, drug addiction.
Limbs lost. Traumatic brain injury.
Bloated, decomposing corpses.
Dead men, women and children.
Fear so intense you soil yourself.
Lice, sand, dust, cold, heat.
The stench of death.
Families torn apart.
Long road to rehab or death whichever comes first.
In crisp fall air, a crowd's joyful football roar
Trump stands with a smile, a leader to adore
With banners flying Army, Navy-- the rivalry's fierce
A moment in time, where spirit won't cease
© daniel miltz
Awesome to see the 47th President.
And, soon to be, our new, White House Resident!
Being welcomed, warmly at this game,
Number 47…..elected by popular fame.
The USA chose him to run this nation free.
No longer an ugly weaponinzation tree!
War makers who sucked this nation dry.
Better go find another fish to fry.
No wonder Joy Reid shaved her head.
And smarmy,Don Lemon’s career is about dead!
Joe and Mika, please, go cry in your beer.
Endless negativity and lies, ends in our cheers!
12/14/2024
Merry Christmas
Happy Chanukah
America's bulwark, strong and true,
Resolved to defend, the red, white, and blue.
Mighty warriors, brave and bold,
Years of service, stories paroled.
Since '75, a nation's might,
On fields of battle, day and night.
Loyalty and honor, their guiding star,
Defending freedom, near and far.
In every conflict, they stand tall,
Embracing duty, answering freedom's call.
Ready to fight, for liberty's flame,
Sacrifice and courage, their noble name.
All through history, their valor known,
Rising to challenges, never alone.
Modern heroes, with hearts of steel,
Yearning to shield, the public's zeal.
Onward they march, with purpose and pride,
Fighting for justice, on every tide.
The Army's strength, a powerful force,
Heroes among us, taking their course.
Every soldier, a testament to might,
Unity and valor, shining bright.
Serving with honor, a legacy grand,
All across the land, a helping hand.
Alone I drift, a vagabond psuche, haunted by daughter's lifeblood and husband's self-exploded mind, a diseased landscape. Frantic fingers dance on the page as I conjure reason's faint glow, a desperate chainsaw whirring solace in the abyss. Bloodlust welts of fury scorch the script, a deranged catechism of hedonistic, as I shriek into the fray, my frame a torched earth, solar barren and bereft. Scum-ridden silver glares back, mocking reflections of futility, as I seethe venomous disgust, a reckoning’s reckoning, spewing forth vitriol to corrode the granite complacency. Specters of forgotten faces fragment, a ghastly kaleidoscope of doctored truths, as I screech at the echoing of a hollow existence, a funeral dirge for the self that never was. And smile at the reflection of who I am supposed to be, single-mother-effer's manifesto, don’t effing question she, you don’t have the piano fingers to come near my grace on the keys, I tie cherries with my tongue, have your berries blue by morn, my hands are a whole different story.
Sometimes I amaze even me — this is poetry!!
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