Best Bayonet Poems
On a battlefield so far away,
those marching soldiers never play,
all scanning the horizon,
a target in question,
freedom defender,
with their rifle,
bayonet,
combat
boots.
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.
Wilfred Gibson 'BAYONET '
__ ____ ____=================^-------
( _______ _ _ #)
(__(
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
Pikes held high,
Flags fill the sky,
Drummer boys sound the beat,
Musket men are on their feet.
White smoke swirls, ram down the ball really hard,
Pour in the gunpowder to make the charge.
Front rank kneel, back rank stand and take your aim,
On command back rank fire, then swop over with the front rank to add their shoots to the bloody mire.
The man besides you falls, his head a scarlet red,
But you just keep on firing as a new man takes his place instead.
It's time to fix your bayonet, that long sharp piece of steel,
Then walk towards the enemy without showing what you feel.
You are close enough to look the man right in the eye,
You don't know what to do, just stop and break down to cry?
But you hear the shout of your sergeant calling out,
Don't stop boys we are almost there give them a bloody clout.
I stab forward with my bayonet, aiming at a button clasp,
I feel the blade hit home, and the man lets out a long long gasp.
He sinks slowly to his knees, and drops down flat as if he is asleep,
We just keep stepping forward, I feel like I could weep.
Suddenly there is silence a deep oppressive peace,
Then you loudly hear the pleads of the wounded begging for release.
Ours is the only flag left flying now, so it seems that we have won,
But I just feel totally empty, I feel like I should run.
But we just have to get ready again,
Before the enemy reassembles and heaps on much more pain.