Best Patrols Poems
At night the sun has gone to sleep
And crickets sing a tune.
The bullfrogs croak and creatures creep
Beneath the watching moon.
The masked raccoons and possums prowl
Through meadows moist with dew.
The fireflies flash, coyotes howl,
And owls keep asking, "Who?"
At night our school is still and dark.
The evening stars arrive.
And marble statues in the park
Appear to come alive.
At night our dog the house patrols,
The city streets are bare.
The clock in kitchen hourly tolls,
And ghosts and nightmares scare.
At night I hear my father snore
And baby brother cry,
As shadows slide across the floor
And trucks go rumbling by.
I hear a siren's urgent squeal
While lying safe in bed,
My hamster racing on its wheel,
And raindrops overhead.
At night I hear the floorboards creak
And neighbor's cat meow.
I feel my pillow press my cheek
And night air cool my brow.
I think about the recent past
And plan the coming day,
Until I fall asleep at last
And dream the night away.
The male Hine’s Emerald patrols his cattail fen
low through sedge and seepage
his compound eyes pluck gnats from the air
two yellow bars flash along his thorax
hindwings catch the morning
Chimanimani Mountain mist beads over quartz
the female Rock Threadtail
six black feet braced on the edge
her wing tilted toward the sun
eyes—black
He misses the gnat
darts, veers, halts midair, pivots
his ommatidia fixed on her raised wing
smitten, his heading shifts
the female Rock Threadtail rests above her stream
=======
When no one else is around
I AMUSE MYSELF while sitting down
And bring myself tons of joy when I pretend to be
A stand-up comedian amusing all my friends.
I amuse myself then.
Nothing else to do while sitting in the pews.
I might as well count my blessings, and
AMUSE myself while confessing.
When I'm sleeping I amuse
Myself with my nightmares as I'M screaming
Frighteningly amusing me.
I amuse myself with fun and jokes GALES of
Laughter thereafter. FUNNY patrols the halls
Of speckled jest. HA! I amuse myself at my
Own request.
When muscles are weak from laughters cause
I amuse myself with my APPLAUSE.
I create a funny story recite it to myself
And listen to my own glee.
I amuse myself with peals of SPASTIC
HILARITY. With tricks and folly it's all the
Same. I amuse myself with silly games
At the end of the day I'm amused by the moon
As it sits beneath its HALO laughing quietly
At me
HILARIOUSLY amusing me.
They're getting old now.
They congregate only a few blocks south of where I live.
40 to 50 years ago they were in Vietnam.
Among the homeless they usually move slower,
The weariness of age and of other things,
of drug use and alcohol,
lost loves and families,
bent and broken paths.
You hear about the "thousand yard stare,"
where blank verse and silence show they're not actively seeing,
though now most of the immediate trauma is gone,
they are just lives forever changed,
eyes both hardened and softened,
former aspects compromised,
the hand of war still upon them.
My family had a big house in Youngstown, Ohio,
with a room rented to a nice young guy named Dale.
It was cool because he would throw the football
with me and my brothers, and talk to us.
He had short hair and a little bit of acne.
In 1967 he went to Vietnam, killed within a week.
They tell stories of night patrols, moving through water,
streams rivers rain, mud and sodden clothes,
100 degrees in the shade, bugs, infection, panic,
running through the jungle firing their M-16 behind them,
of the Vietnamese people suffering, the dead lying along the road.
Arriving in-country, the heat blasting you
when you get off the plane, you are told
look left, look right, and then that one of the two men
you just saw will not return.
Our country was then conflicted, and it was harder coming home,
even though the orange fires and the smoke were far away,
you lost a limb and they didn't appreciate it.
There were a lot of booby-traps set,
by the enemy, by the bureaucracy, by the times.
I wasn't old enough to go and I'm not sorry.
The leaves, long gone, each golden child carried
on autumn draft to reach a season's death,
portends bitter squalls will blow the harried
vines with long, cruel winter's icy breath.
Now slumber long beneath the warming banks
upon your tender roots deep in the earth.
All while stillness patrols your sentried ranks,
you strengthen sap to bring a new year's birth.
The spice of burning wood pervades the air
as gentle snipping of the pruning shear
sets free your limbs for summer fruit to bear;
from tender newborn buds, which soon appear.
And so the cycle starts for wondrous vine
to once again turn sunshine into wine.
Through whispers that furrow the silence, the cursing horn sounds,
Over plains of shadow the dusk of night descends all around.
Hyperion of night glows with embers beneath lids of silver light,
In silence watches over sparse poplars, caressed by the moon's delight.
Dreaming of the scent from deep, dark woods, on the lake's mysterious wave,
Begging for comfort from the stars that weep in the realm of the forgotten, their enclave.
Thirsting to trace hurried steps, to journey beneath the starry sphere,
While the rhythm of seasons softly ticks, like a clock in the night drawing near.
Linden flowers shatter over celestial metaphors that echo in night's thrall,
From the glittering dawn to the borders of dark eternities, overarching all.
Through the centuries, as legatees on Earth, his steps will remain unswayed,
Like a gold coin rimmed by fate's bright light, ever vibrant, always unstayed.
Lord of the stars, a young noble robed in romances of elation,
With night's locks cascading, the forest patrols in hushed revelation.
Like a sage of silence, tethered to solitude with ancient ties,
Treading paths that angels step, in the crickets' twilight symphony, the bird descends and flies.
With eyes that embody the infinite, thoughts nobly uplifted in cosmic sprawl,
He reclines on the forehead of time immortal, a monarch in high-walled hall.
You've poured magic through the gates of ether, unlocking the most treasured enigma, cast,
In the celestial chamber you unwittingly sign your name, on scattered parchment, on a constellation vast.
Apollo of oblivion, from your searing, touch-me-not zodiacal trace,
You spin the stars like a rosary, forever set as their vigilant grace.
Give them clear mountain lakes,
And kid-friendly swimming holes,
Rafts, rowboats, and canoes;
Dads and sons with fishing poles.
Give them clear night skies,
Filled with just enough moonlight
To find shadowy paths--
Navigating by starlight.
Give them old patch jackets
To remind them of their tales:
Camporees, jamborees,
And famous historic trails
Give them some traditions
From American folklore;
Ashes saved from campfires,
To teach them who went before.
Give them Boy Scout handbooks,
Lengths of rope with knots to tie,
Multi-tool pocket knives,
And young Scouts wanting to try.
Give them trails to follow,
Maps and compasses to read.
Stories around a fire,
Patrols of Boy Scouts to lead.
All Scouts want is just a chance
To watch wildlife and touch native plants,
Go snipe hunting and backpacking,
And earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
And to cook and laugh around a campfire.
There’s just not much more for a Scout to desire.
A teenager with the expressions of a middle age individual
is the wonder-creating characteristic of its accelerating growth.
Dwelling in a land not presented with natural gifts;
it still beat all odds to be a member of the Asian Tigers
and a competing contributor to its domain’s prosperity.
The birth place to the Toilet theme amusement park
and a camp of makeup obsessed men.
The fourteenth day of every month is set aside in romance’s banquet
except that of the fourth month when mourning becomes love’s pirate.
February is for young men, march, three times for the ladies.
Prides in the globally acknowledged Boryeona Mud Festival
and gives socialization a new countenance in the “hoesik” event,
while new standards in robotic technology is climaxed
as prison guards, patrols, anti-jelly fish squad and teachers
actively exist through exciting artificial intelligence.
A humiliating public ritual in a form of crime reenactment,
personality stereotypes emanating from the different blood groups,
a nationwide superstitious repugnance to the red ink;
very cultured to even create a backlash
on Bill Gates’ presidential handshake;
typify a people coming a long way from a turbulent past.
A territory of very bright and brainy students;
the god of the LG, Hyundai and Samsung among others;
and to the largest church in size and congregants in the world.
It is the well preserved garden where plastic surgery strives
all to show an amazing growth once heavily stunted,
suffering a suppression entertained by the comfort ladies;
somehow causing a perspective towards the rising sun
to be similar to the swastika’s view by the Jews.
Despite the Japanese colonization, soviet meddling and North Korean threats,
it’s still showing mental strength to be the world’s 12th largest trading Nation.
Autumn leaves that crinkle underfoot
The misty sky at night.
The gale force winds,
The thunderstorms.
Such is a nightguard's life.
Winter snow three feet deep,
Working on Xmas night.
The icy paths
The double thick coats.
Such is a nightguard's life.
Spring birds singing a mating call,
Owls that hoot at night.
Flowers blooming,
Gardens of colour.
Such is a nightguard's life.
Summer evenings bright and clear,
Patrols in short sleeves at night.
A cheese salad meal,
Unofficial cold beer!
Such is a nightguard's life.
More than twelve hundred souls
Meet their watery grave.
German U-boat patrols
Spark a fatal shockwave.
This echo of the past
Resounds throughout history.
Rousing war unsurpassed,
Deadly shroud of mystery.
The empire aids Cunard,
Loaning millions in pounds.
Lord Inverclyde toils hard
On deceptions unsound.
They hide admiralty
Within their merchant fleet,
And in reality
War barons plot deceit.
Famed cruiser so agile
Brings home the Blue Riband.
Propellers prove fragile,
New designs would respond.
While retooling the craft,
Gun mountings are installed.
Hidden away most daft
Down where the ropes are hauled.
However they decide
To switch their new design.
Large cargo holds shall hide
Munitions in her spine.
War with Germany starts
With land mines and blockades.
America builds parts
While Britain launches raids.
The Isles become war zones
With no sure passage back.
Submarines would throw stones
To sink the Union Jack.
So Daniel Dow protests
This British smuggling ring.
The prior chief suggests
Attacks these loads will bring.
A German message warns:
"Huge risk at British sea!
If allied flags adorn,
They'll be hacked to debris!"
Captain Turner is picked
To lead the merchant ship.
"Speed shall avoid conflict
On this momentous trip."
Voyage two hundred-one
Departs Pier 54
Under a watchful sun,
Fresh ammo in her store.
Steaming toward Fastnet Rock,
Bowler Bill seeks advice.
Three ships are sunk in shock,
Warnings are confirmed twice.
Posting double look-outs,
They ready the lifeboats.
Bill secures a black out
While taking careful notes.
Thirty miles from Cape Clear,
The vessel enters fog.
Weather thwarts so severe
The captain slows their slog.
The periscope spots them
As orders are passed down.
One button shall condemn,
Destruction all around.
The Old Head of Kinsale
Watches the missile glide.
The bomb shreds to assail
Those weapons stowed inside.
(continued from PART ONE)
Why I’ve seen him countless times, regurgitate old dog faeces onto fresh bread
And listened to his quiet voice exhorting me to do the same.
This fly was a born teacher.
There can be no greater accolade for a teacher than to be followed by his students.
He used basic good common sense, but spiced-up with a dash of excitement.
The well-known excrement-with-fried-egg, the easy-to-recognize urine-flavoured
Chips in the gutter, and the now commonplace saliva-over-spoon trick,
Are today almost standard delicacies for us all. Yet it was Hector who pioneered them.
He ignored the scorn and catcalls from younger flies, as he disdained a baby’s diaper
In some trash can, and went winging his way up to the second floor of the hospital
To select the juiciest old blood he could find.
No - Hector was independent, he was truly his own fly.
He stuck with pioneering ideas like the then-untested skid techniques
For escaping fly-swatters wielded in kitchens. It was Hector’s brave soul
Which brought standardized fly-patrols into being to catch a greater proportion of
Unsuspecting open-mouthed sleepers at night.
Uncle Hector went where no fly had gone before, and he did it with style.
He often said,“If you can make it on this heap of cat-dung, you can make it anywhere”
And there’s the lesson for us all today, ladies and gentlemen.
Let us not grieve for the loss of such a fine fly, but rather
Celebrate his life of discovery and progress. Let us go forth from this cat-crap
To a brighter future illuminated by the searching curiosity of Uncle Hector’s mind.
Younger generation, you must go forth boldly and find your own rotten cucumbers,
Your own half-eaten porkchops, your own dandruff-laden combs,
And be not afraid to mix them with relish as you choose from the delicacies
Of the knacker’s yard or the remains of a crow hit by a ten-ton truck on the road.
We stand - or hover - now in silence for one minute, as a token of respect -
And as we enjoy the gentle aroma of this cat-crap heap,
Allow the memory of Hector to inspire us.
God bless you all.
I am outside the circle of sex. Just as well. Population control,
the biome's survival instinct. Or I'm old. Look
in mirror, skin over bones. Young girls
on bicycles, running, have that granddaughterly smile for me,
all is safe, well. Much is well.
The neighborhood safe,
the nation a non-violent helpmate among nations. Until
food shortages, weather crises, nuclear mischief apply.
Police patrols. I was proud of Massachusetts
voting to decriminalize reefer. Let's go all the way:
free all non-violent offenders from their cells! Force police
out of cruisers to walk the streets and say hello.
What else can we try:
Open the border with Mexico. Let labor
flow like capital.
What has this to do with the self,
the temperamental, fragile self. The one that leaves no footprint
in eternity. No smell.
Give them clear mountain lakes,
Kid-friendly swimming holes,
Rafts, canoes, and sailboats;
Dads and sons with fishing-poles.
Give them clear night skies,
With just a little moonlight.
To see the Milky Way,
Hunting snipes by flashlight. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
Give them old patch jackets
So that they can tell their tales:
Camporees, jamborees,
And famous historic trails
Give them old traditions:
Native American folklore;
Ashes saved from campfires,
From Scouters who went before. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
All Scouts want is just a chance
To meet wildlife, touch native plants,
Go stargazing and backpacking,
Earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
Cook, laugh and sing ‘round a campfire--
There just ain’t much more
That a Scout can desire.
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
Give them wood to build with,
Lengths of rope with knots to tie,
Multi-tool pocket knives,
Tenderfoots wanting to try.
Give them trails to follow,
Maps and compasses to read,
Kindling for a bonfire,
And patrols of Scouts to lead. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
All Scouts want is just a chance
To meet wildlife, touch native plants,
Go stargazing and backpacking,
Earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
Cook, laugh and sing ‘round a campfire.
There just ain’t much more
That a Scout can desire. Everybody!
(Boy Scouts) CHAWANAKEE! (clap clap) CHAWANAKEE!
Usually everyone sees past
What she was or what she might become
To them she is a glass cold and cracked
She bow down
He took her crown
Her love patrols
His money controls
she is open minded and transparent like the sea
But you know what you see
Her throne was strong
But now it felt like is gone
she have never been seen before
she looked for her treasure
but to find it stolen in spirits.
she cried a lot, but she was a sympathy box
She fought for her right
But looked like a rat
She is a princess
People believed she is a winless
She got hated, blackmailed and lost confidence
But still like air she’ll rise
She believed a day will come
Which she will be numb
Unexpectedly there was a change, Everything got rearranged
She saw right through her
She looked, but when she looked she saw something more
To her she is a water living and essential
She smiled as she cried, But she couldn’t try
She was a princess
with a priceless heart
she stood for her throne, and got it back
she learnt to never bow, and let someone take her crown.
There has been news about piracy in the high seas...
And here is news about a nefarious activity you don't see...
People go missing in action off the waters of Philippines...
And then the cat and mouse game of high stakes begins...
While some families agonise over their missing loved ones....
Going by the news, the border security patrol force was duly informed...
But this I wonder, looks like the sovereign security patrols fail once again...
With a dusk to dawn curfew in force, was there a lapse in security yet again...
Was it a case of lax security or was it a case of one attempt too many...
Border Patrol boasted it has thwarted double digits of attempts that were so many...
Is this latest affront to sovereign securty a reminder we cannot escape kidnap attempts...
When we have for our neighbours bandits who sees us not as human beings...
Catch some Malaysians, then began a hide and seek game in the jungles of Philippines..
Next is a couple of months of various seek n find missions involving the governments....
And negotiations in earnest then begins , builds up to a critical delicate point ...
For money in a few tens of millions, freedom and lives can be traded to a point...
Should negotiations fell through or deadlines are missed, death to the victims ...
Often it's slow death by beheading under the guise of fanatical religious belief...
Hoping for religious sympathies to condone a blatant cruel act against humanity..
When in essence it was all a well disguised despicable act of kidnapping...
Treating fellow humans as human cattle to be traded and prices haggled...
While playing God and pretending to be God's warriors when talks are bungled...
Claiming every unfortunate victim's life in the name of the Islam religion...
Thinking in their warped religious fervour they are on the pathway up to Heavens...
These terrorists, they can be no other, terrorise the international community...
With such blatant organised crimes of inhumanity with such impunity...
Maybe vigilante squads in the Philippines is the final solution....
Thousands of drug peddlars and merchants are dead by executions...
Looks like therein lies a possible solution, storm the dense jungles...
Cash rewards for vigilante squads killing terrorists in the jungles....?