Best Recruited Poems
A year ago, the Russian state launched an unprovoked attack
Seizing land from Ukraine but they've bravely fighting back
If Russia can't have it, they operate a policy of scorched earth
And turn many towns and villages into mounds of rubble and dirt.
Russia then weaponised their gas and shipments of grain
And tried to inflict on the civilian people unbearable pain
His criminal army targets hospitals, schools, homes and utilities
He thought the Ukrainians would surrender, rather than freeze.
He tells the Russian people lies and many believe every word
And he tells them he's protecting Russia ;I find that absurd
We've seen evidence of his atrocities against women and men
And it's heart-breaking to see pictures of murdered children.
Ukraine was never a bold threat to that rogue terrorist state
Putin thought the west would leave the Ukrainians to their fate
How wrong was he to think the western world would look away
They're helping Ukraine defend itself and NATO leads the way.
Russia's ancient equipment and army are no match for the west
And to help Ukraine defend itself it is supplying weapon's the best
The Russian dead pile up on battlefields but Putin doesn't care
And hides away in the safety and comfort of his underground lair.
Wagner mercenaries recruited from jails to increase Russian might
Told their sentences will be lengthened if they don't go and fight
The dregs of Russian humanity are now sent to the eastern front
Together with inexperienced conscripts who now bear the brunt.
Russia is asking for weapons from North Korea, China and Iran
If China supplies them weapon's then their trade we should ban
People say Ukraine should concede land so that the war will end
But Russia has shown its evil dark side and will never be a friend.
Putin keeps threatening to use weapons of mass destruction
And has now backed out of treaties and increased production
Does he honestly think that the western world will stand by
If he launches just one, then you can be sure the west will reply.
Vladimar Putin started this war and there is no one else to blame
He is a disgrace to humanity and should hang his head in shame
Decent Russians and there are many should topple him for his crime
And his war criminal army arrested and either hung or serve time.
We ask God’s blessings for food we eat;
those who toil to grow it deserve our prayers too.
In 1985, Farm Aid musicians took their beat,
rocking in donations for those who grew
in debt, not just crops, as mortgages came due.
Mellencamp cried out, “97 families lost 97 farms!”
Just the local tally of the Reagan years' unprecedented foreclosures
that threatened the nation’s bread baskets, sending out alarms.
Farmers’ financial disclosures
were bloodied by high-risk exposures.
We ate the fruit, but cursed the price.
Bounty still filled the market’s produce section,
even as running a farm became a roll of the dice.
A Kansas tornado would have had less convection
than growers who were denied debt protection.
Bailout money was tossed to the auto maker,
where corporate jet vacations sparked ire.
But farmer suicides climbed, blood on each acre.
A national famine might have transpired
if to save farmers, rock musicians had not conspired.
Inspired by John Mellencamp’s Farm Aid song “Rain on the Scarecrow.” An Indiana farm boy, Mellencamp recruited Neil Young and Willie Nelson to organize the first Farm Aid concert in 1985, raising awareness about the loss of family farms. The Farm Aid concerts have remained an annual event over the past 29 years, and as of 2014, the organization has raised over $45 million to help farmers. I chose this song because it demonstrates the social consciousness of rock musicians.
Song is at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joNzRzZhR2Y
*Poem written November 8, 2014 for Kelly's "I Love Rock and Roll Contest.
have you ever heard the devil whisper in your ear?
the acrimonious voice instilling guilt and fear
a satanic chauvinist who cherry picks your thoughts
as you abdicate morality for something you should not
have you ever felt a choke while you were asleep?
fighting unseen forces that often made you weak
have you ever tried to kill yourself and shove a knife in the belly of your gut?
have you ever heard the murmuring of the crowd whispering "youre nuts"?
have you ever watched the news and seen death and destruction?
realizing human sacrifices still exists relating child abductions
the devil plays his part in the abattoir of the human mind
but within this construct of our reality his powers are undefined
his deception and his manipulative motive is to abscond from the truth
but to clarify his powers is to expose him using proof
he has thwarted love in many ways and conquered the weakest soul
he has recruited wicked men to join his bilious abode
have you ever walked the potters field and felt the presence of those who relinquished the light?
have you ever heard the breath of disembodied spirits feasting in the night?
have you ever seen a ghostly figure like your eyes was glazed with smoke?
have you ever swallowed pride and felt like you would choke?
have you ever wondered why people pull the trigger and slice their loved ones throats?
its the sacrifice to the devil insted of sacrifices goats!
have you ever blamed a creator for the mistakes that you made?
and turned your back on him for every losing game you played
knowing the devil is complicated to understand
because no one knows what its like to be a bad man
(Part 2 of Trilogy for My Father)
We stand on cemetery Astroturf
strategically placed to spare us the dread hole,
snow scaling the tops of our shoes
to compete with the ice in our hearts.
The old priest’s boots peek from beneath
a cassock that dangles below his parka.
He jokes gamely about the weather,
reading prayers for my father, a man he never met,
with shaking hands and chattering teeth.
He is a stranger recruited by the others lest someone
discover the shame of self-inflicted death.
Numb in every way it’s possible to be numb,
we await the blows of a grief that suicide denied us
and summon memories that refuse to respond
while, in their place, we have
Astroturf
and snow.
The U.S. was fighting against Spain over their colonial policies with Cuba,
And Asist. Secretary of the Navy, Theodore Roosevelt resigned his position just to join the volunteer cavalry. One of three regiment raised in 1898 for the Spanish-American War was the 1st U.S. Volunteer Cavalry fondly known as
The Rough Riders. Roosevelt recruited a diverse group of cowboys, miners, law enforcement officials and Native American Indians.
Roosevelt and Colonel Leonard Wood trained and supplied the men in San Antonio, Texas so well that The Rough Riders were allowed into action unlike many other volunteer companies and they sailed for Santiago de Cuba from Tampa on June 13,1898. There they joined The Fifth Corps, another highly trained, well supplied and enthusiastic group of excellent soldiers from the regular army.
The Rough Riders saw combat at Las Guassmas on the way to Santiago .
In his after action report JULY 4,1898 Roosevelt wrote that of the 490 men he led into battle at San Juan Hill 80 were killed and wounded and another half dozen were MIA.
What is this resplendent thing that sparkles ahead,
Pacing faster than limbs of incapacity
Beyond the all-pervasive dakness of want?
Could my eyes be playing upon me some sly pervasity,
Seeing things untrue, askew and errant?
Or is it a reality that they will be resewn
The torn bonds that linked me to the world of bounty,
Where I may be returning soon?
I've had a glimpse of the future;
What a beautiful and gorgeous sight!
Streams of milk do freely flow,
And pots of honey glitter bright
Against the blinding rays of a rising sun.
This days of plenty seem set in the Promised Land,
For I see the fertile shoots of a germinating future
Guarded by an armed angelic band
Recruited from beyond the azure;
A fulfilment of a trashed prophecy.
And children of fate weakened by ages of plight
There do sing day and night;
Feeble frames malnourished for centuries
Enrich themselves from celestial treasuries,
Where the obedient minions of the sky
Gathered in response to their cry,
While they laboured on the red soils of Egypt
Before God heard their cries and His mercies leapt.
Who else can see this vision
Of relief from pandemics of fate
And the gaping gallows of death?
A time coming when sons of men
Shall storm this ogres den
And avenge the murderous terror
Inflicted upon their long gone kith and kin!
And the forbears long dead,
Shall be awakened by cries of war,
And with might reserved for decades
Shall avenge the pain inflicted before
By their wicked adversaries
Who maim parents and drink the blood
Of their offspring left behind.
RISKS
Scarred hills, risked mine shafts, dark and deep.
The plonk of a stone, dropped into water, far below.
Kids drifted to sounds of the gold-rush, pick and windlass.
But inside our school, Sir recruited afternoon classes into
battle. We piloted Spitfires, strafing Messerschmitts. Bingo!
The plane aflame, out of control. Drifting down, down. A spiral
of smoke.
Our teacher paced, face aglow. Alive to the tremble, the thrill,
in distant summer skies.
Windscreen hit, the scatter of shattered
glass. His odyssey of courage and blood …
At three thirty, older boys reminded Sir,
Time to go home.
Surprise in our mentor’s eyes .
His Spitfire hadn’t even landed.
Today I'm learning the name
of war refugee camps,
in Congo, Rwanda, Palestine, Lebanon,
Turkey, Syria, Yemen, you name it,
and the children who play hide and seek
in charred automobiles, shivering in cold
and starvation behind the barb wires, thanking
the good Samaritans clothed in peace.
Today I'm signing Lennon's Imagine,
imagining those children swapping their places
even for a day, with your rich suburb kids
whose fathers profit from arms, to see them
recruited as child soldiers, putting their war game skills
to good use.
Today I'm laying siege to warmongers and their kins
who love peace and practice war, the true artisans of
hypocrisy.
Santa stood in the warehouse
Full of nearly empty shelves
Last night they’d been ram raided
By a bunch of discontented elves
Recently infiltrated and recruited
Into an association of packing staff
Whose ideas and demands and wants
Caused Santa to cynically laugh.
He could have held out for longer
That much was very clear
But the clever blighters
Had subverted his reindeer
To make matters even worse
Pushing poor Santa to the edge
The blighters had gone and clamped
His only working sledge
Only thirty days to Christmas
He knew of no other way
Than to meet their demands
For increased shift working pay
He’d do what it took
To bring things back on track
And ensure he had enough
To fill his mammoth sack
He reached for the Gordon’s
For one last large stiff gin
Then went to arbitration
With a forced and fixed grin
Each child has talents and Dee always loved to skate
One night at the lake she was called up to the plate
The high school hockey team was “slip-sliding away”*
So call her a chauvinist; Dee wanted to play
But when the coach recruited her for the team
One boy offered a bottle of shaving cream
They couldn’t skate backward; Dee sure showed them how
Stealing their puck, she curtsied, and took a bow
Take it from Dee, men don’t like to be upstaged
By her free-flowing glide the boys were outraged
When it came time for the school’s holiday dance
To find a date, this skater hadn’t a chance
Life is confusing sometimes
At least it has been for me
I was Mom’s “change of life” baby
two siblings far older
change in the birth certificate
three days spent as Marilyn
then I became Carolyn
not many toys in our city home
so I started jumping off things
graduated from steps to trees
then my preference changed to roofs
fearless always, perhaps foolishly so
but I sensed my limitations
at three I was standing on my head
spinning like a top
ran faster, jumped higher
than boys on my block
walked tall on stilts
bounced on my pogo-stick around the block
hid my frog “Pierre” in the garage
acrobat lessons for eight years (Hurray!)
but Mom wanted to make a lady of me
ballet didn’t change this tomboy
went to the state spelling championship
but at age 12, I couldn’t spell “murmur”
and the oddest books I read as a child:
“Lincoln the Unknown”
“How to Stop Worrying and Start Living”
Jacque Cousteau’s “Silent World”
traded my pig tails for mini skirts
cheerleading for the high school football team
still love the sport today
recruited by the ice hockey coach
to teach boys how to skate backward
recruited by the boys’ gymnastics coach
to flip and vault as team members scowled
captain of my college speech and debate team
first freshman to win the Peace Oratory contest
judged by Princeton University professors
writing has supported me all of my life
from high school to the present
first a copywriter, then a journalist
humorous verse is my favorite
some family members say I’m a “wit”
They’re only half right :D
*October 18, 2014 by Carolyn Devonshire
Friends, I’ve got a flu now and hope to be well enough
to return comments soon.
I know how to live off the land
I'm a survivalist
I make do with whatever's at hand
I'm a survivalist
It's a mindset,
it's a lifestyle
You must have a soldier's discipline,
be able to endure hardships for a long while
I'm a mountain man,
got no time for guile
I can ascertain your true motives,
sense the truth behind the smile
I was trained to be a scientist,
I was trained to be a fireman
I was trained to be a field doctor,
but right now I'm a lumberjack
swinging an axe in my hand
I worked on a railroad,
I worked in a cooper mine
I worked at a shipyard,
I was a mean cook when I did a little time
I'm a mountain man,
got no time for those corporate city slickers
I can deduce your true identity,
sense the lies behind the smiling boot lickers
I was trained as a scout,
I was trained as an engineer
I was trained as a wrangler,
but right now I'm a mechanic
fixing a truck with busted gears
I worked for a big law firm,
I worked as a small company machinist intern
I worked at a high-tech factory,
I got recruited by a low-level military attache
Those are just a few of my credentials,
but here is what you really need to know
I'm a student of studying people,
I got a quick wit, but I like to appear slow
Being in the big outdoors
is where I really feel most at home
I love to test my skills at surviving,
I love to operate my satellite phone
Check the cloud patterns,
constantly scan the terrain
Calculate the tide shifts,
learn every animal, know every grain
I know how to live off the land,
make the land work for me
I make do with whatever's at hand,
let the land give me what I need
I'm a mountain man,
I live in an untamed world
I'm a different kind of animal
I'm a mountain man,
who's never gonna get trapped
by modern barbarians ever again
It's scary dangerous out there,
this world sure feels so unsafe
There's constant conflict, uprisings and strife
Got me beefing up home security,
increasing my life insurance annuity
Me even had to start extreme vetting my wife
It's uber hazardous out there,
this country sure seems like a lawless place
There's constant violence, protests and soft ad targeting
Had to buy me a high-caliber gun,
added lots more cyber protection
Even started questioning the affiliations of close friends
It is what it is,
I'm learning to adapt
Be more wary, keep a watchful eye
My government needs me
to fill the intelligence gap
Guess you can call me a citizen spy
It's double red alert out there,
local communities with hidden enemies to trace
There's constant warfare of a multi-facet kind
Got bio, got religious
Got economic --- they're all insidious
I collected every conspiracy theory I could find
I'll be doing my part,
'cause threats are everywhere
Presume you're guilty in the blink of an eye
Just a patriot at heart,
will make you vanish into thin air
Unless you pledge to become a citizen spy
It is what it is,
you better learn to adapt
Become more skillful at knowing how to pry
Your government wants you,
so contact the authorities ASAP
Get recruited and become a good citizen spy
Henry Morgan
Pirate of the Caribbean
Henry Morgan is my name
Pirating is my fame
My story has been told
There’s only one I claim
1635 was the year of my birth
The eldest son of a gentleman farmer
In Llanrhymny, Wales. I had
no desire in filling the shoes of my father
With hopes of adventure and fun
I left to seek my fame and fortune
Shanghaied and shipped off to the West Indies
and sold in Barbados was my misfortune
I survived and regain my freedom
and was recruited by a pirate crew
Prospering in my new profession we
bought our own ship and sailed the ocean blue
Raiding the Caribbean Spanish settlements
earning us a reputation as ruthless
fearsome, villainy buccaneer pirates
under old Dutch pirate Capt. Edward Mansveltz
In 1672 I was brought up on charges.
Attacking Panama violated a treaty
between England and Spain. Found not guilty
Instead Knighted by King Charles II and set free
Knighted pirate of the Caribbean
12/29/2015
Poetry Contest: A storm on the Spanish Main
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Saturated with fish fry smells, Bar-B-Cue smoke,
rodeo dust and sounds of deep water blues,
with teasing frothing lace spread on the shore,
Gulf Coast birth breeze blew winds
in sails to Caribbean Sea, Blue Mountain
berries, banana walk yam hills,
And coconut rain drops tapping reggae beats
on zinc roof tops on cool verandah nights,
in herb scented air, curling roast breadfruit smoke.
The tarrying there tested the soul,
matured the spirit, fulfilled long tried
attainments of deferred dreams; then
the sea recruited its journeyman again.
Pacific Coast pleaded an adopted native son home. Home
to new sea shore sands dusted in smog self negation
of urbane destruction and self nullification of community,
caught in the veiled nightmare—lurking in the promise land.
Hence, lessons learned from a gospel tower that never knew a church,
yet gave life-lived sermons that put homiletics to shame, crucifying
pipe-dream pie-in-the-sky nuances on the crosses of realities.
Atlantic waves, undulating like rhythmic buttocks, frothed
a scent of magnetism greater than the tightening hold of gravity,
attracting an uneasy soul, searching spiritual solaced sands; only
to discover that the seas all share the same shored design: Yes.
Same shared sorrowful savage slave story! Different sea: same sand.
Now awaits Guinea Coast sunsets and Cape of Good Hope
cul-de-sac early morning sunrises; then on to the sands of heaven.
Regrets are for those who fail to chase their dreams to realities.