Best Gunner Poems
Wile E. Coyote
would wear Acme “floatie”
wings so he could swoop from mountain bluffs,
but always crashed below to silent puffs.
The Road Runner,
like a tail gunner,
would down Wile E. into the deep
valley floor with his trademark “meep meep!”
September 5, 2021
Cleritoons Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
Left And Right
Either side the cannons roar
Took of blood and wanted more
Salvo after salvo into the valley
Point blank range to deter the rally
Water poured over steaming muzzles
Russian gunner at this sight puzzles
Tis madness against this cannonade
Tis the sacrifice of the Light Brigade
The quicker they fired the faster they came
Under billowing flags and the Queens name
Torn and shredded they carried the fight
And many a soul, never saw that night
The Redout
The Russian generals looked in wonder
Stood in awe at the total squander
The cannons barked and took their toll
Removing horse from man, man from soul
Rifle, cannon, spoke the same
The Light Brigade on they came
Thundering hooves and yelling cries
All for the sight of the Russians eyes
And at the distance of a lance
The Russian soldier in a trance
Sabres cut and slashed in violence
All was death in the cannons silence
The Russians fled in disbelief
Last shot fired to the Brigades relief
Bleeding soldiers and tattered flags
Stumbled, tottered, like wizened hags
Down The Valley
Looking back along that mile
Bodies, horses, pile on pile
Wounded men lean on lance
Said a prayer in skyward glance
On the ground a sleeping parade
Remnants of the Light Brigade
Depleted souls but not of honour
Yet a picture of battles squander
On the conclusion of this battle
Fingers wag and tongues will rattle
But nought should be put to shame
The Light Brigade and its day of fame
At Night
When the moon shines that longest mile
Hear the hooves on lush green pile
The rattling sabres and rippling flags
And how he rode the horseman brags
In the night the ghosts they ride
Full of honour and full of pride
Under The Cover.
.
You can never ever
Tell a book by it’s cover
As I was later to discover
The Lady in the Nursing home
The old man across the way
All have a story to tell
Hidden away
.
Some people I’ve known for years
Have suddenly touched my heart
And left me in tears
When they reviled their past
And nightmares and fears
.
Like my own dear Father
Shot and wounded
A prisoner of war
With only a tiny piece of bread to eat
And nothing more
.
The sweet old Lady I talked to
In Worksop in a store
Who told me she was the last surviving victim
Of Dachau in the war
.
The old man down our street
A nicer man you could ever meet
A rear Lancaster tail gunner
Or the hardship of a devoted Mother
Her husband left her for another
Someone who lost their family
And had no other
.
Those who suffered in the blitz
Those who lost a loved one
Aboard a ship
Never found always missed
The nurse who gave her all and put others
Before herself
To help the sick
.
The Pals sent to die in another far off land
The luckier who returned
Minus a leg or no hand
The coal miner unground
Who kept the home fires burning
The Steelworkers who gave their all
To keep England’s wheel turning
.
The bomb disposal and mine clearer's
The lifeguard on the bay
The emergency services and law enforcers
Who put their life in danger for us every day
.
The one who gives
But doesn’t seek recognition or reward
The one who fights for justice and war to cease
And silently prays for peace
.
A million stories left untold
Of unsung heroes young and old
No one should judge anyone
Like a book by their cover
For we all have a story
And who knows what we might discover.
.
Peter Dome©2020.
Rubbing boys shoulders with sunburn oil. The sun smiles at the pain, the brush of fingers against raw flesh. But like a war wound, those boys be proud. Offer them a salve and they scoff, don’t need that stuff. Head back to the beach. Nudge them with a board and a wave, and they take off, up to their knees, casting themselves into the sea. Cheeks and hairlines have enemies, but the boys will wait for the tan that turns them brown, puffed up, back to tell the tales to jealous schoolmates.
They won’t speak of palm trees, nor the hot sand; perhaps they will not even remember what to say, until a prompt. Perhaps they won’t shut up about the knock down, drag out fights with the ebb and flow of riptides.
They might not remember the food that filled their empty bellies, but they enjoyed each bite of burgers at Ford’s Garage in the oldest city in America. I heard from an eyewitness that it has ghosts, the city, not this particular haunt.
Packed like fish, we headed to Florida, having to use one of the back seats for the overflow of things. My oldest grandson had to endure his seat, likened to a ball turret gunner. But this pubescent heartbreaker, though cramped, loved the isolation.
Speed traps, speedy biker, ear-splitting emergency vehicles, pelicans;
and a swift breeze upon a chilly-sunburn covered up with a soft blanket and cozied up to grandma (of course this is the nine year old).
Trip back as the GPS constantly pushed us farther from home, not in miles but in minutes and hours. But the miles moved quicker than a remembered icestorm where I couldn’t get home (only 10 minutes away), so like all long travel, the kids got their first taste, and survived.
So much to say, but signing off…
I keep on sending tendentious rhymes out
like some demented machine gunner.
Sometimes I aim high, Pulitzer, no doubt!
Lucky to hit a page with a number.
It just doesn't matter I always say.
It's just a form of my daily yoga.
Done without ego each and every day.
In the long run it will surely serve ya.
But still I do unwillingly admit
as I keep my finger on the trigger
that it wouldn't hurt to receive a gift
of thanks from someone's satisfied hunger.
So I just keep gatlinging out my rhymes,
hoping not to do time for all my crimes.
I like the word "beastie," it sounds cute, it sounds Scottish. I'm thinking like 'Scotty' on 'Star Trek' would say, the immortal James Doohan, who I would have figured for a Scotsman, but a Canadian was he, and a good life lived.
On at least one episode of Star Trek he evinced a liking for 'Saurian brandy,' and 'tis certain sure that a stout beverage it would be. While back in the real world, ol' Jimmy boy stormed Juno Beach, Normandy, on D-day, then that very following night a scared Canadian machine-gunner let loose as our intrepid James made his rounds, hitting him six times with "friendly fire" (now how tough would that have been, to swallow as a metaphor at the time?). Improbable after that that life remained, middle finger, right hand, later had to be amputated, plus four shots to a leg, well now that would be thought to be well-nigh fatal, but no, and one in the chest besides, where a silver cigarette case preserved our man's life.
Yes it’s like that,
we are dealin’ with real fake facts,
dealin’ with smokers actin’ like smoke stacks,
livin’ face to ace with a gunner out in a pack-
dealin’ with cats,
and real hate acts,
in other worlds,
not countries with borders and backs.
Yes it’s like that!
Winning the Warner's over with shiny take backs,
givers of gonad's come home to be shoveled back!
New age drama solving all of the slaughter,
out on the ****,
with a new lover of money and ribs-
...it’s like this,
i’m a gunner but also a runner who’s fast as a swinging ax!
It’s like this...
I’m done with the bummers got to be funner than all that fake fact!
Just like I’ve done her,
now I am a lover and now I’ve gotta
hate that **** back!
They old, they breed, they lie, they attack!
So fake that,
so make that!
Come on and shun um’,
we’re a lot more than what is comin',
we have bits and pieces of whats fumblin',
and it’s all for us to make into somethin'!
To break glass!
To tap ass!
And learn about a world that’s the same as we made it act...
More than two years it be since me old dad had to fly. I miss him you know, he was
my best friend. I miss the twinkle in his Scottish,Irish,American eyes, a kind and
caring Gent was he. Times there are when I sit on the porch and talk to him, like he
was there next to me. If anyone was to hear they'd think a loony man I be, guess I
wouldn't disagree. At the the age of three orphaned was he, placed in the
orphanage with two of his four brothers. Cruel treatment he did receive, still had the
scars to witness the abuse they dealt him, undeserved though it be. Never did
break him, stubborn he was, passed down by his anstery, can say the same for me.
Great depression was on, none could afford another mouth to feed. At the age of
fourteen put out on the street , all because he refused to stay with a farmer who
wouldn't let him finish school. All the man wanted was for dad to be his tool. A little
help from a friend and some kindly Gents, a sleeping room he did get. Worked three
jobs finished high school, I told you stubborn he be. Old Uncle Sam drafted him then,
a soldier they needed him to be. Only five nine one hundred thirty five he was
soakin wet. Balck hair, hazel eyes, a fine looking lad was he. Thirty cal. machine
gunner he was assigned, to everyone's surprise. Little man was he, but the heart of
a lion he did have. From the shores of France to Berlin he did fight. Bronze star for
valor, Holocaust memorial award, battle for Atlantic,European theater,Seinne river
crossing, Rhine river crossing, battle of the buldge, army of occupation, all these
medals he did receive. I know if they'd asked him do you want to fight a war? No
thanks he would have said, for a peaceful man I be. The day they placed him in the
ground, amist his World War II brothers, the sky was crying, and so was I. Taps for
him they did blow, gun salute. Folded the flag and gave it to my mom, in her eyes I
could see that her world had come to an end. Such pain in my heart, I just wanted to and flee. Instead I stubbornly stood there, to honor the memory of my dad.
In Loving memory of my dad: W. Jack Ross : 1924-2009: I still miss him.
In tilshead I met a good guy
Unfortunately he has now gone
Taken to the angels in the sky
His name was Steve baron
A North Eastern lad thats for sure
A kind heart all so pure
Talented linguist speaking pashtu
Your family and friends now miss you
A gunner was capbadge of choice
We will miss that geordie voice
Saddened to hear about your demise
Look after us left from the skies
At last my friend you can rest
You've earnt your medals on your chest
Sleep tight big man demons are gone
Your legacy will live on
Condolences to friends and family
You've left a massive void
You'll always be a drop short Steve
Banter you can't avoid
R.i.p brother in that sky
I hope you hear the lullaby
No more noise for you young man
Angel music and a beer can
R.i.p Steve baron
Sunderland N for Nuts 461 Squadron
Sunderland fought alone the Battle Of Biscay in.1943
Big old seaplane Sunderland, fought in the Battle Of Biscay
Had 4 engines, would she float, would German cannon make her pay?
Aussies put in belly guns, 2 old machine guns Vickers. fired only .303 bullets
Poms might laugh about this deed, the Germans didn't snicker
Only 8 of these Ju88s attacked, to shoot a Sunderland down
Aussies cut the crutch out of German might, with the Vickers caused a frown
Sunderland like a Swiss cheese, had so many holes left in it
5 ju88s went into the sea, 3 ran for home that minute
Germans said it wore heavy armour plate
And it fired a 37mil cannon?.....
Said bullets bounced off it mate?
Its death were still a planning
So she waddled back to the British coast
And landed on the beach at Cornwall
Aussies got sausages, tea and toast
Brave Sunderland then did fall
Don Johnson
Moral:Don't fight with the Aussies they might give you a touch up.
The fight by Sunderland N/461 against 8 JU88s on 2nd June1943.
One man died on the Sunderland Ted Miles a Lewis gunner,
most of the men were injured. All 8 ju88s were hit by the Aussies.
When a fighter/bomber ju88 started firing the Sunderland went into a
corkscrew move, to evade cannon shells each time,
during the twenty attacks made on it.
Sunderland had been a pre war 4 engined sea plane,
the current Jumbo Jet of its day. The bullet riddled old warhorse carried
them home to England.and broke up on the beach
http://www.australiansatwar.gov.au/stories/stories_war=W2_id=67.html
Friday 13th August in 1943 their luck ran out 6 more Ju88s attacked
Sunderland DV968 eight of the earlier surviving Airmen
from the deadly Nuts Flight disappeared
[email protected]
The klaxon sounds and off we do scurry
Up to the gun house we head in a hurry
Through narrow p-ways and up noisy stairs
We pass each other with far away glares
What threat to meet, all do wonder
We’re well trained and there’ll be no blunder
Hatches closed and scuttles secured
Drive motors humming, we speak not a word
Ammo to the hoist, battle dress in place
Flash hoods cover all but our face
“Mt 51 manned and ready!”
Gas eject air pressure is holding steady
“Air action port!” our circuits align
Gun slews, the target to find
“On target aircraft!” the checksight declares
Our peril confirmed, no drill, all just a deep inhale
“Right and left guns load!” first powder then shot
To the mad dance, cast we all our lot
Guns loaded, we track knowing not when
Waiting the salvo alarm, the dance soon to begin
Fourteen men poised, ready for the show
Bound to each other, not for their own glory they do go
Gong! Gong! Fire! The first stanza a roar
Then rapid and continuous we feed each bore
“Bore clear!” signals to load the next round
As hot-case men pitch spent brass to the ground
Practiced harmony, each motion robotic
Load!, Ram!, Fire!, Eject! the cadence hypnotic
Smoke and flareback, gases choking
Onward we whirl, and curse the foe attacking
“Foul bore left gun!”
A stuck case has us undone
Pry bar in hand, the Gunner appears
The extractors are broken, confirming worst fears
Casing removed and the gun finally clear
Up all night we’ll be, fixing this gear
“Cease fire!” all safely emerge
Realize we now, our fears to purge
Destruction averted, another hour to draw breath
Till the enemy returns, seeking our death
“Police up that brass and swab out those barrels!”
The chief keeps us all intent on the peril
They will come again, or we will seek them out
So little rest we take, while the issue is in doubt
***************************************
This describes a live shoot from the prospective of
the men manning a twin 5 inch gun aboard a destroyer.
These ships were common in our Navy from 1944 through
about 1980. The "old salts" out there will find this very familiar.
This is a spinoff from my "Tin Can Sailors" write even though
the ships in that story were single mounts. Same gun, but
with just one barrel. Those were before my time.
Granit Xhaka
was aiming just under the bar
what went wrong is logistically moot
but no Gunner will ever be begging he shoot.
They won’t stop
I mean my friends
May be, we won’t stop
Think that is better
But for my Gunner friend
Charming light-complexioned
Fine boy, we all know
A smooth talking orator
An Engineer with a rare wisdom
With a posh car to cruise
Heaven was let loose on them his preys
A Gunner indeed,
Lost count of his prey cousins.
Cock barely crows
Before he landed on this day
Defying the heavy down pour
To come to a friend slaughter-alter
Smiling radiantly . . . un-endlessly
Suddenly became nice unusually
Why? Oh! He came for his prey cousin
She it who is at a friend’s wedlock.
His prey cousin whose name I know not
For her, he salivate . . . savor to Romeo
But he already has a Juliet
The one he ringed five moons ago
A dark-complexioned Queen
He ignited with a protruding belly.
Oh! On this day for the prey
He looked sportingly smart
In a Jean, T-shirt and a fez cap
He waited endlessly for his cousin.
Feigning to be calm
But obviously not cool
Despite heavy clatter of water above
For he desires desperately
To run gun shot on his cousin
What kind of cousin is this?
He paces round the Abattoir room
As her voice echoes in his ear
“I’m sorry, I’m coming
Please, wait for me love
I’m still in the wedding”.
Perturbed, yet pretends not disturbed
For there was no sight of her
He hissed countlessly
It was five hours past noon
Before I yawned twice
Time ran off me like a wild fire
Darkness took over the firmament
It dawned on the Gunner
No cousin prey to gun down today
A brighter day for the potbelly Juliet
It was a bad day for the Romeo Gunner.
Pop was quite a poet,
though his bio wouldn’t show it,
with the exception of this little poem
which I really do feel I owe him.
He was happiest working in the wood,
and did so when ere he could.
That was one of his necessary incomes,
for his five daughters and four sons.
It was then he would sing a song,
Always short and politically wrong.
The rhymes could make us boys smile,
If not but for just a little while.
In the woods he was a self educated master,
He loved it there; peace is what he was after,
Everywhere else, us boys were a bit wary,
His temper trigger was a little hairy.
Brought up roughly, a Canadian farmer’s son,
A machine gunner in the Second Big One,
I never heard those gruesome stories very often,
Only when he allowed his heart to soften.
PTSD and nightmares were his living hell,
complicated with Malaria fevers as well.
With depression a formidable resistance,
He farmed for his family’s existence.
In good moments he would sing poems of an alter life,
Where there was, obviously, no such strife,
Of “when he would go swimmin
With many bull legged wimmin”.
Those feeling good songs rang out loud and gay,
To keep his painful depression at bay.
“Yes ... we have no bannaners,
We have no bannaners today!”
Canadian French was his language norm,
So many of his songs took that form.
I’m sure Mom was his best and biggest fan,
She must have really loved that man.
He had a hard life and his song poems helped him through,
We were often at odds but he did what I could never do.
An unknown hard man with a well hidden poetic heart,
I don’t think he knew it, but Mom did from the start.
For each of his children’s names, he made a French rhyme,
Making the most of poetic license for each of his nine.
They probably weren’t politically correct…
But at least for that one moment,
we .. Each of us ... were his elect.
( Dedicated to the memory of
Rene Francis Dufresne 1917-1998 )
written by Bob Dufresne 6/5/11
I sit here
In a place where I have no fear
Will there be another score?
Does the crowd want more?
Chelsea is on top
While Arsenal should not want to stop
The cheery contingent wants the action
And the goals in this spectacle is the attraction
If the favorite ticket ends up a pay
The pub fly will gladly say
“The pensioners are here, and they will gladly pick up the tab for the beer”
But there is more time to go, carry on let’s get back to the show
A penalty kick was the trick
And the home team was able to gleam
One nil that was a nice fill
But them Gunners made up for that bad mistake
Getting a break away that left Chelsea in their wake
One to one was the score
Will there be more?
As the gunner goalie picked shots off
The beer settled making the blue shirts wonder who’s at fault.
As I leave cash for my mealtime turkey
Chelsea needs a goal without Arsenal doing another thing dirty
Time ticks away
I do say
This match may be a push which would be pain in my toosh
But during the late stage
A goal was written by Chelsea on the EPL page
Not much later the gunners stole the sporting pen
And the blue shirts were not able to defend
Having two shots on goal without a miss
A clear message was made that the game that doesn’t use hands or a fist,
This was not done
And in the stands, those wearing red asked the blue shirts ‘are we having fun’
These gunners do not need a lot just one good shot
To be honest damage was done with only the one
Making the Gunners walk away with all the fun.
Giving questions about those leaving with outbursts that were steaming
Looking about hearing those chanted shouts
The blue shirt cheers who had to pay for their beers
Thought this London Derby was not going to be a fight
But to those who were just watching it was exciting, right?
Two to two is what the scoreboard flashed
And the blue shirts only had a draw ticket to be cashed
Granted this was more money
For those who shed out more pounds just in case something happened that was funny
Chelsea and Arsenal find themselves tied
And hopefully no one cried
Since it was a nice entertaining evening where everyone gave it a good try