Best Duffel 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.
Lili Marlene
In times of war, love can subdue cynical adversaries
(Men separated from their vocation, now filled with hatred)
And quell the beast inside their misdirected hearts,
And free their consciences, to allow sorrows’ comfort.
A noisy silence pervades the barracks’ atmosphere,
Where soldiers stir, stuffing duffel bags and miscellaneous,
While others reminisce, writing letters; maybe their last.
And await further orders for Western and Eastern Fronts, or Africa.
From Belgrade, a woman’s voice over the airwaves is transmitted,
Allowing a moment of silence and reflection for those listening
Alone; spiritually uplifted in memories of better times,
Who seek a reason to justify this madness of sacrifice.
“My Dearest Marlene,” the pen begins when all hell breaks out.
By bomb flashes bright bloody hands write, then the pen stops;
“Until we meet again underneath the corner light,
Like we used to do, my Lili Marlene.”
***
Note:
'Lili Marlene' is a German love poem set to music by Norbert Schultze (1911-2002) in 1938 based on the poem 'The Song of a Young Soldier On Watch. written by Hans Leip (1893-1963) in 1915 during World War I. The song was first recorded by Lala Andersen (1905-1972) in 1939 under the title 'The Girl Under the Lamps”' which became popular during World War II (1939-1945) among the Axis and Allied troops. The song was first broadcasted by the German Radio Belgrade station throughout Europe and North Africa, following the Nazi occupation of Belgrade in 1941.
Marlene Dietrich (1901–1992) was the daughter of a Prussian officer. She refused to work in Nazi Germany, and was branded a traitor by Nazi supporters when she became an American citizen in 1937. She made over 500 performances entertaining Allied troops from 1943 to 1946. Marlene Dietrich recorded the song in 1944 under the Decca Records (US) and Brunswick Records (UK), which was later released in 1945.
keep the music sorrowfully low,
so big daddy doesn’t hear.
the shadowy figures, surrender
and whisper in your ear.
the psychedelic colors flow
like the sea foam beat.
Angie, your chromatic hair
smells incandescently sweet.
locked and loaded, alone
with your beastie dreams.
your pillow’s soft and it leans -
your coming apart “at the seams”
one boy plays peek-a-boo, sniffing
your honeysuckles suspended.
tickled by your goldilock curls,
not realizing all it portended.
like walking into the deep dark wood,
he creeps hand and foot, eyes first
like a prowling tiger, tail wagging,
with a rattling tongue a-thirst.
Angie, swooshes her fingers
through his hair, hushes him.
...he stares at the ceiling stars
...loud music descends on his limbs.
Angie digs her embryonic duffel bag,
smiles and adds his decomposing bones
to the ashes of her huge imagination
and recalls that in this world, she’s all alone.
5/8/2019
Musical Inspiration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Song choice: Angie, Baby by Helen Reddy
A young man carrying a green duffel bag
over his shoulder shifts when he walks.
Off to war for our country and flag.
No military knowledge with little talk.
Enemy troops marched across the bridge,
with tanks, and hundreds of machine guns led.
As he sat dug in along and across the ridge,
bullets were zipping right over his head.
The dawn of the morning across the glen;
a plan was thought, bargain it was, the loss
of two companies to stop a million men
and ten thousand vehicles from getting across
Pop, pop pop, of distant sounds and then more,
trading volleys of gunfire with blood and gore
A friend gets killed and he dies to the core,
trembling with raging fire. A Casualty of war
5/24/2017
As I laced up my tennis shoes
I hurried to meet up with you
and ran to find you getting off the bus
And when I saw you standing there
in uniform so debonair
I was hoping everyone would notice us
As you picked up your duffel bag
we walked, and you took off your cap
and put it on my forehead just for fun
And as my curiosity
began to get the best of me
I asked you if you’d ever shot a gun
My mother said that you’d been gone
you’d gone to fight in Vietnam
I couldn’t have been no more than nine or ten
With pride I walked right next to you
And wondered if you felt it too
Or would you feel anything again?
An amulet of peace hung ‘round my neck,
An AR16 rifle in my hands….
Seemed like such a paradox,
In the paddies and jungles of Vietnam.
An amulet of peace hung ‘round my neck,
A man’s life was in my hands….
That life was not only mine,
While trying to survive in Vietnam.
An amulet of peace hung ‘round my neck,
Hoping for guidance by God’s hand….
Ignore our sin, keep us alive and safe,
While fighting in Vietnam.
An amulet of peace hung ‘round my neck,
My duffel bag in my hand….
After 13 months, I was going home,
No more to fight in Vietnam.
An amulet of peace hung ‘round my neck,
An Honorable Discharge in my hand….
Only to be spat upon, called ‘baby killer’,
By ‘peaceniks’ against the war in Vietnam.
An amulet of peace no longer hung ‘round my neck,
The challenge of a new life was at hand….
Found love, happiness and some success,
And tried not to think of Vietnam.
Again, that same amulet of peace hangs ‘round my neck;
And I hope my friends all understand….
I want our courageous young men and women
Out of Iraq and Afghanistan.
The young lad left his Mother's hearth when he was seventeen.
There was adventure beyond the far horizon, so much to be seen.
Her only son to distant realms and o'er the seas did roam;
Now he wearily trudged along the moonlit country road to home.
From afar he saw a candle in the window casting its mellow glow.
It beckoned him to the humble cottage he had left so long ago.
'Twas Home! Home!, the most beautiful mansion in the world!
He paused and mused as about him precious memories swirled.
He dropped his duffel and leaned upon the sagging fence,
To capture the moment and his random thoughts condense.
There, framed in the window was Mother with hair of snowy white,
Reading her dog-eared Bible by the flickering candlelight.
He recalled her parting words, "God go with you son;
I'll light a candle to guide you home when your bourne is done."
As he gazed upon her so serene, o'er him many emotions swept;
Recalling her tender love, his shoulders shook as he quietly wept.
He swept his frail Mother in his arms as he reached the door,
Saying, "Your wayward son is home, Mom, a-roaming never more!"
All roads lead somewhere, but the happiest road of all,
Is that which leads to home, be it mansion great or cottage small.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 8 in Linda-Marie's "Razzle Dazzle" Contest - April 2011
I look about this merry gloom
Thoughtless, fat and slim.
Remembering but half a tune
I'd lost my will to win.
'Give up thy Eric Idle, son.'
I heard a whisper mutter.
And sitting up inside my head
Knew this was not a stutter.
'Are you the reepher with a grin?'
I asked, which pleased him so.
'The one without a duffel chin
And klinkers to and fro?'
'Indeed I am that very sole
That fishes in the deep.
I've come to Clam you half or whole
And Cod your wife to weep.'
'Ah-ha! You baddie bootleg bloke.
I've seen you as a lad.
You took my Granny up in smoke
For only half a drag.'
'Def Albert and his weeping nose
You took him there as well.
To where God only heaven knows
It's really hard to tell.'
'Perhaps, not now, or yet at least.
At most, not in a bit,
Be gentle, like a gentle beast
And sit a while in sit.'
Memories Mirrored
by Odin Roark
A Boy Scout essential
The polished metal card mirror
The unbreakable monitor
Made to master Morse code
Used to measure wanna-be whiskers
And such
So it went
From puberty to manhood
Hall locker
To gym locker
Toiletry bag
To duffel bag
Afghan's mountain-dead
To triage hospital bed
Wrapped eyes needed little
Of the metal card mirror now
As blindness tearfully engaged
The enslavement of memory
The colors of our flag
Do not stand for freedom
Anymore.
Red shall not be to honor the blood spilled by our troops
But rather the blood
Spilled by those who wake up every day in fear
Of half the country
And the man propped up by millions of hateful minds
It shall be the color of that phantom blood that gushes from
The piercing pain of the what ifs?
Red shall not be the courage of our country
But rather the color of destruction soon to come
Red skies
Blazing fire
Pre-apocalyptic dust settles over
Us.
White shall not be the color of the absence of evil
But rather,
It's new hue.
And the elephants can stampede us to the ground,
Remind us,
As they kick mud around our bodies,
That our first black president
Is handing over the White House to a man
Endorsed by the KKK
The resurgence of white supremacy
Brings us back to World War II
Yet no one heeds the warning.
Blue shall not be the color of patriotism and loyalty
But rather the tears shed
By many in some lands,
By few in others.
Tears that fall on
The rainbow flag,
The hijab,
The ragged piece of paper with #blacklivesmatter scrawled on it in ink
The dusty duffel bag packed
In order to cross the border
Packed by those we dub “aliens”
Though inside their organs are identical to ours
Red,
White,
And blue.
A divided country that is
Dividing each and every one of us
In half.
Anna fell in love with a Pterodactyl
They pecked and petted in a reflex tactile
She laid a big egg
In my duffel bag
And I found my grandson in a projectile
Have you seen Ms.Cynthia Morris' moose
Who has eaten Ms. Kim Patricia’s goose?
She laid a golden egg
In my red duffel bag
While I was running for the loo bowels loose
(Nonsense/Limerick)
Home invaders
Climbed the fence;
Huffed,
Puffed,
And blew the windows in,
Suddenly, they're inside a mansion.
They came prepared
With large duffel bags.
They grabbed all they could -
A family heirloom,
Jewelry,
Knickknacks, etc.
Then one walks out to the balcony
And a caged parrot locks eyes
With the stranger,
Bows its head, thinking -
"Please, don't take me, too! I don't want to part with Mr. Tyson!"
"Matthew? It's time to go!" a voice calls out
.
"There's a parrot out here, Cam!"
"Nope, you heard Cam! You guys go now. Leave me be!"
thought the parrot.
Cam peeks out to the balcony.
"What do we need a bird for?" he asks.
Shouldn't we take it with us? Parrots talk, right? It could give us up." replies Matthew.
Cam thinks for a moment,
So does the parrot.
"Great, just great! I'm about to be stolen!"
"What about we kill it?" suggests Matthew.
Frantic thoughts: "Oh, hell no! You'll do no such thing, boy! Horrible idea! Cam? Help me?"
"No, we don't need the damn bird. Let's go, now!" Cam says, emphatically
"Whew! Thank God!" thought the parrot, breathing a sigh of relief.
The cat burglars made a clean getaway,
Or so they thought.
They made one fatal flaw.
They should've taken
Mr. Tyson's beautiful talking pet.
The parrot began spilling tea
Upon its owner's return -
"Matthew, we gotta go!"
"There's a parrot out here, Cam!"
"Matt, let's go, now!"
"Damn, I can't find my phone!"
"Back door! Back door! He's pulling in the driveway!"
Personification- Pets Talking Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
06/08/2022
The full moon glistens on the fallen snow;
He still has a couple of miles left to go,
As he walks on home from the bus depot;
Of his visit there nobody yet knows.
His deployment in Iraq has come to an end;
The Purple Heart hangs on his chest;
Of his shortened tour he told no family or friends;
His left sleeve is pinned to his vest.
The Greyhound bus that dropped him off,
Passes him rolling down the road;
The shrapnel he carries in a chewing tobacco tin,
As he marches along in the dark and the cold.
The long driveway to the house he grew up in,
Has not been shoveled of the snow;
The lights are still on, as everyone within,
Prepares for a midnight mass to go.
They are startled by noises out on the porch,
And wonder at the knock on the door;
They all rush in to see who it is,
As he drops his duffel bag upon the floor.
A one-armed hug isn’t so bad,
On the Eve before a Christmas Day;
When received by a hero son
Who’s been missed ever since he went away.
They all went to church with tears in their eyes;
One family of thousands of more;
Overjoyed by a wonderful Christmas surprise -
A soldier coming home from the war.
Wrap me up in rainbows
Compact and stuff me in your duffel bag
Travel with me to parts unknown
Scale mountain peaks and valleys
When you’ve reached the summit
Insert your flag of wisdom
And proclaim the new found “wonder”
Show me beauties, unroll me downhill
Sail down in the redness of love
Without fear of carpet burns
Do that, then join my side
Place warmth of trusting hands
and bleeding hearts firmly into mine
Into minds
We’ll climb the stairway back up to heaven
Together as one…