Best Platoons Poems
I always wanted two slices of ice cube pie
“You only get one”, was the standard reply.
I don’t know why I did
But since I was a kid
It was my favorite treat on the Fourth of July.
The pastry is known by all our relations
Since the recipe’s passed down for generations.
Every bite you’ll savoir
Exceptional flavor
But remember, don’t settle for imitations
Long ago, my great Aunt tried experiments
By leaving out one of the ingredients.
Once Uncle took a bite
He stared out in fright
And barely survived that bad experience.
My oldest son, Johnny became quite wise
He grew up like the others, before our eyes.
His passion for confection
Was a gainful connection
When he opened the first ice cube pie franchise.
Soon after that, we made our first million
And played in the sun with friendly Brazilians.
But to our surprise
We saw ice cube pies
On bamboo platters next to our pavilion
Right away we knew this was an infraction
Without delay our family took action.
We found a private eye
Who loved our ice pie
But his research left him broken in traction.
It was apparent to us that that kind of job
Was endorsed by the brutal ice cube pie mob.
But we didn’t frown
Or give up and back down
We were going to prevail; oh, yes siree, Bob!
With a meeting of minds we gathered resources
And then undersigned the following courses.
To make sure our ices
Sold at cut-rate prices
To knock competition off its high horses.
So back at the shop we assembled platoons
To build enough pies to reach to the moons.
And made plenty dough
That allowed us to mow
Down the cube racket’s, knuckle dragging goons.
We now manage an ice cube pie monopoly
Sales started smooth, but then turned choppily.
So we eased the frustration
With another vacation
But guess what we saw in downtown Mexicali?!
I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
There were the usual horse collars, clocks and various sundries on display.
Havin' no need fer horse collars and sech, I quickly passed them by,
But a paintin' of an abandoned stagecoach really caught my eye!
The artist depicted it in a field overgrown with tumbleweeds and brambles.
It looked so very forlorn, its former glory now in a total shambles!
I contemplated this poignant scene and mused upon its past,
And how it may have helped conquer the western frontier so very vast!
I could picture the cranky driver a-cussin' and crackin' his leather whip,
Stingin' the ears of his cantankerous mules urgin' them on to a faster clip!
As they raced across arid deserts and rounded treacherous mountain curves,
How the passengers must've been jostled, gittin' on each others nerves!
I visualized the characters that old stage must've transported to the west!
There were gamblers seekin' suckers, concealin' ample aces in their vest!
Platoons of preachers clutchin' their Bibles were numbered 'mongst the hosts,
And young and innocent teachers were headin' west to teach at army posts!
Soiled doves, plyin' their trade, were headed fer sawdust saloons.
I wondered if the old stage had ever been sacked by outlaws and their goons.
I reckon the old derelict had earned its repose - its axles no longer squeal.
If only that old stage could speak! My oh my! The secrets it might reveal!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
The Banyan Tree
I the Atlas carry a home
My master strong for his
Children seven had built.
Shorts and skirts
Thunder up my shoulders,
All hell let lose,
With their galloping horse-hooves,
Ride up the stairs full a twenty.
Doomsday be here
While they make a merry!
Platoons of ghosts,
Burst through the door,
Somersaults quaking me, to and fro.
My arms aching in holding the floor,
Left and right till muscles do tear.
Roaring laughter through
Quaking windows four,
Trap door opens and shuts,
Opens and shuts.
Down they slide from
My shoulder to root,
Clinging and scraping
My shins a many.
One by one upto the stairs
And down to the root.
Witchcraft and magic
Can save me not
With wizards seven!
The lord I thank thee for the
Night so starry and breeze so cool!,
Nightly rest to heal my sores,
A generation over,
Another I do endure.
History changes not
With more furore!
Stout and and strong,
With roots many more,
I, the Banyan, will shade many more!
Balveen Cheema
September 9, 2015
Competition: Personification
This morning I put the apostrophe in
and this afternoon I took it out.
Oscar Wilde's comic wit
about the writer working hard.
Revision has lately become the sign
of seriousness, as in I revise
some poems a hundred times,
maybe more. A word of praise here,
a critical word there.
Before that there was the debate
if poems not stitched with end-sounds
were playing tennis without a net.
Late summer, August, hot, but
chickadees forming platoons.
Three months until the snow flies,
sure as the June my father died.
Glitterin' gold wuz struck along Alder's Gulch in eighteen sixty-three!
Potential prospectors came frum as fer away as Knoxville, Tenn-o-see!
Hordes uv soiled doves and gamblers migrated to the Gulch as well,
Along with platoons uv ruffians and barkeeps, their potent booze to sell!
Fellers labored hard all week pickin' and a-shovelin' at their claim.
But Sundays wuz set aside to raise 'oly 'ell, much uv it to their shame!
Baptist preachers thumped their Bibles tryin' to preach above the din.
There warn't no churches so they preached in saloons aginst the wages uv sin!
Hurdy-gurdy gals roamed about 'neath the steely-eyed gaze uv their 'madam'.
Guns and bowie knives wuz rife and wuz brandished by the dudes that had 'em!
Brawls erupted resultin' in blackened eyes and numerous bloodied noses,
Leavin' heaps uv rowdies sprawled on sawdust floors in grotesque poses!
Pie-aner players added to the din beltin' out their bawdy songs!
Preachers gave up and said to 'ell with it and joined the festive throngs!
Poker games wuz proceedin' in ever' saloon, usually endin' in a ruckus,
Since there seemed to be an excess uv aces held by some cheatin' cuss!
Fallin' down drunks wuz nuisances that bouncers simply booted out the door,
But they somehow meandered to another pub to imbibe a little more!
On Sundays they had their spree - on Mondays though sick and broke,
They panned fer 'dust fer another Sabbath frolic - the aim uv ever' bloke!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
At the foot uv Pikes Peak sprawls the old minin' town uv Cripple Creek.
They wuz nigh on fifty-thousand folks thar when minin' wuz at its peak!
Ol' Bob Womack, a cowpoke, struck gold in Poverty Gulch stakin' his claim.
'Tis said he sold out fer 500 bucks and a jug o' booze - whut a pitiful shame!
Others with more business acumen moved in and made millions off'n them hills!
Platoons uv gamblers, soiled doves and saloons wuz thar fer the miner's thrills!
They wuz even a few preachers and churches to tame them rowdy souls!
The Ladies Cultural Society strove to guide the rabble to reach more noble goals!
To the west, Mount Pisgah, bare and bleak, stood sentry over the raucous town,
Located thar is the cemetery containin' the bones uv some uv dubious renown!
But it must be said that thar is some decent souls sleepin' on that dreary hill.
Thar lonely graves are swept by the winter winds that shriek so bleak and chill!
Pearl DeVere is buried thar, 'madam' uv the classiest cribs in Cripple Creek!
She catered only to upscale gentlemen, those with clout, men uv wealthy clique!
The undertaker done her up right smart and the town turned out when she died.
They saw her off in style with a grand parade and finest hearse fer her final ride!
'Doc Susie' Anderson is also buried at Mount Pisgah and wuz the inspiration,
Fer "Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman" and is remembered with great admiration.
Saint and sinner, lawman and desperado lie side by side on that desolate hill.
Their lonely graves are swept by the winter winds that shriek so bleak and chill!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Memorial Day
Behind the pomp and circumstance
The celebrations and parades
Remember those who battled
The platoons and the brigades
Take some time to think now
Of the freedoms we possess
Of who fought the battle
Those who didn't second guess
Respect the soldiers duty
Give thanks to those who served
A handshake and a smile
Is worth a thousand words
It might be a long weekend
That many now will never see
Think of them this weekend
And give their life some dignity
Now, go and have a hotdog
Ride the float in the parade
Enjoy the fireworks exploding
Have a Happy Memorial Day
At the foot of the unknown soldier
I heard them speak about the past
The generation born after the war
I heard them sing of warfare
Like children recite rhymes
I heard their threats of war
Even from lands abroad
I heard them talk about
Fighting to the last man
As though they knew
The pain of a mother letting her son
Go to fight for the fatherland
Or the anguish of comrades
Falling to foes in battle
And embarking on lonely journeys
Into immortal provinces
The generation born after the surrender
Speak of fanning the embers of war
And lacing the drums hung for decades
They say war is the only path to freedom
Unknown to them that
Men fall like cattle in battle
Where rifles rattle in senseless rage
And men long to return home to
Laugh with families and neighbours for
The gory sight of blood and torn flesh
Is not worth the hopeless glory
The commanders seek
It is not a tale for one’s children
So, when I heard them say the ended war
Needed to be revived because
One clan lays claim to perpetuity
I knew they were oblivious that
Those who started the war
Were absentee members of platoons
Whose children mounted no wagon
Destined for the warfront
Where helpless soldiers turn to dust
While the new generation yet spoke
I heard the voices of many unknown soldiers
On both sides of the fraternal war
Echo from unmarked graves on the battlefield
I heard them ask if the war was a good cause
I heard them ask if any side won the war
I heard them ask if we won freedom
I heard them ask if they were given
Heroes’ burials with the band playing
I heard them ask if those who started the war
Were now satisfied and cared for their kith
I heard them ask if they had not died in vain
And if this generation knew not the woes of war.
Having not done the things I wanted to do
and the things I've done not being what I wanted to do
I sit here looking at lichen on the north side of trees.
Black-capped chickadees
cheerful and truthful expression
grouped in platoons, sharing the point.
The tribes travel together
first finches, then chickadees
following the squirrels every morning.
What luxury, abundance! Handful after handful
of grass seed thrown, into wind.
The corn ripe and the rye with it.
The other main families: pines, roses, peas,
lilies, daisies, heath, birch and oak.
Maple, honeysuckle, pink, mustard, cypress, mint, olive, buckwheat,
primrose, willow, buttercup, saxifrage, snapdragon, cactus.
Truth may be ascertained by considering
the truth we feel, the truth we're told,
the truth we reason, and the truth we've seen.
It is so good to be a chickadee.
To tell the truth cheerfully and joyfully
in a way that makes others want to live.
My dreams are like poems, they come to me
through that unseen door to the unknown mind.
Why and when they come I know not--in my youth
they came as child's play first, then later as poems
of soft love and hard lust, some written, some lived.
As my youth aged, the poem-dreams faded,
until one forgotten day the great door slammed
shut without a sound....
For half a life-time it was sealed tight,
forever I believed--until some small wonder
chanced to pry it open... what I do not know:
perhaps the memory of a tangible dream,
a dream real as life of a long lost love.
Now the dreams come in platoons-- the poems
oft with them-- two sides of the same golden coin?
Pretty soon
It will be pretty June
The city comes alive
With blooming blasting tunes
Gangster goons
And their lovely lady loons
Stirring violence
Under the lunatic summer moon
Downtown pedestrian platoons
Hitting the nightclub saloons
Backrooms and thick exotic perfume
I can see everything
Without even leaving my room
In the evening clouded by medicinal fumes
Hop skipping across giant
Floating nitrous oxide balloons
A parade requires a horde of supporting cast to put on a show:
Platoons of committees plus cops to control the traffic flow.
But an indispensable element of any successful parade,
Is the ever-viligant crew of the poop and scoop brigade!
A parade ain't complete without John Deere and Farmall tractors,
And a legion of politicians and other such obnoxious detractors.
There's the usual haughty equestrians riding prancing steeds,
Followed by the scoop brigade disposing of equine misdeeds!
Members of the marching bands must be careful where they tread,
Being very alert for unforeseen obstacles that may lie ahead.
But with a crack poop and scoop brigade that is really on the ball,
They can march with resolute stride stepping in nothing at all!
A parade must have silly clowns and a queen of something or other,
Colorful floats, fire engines and classic cars trailing one another.
Some even feature giraffes and elephants plodding down the street,
Posing a special challenge to the brigade but they won't concede defeat!
You've got to tip your fedora to those stalwart scoop brigades.
Without their attention to detail and participation in parades,
And dealing with emergencies without the slightest cue,
Many awkward and stinky situations could very well ensue!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
it'll break yours - to see an old man cry
lips shaking at the memories
legion hats and baseball caps
with buttons and pins and medals stuck
the soldier talks and tells a tale
those past events - didn't turn out so well
haunts he's carried most all his life
more than the slain, he's burdened with strife
and there's some who can't go back before
they fought and slew, as soldiers of war
so doctors and counselors diagnose and surmise
PTSD, shell shock, combat fatigue, or soldier's heart
killing is killing no matter the cause
and living hearts bleed, as those that died
whether enemies, allies, or innocents are killed
is still a good reason, to break down and cry
mankind - such an interesting notion,
that our civilization's men are really kind
hand-to-hand or remotely terminating a life
it's hard to comprehend we're really that blind
bomb-bay doors, M-16s, foxholes, phosphorus fires
the children, platoons, felled in murderous quagmire
General Sherman said it better than I, "War is hell,
good that it be so, least humanity love it too well"
© Goode Guy 2012-11-12
http://storycorps.org/?s=Harvey+Hilbert&post_type=post
http://www.soldiersheart.net/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soldier's_heart
Every day, the undercover soldier
Used to buy her big balloons
Red, blue, yellow, green, colourful and free
In those lazy afternoons
She let them fly with a smile on her face
Her laughter ringing around
He watched her do that every single day
And yet bought her balloons round
One day, he had to go for his duty
He gave her pink, new balloons
Said goodbye, rushed off to attack the foe
Missile launched from his platoons
His mission, a success, enemy killed
But some civilians died too
Pink balloons floating far away, cries heard
He had murdered her, he knew
He went to see her, that cute little girl
Just to pacify himself
He found her dead, her body strewn about
He could not forgive his self
Resigning his job, balloons, he now sells
But never rose-pink balloons
A little girl's death, heavy on his mind
In dreams, with her, he communes
In every child, he sees her lovely face
Laughing over her balloons
Silent tears flow from his penitent heart
As he sells "flying full moons"
10th Feb 2023
For Anthony Biaanco's "Balloons" contest
A boy King was born in Bethlehem piquing the interest of three very wise guys.
They came from the East guided by a mysterious Star streaming from the skies!
They got a fix on the Star with their GPS and with AAA aid, planned their route,
To make the trek to that unlikely place to see what the hoopla was all about!
They mounted their royal camels named Chrysler, Lincoln and Cadillax.
(Lesser breeds named Chevy, Honda, Kia and VW toted MREs and packs!)
Reservations were made to stay at Oases Embassy Suites along the way,
Ensuring they provided swimming pools and golf courses on which to play!
They took along a generous supply of gold, frankincense and myrrh,
And platoons of Green Berets as guards should any funny stuff occur!
Their route took them o'er mount and vale and through dunes of shifting sand.
Sans their GPS and I-pods they would've become lost in that desolate land!
As they neared Bethlehem, they enquired, "Where is this King of the Jews?"
They were told, "Take a left on Palm Mews, then a right to Holy Mews!
There you'll find Him wrapped in swaddling cloths in a modest shed.
There was no room for Him at Holiday Inn so He was born there instead!"
They paid their respects and presented their gifts as they knelt in adoration.
Learning in a dream of Herod's plan, they high-tailed it East in a new direction!
Herod tried to find where the sweet Babe lay and his innocent life destroy,
But he lived to become King of Kings regardless of Herod's nefarious ploy!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved