Best Body Bags Poems
He was my sun, my one and only son,
attired as a cowboy for the day.
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.
Attired as a cowboy for the day
he searched for foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play
the part of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade.
He searched for foes (with bows and arrows made)
well written in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
Well writ in history books before he left from school,
the tales (retold of victories that we’d won)
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
The flow of paint was not to staunch when once begun.
From tales retold of victories that we’d won,
he learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the flow of pain, ’twas not to staunch when once begun
and bane to both sides (as he’d later come to know).
He learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the wounds of war were kept unseen (while nigh)
and bane to both sides (as we’d later come to know);
but still he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye.
The wounds of war were kept unseen. While nigh,
the hours boomed, the clock struck 12 at last, his time to leave.
But, still, he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye
to those who’d stay and even those who wouldn’t grieve.
The hours boomed, the clock struck 12 - alas, his time to leave.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died
to those who’d stayed. And even those who wouldn’t grieve
with tears were stiff and masked like wooden boxes meant to hide.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died;
his boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud.
With tears, the stiff were masked in wooden boxes meant to hide
our children from the spilling of their blood.
His boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud;
they said they’d needed him to help defend
our children from the spilling of their blood.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
They said they’d needed him to help defend,
and so they handed him a little gun.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
He was my sun, my one and only son.
Cold reality and despair lay around the corner.
Humanity's unclean sleep on its hardened edges,
holding crumpled cardboard signs, asking for money.
Those who believe themselves above it all, hurry,
to get a greater distance, as though trapped by
a predator stalking them for their lives,
and as they pass, they never look back,
fear leaves no concern.
Around this corner is a road, lined by old,
crumbling concrete, empty stores, with broken windows.
It's a hollow corner where garbage lays,
some tumbling by the passing cars,
left to stay languishing until the next car passes,
moving it further down the street.
The only building in use is occupied by a liquor store,
that has a blinking sign where only three letters work.
Happier times for this corner never was,
and will never be.
Even the poor stay away from its cold path,
leaving it to slowly decay.
Hope, there is none, only words painted on concrete walls,
that no one will ever read.
Around this corner hides death and those with body bags,
to remove them from a place where those who pass,
are above it all, detached from this world,
concerned only for their hurried lives.
As they pass some leave a couple of dollars,
dropping it into a cold whithered hand,
telling themselves they did a good thing today,
as they move through a world of despair,
around the corner.
contest Around the Corner
10/17/14
Frederic Parker
News flash
Paris attacks;
Violence strikes
~~~~~~~~~
Innocent deaths
Terror unveils;
Death delivers
~~~~~~~~~
Madness conspires
Human debris;
Bigotry unleashed
~~~~~~~~~
Evil men scheme
Distorted agendas;
Self-destruct roams
~~~~~~~~~
Good people die
Bloodbath escalates;
Terror unleashed
~~~~~~~~~
Signs of our times
Deceptive turbulence;
Mortal casualties
~~~~~~~~~
Moods swayed
Fear catapults;
Distorted means
~~~~~~~~~
Uneasy chimes
Violent crimes;
Explosive times!
~~~~~~~~~
Details of gore
News galore;
Killing fest
~~~~~~~~~
Retribution
Constitution;
Revolution
~~~~~~~~~
Sorrow sums
Deadly outcomes;
Cruelty strikes
~~~~~~~~~
Newsprint copy
Headline news;
Terror firms madness
~~~~~~~~~
Propaganda hurls
People fodder;
Bombs and bullets
~~~~~~~~~
Create if you must
Lodge your complaint;
Body bags not included!
~~~~~~~~~
Atrocities
Exclusive news;
Pain sells well
~~~~~~~~~
Face to face
Terror redecorates;
Body debris trophies
~~~~~~~~~
Why do you do
The things you do?
Tell me
~~~~~~~~~
Love hurts
Violence hurts;
We all hurt
~~~~~~~~~
Precious times
Ransoms forfeit;
Sad humanity mourns
~~~~~~~~~
The cycle of circles
Bad and good;
Seeking balance
~~~~~~~~~
Maybe we can
Find tomorrow;
Safely better?
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
15 November 2015
Singapore
The leaves whisper in the trees,
They crackle like fire underfoot,
They spoil and rot,
The color of their skin turns,
As they die in a brilliance of color,
Their crumpled bodies lay sprawled across the grass,
Waiting to be collected and put in body bags,
Or cremated in burning barrels or firepits,
The death of a season,
They take away the green of the grass,
They leave the trees bare,
Their spindly skeletons stand rigid,
Having lost their sway along with their leaves,
The leaves take away the flowers,
The birds begin to dwindle down,
Their trilling growing quieter and quieter,
They consider leaving for warmer air to fill with their song,
The leaves take so much,
But give our world a flash of color in return,
Shiny, eye-catching gold,
Like jewelry dressing the trees,
And fiery orange and red,
Bursting with the color of flames,
A wonderful gift I sometimes take for granted.
She was going to visit her old auntie at 91 years
The sweet old aunt lived in her own home
in the town of Ostrow Lobelski in Poland
On the floor she found her body lifeless and cold
Her heart did not beat, and she was not breathing
Medical and police were called
The old auntie Janina Kolkiewicz was declared dead
After she had been in cold storage at a mortuary for 11 hours
she ensured that the employees got themselves a real shock
Body bags began to move - she was not dead
The niece says that when they came home
Janina asked for a hot cup of tea
she felt cold all the way into her body and soul
- This is a true story !!! -
16.11.2014
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Chucko Is Dead
It was on Columbus Day, 1962
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Sang in tones most glorious and free.
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko
I’m Chucko the Birthday Clown!”
I was comfortably ensconced on the couch.
A feigning 10 year old with a pseudo fever,
Sister Mary Daniel was probably making the sign of the cross,
Up the street at St. Mary’s,
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Stared into the camera and saw me,
Insignificant me,
Just a freckled punk kid;
Hater of sadistic nuns and boring dry lessons
Of crowded sweaty stinky catholic classrooms
With crucifixes of a dead bloody Jesus.
And the sweet salvation of the universe was not yet apparent.
But Chucko knew all about that.
He knew the future and the past.
He knew about Kennedy and Kent State
He knew what was coming so imminently,
He looked into that camera at Channel 7
And saw the children of the 50’s
Coming home in body bags from
The jungles of hell,
From the other side of the world,
From the bloody backside
Where all things are vile and evil.
He saw fear, and an ocean of tears.
He saw ten thousand sunsets
And 50 thousand funerals of the crazy brave.
Even in 1962
When the country was still a damn good country,
He rode the highways and byways with a pockmarked grin.
But he knew he could never tell of what was coming,
Of the madness and corruption and the greed,
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko,
I’m Chucko the birthday clown!”
Mother! Please! Take my hand.
I’m afraid!
Chucko the Birthday Clown is dead.
She wears a metal bracelet, oh, so proudly,
With a POW’s name upon her arm.
She earns her living working in an office,
Typing letters and filing all those forms.
The girls down at work, they tend to gossip,
They talk about her, but not in an unkind way.
But all the same, sometimes it gets too personal…
On the coffee-break, you ought to hear what the girls say.
Welcome home, sister, tell us about Vietnam,
Welcome home, sister, tell us all about it, if you can—
Now what possessed a girl like you to go over there?
Were you running from yourself?—that’s what we heard.
Did you go for the thrills, did you go for the men, did you like those uniforms?
To carry it on this long, it seems absurd.
Yes, I played Country music for the G.I.’s,
I made that USO club tour scene.
And I rode with body bags in the helicopters…
And I saw a night-club blown to smithereens.
And yes, I go to D.C. on vacation,
I spend a lot of time beside that cold, black wall.
I recognize some names upon the surface…
Sometimes it feels just like I know them all.
First person shooter,
on a hate tour of duty,
swinging a bullet sling blade
Buying a death row ticket,
worth fifteen minutes of fame
First person murder shooter;
womb-to-the-cradle-to-the-grave robber,
using your Automatic Revolver
to solve your anti-social mental problems
Sharpen that sling blade
on a coroner grindstone wheel
Gather the scythe-shredded corpses
from the harvest killing field
Take the bullet-riddled body bags,
with warm blood dripping still ...
and kevlar
coffin
bury them on Tommy Gun hill
Guns and Roses —
Automatic Revolver 15 bullet salute
Let the gun pallbearers put ‘em in the ground,
and the saltpeter pew mourners
put the rose flowers on the graves
AR-15 bullet salute ...
Guns and Roses —
giving society another senseless violence eulogy
Guns and Roses —
weapons of war killing innocent children of peace
Guns and Roses —
ricochet death purchased with capitalist ease
No background check to vet tranquilize
the uncaged rage,
wearing a Second Amendment disguise
Empty thoughts and prayers,
full of politician hypocrisy
Thirty pieces of silver tongue lip-cluckers
offering a gun lobby: no gun control policy
A paid, no-money-back Judas apology
Snake oil teary talk rubbed on dry soul skin,
allergen empathy-free
Guns and Roses —
sacred shell religious philosophy
Guns and roses —
kinetic death violence theology
Gun manufacture worshipers
love deifying the work of their hands
They love to praise their golden trigger head
silver handle arms
brass chamber belly
lead barrel legs
paper green toes idol
Saying: Let your scimitar banana-shaped heart
always remain sharp
And may your lead scythe sling blade soul
never be dulled
Guns and roses —
waxy ears don’t hearst hear it ...
bulletproof hearts so iceberg smoking cold
Guns and roses —
plastic carnation petal spirits ...
metal detector salvation black market sold
The Killing Field
Bong Son,Viet Nam
Not All Dead, Returned In Body Bags
Written: By Tom Wright
1/21/03
The war in Viet Nam rages no more,
But what say ye of the animate dead?
Can we continue their plight to ignore?
Staring past the crimson flow they shed?
Pages from life were systematically torn,
Eyes beholding things, which they abhorred.
Returning, aged beyond years, and worn,
Spat upon by some, while by others ignored.
The war they fought some saw as failed,
Protests at home left psyches' battered.
Like the "Hippies" they could have bailed,
But doing the right thing, and duty mattered.
To those, whose loved one's stood deployed,
There was no time that prayer was lost.
Praying that life and limb be not destroyed,
While knowing, war exacts a colossal cost.
Dedicated to my Brother
Master Sgt. Joe D. Wright
U. S. Army, (Ret.)
1st Air Cavalry
Location: unknown
They stand on the corner anything you want they got,
Some do the deals some run the money and some call shots,
All of them are ready to pop at the first signs of a problem,
Smith n Weston and Glock know just how to solve them,
These boys are no joke they stay with one in the chamber,
They be the real definition of a true gang banger,
Quick to snatch a life in a min with no second guessing,
Putting snitches in body bags so that they learn they lesson,
This isn't a hobby for them this is everyday life,
They married to the game no time for kids and wife's,
Blood in and blood out or sometimes plata o plomo,
Turning your back on your family is a major nono,
It's getting crazy on these streets these boys run in groups,
Most of them were trained by the army so it's groups of troops,
Armed to the teeth with new age armor and weapons,
If you see them on your block get your self to stepping,
Cause they show no remorse innocent or not,
When bullets start flying everyone's getting shot.
~DM2~
The Mourning Morning 100 and 50 Years On
Robert Graves lies in Wilfried Owen’s grave ponders the War
to end all Wars that continue with nothing else for us in store
and Barry Mc Guire sang summed it all up in 65 in destruction’s
eve thereof a cold dawn of reckoning conscience lost ever more
My Lai lives on and Srebrenica in naked truth of persecution
soars Wall Street Abrams Challenger Tanks as the best solution
for keeping pacifism social justice common sense at dismembered
arm’s length and loss still counts body bags for the good of delusion
Wounded Knee White and other blood rivers Tigris Euphrates
Nyabarongo swell swollen this morning today at great ease
with buried tears pounding of drums the pride and disgrace’
falsified messages broken walls shots of money’s droned lease
You can’t bury the dead and not leave a trace but attempt very well
to photo-shop engage propaganda erase meaning and sell sell sell
Marches alone will not consign madness ethnic cleansing proven
genocidal greedy insanity but disapprove sin and continue to tell
About 'Eve Of Destruction' like Graves Ghandi Mc Guire 50 years on
tune protest poetry and rock ballads shout clear in more than a song
Contemplate on the call up imagine a battle and nobody goes forth
scream howl against dogs of war and their masters please sing along
31st August 2016
Lonely as the contact
Silently the phone rings
Umber is my stomach
As I sit all wound in stings
Far away was the country
That sent me on this call
I know you know I am here
And wanting away from it all
When I told them no
This was the reason
Now I sit here beaten
Their terrorist and I believe them
Students from a conflict
In a country I now forget
Something about a rebellion
And I really have to sh#t
I started having siezures
From a illness I sometimes get
Lord ease my Downs Syndrom
And Altizheimers let me forget
Starvation eat my time away
And pains show me regret
I went away for the government
And now it's time to repent
I thought we were in Korea
I asked for the leader to take me there
One phone call to Korea and my dime will be well spent
My phone call went straight through
And I cried and begged and lied
I prayed and sang and talked about
Another time I said goodbyes
I still sit here all bound up my clothes are in rags
While talking to another guy I
Tripped upon over filled body bags
My body aches my mind bakes
And I don't think I remember English
While talking with another guy
He made a spirtual journey
Another call to Korea and they make me wish for death
I think I spoke to the president
His words were under his breath
He prayed he payed this awful rent
For this his effort my time here is spent
I don't remember home I don't know where it is
I hear your voice clear as day but the words are always bent
Your wife let me speak in Iran broke and lent
I don't understand your tone but the effort is well spent
I am sure your home is as nice as his but I am hungary
As I said before
When I get to your house
You'll be waiting at the door
444 days went by I got to the USA again
But these freakin guys nabbed me up
And drug me out the port
"A bay?", "No a gulf!" "Yea I remember the game"
A map I can remember the torture is the same
I got to go home again
I got shot by a machine gun
A create full of bodies
And a bad guy to blame
I am sorry about your suit sir
But I hate this awful game
Abandon Hope All Ye
Who Enter Here
Ever the edifice
The bold and self-serving statue
Proud ego stamped
In the courtyards and squares
Of those who have diminished ( ordinary )
Ever the hero who by guile
Steals the heroes burial
With self sacrificial offerings of ballot boxes ( rigged )
Ever the flag waving
For the faceless dictators
Who by money and army medals adorned
Assume control
Via coup d'état ( or money )
Ever the religious fanatic
Behind Iattola, priest, missionary and Papist
Ever the quiet and raucous rapist
Of faith
Ever the secret of power hunger ( sanctioned )
Allowed to dictate
Through political expediencies
Ever the murder of country men
To rule the country
Ever the nationalistic barrage of pride
For coloured cloth
Defines identity
And not humanity ( human )
Ever the innocent left to bleed
To fill the coffers of nameless greed
And ever the hate to feed
The racial, political and religious idiocy ( bigotry )
Ever the door which opens
For men and women returning home
With the triumphal marches
Of black body bags
Ever the tear gas, riot shield and rubber bullet
Ever the faces of Tienanmen Square
Ever the bodies of The World Trade Centre
Ever the terrorism of lies
Ever the truth denied
Ever love defiled
Ever the innocent left to bleed
To fill the coffers of nameless greed
And ever the hate to feed
The racial, political and religious bigotry ( idiocy )
Ever the door which open
Welcoming home
Mothers and Fathers
From their long days labours ( ordinary )
Lay me to rest in marbled halls with angels at my head,
not lying here in the mud of Ypres with khaki turning red.
Let me die a noble death, one that's worth fighting for,
not to avenge a nobleman who I've never heard of before.
Let me die an old man's death, in my bed at the witching hour
and laid to rest in an old churchyard, 'neath a yew trees spreading bower.
Instead of a fox hole in Cairo, choking on blood and sand,
with the smell of cordite on the air and a letter from home in my hand.
Why am I here in North Korea defending a hill to the death?
When I should be with the kids at home and my darling sweetheart, Beth.
Instead of which I lie in this ditch watching my life seep away
and they'll bury me here in an unmarked grave, on this bloody hill far away.
What do I care if Saigon falls? North or South, nothing mattered,
what do I care for the Rouge Khmer when my body lies here, shattered.
My watery grave this killing field, fertiliser for next years crop.
Is this to be my legacy? Please God help to make it all stop!
Another year, yet other wars, in landscapes barren and hostile,
on a crusade in Iraq or Afghan, both situations are volatile.
My life cut short by an IED defending a wadi in Tikrit,
my sun bleached bones, washed by the desert, my ultimate Kismet.
And still the Hawks harry the Doves, favouring might over right,
no matter the religion, the creed or the colour, be they black or white.
The body bags mount, the widows wail and children are orphaned once more,
all in the name of the most profitable business on Earth which we call war.
A sliver of bright light
seeps into the darkness
Echo of voices reverberate inside my head
I'm in limbo,
I can't move
Am I alive, am I dead?
I don't feel any pain,
I don't feel much of anything
But there's a sense of dread foreshadowing me,
an unease that I can't seem to shake free
I want to scream,
but I'm disoriented thoroughly
My eyes move, that's all, nothing else
So I glance around,
I see white lab coats, and black body bags on metal slabs
An antiseptic smell permeates the air,
masking the scent that death lives here
The voices are slowly becoming clear,
and what I'm hearing brings horror to my ear
They're talking very dispassionately about dispatching me,
how there's no need to contact next of kin, given I'm government property
I give a silent scream: somebody help me please!
My lips can't move though,
I'm paralyzed completely
What happened to me, how did I get in this predicament?
Memory is foggy, with only one mental flash coming in and out
A battlefield with sounds of gunfire and bombs,
I must be a soldier no doubt
But those cold, rational voices intrude on me again,
and I get more terrified by what they're saying
They say they want to remove my cybernetic limbs,
download the memory in my positronic brain
Place it in a new prototype version, then scrap the remains
Burn all the evidence,
incinerate any signs of their illegal activity
I want to scream I'm alive
Listen, listen to me!
I sense movement, wheels rolling swiftly
Now I'm descending into a dark place,
towards a room aglow, with a sign above it that says:
Ye who enter, abandon all hope
I let out one last silent scream
My eyes widen as I approach the flames, but I can feel no heat
I hear my inner voice intone a final notation ...
RCN unit #0247895
has been summarily sentenced to a premature cremation