Best Khaki Poems
No one can forever soothe a soul,
as all memories evaporate like sunrise dew,
but remember me
when mist congregates at dawn.
Recognise my ghost,
when the fresh breeze brushes your lips.
I will be hiding in the khaki hues of nature,
from the first bloom,
to the last thorn,
to the last leaf,
as my spirit is the essence of four seasons,
so remember me among the 'forget me nots,'
and the scents that bring a pause.
When you paint your masterpiece of dahlia,
don't ignore the moon gazing in awe.
Unless you have given him a new name.
In the tranquillity of twilight,
notice me beaming, surrounded by lanterns.
Unless you no longer recognise my eyes.
In sun searing reveries,
as turquoise waves soften sandy ripples,
listen to spirits whispering our lyrics,
and remember me when adorning lilac fibres,
which you stripped from my chest.
When thunder knocks at your door,
and lightning flashes at your windows,
will you remember me
in the humidity after the monsoon?
When the path is dark,
and the journey turbulent,
will you commemorate me in you sighs?
I cannot return the souvenirs,
gifted to me from your words,
nor erase double edged metaphors,
where love's reflection, once glittered,
so when your muse is lifeless,
relive our recollections
without the need for ink.
Upon the arrival of silence,
when your hands have nothing to hold,
place them together
and remember me
in the sacredness we once shared.
Simple Sunday Musing.
21/6/26
My room at the Hyatt
Smelled like my ex-wife
She didn't have oodles of class
Or wasn't overly fancy
So, it must be that aroma of
Almost masking what had
Taken place the night before
We greeted each other with
A welcoming suspicion
The bathroom lighting flawless
Standing in the mirror with
Perfect tan and bright white A
T-shirt
Khaki slacks pulled high and
Wise guy hair cut
I wonder if Capone ever went to see
The Cubbies play
Beautiful sunny day, not too warm
Plenty of room on the mezzanine
At Wrigley
A pleasantly safe distance from the
Big middle aged guys with
Some other man's name on their back ' s
Exhaling brat breath
And beer farts
the Windy City loves their team
As warm as the sun and as cold as ice,
Nature's the mother for whom the birds sing.
Strolling through the woods, I embrace Autumn's
sensually immersive sensations.
From a crackling carpet of fallen leaves
to the smell of rotting logs and fungi:
Nature's presence is all-encompassing.
And a chorus of skeletal branches
rattle, like bones, in the wake of each breeze.
Each season
Nature changes
Her looks,
using color
to express Herself.
Spring is green,
Summer
is khaki,
and Fall
dapples orange
and scarlet
highlights, on the trees.
While Winter wears powder
white,
with crystals of ice.
Men of Honor in the mist Kokoda 1942......
Men of Honor in the mist,...
Sometimes by a bullet kissed,...
Shoot the buggers they'd insist,...
Threeo plonked, lee enfield .303cal.
Japs dead, not missed....
Men in khaki dyed to green ,..
Kokoda men so bronzed and lean,.
Fought the bloody Jap so mean,...
Die did run till khakki/green....
Move in silence in the green,...
Keep your mouth shut, be unseen,..
Pull off a shot when you are sure,...
Head shot got him, yes one more....
Jonesy shot as we pulled back,..
Found him eaten on the track,..
Kill a Jap for sure today,...
Shoot the buggers make em pay....
Walk with death there every day...
Fix your bayonet, smell of hay?...
Keep your guard up, bayonet parry...
Butt slap drongo Jap, old Harry... Don Johnson
As Don Johnson2/25th Aussie Btn. said of his time on the Kokoda track in 1942, you would
smell the mouldy hay smell when the Jap was close. The dyed green Aussie uniform became 2
colours in the constant rain, green and khaki patches. (did we invent camoflague
uniforms)You heard the rattle as the Jap put a bullet in the barrel of his Arisaka rifle.
After his 5 shots the predictable Jap would come for you to bayonet fight you. So you'd
spike him or plonk him with unit .303.. The Japanese were losing many cargo ships to Yank
Submarines during the war, as payback they put American, British and Aussie prisoners on
board to be sunk to die on their way back empty to Japan....
http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush
silent sea from afar
glazed in admiral and arctic blue
softly shifting to pointilism
as it rushes to the rocky shore
whilst sky in faded ivory and teal
spells prelude to April rain
rugged rocks in wild brush strokes
like dripping ink
of British tan and dark khaki
blended in tawny and ecru
are luminous glossy gems
cascading from celestial source
like my streaming teardrops
as I watch you go
25 April 2021
For "All Yours (April 25) Poetry Contest"
Sponsored by Brian Strand
1st place
Notes:Coast Scene, Isles of Shoals is a 1901 painting by Childe Hassam which is in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Done in oil on canvas in luminous colours, the painting depicts the remote Isles of Shoals off the rocky shoreline of New England, a favorite haunt of Childe Hassam at the end of the 19th century and where he painted a series of similar coastal scenes. (Photo and info credits to Wikipedia)
Her spouse wise or unwise, who can tell. Does he dream in midnight hues? Oh why doesn’t he wake up, or at least spit out that last sleeping pill. He might choke on it. The still of the night rattled by the movement of the boundary, like a lion’s hungry stomach. The moon roars creating goosebumps, pricks upon tender white skin. She barely breathes. Did anyone leave snacks inside this circus tent… Please...please...please. Helplessly she lies as the khaki quavers, heart frantic. She’s never thought herself mad, but like in a Poe story, the tell-tale… She imagines the lion with reflective eyes, baring full gums, toying with her...this is no cuddly kitten. Would her full-sandman spouse wake up, wonder where she’d gone, as the kindly sunlight blinded him to the truth. The truth is she would kill him, if only he’d open his eyes. Could she forgive him… At long last, darts race toward the roaming moon...she imagines that ghastly animal tumbling underneath the skirt, landing at her feet, swirling dust, an incomplete thought as the ferocious tongue lolligags onto her bag. Her husband smiles and turns over satisfied as he kisses his dream wife, moaning with pleasure; danger the last thing on his mind, as the hunters drag away the predator whose smell lingers in the morning coffee, the cigarette’s ash, the wife’s nostrils. And all the community can do the next morning is make fun of the snoring gun, the gray-haired spoon, and midnight adventure.
the pile of gumdrops
sparkle like dew for kitty
here kitty...kitty
11/2/2020
ANZAC
Few among them knew the name Gallipolli
no crystal ball foretold the hell it spawned
but in the misty dawn of 25-04-15
the legend of the ANZACs would be born.
standing tall in khaki pride
he held his wife and newborn son
don’t worry love be back real soon
we’re gonna make them jerries run
the women waved tear streaked farewells
from wharves as troop ships steamed away
and crossed horizons far from home
to face the trials of unknown day
excitement written in their smiles
proud and brave and some so young
they sang ‘Australia Will be There’
and to the winds their voices flung
no notion no suspicion
of the fate their journey faced
as on that fear filled morning
into fiery hell they paced
and in that violent misty dawn
sixteen thousand heroic hearts
stormed a friendless beachfront
for king and country do their part
their bravery knew no backward step
as lacking grit to see it through
would be to turn their back on mates
and no such thought would they pursue
for eight long mud and blood filled months
they dug their trenches fought their fight
and dreamt sweet dreams of those at home
morning noon and haunted night
the mettle of each beating heart
for eight long months was tested
too many souls would not return
by the time the guns were rested
so far beyond imaginings
that nightmare task was set
sixty thousand heroes
“Lest We Forget’
Few among them knew the name Gallipolli
no crystal ball foretold the hell it spawned
but in the misty dawn of 25-04-15
the legend of the ANZACs would be born.
We are all going to wear khaki pants to the parade.
What’s khaki? I ask, knowing, but wanting to see his reaction.
He is new, and I love to toy with the new guy.
“You know,” he says, “Um, tan, plain, dull, plain, tan.”
“I don’t have any pants like that,” I tell him, “But I can do purple.”
I read his face, his cheeks pink up fast.
I am going to have fun with this one.
“Oh, I am sure you have something khaki,” he says confidently.
“No, she doesn’t!” all three of the others in the lunchroom shout nearly simultaneously.
His nose is pink now. He looks down, and I realize the minute it registers that
I am wearing my red, orange, black, gray and purple owl pants.
“Do you have PLAIN?” he asks hopefully.
They are all shaking their heads ‘no’.
I am so proud as I leave the lunchroom,
They know me here!
A knock at the door, who can it be?
Probably Sarah coming for tea.
She usually calls on her way
back from work to share some time with me.
A look in the mirror,
I 'tut' at my face:
Why do people always call
when there's junk around the place?
I open the door - a man is standing there.
I wish I'd worn some make up
I wish I'd done my hair.
It's then I spot the uniform:
the buttons made of brass;
the stripes that grace the khaki sleeves;
the boots that crunch amongst the leaves.
I question with my eyes?
It comes as no surprise to hear him ask
can he come in, and would I like to sit?'
He has some rather grievous news -
- I dread to hear it.
I know what he is going to say.
It's all a dream. Please go away.
I'm not in to truth today
I scream inside my head......
I know what he just said to me,
but I didn't hear a word.
His lips spoke out in silence, and me,
I never heard.
He's 'so sorry'. He gets up to go
and heads towards the door.
I try to rise to follow him
but my legs will move no more;
for they have turned to jelly and
my head is going to burst.
It's funny, when you're a soldier's wife,
you always fear the worst,
But it's only when you hear the knock,
the knock upon the door,
and see the face you've never seen:
the shining boots, the uniform;
the mouth that speaks the silent words
the apologies and platitudes;
'killed in action in the war"
The widow thoughts ring clear.
What weighs down this sandy wisp
between a bay and ocean is not
a causeway, not the press of footed towers,
nor the tread of bare and browning bathers
on its narrow, wet, khaki-colored beaches --
It is the weight of air, cloudless, clear
but heavy air -- blue in the depths --
that arches overhead; and it is the sizzle
of minor surf along the island's edges,
dampening sand, to stick upon the sea
like a licked stamp upon a letter.
The men, roads, and condos all may seem
to wrest control from nature and its weather;
but, we, who've spent some years here,
know better.
The old guard is having a gala at the Omni tonight
They are shooting off fireworks
And scaring the dogs
Cowing in the corner thinking only the worst could come of this
I am drinking whiskey with beer backs and playing my guitar
I wonder in amazement at what all this means?
For whom or what is this celebration?
A wedding perhaps…
I know not
It all seems so trivial
As I slip into the darkness of the bourbon
It will grow on me through the night
And strengthen my resolve to never give up
The morning will come and I won’t remember a damn thing
But tonight I am omnipotent. The world is my nut.
And I am strong in my resolve to make sure those rodents
At the yacht club are done in for once and for all.
They have their topsiders and khaki pants with blue blazers and brass buttons
All covered in vomit. Those momma’s boys pretend that their orphans till the train pulls in and things are getting very small.
I’ll march over there in my Sunday pants and a mohair vest and set them straight
And they will stand up and listen
The bastards
After what they did to my kid sister
They’ll listen
And then they will bow their heads and ask forgiveness
For what they scratch on the wall
And the words that come from their mouths is foul
And a stench rises up imprisoned by their conceit.
They will learn how to love and to forgive.
I will teach them the only way I know how.
Through hard love, tough love, my fathers love.
And then and only then can they celebrate the pitfalls of humanity.
For I am the Black King
And my dark wing will fold over them and help them to understand
That charity does not start at home
It starts with me.
Zillion supporters screaming, a loud buzz,
Yearning to return home cheered by victory.
Xerox machines preparing the next day’s papers; Max
Wit for the shame or fame of a member of the show.
Violent vitriol from commentators like engine rev
Unites with supporters’ glee at likes of Eto’o or Kanu
To spur skill at each minute to get even one stunning stunt
Spirits soar, sink, so it is, for here serenity bores.
Roulette, lifté, counter-attack by one party raising the roar.
Quick kick! Oh no! Replay?! Why not? That must join the FAQ
Pray the corner kick slays the opponent; oh that header was sharp!
Oh he missed that goal again! No replay?! Hell no!
No! Now he’s channeled that ball too late for the man,
May the coach coach correctly and call him to quit the team!
Leave the pitch you little loss-bringing imp! LOL!
Khaki-wearing “messer” I can even get your reek!
Just as our jests are about to milk out laughs, I couldn’t find a word to end with “J”.
Instead I had a whole lot of them J-starting words. So I
Hunched to think, but then looked up at the BROOHAH:
GOAL GOAL!! Oops the scorer is the "Mr. Bug"!
Fooled? No, I’m still for him leaving,( Scoring oaf!)
Even though this elation, release and joy, came from his device!
Defensive tactics, offensive backing up, I can almost get mad
‘Cos the best defense is attack Doc!
Bye losers, we took this easy. Supporters bob
Away, and the whole stadium sleeps in the starlight bathed by mother Luna.
(c) Nyonglema
Akukhona ukuthi ngifisa ukukuphazamisa,empilweni yakho etsha
Ngeke ngakuqanganisela kepha ngangethembile ngoba ngangiwa ngivuk nawe
Nami ngangazi ngelinye ilanga ukuthi ngniyophumula ngibuse nje nge nkosi
Kepha kuyangicacela ukuthi ngangiyikake la ingalele khona
Ngangikondla ngenkece engekho ngikukhulisa ngenkece yasemajalidini
Uyihlo wakushiya wahamba okwe juba lika Nowa
Angimbeki cala ngalokho naye ngoba wuye owazi isizathu salokho
Ngiyofa inhliziyo yami igcwele ebuhlungu
Ngoba lawomabhilidi enfant is a khaki gazing angel okwelanga ukuth ngangizihemela
Konke ebengikwenza ebengikwenza ngothando
Nangethemba lokuthi ikusasa uyoba lusizo kulomdeni
Pho ke umuntu akathenjwa
Ungilahlisa okwenyongo yenyathi
Ungiphika phambi kobuso bami
Ungitshena ezikabhoqo uthi awungazi
Uyongikhumbula uyofisa ukulungisa izinto
Kepha Kobe sekonakele vele
Uyosikhihla esika Mandi
Uyofisa ukukhulum nami
Kuyobe kusasizani vele?
Ngiyobe sengikwelama things
Ungisize ungahlabi zinkomo
Ungahlabi zimbuzi ungaqumi ngisho nezinkukhu
Ngoba lokhu kofaka umkhokha ekhaya
Iyobe isiwuchithile inkonyane.
It's in a turtle soup shop where I'm employed
It's my duty to cook vomit-inducing soup turtle
which no decent human palate could stand;
a horrid job and a salary which is even worse,
an insult to my brilliant overdeveloped mind;
Not to mention the iniquitous schedule,
though there's something much worse:
the appalling uniform which is an insult
to a nonfrivolous mind like mine;
and in no way instrumental in contributing
to social elegance but a pathological attack
on good taste and gumption!
a distorted regurgitation of undigested
food for thought!
A lavender cup with the grotesque company logo!
The unsightly checked fuchsia and gray pants!
And to top it all: a striped khaki and purple poncho!
My odious uniform! Imported from Togo!
A lovely idea had the company's honcho!
An idea that my Togolese friend rejects!
I hug him! I look up to him!
'Cause he abhors both poncho and honcho!
Cripes! Yikes!
Dinner's ready! Yucky turtle soup I shall regurgitate!
dang,
grandma was a real hubba bubba-
killer-diller
khaki wacky boycrazygirl
a spiffy hot damn hoofer
during the dark hours of WWII
and the devastation
followed with
unrestrainedjubibilation
beat me daddy eight to the bar
grandma was a real hubba bubba-
franksinatracrooner
singing grandma put on her stompers
she was a babydoll soppysappysharp
a spiffy hot damn hoofer
worked in a factory
building partsforairplanes for the boys
no siree bob she was not giving up her job
she had
dreams
a white picket fence
in the
boondocks
grandma was-
a spiffy
hot damn
hoofer
no gobbledygook she told great stories
of what it was like
after the war forthetroops and all
pin-up girls like Marilyn Munroe
Elvis
Roy Orbison
Jerry Lee Lewis
drive-ins
fancy wheels ovaltine
casablanca goingmyway its a wonderful life
for whom the bell tolls earnesthemmingway
it was a time of attitude
no fuddy-duddy she had the gams
met grandpa doingtheswing
they had no lettuce moolah greenbacks
but they
were over the top
stuck on glued
bonkers in love oh grandma had
no fear of saying hi-de-ho
he said hey sugar are you rationed
dang
grandma was a real hubba bubba-
killer-diller
kacky wacky boycrazygirl
take a gander withyourpeepers
at this thingamabob poem
____________________________________
June 2, 2015
Free Verse
Inspired by the slang of the 1940's
For the contest, Talk the Talk and Walk the Walk, sponsor, Debbie Guzzi
First Place