Best Bayonets Poems
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
I do not flatter egos
With glitz and glamor of words while the obscene
Condition of people's lives tell
In front of our eyes there is an invisible hell
I want this poem to be a soldier then
Searching and killing in human hearts
The terrorist poverty that cankers men
I want this poem to be a social worker
Bringing the homeless into the shelter
Of the love of men, I want this poem
To be like Jesus doling bread famished mouths
I want this poem to be a healer mending
The broken health of citizens
Forgotten by a narrow minded wealth
Of technology in earth's richest country
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
My language is not a party
For intellectuals looking for new leaves
Meaning, this is not a ball
Of words for socialites and celebrities
And I do not want to read again
Poets lost in private pain
Unless their pain connect as a metaphors
For the suffering of the world
If poems do not have compassion
They should cause compassion
And then as one army
Let us march to right history
And voice the cause of the downtrodden
The oppressed, depress
The wretched of the earth, distress
The lonely, broken, forgotten
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
I am poet of the people, the people's poet
A poet's words are bombs, missiles, bayonets
Do not read these poem
Holding my words too close to your eyes
We read about the slaughter in a place far overseas,
where the multicultural blending has been there for centuries.
Where church of all denominations have been standing side by side.
Where neighbours have been neighbourly; respect seemed to abide.
Seems that politics and power can infiltrate a settled mind;
dig up and open wounds of what is yours and what is mine,
take citizens back into time and drag out all their roots …
be wary of your ogre neighbour, they have a gun that shoots.
Begin to see those simple folk who lived their simple lives,
follow restlessly and blindly as belief or race revives,
those that helped them yesterday really had a cunning plan,
all they really wanted was, to find a way to cut you down.
Throw them all out on the streets; run them out of town.
Ethnic cleanse the country to make it pure and sound.
If they refuse to leave our home and opt to make a stand -
build a force of vigilantes, to roam and cut them down.
What started as a trickle soon turns into a flood.
The cup that fills with honey can also be filled with blood.
The taste that once was bitter now is the taste that's lusted for,
when seeking out the enclaves to go killing more and more.
A house, once a home of peace stands a shattered monument,
to let the remnants hanging on know what to expect.
Heads displayed on pikes are cheered; graves hold hundreds more.
Babes are sport for bayonets; forgot is what we're fighting for.
Can't live side by side now; there's too much terror going on.
Battle lines are clearer; the sane have taken leave and gone.
Cannons roaring day and night; lines must stand holding fast.
For anyone that's over-run, that day becomes their last.
When the dust has settled and the criminals are hung,
Hate subsides back to the memory; the clean-up has begun.
Do we realize as bloodstains fade; we have a deep rooted call …
needing one spark to set us off - there could be murder in us all.
Winter be but two weeks old and already they lament.
No passion seems as strong as their loudest prayer for spring.
Spring will come when it will and wake the grasses and willow.
Let Natures brief time of slumber last long enough to rest her.
The winter be time for beauty to be found on ice etched panes,
And bayonets of glass, hanging from every eave to be seen.
Winter be found in crystalline air so pure only heroes inhale it.
And footsteps crunch like breaking luttuce upon the snowy ground.
Beyond winter times will speed and rush their way forward.
Spring then Summer and Autumn sprinting to their ultimate ends.
Let winter luff her way on tiny frozen feet while fire warms yours.
Add another log and settle in for a long nap and a dream.
Pock marked
Bert was cooking in a bucket,
Knew his hide at any rate
Pock marks on his thighs an biceps,
Shot that day by a sniper, mate,
Sniper chopped by Aussie Bren gun,
Fell from palm in many pieces,
Driven back by charging soldiers,
Jonno’s mates were ‘ridge e didge’,
Next day they drove off the Japanese,
Checked the cooking pots for tucker,
Fermenting rice, not much chop,
Starving Jap’s, not any luckier,
Two armies starved, no tucker,
in these green mountains, grim,
slaughter at point blank range,
shoot first boy, or get done in,
Evidence at the war crime hearing,
Jonno and the Doctor gave,
Several cases were reported,
Of Kokoda’s missing brave’s.
Don Johnson…true story…16-aug-11
This Aussie war in New Guinea, was concurrent
with Gaudacanal's desperate U.S.fight with around 20,000 Japanese
...We only had 13,000 armed Japanese bent on coming over Kokoda
mountains, and then on to Australia, they had the Japanese
10 shilling note occupation money in their pockets. The Japanese
say they were ordered back over the mountains to Gona and Buna,
it saves face hey. The reality was they were dying slowly from starvation,
malaria 2 types, plus Dengue fever was killing many,
and the 2500 fresh Aussie blooded veterans drove them back
from Irobiawa mountain top with fixed bayonets.
After a day or so of our 25 pounders blasting them. Time to leave.
...He reformed the routing patriots,
formed a line atop a rise, Perrine’s Hill,
brought in General Knox and the artillery,
commanding the mass through sheer force of will.
He needed to buy time for the main force
to march on and join up in the battle,
the British kept coming, soon to attack,
convinced they still had the patriots rattled.
Before in battle the Redcoats just had
to flash their bayonets in the bright sun,
that was enough to scare Continentals
and assure them the battle was won.
But they were no longer facing such men,
the Americans had learned Europe’s game,
they did not flee at the sight of steel,
gave hard volleys once the foe was in range.
Britain’s field commander, General Cornwallis,
made several attacks to break up the line,
only to run into fire and rage,
with his Redcoats turned back every time.
They he tried to turn Washington’s left flank,
the boldest maneuver of the fight yet,
but the main force had come, and pushed forwards,
striking hard under young Lafayette.
Seeing there would be no quick victory
the British withdrew there forces back,
both armies in defensive positions,
the fight would become a long slugging match.
Soldiers hunkered down as across the fields
artillery thundered and cut loose,
both sides trying to break up the other,
their foe’s ranks they sought hard to reduce.
The heat was such that many of the men,
suffered and even died from heat stroke!
One man passed out and his wife manned his gun,
fighting on alongside all the blokes.
Then Washington sent Nathaniel Green
with artillery up towards Comb’s Hill,
a high position on the British left,
from which the guns could enfilade and kill.
The British saw their hopeless position,
and quickly began an ordered retreat,
marching north towards Clinton’s main force,
having blown their opportunity.
Washington saw his enemy leaving,
and sent Mad Anthony Wayne forward,
to harangue the British as they marched off,
cutting down men despite their good order.
And through the battle ended as a draw,
for the nation it was victory,
they’d kept the field in an open battle,
and matched the Redcoats in soldiery.
This changed the calculus of the whole war,
all knew battles would be more costly now,
England would no longer campaign in the north,
hoping for easier prey down south…
The sky screams,
air is thick.
Seconds like days,
years 'tween each tick.
Tit for tat the raptors dance.
Each step wounds, talons like bayonets.
Earth below quakes at each traded blow.
Foundations shaken by spat of foes.
Frosted, frozen, clad in ice.
The world stands still, fear the vice.
The center may boil, but winter-wrapped still
She cannot reach out, no pow'r to stop the kill.
Alas, Earth stands back and wills done be the fray.
Final thundering shrill shrieks, 'tis gone for today.
The scars still remain,
Unbeknownst to they that tread.
Earth still feels the pain,
Still feels gelid winter's dread.
Blasphemy
Blatantly ephemeral or plain outright naughty and lustful
Praying for beauty in the eye of beholding passionate Gods
Angles and half dome shaped wishes curve balls and all
~ Those who write by the sword are judged by the Lord ~
Thanatos and Libido a close shave of mounds of Vesuvius
The Vatican going up in one shattering search of its smoke
Church towers like phalli or bayonets decree choice in the matter
~ Trust thy neighbor in her cove’s coveted olives and mangos go forth
Veiled femme fatals embrace their shadows cover the flame
The Muezzin shouts from his minaret calls for service and love
Lingerie adorned by copula’s cusp bosomed for nibbles
~ Wet shirt competition in the heat of the spiritual moment ~
An elegant elephant with trumpeting trunks moaning and groaning
Free flowing love on the banks of the Ganges under cloth of the loin
Where Hindu meets Buddha on sheets and streets of Kolkata
~ Begging for mercy as wars of religions and nations battle in vain ~
Crosses to bear half moons to envisage and Karma to please
One woman’s humid humour is another man’s satirical crime
Whose God is to command me what is right and what thong
~ But once the bloody atheist kneels on the altar faith is restored ~
03rd May
Glistening bayonets, buried deep in the sand,
while atop the helmet crowns their lives;
They died alone on this foreign dirt,
while back home a mother cries.
Bloody Dog Tags and a folded flag,
awarded to parents torn in two;
Tears crash down on the coffin door,
as a father cries, "I'm so very proud of you".
For God and country and liberty,
so their children can live in peace;
For brothers in arms fighting along side them,
no greater love hath these.
So cherish your children while you can,
and pray for them on your knees;
For they too may travel off one day,
To die for you and me...
BERSHEBA BATTLE W.W.1
Horses sensed the coming battle,
Heard sabres rattling to be free.
Fed a nose bag of oats, and the rattle,
Of bayonets on the rifles, old Brumby
Off they are now, at a good trot.
Lining up for the Turks to see,
Held in check bridles curbed, or not,
Cantered, galloped now recklessly.
Galloping over the open ground
Yelling cursing so merrily
In amongst the Turks they bound
Slashing shooting with such bravery.
So the Turkish trench is now taken
Old horse got a drink this you see
Droving job with prisoners a making
Charge of the light brigade with me
Don Johnson
Oats for strength and spirit with a horse,
do you ride well enough to try it...
Scribe Under Fire
The wall had been there for an eternity
closing gaps of time and sacred places
field stones memories and gentle caress
Hans could not write any longer any
shorter it was too loud and far too quiet
the truth did not escape the lonely
fortress of sheltered dreams’ betrayal
He had lost a touch of his mind and a hand
already in previous senseless exchanges
luckily he was born tough and left handed
before right became wrong and left was a crime
When the trenches had become thicker
with blood bodies sticky bayonets guts
gore debatable glory and forlorn medals
Hans wrote from the depth of soul and despair
Hell bombs grenades shrapnel and agony
enacted a torrid cacophony of fire and noise
his nostrils became scorched while his ears
refused to hear and to listen any much longer
Scribbling poetry on the back of cigarette packets
his molten fountain pen fused with his mind
and he fought for his life his sanity and one
terminal act of kindness morale and advice
Hans could not release even one more shot from the
gun dangling from overburdened shoulders but
the sergeant shouted ‘attack you wretched coward
for King and for country for honour and sweet victory’
It had been a modern war and someone must have
known about shell shock or post traumatic disorder
but when they executed him with clean merciless shots
from a nameless firing squad because it was not for refusal
But for spreading fake news about the beauty of war for
sabotaging innocent minds of future generations for
soldiering with a mighty pen and not with a glittering
sword so he was shot at the wall for writing and not fighting
September 2018
The night sings outside
or what's left of it as the sun
stretches and yawns, hits snooze,
it's blue out. My eyes burn and
no one has spoken in hours.
But the quiet is punctuated
by periods of pointed silence, like
bayonets on the end of a rifle.
Means to an end.
Slouch Hat
When you see the hat or hear the tune so fair,
you'll know what its about.
The old "Slouch hat" that our Digger's wear,
and the "Waltzing Matilda" no doubt.
Yes we have some pride in what we've done,
of the convict blood in this race.
We'll never be happy unless we've won,
to lose is a big disgrace.
Whenever asked, well we've been there,
to aid our friends in a War.
Our boys they've died, yes died with flair,
since the Breaker fought the Boer.
Well now we're multicultural, mixed, all sorts,
but all Aussies any rate.
New Aussies can be good at sports,
so say "Good on you mate."
It doesn't matter how smart you are,
don't try politics, be a clown.
You can be very popular,
till the newsmen pull you down.
Character assassination is their trade,
they cut tall poppies short.
Brainwashing by the sentence made,
they got Bondy didn't they sport?
When you see our Diggers on a farewell parade,
all races so proudly march there .
And the Waltzing Matilda so loudly is played,
it picks up your feet with its flair.
The Bayonets are fixed and Sabres displayed
for the Diggers its walking on air.
They're off to do battle with the tools of their trade,
the young and the brave proudly there.
by D H Johnson.
________________________________________
We are all equal, though they say you lad
who do they think they are they're not my dad,
on battle fields we live or die the same
fight for king and country that's why we came
being just fifteen makes no difference
able to shoot and fight only makes sense,
hungry, cold, lousy, I write a letter
to my mother, try not to upset her,
I do not record horror of warfare
or how my superiors do not care,
fix bayonets, our Sergeant yelled out loud
heard a whistle blow so followed the crowd,
those big tough men dropped down lifeless, like flies
sounds so loud though can not drown out their cries,
then shell carrying my number 7
sending me from this hell straight to heaven,
to the memorial now mother goes
to read my name, so much sorrow she shows,
she now knows the truth warfare is awful
Don't forget memories are immortal.
24/02/2017.
With magnetic fascination
akin to domestication
I connect with Ms. Rabbit’s dawn.
Four babies she’s laid in my lawn.
Provoked by supernal emotion
stirred by a sense of procreation
I cancel lawn fertilizer.
Grass cutter? I will advise her.
Unparalleled admiration
drives my kids to affirmation.
They promise to protect new pets
no bikes, baseballs or bayonets.
Deeply compelled, preservation
builds a hutch in exaltation.
Field glasses from my window pane
track nature’s risks: sun, wind and rain.
July 6, 2019
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for contest FINETUNE THIS, A COLLABORATION sponsored by Line Gauthier
AFFINITY WITH NATURE
by Line Gauthier
Magnetic fascination
Kin to emancipation
A connection internal
Stirs emotions supernal
Nature is unparalleled
Provokes intoxication
As we feel deeply compelled
To exalt admiration
Cannons are filled with gunpowder-
dozens of cannon balls sorround them;
men's muskets are cocked,
and bayonets firmly fixed against their mouths;
the ship furiously sails forward, leaving behind
terrace-shaped ripples on both sides.
Captain Redbeard is not taking any chances
in capturing the treasure map that leads
to the City of Gold.
British men-of-war are a few miles away;
the English Queen is ready for war
in South America.....