To the layman’s unlearned eye,
Parliment is just another cigarette
To I, the educated expert its an extension
Its a bayonet with the mouth of a
cannon
A filter’s recession made with such
adaptive intention
Dab the divot in the pile of Columbian snow
Raise it like a glass to any curious biff
Just a sniff, a bumpskie, a twitch of the nose
Fireworks in the membrane and off they go
Under the cloud of cigarette smoke, the expert walks
a road of elation for eight minutes or so
Those days have been behind me for a number of years
and no matter how often i say cocaine is an unremarkable drug
As I was a conisseur of hypnotics and downers
the memories of explosive speed and dread and fear
Yet some are so comforting, when I see a Parliment
my eye allows the escape of one yearning tear
Death standing
at attention
for a fated
reveille
Which trumpets
through
the darkest cloud
to rain down liberty
Each bayonet
he wills in place
with fearlessness
empowered
A call to arms
through hill and dale
to launch
‘His Finest Hour’
(Winston Churchill At War: December, 2025)
A nineteen-year-old boy
from Wallace
Idaho
who had, until this present time
never set foot beyond the city limits
or had a drink,
or kissed a girl;
stood in a sunlit
steamy
Asian field
and plunged his bayonet
deep into the heart
of a fellow human being.
Because he was asked to,
told to,
forced to,
pressured to.
The boy would later
step gently
on to a landmine
eviscerating
the lower half of his body;
and as his intestines
spilled onto the foreign land,
his lingering glazing eyes
stared
questioningly
into the slowly dimming light.
For the very briefest moment in time
two peoples were told to hate
to kill
as others had before
as others will do again.
The day is solemn
time to reflect
a thankfulness for sacrifice
Flags placed to honor
Names carved on stone
Dates of lives gone
Grace and silent prayers
No need for spoken words
shed a few tears
White crosses far to many
numbering those lost
who gain us this day of remembrance
The Quiet screams louder than a thousand bombs
rapid screech of gun fire
explosion of a grenade
the agony cry of a bayonet piercing life
hand to hand combat as the knife stabs through the heart
the dead lying silent on a bloody battlefield
Deafening sound of war.
We are here for the few that go
our way of life lives by the lost of their souls
we speak through their silence
Scripture read, prayer said, Taps bugle calls
tears flow
The Quiet.
Sleep deprived awake in sweats
And sleeping by a bayonet
I feed the guy then lay in bed
If the beast I like don't take his meds
He's creeping by my blanket step-pin
Discreet then hides and raise his head
Might see the light embrace the end
Get eaten by my favorite pet
Wilfred Gibson 'BAYONET '
__ ____ ____=================^-------
( _______ _ _ #)
(__(
snow is melting and the forest is thawing
and birds are singing a symphony as I walk a snowy path
where snow and withered leaves mingle
and the clouds sail across the sky
I come to a clearing and stand
spinning still in the decay of winter and threads of spring
I see the primrose snowdrops growing
like nature's spring kisses
and the buds of blue bells almost ready
soon, there will be a sea of blue in the clearing
here and there are grass shoots
like tiny bayonet blades pointed to the sun
and among the undergrowth is the green of ferns unfurling
on a fallen tree tender moss is growing
and a brown squirrel is watching me
our eyes meet in silent peace as he eats snow and new moss
it is one of those magic moments to keep within
soon, this winter ravaged clearing
will come alive with green and wildflowers
for the sun is pouring through the trees
___________________________
February 17, 2023
Poetry/Free Verse/Thawing Forest Clearing
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1525-054-17
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Your Option Again
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 02/27/2023
Long bayonet, blood channel
Breaks suction to pull loose
After the thrust and twist so it is
Quickly ready for its next use.
Lovingly polished, honed and whet
Of finest steel, Sheffield made
A thing of beauty
This thirsty blade.
Seeming to quiver in the hand
As though anticipating his thrill
As he patiently waits for
The chance of his next kill.
Clothed all in black
With blackened face
Standing motionless
In his chosen place.
The watchers watch, monitor
His dreams, read his despair
The experiment conducted
With precision and great care.
Probing deeply in his mind
To discover why
He gets such pleasure from
Watching others die.
This tormented man
Creation of warring state
Trained to kill without
Remorse or hate.
Nobody prepared
To take their blame
For what he did
In their cause and name.
The probes record
His remembered hell
Tick, quiver, in his brain
As he sleeps in his cell
In his mind ready to thrust
And twist his bayonet blade
Long and shining and sharp,
Stainless Sheffield steel made.
when the soldiers returned
after winning the battle
none of us found it strange
the fact that in their faces
there was not a semblance of peace
we know the anguish
by violating your own convictions
hurts more than the bayonet
that's why these young people
who should be exulting with joy
carry on their shoulders
the weight of an unparalleled sadness
They Had No Choice
Go chase them from their dugouts,
Go chase them from their trench,
bayonet all their Look outs,
ignore their dead’s foul stench.
Tomorrow you go over,
The top, that is my lads,
and there is very little chance,
of your return from France.
The rattle of machine guns,
displace a man with space,
That space, is Soon refilled,
with another of his race.
'No man's Land,' is where they die,
their bodies all strewn around like chaff,
with eyes unblinking, to the sky,
Never again to smile or laugh.
This was the war ,to end all wars,
Well that hope now lies buried,,
Man cannot close, hell's gaping doors,
his hope of peace, a losing cause.
It is not the dead that answer ,
When you ask the question why,
But they showed us by example,
How to live and how to die.
Their lives they gave, for freedom’s sake,
To save Our heritage , their dream,
To remember them all, is the pledge we make,
Our debt their sacrifice, to redeem..
Mother, I just put a bayonet in someone's heart and
found it warm with love, his last words were
goodbye brother, god have mercy on you.
I let the last touch of his hand on my heart,
gentle like the breeze of the night, and rested.
I bowed to him and held up my head to the sky
crying and saw the angles carrying him with their wings, singing
remember love and pain merge in songs.
What a moment, how beautiful the spectacle that was
rudely interrupted by the bullet piercing my skull.
Arms, legs,
fists, feet,
beating chests;
teeth meet.
Stones, bones,
sharp-honed tusks,
poisoned darts;
obsidian clubs.
Slings, arrows,
outrageous bows,
black-edged flints;
sharp-pointed swords.
Red-glare rockets,
gold knightly spears,
squat-humped cannons;
trebuchets.
Muskets, pistols,
bayonet rifles,
spitting Maxims;
Tommy guns.
Gray battleships,
deep submarines,
articulated tanks;
V-ones, V-twos.
Experimental Zeppelins,
jet-fighter planes,
flying forts;
atomic bombs.
Poison gas,
Laser rays,
will it ever end;
the race?
Battalion column coup de grace;
It’s what was planned, but didn’t work that way.
We’ve bled all our embarrassments
At bayonet point and now must cede the day.
God damn the blasted cavalry;
They’ve left this muddy field a bloody pool.
All hell for the artillery;
I’d like to face one gunner in a duel.
It’s over, done and finished with.
The very best withdraw in disarray.
La Garde reculé.
crowded poppy field cover the trenches
red crowns hide bone meal and sculls
abundance disfigures the pain
and yet Field Marshall and Tambourine Major
demand endless encores
as if another take would enhance the applause
while puppets on war strings scatter engraved
on tombstones and grief devastated and soulless
march on and paint the white flag with blood
because innocence is not for the fainthearted
honour and glory will grant you a medal
for posterity to cherish instead of your smile
the markets will take stock and wrap human remains
in balance sheets for you are merely
a number on ledgers and history’s accounts
a fallen hero on somebody else’s sword
25th March 2021
The Battlefield was alive
Rows of soldiers on either side
Flutes and drums played behind me
My brother's stood beside me
The bright sun challenge my sight
Hearts racing ready to fight
Bayonet rests heavy on my arm
Waiting for the command to charge
Yesterday's battle scars
Irritate under my tabart
Whistle blower starts the race
Collision course at gruesome pace
Dodging arrows and spearheads
I fell over the fallen dead
Face down I have a choice to make
Continue the fight or make death fake
I took a deep breath and jumped up
Taking part in the punch up
When the Director shouted "cut, that's a wrap"
Tomorrow's scence is about a booby trap
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