Best Cordite Poems
I was a soldier of the past
And I know im not the last
I signed up to serve my Queen
Far off lands I have seen
As that soldier I done my best
Losing friends laying them to rest
We fought for what was only right
Giving freedom to others at night
As bullets flew and bombs exploded
My thoughts and mind just imploded
I could not say I wasn't scared
But my vision was not impaired
The smell of cordite all around
Waiting for the alarm to sound
Then the order of stand fast
Hoping this attack would not last
They come at us with all they have
Rpgs and a Gustav
We hold firm and do not falter
It's not our turn at the alter
Be brave young man I have to shout
As the young man does scream out
I've been hit this is bad
I wish I was with my mum and dad
It's ok you will be fine
It's a promise that is mine
The bombardment ends and we look up
Let's sort this out my young pup
Gingerly we give first aid
That is why we get paid
We stretcher him out to the heli pad
In a few days he's with mum and dad
After a while I go to see
That young soldier who layed before me
He's up and about and full of cheer
Winks at me we go for a beer
For those guys that didn't survive
We raise a glass cuddle and cry
For all the new guys on your career
Wish you well I got your ear.
Categories:
cordite, courage, memorial day, military,
Form:
Sonnet
I rose not like flower or like tree
Not like eagle's hubris in the sun
Old skin shed in the divided city
Last clone of a manhood almost done
And so I tasted the salt that lingered in blood
When the sea was pushed to the edge
And the land was wet and squirming in mud
I was in the litter of its self-knowledge
I know my city better now, where met
The passions of my birth, life is beautiful
But shallow here, much to regret and forget
But I will exhume me from the bountiful
Shallowness and litter, I will my heart
To the silent stars and write my life
In words of truth. Montego Bay, let me start
In you, the doldrums where the fear was rife.
It was not the wind, but the fire that sent
My mother descending through smoke of tears
Along the pavement hard without lament
And her three children pined at crowded stairs
My brother was swallowed by the city's mire
My sister's drug was her desire, she called
Eight from her flesh to mother's feast of prayer
Thank you God for your mercies that enthralled
That's context now, while I bleat my life
From the ghetto's battlefield to stable and school
Something provoked my hunger and strife
Something led like a pen along the edge of a rule
For I have smelled the cordite fumes of death
And the magic scent of ganja on slum night air
I from school have fled and gasped for breath
Along a street where splintered blood appeared
So I dispense this news for you struggling child
Wriggling sand to walk out of my burning shoes
Soon I shall strip away the mask pile by pile
Promise you will dance, dance slowly to my blues
I give you more than wax feathers for the sun
For old Sisyphus by labor endless was worn down
And did not see the rise sinking to the run
In each man's failure another man's victory abound.
Categories:
cordite, history, life, philosophylife, me,
Form:
Verse
Rust on padlocked factory gates
from tears of broken men.
Time has stopped on the golden watch,
freeze framed memories of a better past.
Scattered faces breed sour looks
for brothers of nepotism
with handshakes that nearly broke arms.
Crouched in side streets
observing worldly peasants passing.
Slave ganged with vacuum eyes
tripping through life's labyrinth.
Putrid stares of jealous intent
drooling venom; casting adjectives of annihilation,
gouging notches from the family tree
with a calm, icy incision.
Family values dead
incestuous intent
breeding dole queue bastards.
Underground society of leeches
bleeding optimism.
Ghetto laws written in cordite rooms
Switch-blade; preferred method of payment,
for dreams inhaled from crack bongs.
Joining dots of needle tracks
reveals a picture of despair.
Deaths lottery, depression, calling out your numbers.
Jackpot being long awaited sleep.
Categories:
cordite, people, social,
Form:
Free verse
** An exercise: write a sonnet in iambic pentameter.
With heavy heart, I offer my remorse,
for I'm too tired to dance this weary eve.
The echoes of my workday's tireless chores
linger, leaving naught but fatigue's relief.
Oh, believe me, I hate to disappoint,
for the music tempts me to sway and dance.
But the hours I've toiled, each task and each point,
have drained me to a tired nudnik, perchance.
My spirit, once bright, now longs for respite,
to find solace in rest and heal my self.
Though my love for dance burns hot like cordite,
exhaustion demands I stay on the shelf.
Forgive me, my friend, tonight I must rest,
but once refreshed, we’ll fete and dance with zest.
.
.
Webster: Nudnik = a boring person
Categories:
cordite, dance, humor, teen, today,
Form:
Sonnet
The salient drew his mind to the terrors of the day,
and the stink of the long dead buried in the mire.
The creeping barrage sought him hiding in his clay,
found him there and surrounded him in searing fire.
Beneath the wounded trenches his new comrades lie,
broken and dismembered in their regimental symmetry.
And his eyes look on in wonder as such brave men die,
to suit the whims of government and evil serendipity.
Each breath now inhaled brings the horror of the fight,
each movement in his shallow an enemy closer still.
But salvaion comes not before the fading of the light,
and vengeance holds his mind in its readiness to kill.
The crimson rivulets flow slower and the pain is eased,
'mid the weeping, sleeping soldiers and the new dead.
With seeping cordite and gas the god of war is pleased,
while the one remaining guardian cowers in his dread.
'Bring the night, bring the night' he prays in his fear,
as the bombs cascade around him in his clay hollow.
'Let me live and i will make it clear, and tell the truths
and the lies to those who follow!!!'
Categories:
cordite, war,
Form:
Ballad
stars,
above swirling dark,
in sky drained of color,
below,
sprawling Asia,
spread out in a carpet,
of billboards and humanity.
watching it all from the world's largest tower,
feeling like a king in a secondhand sky,
now walking among streets, stalls, and stooped shoulders,
inhaling foreign vapors.
smoke from cheap cigarettes drift down,
to mingle with scents from open gutters,
fecund and flowing,
past medicine shops of tiger teeth,
and ginseng root.
stopping at a rusted fence,
marking neglected graves tilted,
borders to a rotting mansion,
colonial memories of plague and accident.
further on, the well lit ship,
clean and efficient,
up the gangway to the duty,
crisp in his ice cream suit,
down to the well deck,
amber lit and heavy in humid air,
peering down at armored beetles,
emitting odors of oil and exhaust,
cordite and purpose,
and briefly catch a sad sentiment,
fluttered in night air above,
of what was and what could be,
lost in blood, power and tribal lust,
our racial fait accompli,
and draw back from thoughts such as these,
and let it fly away.
Categories:
cordite, sad, war,
Form:
Prose
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.
Categories:
cordite, anger, humanity, remembrance day,
Form:
Rhyme
O just a little thunder, Lord
A little booming of the sky,
A little clapping of the heart.
One more shake of mighty Sinai
One more drop of love
Flock upon me your mercy now.
Dry sky and no air
I feel the lung dessicating in me
O how I pray to hear
Just a little thunder, Lord
To feel the lightning flash upon my face
Ionized dust and particles errased
The cordite scent of joy to trace
To water tumbling over the waste.
O just a little thunder, Lord
O let the breeze embrace the breeze
And let your servant rejoice
Let him go on bended knees
And separated from the will of choice
And praise you will not break
Your covenant of peace
Though rocks and mountains shake
And costumes of many colours make
Rags of our lives
It is after the thunder
I see the rainbow there.
Categories:
cordite, faith,
Form:
Free verse
Hi Skool Massakre
Goth boy dressed all in black.
With a moody stare.
Not giving a frig.
As long as his subgun is loaded.
Safety off.
Both his and his gun's.
Hear his New Rock boots stomp down the school hallway.
See students cower behind barricaded doors.
Blood oozes down the walls.
Death has visited here.
Goth boy is fully aware of this.
Is part of this event.
Has history here.
A movement behind him.
Whisper in his ear.
He turns and fires.
Hits his target.
Cordite fumes and silence.
Screams around the corner.
A glance all about, he advances.
Popping his head round the wall, he fires again.
Another target down.
Reloading, he is careful.
No time for complacency.
Movement!
More of his enemy.
He empties his clip, full fricking auto!
Subgun heaven.
Death reaches out.
Seven more enemies kaput.
Reloading, the goth boy shouts.
"Everybody out! Students, run for your lives. I've killed the first wave of zombies. NOW! Run. Escape while you can."
And they do.
His fellow students pour out of a dozen classrooms.
All but three, the first victims, made it.
Grinning defiantly, the goth boy checks his gun, remaining ammo and psyches himself up.
He knows wave two will be his end.
No way to beat a thousand zombies.
They'll soon be here.
Crossing time and space by wormhole.
Goth boy lights a bent cigarette and inhales.
He waits for what is to come.
His hand shakes but he steadies it.
Knowing he saved his mates.
Not hurting them.
That only he alone can fight the zombies.
For once, long ago, goth boy was one.
A folk memory said he ate human flesh.
Categories:
cordite, fantasy, gothic, hero, high
Form:
Verse
forgotten sound
of a father's voice,
only a fond memory of English Leather,
faces of children
not one's remembered,
melancholia captioned,
while snared in long wars
bereft of true glory,
cordite charred, world weary,
heavy hearted,
heavy handed,
heavy lidded,
minutes whip past
like a lash on raw skin,
gilded ages burst like flack,
eons too much when unwelcome
too little too soon,
moments spent like carnival tokens,
spin cycle of life
a kaleidoscope swoon,
awaken to dotage,
snippets of melodies
riffing toe tapped,
younger days, younger legs,
when life was as simple
as a pair of rubber soled shoes,
leg tapped,
tap away.
Categories:
cordite, father, memory, old,
Form:
Free verse
(A journey into the First World War)
The trembled hand
the twitching face.
A desperate draw on cigarette
looking for courage in a cordite breath.
Huddled in mud protected by
slime filled walls,
these walls of Jericho shake
crumbling into my fear.
My tomb beckons another inspection.
Buried alive under corrupted soil,
a land lords greeting from the
putrid remains of the tenants before.
Did Mother give birth to me for this?
The screams of the howitzer,
Marching in footsteps, stamping it’s wrath,
for fear of the dead rising.
And we who are alive, that dare to look
will see the face of death that hides within it’s light.
A face I would gladly see,
if bargain I could contemplate
in exchange for silence,
and the solitude of darkness.
Where fear cannot go,
where the cold become’s a welcome blanket
for I wish this suffering to end
To hear the guns, all seeking me
to shred my guts with shrapnel scythe
and amputations rip.
To die with blood soaked ears
punctured into silence for man’s aggression.
This man placed here by another’s ambition
to pay the price for no man’s land,
The only thing that is really free,
for dead men will not stop you
from taking a soldier’s walk.
Another draw on my cigarette,
and a prayer from my anonymous conscience,
trembles upon humanities lips.
“Gives us this day our daily bread
Though I do not forgive them
For thine is the Kingdom
And men will destroy thy glory
Forever and ever
Amen.”
Categories:
cordite, war, prayer, fear, men,
Form:
Free verse
Knighted Cards
Richard Boone
Presented Paladin cards under an ominous tune.
First gunslinger so erudite
In circumstances likely to explode like cordite.
Categories:
cordite, america, celebrity, music,
Form:
Clerihew
a strobe of flashing lights and the
smell of smoking cordite filled the
leaden night
the brush brush brush of silent velcro
and cocking guns and their knobbled sons (grenades)
rolled like severed heads bouncing in the rain
a choir of startled starlings flapped and flew
like bankers new with profit, up towards the diamond sky,
peace on earth goodwill to muscled thighs and skirmished
upper decks of barrels, flushed and hot from bullets bouncing
from the necks of uninvited robbers, dressed in black ...
now disrupted from their grim toil
and outside, witness to this merry hell...the watchers wait
with covered mouths and fibrillating hearts, protected by an
armoured car, while a thousand blue-bottle police
eager for promotion, scamper through the carrion
walkway, keen to be on TV
ah!...what's this?... a glimpse of death pervades the scene,
a limp bag of shattered bone and failed hopes brought to bear
we see,
his crime today, will not pay
Categories:
cordite, anxiety, courage, death, fear,
Form:
Free verse
I was planning on going to Azania to die like you
No one would transport me
Away from the rhetoric, and Fidel left before
I knew. So I wrote on walls
Endless missives of declarations for freedom.
I made words into missiles
But saw no gore, nor body bags, and I wept.
If mine was only a mask I would be another them
The drums heart throbbing would tell me nothing
Except where to board the ship and work my fare
Until I stood in cordite fumes and carbine glare.
I say it securely, but I am not sure
How much of me is recoverable from the past
And how much of you was lost
There are so many broken things in a broken history
So many false images in the cobweb of lies
If thinking becomes a chain
Unless I think like God again.
What would you say Zimbabwe now, this global mirror
In which we must adjust the self against the self?
What would call a man that keeps no vow
So that he may keep a vow?
Is not all love a compulsive obsession
When you believe in its truth?
I am hanging mask on wall tonight, I am going out
To look up at stars and name them all after you.
Categories:
cordite, tribute, me,
Form:
Free verse
We remember them on this day
Those who fell in war
The men who came from far away
To fight forever more
They stood for freedom duty bound
Walked together one and all
Pride and smiles were seen all around
In uniforms they looked tall
In trenches men lost much rest
The noise of guns not done
Wafting cordite in the air
Battles still far from won
Despair and disease took their toll
Death rang its bells aloud
So many taken on the knoll
Within the reaper’s shroud
Men starved and froze, they hurt and bled
They asked if God still cared
Muddy trenches their final bed
Their corpses blankly stared
All the while their wives had fears
Their dear fathers fretted so
Mothers. sisters shed such tears
They made rivers overflow
Notes from home pumped up their hearts
Families expressed much love
All those loved ones did their parts
Sending food and socks and gloves
Men held tight to thoughts sublime
Pictures of their sweethearts near
Killing men now not a crime
So reluctant to show fear
At long last the war did end
The survivors took their leave
Not forgetting fallen friends
They were now able to grieve
For dead friends and childhood lost
Was it worth the price they paid
Freedom has such a high cost
Yes! In unison they said
Categories:
cordite, war,
Form:
Rhyme