Best Rank And File Poems
i sit lonely.
the crowded restaurant is thick with sound
i pick away at it
moving back into the stagnant silence
of my own comfort
the air is nasty here
it telepathically abuses my thought patterns
still
a far cry better
the loud hum of food
marching to the vacant crowd
suffocates me
a decorated plate joins my table
strikes a conversation with the cutlery
there is no call from the governor
as i attack my food
fork knife teeth
bites later
a paper plane flies in
a swipe of my plastic
makes quick work of the bill
i exit
seemingly quicker
than human eyes can catch
i hate this part
i parley my way through
too many bodies
all the while staring
at a concrete maze
never making eye contact
with a single soul
i do that
i always do that
keep the entrances of my being
away from those who would stare me down
attempt to engage me in conversation
with a desire to lock eyes
if they looked in they would burn
i’d be held responsible
FINALLY
home
the only environment i feel safe in
my therapist will be proud
almost an hour today
assuming i see her again
i am covered in my own dew
my breathing sporadic
i line up an array of pills like good soldiers
as i continue my attempt
survive another day
it will take hours to regain my sanity
all the while questioning the purpose
why must i assimilate
back into the dungeons
they call society
it behooves me
find one reason
join the rank and file
plug back into a horrendous grid
i had escaped
i
grow
weary
of
my
own
thoughts
ignore my voice
slowly regain my footing
plant roots
hope they’ll take hold
attempt to return
into the vacuum of my existence
i sit lonely.
In Memory of Jimmy Dale Still, Barrel horse rider, KIA, Song Be, Viet Nam, 1/1/70
Old Bill,
swaybacked, sand burrs in his mane.
He stands no longer hopefull by the fence up near the house,
but follows the shade around the shed,
switching flys.
Nearby the dented barrels
rust rank and file akimbo,
no longer equadistant prey
of steed and gladiator.
Hay in a self feeder.
The last time Jimmy came to break a bale,
carrot in his pocket, bridle in hand,
they were both young,
impetuous,
fearless,
bullet proof.
Bill's walked a trail, deep,
along the fence to the old arena.
Quiet now; full of weeds.
A place for breaking horses.
Through eldritch streets I walked alone
With shadows on my track,
Full jellied was my every bone,
I thought my mind would crack.
Through mist and morbid mire I went
To revel where gargoyles dwell,
A guest whose soul was spent,
To meet the host - the King of Hell!
Through caverns dark I made my way,
The squelch of shoe, the crack of bone,
Chittering squeaks from shadowy grays,
Would never leave me alone.
At last I reached the caverned maw,
Ceiling glint with stalactites,
And of course its bretheren I saw,
The saber-toothed stalagmites.
And on the high-domed hellish lair
Hung a grinning crystal skull,
It threw a ghoulish, greening glare
Which made my senses dull.
All around there was a damp,
A noxious putrid smell,
And slightly a-centre on a ramp,
Stood grinning the Lord of Hell.
His feet were hooved, his head was horned,
He flashed his fang-like teeth.
His eyes were huge and darkly burned;
Heart stopped, I could hardly breathe!
"Welcome", boomed my infernal host,
And flashed a rotting smile,
"A welcome drink, a one-time toast,
Before you join my rank and file!"
Something clammy seized my mind,
My clothes turned very wet,
I screamed and woke myself to find
I wasn't dead as yet.
But close to it I surely was,
My narco-ed mind amid I had lain,
At hell's door without a fuss,
When with maddened mind I'd cut my vein!
Dear Folks: I pen this note as we ply the dark and stormy sea.
Thanks to Uncle Sam I'm cruising on the Queen Mary, all for free.
You'd think we'd travel in style on such a luxurious tub,
But I'll tell you about life aboard and what we eat for grub.
As usual, the officers and nurses live in comfortable style,
But things ain't so pleasant for us in the rank and file.
We stand in line for everything, even to use the head.
I've been seasick so many times I wish that I was dead.
The brass dine at tables with linen, china and silverware,
And are served their meals by waiters with eloquent flair.
We stand up for chow, eating from greasy steel trays,
Trying to keep our balance as the boat rolls and sways.
Officers sleep four-to-a-room and have sheets on their bed.
I bunk with a hundred other guys on sagging hammocks instead.
I hear the Lord's name taken in vain frequently around here,
As we stumble over each others' feet and our assorted gear.
The brass dine on such things as ice cream, cake and steak.
I've had all the stew, orange marmalade and figs I can take.
Another bout of mal de mer is attacking me, I gotta go.
That's all for now, till next time, Your loving son, Roscoe.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
What do I call that young coquette?
My shadow self; my silhouette.
Those clothes, that hair, a cigarette.
The joie de vivre; the vain regret.
What sort of pithy epithet
will she recall, lest I forget?
Perhaps, instead a sobriquet
for who I was back in the day.
But what would she wish to portray?
Somewhat naive, a bit risqué?
A wounded child or power play?
“All that and more!” is what she’d say.
That girl who played a victim game
(though she would make the counter-claim).
A femme fatale; a wild flame.
A spirit not a soul could tame.
Both full of pride and full of shame,
all contradiction just the same.
It all feels now as but a dream,
that martyr of her own regime.
A fog of war; a distant scream.
An echo of one’s disesteem.
A soldier who would self-redeem
and break her shackles at the seam.
Now when she comes to mind I smile,
recalling each and every mile
we marched and fought in rank and file.
We failed, we wailed, we shed the guile
to wake and heal and reconcile
a misspent youth and life worthwhile.
*****************************
Democracy for elites
Principles never enlight
Politicians aggrandize
Void of commitment
Dalit rights crucified
Every Day, Hour, Minute
Burnt, tortured, raped
Blood tears wept
Humanity if any ever left
Upper caste domination swept
Nation deliberately slept
How can Millions Rejoice?
As largest democratic voice
Shame, to them
Who makes false claim
But never aim
All humans born same
Who can we blame?
Judas, within us
At rank and file
Shouts & writes,
About Ambedkarite’s
To win Dalit might
And rest in Vanity Fair
Alas, they too will flare
None would care
Upper caste won’t spare
They would dare
Every breathe Dalit share
This isn’t any nightmare
Reality check bare
Democracy nowhere
...rAHUL
Some sacrificial fonts are filled
with sanctified water
others overflow with blood and bile
all but for the rose petals camouflage
dare we know the difference
A holy child who in devoice distilled
lest in innocence mayhap confront such sanctimonious alter
collectively strangled by guile
for say not to us such criminal reportage
but prefer to consecrate our ignorance
In dissonance are we worse revealed
and laid sightless to truths encounter
be us then the factious rank and file
conversant only to a fools salted mirage
a dummies page of prophetic words rallying our compliance
The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd -
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.
While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”
With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.
The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches afterwhile”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.
The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
with crossing signs and bloody wines and consecrated yeast,
“The last are first, the rich are cursed.” (The leached remain the least.)
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and board and bows to Eden East;
he doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.
The sinking sun is now undone, the sky is fading red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.
Continued
"Tour of Duty"
go forth and conquer
go forth and multiply
we are taught like
good little madams,
it’s fed to us right
(not left) from the get go
down our throats,
it’s ingrained
in the majority of us,
then, rank and file,
off we go, deligently
we march towards
that evocative thing promised,
Love calls us keenly,
Love calls us softly,
Love like communion,
green gardens wild daisies
crowns worn like halos,
loves me, loves me not,
loves me not, loves me,
planted and naively bedded,
we dance that dance,
into the seductive arms
of faith and chance, a wanton war
romancing our womanhood,
we roll over like puppies
our upturned faces
and stomachs stroked,
being fed red apples
like simpletons in a
moist ripe bed of roses,
sprinkled with the holy water
of keeping the win for keepsakes
framed and parked on a wall
like stag horns, momentos
of a past well worn,
our competitive
strip poker smiling faces
the blue ribbons adorned
and mounted like
miss congeniality,
good girls
wagging tails,
then feeding
children spoonfuls
of honey,
to do it all
over again
obedience
only lasts so
long
so long
tours of duties
so long
good girls
take notes
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Citizen, consider choices nurtured,
at hand, leadership of the free world.
In a time of tumultuous world upheaval,
wars, rebellions, terrorists are in sway.
Torture, chemical warfare, ethnic genocide,
stagnant words on the mind and tongue.
Nuclear proliferation grows in hateful hands,
radical religious extremist rage as wild fire.
Who will stand elected Commander in Chief,
leader of the most powerful nation on earth?
Petitioners align in quest of leadership,
pouring words from lips in misty resolution.
Among the candidates in nations offer,
which placed boot to ground, hand to steel?
Where are the battle tested in choice,
those of iron will, reservoirs of experience?
Where are the proven men and women,
honored commanders of our military ranks?
Where in offer those held in earnest respect
by rank and file of our herald hero’s?
Spurn paper warriors posturing in grand example,
strutting blind boldness in pompous grandeur.
Strangled strategies in scales of life
with no understanding of burns and scars.
This hour the world needs strength of character,
yet petitioners banter in personal insult, innuendo.
Brash boldness soils stature in phantom proposals,
promises spread as butter on hot bread.
What became the valued military leadership,
untested desk chair candidates seek reign.
This is a time for proven leadership, strength,
not posturing politicians and paper warriors.
Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©
3/12/16
I am super sour swimmer,
engaging erectile filler,
lithium under the spinner,
a dancing danger inside of your pinner,
a welcoming rager until it’s time for dinner,
a recreation of Imagination Island while you’re out on your blinker,
a smiling fin-
and a rank and file win,
a serious agitation to your rectal inflammation,
a younger man but not yours to sing flagrant,
a special stew that mom cooked just for you,
a blistering band of E-Heads and Speedy Dreds,
a clear cut forest growing back even more deformed...
Rising on this Monday morning
Making breakfast like Monday wife
Burning eggs in Owens Corning
Starting early my Monday strife
Mirror glance, I have Monday hair
Sunday wet-head is Monday death
Feeling like I have Monday care
Emitting stench, my Monday breath
Gulping down strong hot Monday joe
Steaming coffee burns Monday face
Fairest of face has Monday woe
Tuesday’s child has had Monday grace
Dealing with grumpy Monday drive
Traffic moves a crawl, Monday speed
Lucky to be Monday alive?
Spatting cuss words, my Monday creed
Greeting my lazy Monday boss
Bitters my Monday rank and file
Losing the first Monday coin toss
Plastered an ugly Monday smile
Boss-man questions Monday alarm
Realize my fond Monday mistake
Drinking weekend did Monday harm
It’s Sunday and I am awake!
Never will I indulge in gin
Thinking that it’s Monday again!
Written 8/4/18
Contest: Mondays Poetry Contest
Hosted by: Tania Kitchin
Become daily,
breathe the railings...
Force the failing,
make them start mailing…
Spin around sailing-
land on a railing,
dig deep into a gale of peace,
be scared to hate on police,
rank and file and rotate the beast,
run around town and stare at things-
make jewelry and appreciate a kiss,
hail in giant leaps,
and possess this.
upon waking from a splendid plunge
into the depths of deep dreamy restful sleep
anchors away set adrift this body electric,
which succombed instantaneously
(without counting sheep)
nor joining the make belive rank and file world
with the likes of little bo peep
an immediate notion arose
to latch onto and ignore
this most delightful, flight of fancy deed
(not dirty nor done dirt cheap),
but a natural function
one cannot overdose nor excede
the USDA quotidian requirement,
where cares and concerns
of an uncertain world freed
yet an asolute bare necessity for stayin' alive
plus richly textured unrivaled vista devoid of greed
additionally cost and gluten free, NON GMO,
zero caloric effortless need
(words of caution to take seriously to heart),
and note that if one doth not yield, but sure to read
the small print affixed like a label each mind
forcing to squeeze out every metaphorical
drop of open eyed juice
perhaps resorting to meth or speed
that silent slurred speech, physical lashing,
head dropping fatique
will invite Halloween aparitions, delusions,
grand hallucinations, et cetera
as if one smoked wacky weed
the forces of anatomical and physiological
heft will take charge ahoy
and blast at top notch nautical surge,
will wrest control against blistering,
festering against withering heights
delivering balms away at feeble attempts
to retain losing battle to remain alert oh boy
no matter how much effort summoned,
(even feigning wakefulness as a decoy)
the trappings of oblivion
i.e. sinking into profound dreamland,
whether an individual ascribes to be Jew or goy
which Maxwell House maxim
“the key to better relationships may be more sleep”
no mortal ought to take lightly,
but pay heed lest the grim reaper doth creep
stealthily and scythe lent lee steal
a haggard skiff of flesh and bone
whereat corporeal essence no more
will there be for the soul to keep.
Celeb
No sooner does a Celeb opens his closed lips
Than eager pens poise to ooze ink from tips!
Such is the woe and pain for my brother Caleb
Who’s a reviled, demeaned and stalked Celeb!!
Whatever he utters is perceived as controversy
While ruthless stalking gives Caleb no privacy?!
With garrulous chaps, when reviled or railed,
Noblese oblige is a cross on which he’s nailed.
They pounce for taking breather showing face
Moving off, Camera Men begin a Chevy Chase-
Has he any peace? Will he not in public do sex-
Denied liberty by every keen eye’s sharp reflex?
His dress they scrutinise, and call it funky style
His taste they sample and give it a cold smile:
Vile ink daubs all publications with acerbic scorn;
Either: “archaic dress” or “contagious ****!”
Dress! The worst that meets a Celeb with vile
Wretch in rugs joins despicable rank and file
At pelting and at condemnation of our Lady Gaga
Who with either style of dress is labelled gaga!!
So they give a relentless chase of the racy tail
Dailies and some other loud and sneaky Mail
While Fashion flows as tresses of an eager Clown
Dancing a scary plague out of a diseased town!!
All that they do or what they take into account
Is always a deplorable and a deficient account:
A Celeb is a sweet Orange treated like a lemon
Or, Saint condemned like a wandering demon!
JM
05th December 2013