Best Platoon Poems
A book that I plucked
from an antiquity of books
filled my nostrils
with a smell that I will always know
and always love.
This love cannot be explained,
but neither could any indifference.
At the back of the hall,
distant from and opposite to
the comical speaker's rostrum,
behind rows of chairs filled
with the attentive and the obliged
and the hands raised in angst
to express righteousness
and cleverness
(look at me ! hear me !),
I, too, would be righteous
and clever some day
(wasn't that clever ?),
but those dusty old books !
And who could forget God's hand ?
It thrust earthword,
its sword gleamed
a split second before cleaving
a wicked man in two,
skull to groin,
a dusty old book
among dusty old books,
explored with petrified daring
by fingers so tiny they're forgotten.
A platoon of books competing,
all to be explored in turn,
some more readily than others,
all old, all dusty, all so rich in scent,
none to be forgotten,
never to be forgotten.
5th July 2020
Oh my regal Eucalyptus friend,
Your tall rainbow trunk is rooted deep,
Stationary, yet your tree tops bend
In constant unison with the wind.
My camera can’t capture your awesome sweep.
Thin limbs try to reach the azure sky
While your trunk fascinates passersby.
An army of ants reveals a platoon
Moving over bark to their marching tune.
Your small leaves sing in susurrate song,
A Queen amidst trees where you belong!
2-22-19 Rev.
CREATIVITY IN VISUAL ARTS Poetry Contest
Sponsor Line Gauthier
Based on a quote from Watership Down:
"He fought because he actually felt safer fighting than running."
His experience in fighting battles
had been friendly games of Monopoly
Rolling dice across a colorful board
after shaking, to hear them rattle.
Those were serious acts of aggression
and hotels were POWs, taken in possession
Weapons were a top hat, thimble or boot
Men built houses, not blew them up
Winner, the one accumulating the most loot
Snake eyes moved him two spaces forward,
instead of sniper eyes on roofs of Park Place
resulting in blood dripping from a man's face
He wished he was only playing a game
But shots were fired from somewhere near
Bullets seeking men to kill and maim
War is fought with emotions of courage and fear
It was time to clear his squadron out
That kind of move is what wars are about
With rifle ready he led the charge
Run through a mine field, though weary and tired
He heard a man cry out, "I've been hit, Sarge!"
Without a free space they could'nt stop to rest
No Short Line Railroad upon which to ride
No fox holes dug, in which to hide
Amid shots fired, he passed down the word, "GO!"
only stopping to collect dog tags of his dead men
This time the battle was fought and won
From a shrapnel wound his blood took flow
It was never bravery that he lacked
It was being interred with a bullet in his back.
When asked why he hadn't turned to run,
knowing his platoon was badly overpowered,
He sighed and replied, "I'm not a coward,
So I rolled the dice and landed on Chance.
The top card said Be brave and attack!
So we fought until we took our property back."
A future world rule by Trillionaires and Billionaires
Each country with segments of puppet regime governments,
With exceptions of course,
The drug lords the cartel those with the power
And the glory to hold what they consider theirs,
They will be the enemy, and will be a constant
Thorn in the side of the establishment.
A world where every citizen registered
At birth and death, as always, the way,
Now a blink in the cell of a hand device,
Where to veer off, constitutes a written warning
Threatening one’s employment a system
Of points and reviews. Twenty years of age,
One is introduced to a multitude of choice,
Law enforcement, United Nations, battle hard platoon,
Ablutions cleaners, Spies and Reapers, alas,
Those over educated with self-righteousness
Seen as a threat, with re-education, to aid
Choose the right path. The system will know
And will have its way, even woke, on a long chain
Will have its day, when only one-sided opinions
Are set in law, therefore, easy to dictate the terms
Of one’s life. Yet if to conform, there will be no
Slippery slopes, humans, like colonies of ants, their purpose
Granted from the throne of insatiable grandeur,
Childhood once a foundation, where one found happiness,
Education now the way to the day of recognition.
If by chance, to live with one’s flexible opinions,
Those that somehow bypass, the system, will become
The hunted until ridiculed, outlawed, then to wither
As autumn leaves, windblown proud foliage will decay,
When minds forced to cast out truthful innuendoes,
Those, embedded in hearts and minds of fallible man, his ideal’s
Firmly fixed, of earthly struggles. Once weaken,
A blend within the unwelcoming stigma of standard deviation,
Those making policy from man’s inconsequential plight,
To decompose, the humus of society to clutter the gutter,
Until the arrival of the Street Cleaners!
© Harry J Horsman 2023
If you ever drive through our small Oregon Town
You won't help but notice the house that's run down
A man called Bill Disney lived there for ten years
When we learnt of his story it brought many tears.
He was covered in burn scars and walked with a limp
As kids we knew no better and called him the gimp
He rarely went out, sometimes stood at his front door
The only one that spoke to him was a girl at the store.
When folks in town died we'd always show respect
What happened at Bills service we didn't expect
Ten Vietnamese women stood by a general’s side
When the general told his story many of them cried.
"It happened in Vietnam in the year sixty five
These women standing here are lucky to be alive
An orphanage was on fire when Bills platoon arrived
Thanks to Bills heroic action everyone in it survived.
He rushed towards the entrance kicking down the door
And he kept going back in and bringing out more
Went back in one last time to check all was clear
So full of determination and he showed no fear.
The heat was so intense and the building ablaze
You could just see the outline through smoky haze
He finally came out and collapsed on the ground
With third degree burns that's what the medics found.
An honourable discharge and then he came here
And a medal of honour for the man with no fear
That rescue changed Bill he was never the same
People avoided him they should bow down in shame.
He was born in New York city but didn't go back
And settled down here to get his life back on track
He'd been missing for a week so the police called around
And got in touch with us when his medal they found ".
The general then added" Bill was one of the best"
And asked for volunteers to carry him to his rest
I looked around the church at all the hands in the air
Felt sad that when he needed help it just wasn't there.
Never judge a book by its cover my mother told me
I wish I had listened to her and helped Bill Disney
At his graveside seven soldiers fired shots in the air
A great shame it took his death for people to care.
Written 12 August 2019.
For bring a character to life poetry contest
Sponsored by Richard Lamoureux.
Lone survivor
July 3, 2015
~+~
I sit alone in my basement all hunkered down
My faithful dog with me
Because tonight is the night of firecrackers
And firework, yep it’s the 4th of July.
*
My dog gets to wear a rap around cover
I get just my basement,
You see I am a lone survivor just like my dad
He from world war 2 me Vietnam.
*
My platoon was on patrol when we saw some
Kids playing baseball it was on the 4th of July
So we asked kids if they wanted to play us
Sure thing, as we were playing an enemy.
*
Patrol had seen us and hit us as we were playing baseball,
I got hit in the leg and fell down my buddy was hit
In the head and killed he fell over me
I played dead as they check us over.
*
It took me three days to crawl back to base
All platoon was wiped out but me.
So on this 4th of July like others
I will hate and hunker down as the damn firecrackers
And fireworks go off…
All are feeling anxious on the old camp ground this night.
Weary Yanks are girding for tomorrow's awful fight.
Young soldiers loll about, staring blankly into slowly dying embers,
Dreaming of home, recalling happier times that each remembers.
Supper is finished, the usual rancid coffee, hardtack and beans.
The sentries call out, "All Is Well!", one of their hourly routines.
Sergeants huddle with comrades, offering solace to their platoon.
From across the way is heard a harmonica's melancholy tune.
From afar, Rebel cannon is heard, a portent of things to come.
Men in gray are readied for battle to the beat of muffled drum.
The ebon sky is aglow with the cannons' awesome display,
Competing with the moon, overshadowing its mellow ray.
Here and there a Bible is opened to the Twenty-third Psalm,
To once again be comforted by that eternal message of calm.
Pensive eyes that on the 'morrow may be forever sealed,
Gaze upward, imploring God's embrace as their guardian shield.
Hastily penned notes read, "If I should be borne to heaven above,
Know that we will be reunited in The Father's gracious love!"
Gallant men draw upon their innate will, apprehensions to allay.
The dulcet strains of "Taps" lowers the curtain on another day.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Her tears lost to rain ...
Dorothea stood in the cold mist,
her habit soaked through, though she cared not.
The gray markers spread out before her like stone soldiers at attention,
as if she were a commander of the dead ...
'No', he would have corrected, 'You are my gift from God' -
her soldier, as cold as stone, now long dead,
deep in the frozen earth at her feet.
She ached for his touch ...
it had been twenty-two years since he'd left for the war -
since he'd been killed protecting his platoon,
yet the wound was as raw as ever,
and the longing for his smile burned a hole in her deepest being.
God was the only thing that made it bearable,
and that devotion was for his sake alone, not hers -
not the children she tended to at the abbey,
not the twisted-limbed gentlemen at the veteran's center,
not the numberless parishioners she had comforted over the years,
not the long lines of homeless at the shelter,
not even the family members she loved and missed back home,
but his ... and his alone.
She read the gravestone aloud,
as she had done so many times before:
"Lieutenant Theodore James Crowley, Jr"
Theodore ... Gift From God, she thought to herself ...
Though she hadn't known it then, it was what her name meant, too ...
almost as if it had been planned, somehow ...
as if it was ordained by the heavens ...
almost as if God had created them ... for each other.
Which, of course ... He had.
N/A'd May 27, 2020, 4:05 AM
In the "Nun" Poetry Contest
N/A'd June 5, 2020, 11:24 PM
In the "Select 5, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "N/A Re-Run 7" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
He dreams day dreams of horror.
He could be anywhere,
But in his mind he’s instantly
Back inside that village there.
He hears those jungle sounds
Again and again and again,
Just one of that platoon of
Tired and frightened men.
He smells again that smell;
Napalm that kisses and clings,
Turning living feeling bodies
Into writhing screaming things.
He senses again the movement
At the very edge of his sight
That sends his reflex fire out
Into the dawn’s breaking light.
He sees once again the shock
And pain on that child’s face
And then his mind in horror
Drags him back from that place,
And he awaits his next visit
With anguish and despair.
He can’t run from daydreams
Trapped in his invalid’s chair
With the kids in the living room watching cartoons send out my platoon I wont say what they can do
And man choose to go handle fights, live or die, nothings worth the pain in the cry that sounds amplified,
Because we walked to our end and offered sacrifice,
We're caught deep in these tears, not brought back to life,
Steering ourselves away from pack of lies leaving quick lest we stay here speaking to fools you can't reason with
I been keeping to myself these days I still believe in peace, ceiling mold dripping and voices heard screaming I'm feeling more on edge and deserted I force my demons to be leaving while I think of things that tore me apart
Now pull myself together remember you in my memories
These i spy with my little eye
tossed aside, two black-and-white die
silver glinting of a spoon
little green soldiers in a platoon
things you forget around the house
things i pick up, quiet as a mouse
a pencil here, a postcard there
pins and buttons to fill my lair
and ever so softly during the night
when the owl hoots and the moon is bright
when the house is still, there’s not a peep
and you’re counting little sheep
i pick these up, you’re unaware
but look under if you dare
what was lost will come to you
i’ll give them back, they’re overdue
but what a funny thing to know!
a few lost pins won’t stop the show
the only conclusion is that humans
love these small things, it’s proven
how strange! how odd!
what seem like trinkets to us gods –
may be one’s greatest treasure
Son, I'm so proud that you elected to serve in the United States Marines.
Military service is a family tradition - it just happens to be in our genes!
Your forefathers have worn the uniform since the genesis of this nation.
All were privileged to serve, feeling that it was their solemn obligation!
One of your distant relatives served as a lieutenant in The Revolution.
He lost an arm at Brandywine to boost this nation's glorious evolution!
A soldier on your mother's side was a sergeant in the Battle of New Orleans.
In letters he told of subsisting on meager rations of rancid pork and beans!
A grandfather shouldered a musket in the Mexican War affair.
Another, a corporal of cavalry in the Union Army served with elegant flair!
In the Spanish-American fray, one of your kin charged up San Juan Hill.
Your great grandpa led a platoon in World War One with consummate skill!
Your granddad was a fighter pilot in the South Pacific and became an ace,
And he later soared as an astronaut through the vast reaches of space!
I was privileged to serve as an army chaplain during the Korean War.
Your Aunt Sarah served with distinction in Viet Nam with the Nurses Corps!
So, you see son, you have a distinguished heritage upon which to build,
Serving all humankind to ensure that our quest for liberty is fulfilled!
Godspeed, Marine! Here's my old wartime copy of the Twenty-Third Psalm.
When assailed from all sides, it will provide you with great solace and calm!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 in Gail Doyle's "Writing A Heartfelt Poem To A Soldier" Contest
July 2012
NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE, ENGLAND
Half-Scot, half-English and ill at ease with the past,
Newcastle is sooty black from its coaly drama,
And the breathless town was always in a hurry to grow,
Narrowly avoiding destruction of its past or leaping over it.
Up on the plateau, industrial power-engine city:
Its earlier Norman Castle and Black Gate narrowly missed
By the frenetic hammers of eager Victorian builders.
Elegantly-proportioned Grainger Street and Central Rail Station
Pause unwillingly to admit the Scottish-style lantern-spired
Sandstone cathedral with its delicate shade of sooty industrial black.
Down at the riverside - an earlier town of shipyards and arms factories,
Quayside warehouses with watertight flood-doors,
Its precipitous narrow old port-streets carved into the gorge walls
And pierced by cold winds from the North Sea,
Is leaped over by a platoon of high-level metal bridges.
Across the Tyne, inelegant, they grab the opposite bank and bind the city to England.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
NOTE: 1 Newcastle is situated on the north ( = Scottish ) side of the River Tyne.
The town was an epicenter of the Industrial Revolution,
with coal, steel, chemical, engineering, and shipbuilding
industries, and was also a major seaport.
2 Norman Castle, Black Gate are remnants of a pre-medieval past.
3 Grainger Street, Central Rail Station are 19th century redeveloped areas.
4 Cathedral (St. Nicholas) dates from 14th century.
Jewels of Africa.
The saffron Queen spins the lilac sky,
her rays flick crimson cinders into Royal Blue Oceans.
Submerge, sizzle, frizzle...going, going, gone! ...But Not.
Cumulus clouds drizzle pepper fog over pink Flamingos, homeward bound.
Tea-green Botswana bush,
teeny, tiny Hummingbirds hover over brink-pink Balsams,
feast on elixir of nectar.
Royal Albatross rides the last whip of wind.
Sulking Stork swoops through veiled mists above marshy meadow ponds.
Sword sunbeams lash chrome, coppery twilight.
Mooned dusks, a violet cape cloaks bathing blooms.
Nightscape sky sparks, preparing morning’s thin blue...aurora hue.
Camouflaged branches stretch, tickle studded clouds
as ribboned roots cling to crevice homes.
A spook- silver ring appears from nowhere, pearling ripples aluminium.
Beams spill across the sea like lines of glittering fire.
Ethiopian wolves howl composed solos,
phantom echoes shudder Tarantula’s lair
as Flax Lily spurts scent...Frankincense and Lime.
Sultry Savannah’s secrets passed on by rhythmic lip-smacking Baboons,
cracking jokes in the knitted canopy,
teasing and tickling clowning Hyena’s below as
a blinkered platoon of Jet Wood Ants march to their Majesty.
Dawn draws indigo voiles over Nephthys, Goddess of Night
slashes of Sunrise surge shadows as the Bush Lark spangles jewels in the air.
The Alize wind dies in respect to heavenly panorama...
Mountains reflected, seen to be varnished into still, smalt-blue sea.
…Cambodia, Rwanda, Syria…
Wars never cease
on the earth. Peace is pulverized.
Each battle drags children into a
vortex of anguish
in the front line or at home. They
lose their butterflies among bombs
and bullets.
Pure rapture curls like mango peel
in tension. Tender lives tarnish.
Lullabies are
lost in the death rattle. Scattered
young blood stains history. The
voice from beneath
the headstone is not an auditory
hallucination, but a doleful echo
from a little soul.
The orphans get food in the refugee
camp, but where will they seek their
lost mom and dad?
Childhood charms are mutilated.
They’re prisoners of trauma. A
platoon of terror marches
through their mental corridors.
First published in "The Humans in the Wild" anthology by Swallow Publishing, US.