Best Sorties Poems
Once again, the powers that must
In rise again in what we trust
An overseas conflict, another war
Just what in the hell are we fighting for
Families are asking, Korea has just passed
Generations again reft, how long will it last
A country in need, to rebuild again
Flags at half mast, in wind and rain strain
Once again into war, sent by the Washington Post
To send back reports to hit home the most
Military observers were the first to be sent in
Another chapter of man entering existing sin
I'm witnessing our ariel power, Lam Son 719
US planners determine their incursion, saying all will be fine
Along the Mekong River, we'll carpet bomb their supply trail
Tons of munitions and napalm, this spread surely cannot fail
Many sorties are being flown, for the wounded and the dead
Whilst Nixon and his cronies, aren't thinking with their heads
The news of losses has reached me, nineteen have been killed
Eleven missing, fifty nine wounded, more American blood spilled
Seven fixed wing aircraft, more sons in action loss
Whilst back at home more protests, fading the dyeing's gloss
To to this job that I do, I was never prepared for this
To witness such bloody scenes, and ignore that life is bliss
How can I write about a soldier, whose name I'll never know
Killed at nineteen years old, his family he'll never see grow
Or even explain to his parents, when carried from the AH-1
His body bullet riddled and limp, when lifted it bloodily run
I never went back to the theatre, called the Vietnam War
Having witnessed the wanton killing, what were we fighting for
This colonial conflict that started, us on the side of France
So many came back as strangers, many to live in trance
James Fraser's entry into the contest " WORLD OF WAR: VIETNAM "
'Tis another glorious spring and I planted my garden with the expectation,
That I shall reap a bountiful harvest for my table with minimum frustration!
I planted the usual stuff - carrots, radishes, onions and termaters,
Watermelons, peas, corn, beans and a few hills of russet pertaters.
With the Good Lord's help, lots of sun and occasional showers of rain,
The seeds sprang to life along with some curses that are my infernal bane!
I've discovered that I have a healthy crop of weeds that need attention,
And a host of other intrusive visitors that I'll proceed to mention!
I was dismayed to discover legions of caterpillars and mealy bugs,
Pruning my plants along with hordes of ugly snails and slimy slugs!
They're even being attacked from below by gophers and moles,
And from above by crows making diving sorties from the clothesline poles!
'Coons, 'possums and wabbits at raiding my garden are very deft,
And armies of well-disciplined ants are gleaning what is left!
I even caught some nasty little kids filching a watermelon last night!
I chased them but those little dudes took off with the speed of light!
With a storm of wind and hail this morn I saw all my labor disappear!
Come next spring I think I shall opt to sit on the patio and guzzle beer!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
I sit and pause, looking at the sky blue ceiling above me. White vapour cotton wool clouds
gently float like water lilies on an upside down pond. My humble seat, an igneous rock
from the Devonian period. A glaciation past has moulded this comfort to rest this weary
climber. I am in fortunate delight as this skyscraper of old can turn nasty with nature.
These marvels can unite and lure unsuspected hikers, and draw them into a weather world
they have never known. The gulley's and faces of this quite wonderful Munro hide
challenges and dangers for all who dare climb. Many have been lost as they become
disorientated, as natures weather closes in.
The ascent route to the summit on a day like today is quite wonderful. The beauty of the
glens, with their sporadic mix of andesite and basaltic lava mountains, rival many a range
on our fine planet. Many colours explode on the surrounding canvas. Greens and beige's,
greys mingling with red granite masses. Screes are in evidence, a sign of the range ageing
as natures seasons take their toll. Plant life carpets the slopes, where grasses of sorts
mingle with the purple and white heather. Ferns from a prehistoric age fan out catching
the breeze, like Sea´ ferns´ in the ocean.
As i climbed, at various intervals i would close my eyes and listen to the calls of the
wild. The sporadic bleating of sheep, as if echoing through the glens. Crows and their
hooded cousins fly sorties looking for carrion of such. Suddenly they scatter, as royalty
makes a welcomed appearance. As majestic as the King of the mountains can be, a Golden
Eagle glides on the thermals. His subjects looking on from a distance, for fear of
angering him. Rabbits, lizards and even sheep and lambs, bow down in whatever chambers of
safety allows them. As graceful as he arrived, he leaves. Slowly but slowly, the lookouts
of the species declare their haven a safe zone.
This climb has certainly given me a thirst, as the thinned mountain air leaves me tired.
Nearby a small stream offers a weary climber a much needed tonic. This pure fresh
translucent chemical substance quenches my crave, with a gentle splash over my sun beaten
face, i feel refreshed to a point.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland-3.php
Shores of doom
Needn’t engulf the space in your mind
Where without your will gloom
Can’t inhabit until faithless fleas and spiritual sleaze find
Room and space to waylay and slay without delay
The faith you profess to possess
In a spray without a ray stray
Strung and hung when you dispossess
Your faith of the strength and depth
Which faith has sunk into its roots
In each significant step and faith breath
You smuggle and gaggle in the boots
You wear with pride as you deride the loss
You claim not to suffer in the dwarf
You call disbelief and the abandon toss
Spotted in the wharf
Where faith ought to find succor
By virtue of the pride of place
You claim to allocate to the anchor
Faith can’t in your mind squeeze from a disbelief trace in a lace
Shores of doom and gloom striving to mount
On your faith a determined assault
Within a number of sorties you dismount
As conscience pangs claim it’s no longer our fault.
I’LL NEVER FORGET WHAT’S HIS NAME
We went to different schools… together
walked on opposite sides of a street
that constituted an invisible border.
There were differences…..but not really.
We walked slowly, as if to spend time together,
assessing the others clothing, shoes, gait.
Eye contact was forbidden
as we had been warned…..about them
as they….about us.
Smiles were fleeting sorties into danger.
We found, as children do,
ways to challenge the guardians
a quickened pace….leading to
a foot race….a breaking from the norm,
a joyously shared connection
of shouts and flashing glances.
I am not sure who won the “race”,
I think we all did…us kids….truants
in the school of ancestral fears,
breaking the barrier of a paved border
streaking toward the finish line
stretched between two churches.
John G. Lawless
©9/12/2019
We would sleep oft as light as a flagging breeze, eyes dry and smarting; with minds ill at ease..'
Our lives then the currency to pay your dues, who would return from our sorties? we had not a clue.'
We fought off the nausea, as well as the foe, we'd tied wires to ailerons if it meant we could go..'
Our aim was sure, our desire's to win.' Our hearts burned for freedom; midst the dogfighting & spin,
We honoured this country, child maid and man, from the bankers, to the bakers; lords or labouring men.
Our thoughts oft assailed, by the task on our hands; our limbs felt fatigue, yet we held to the plan..'
We came back from our 'bailouts', to a pittance of pay; then returned to the sky by the night & the day.
Our flights held this country, kept its hope; earned its trust, we hold no regrets for blood spilled in the dust
We know that our sacrifice, will be not effaced; keep the faith we've delivered, here in our covenant place.'
©Joe Maverick 7/2/2015
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To everything turn, turn, turn ~
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Standing upon this ledges edge; uncovered
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As peering amid the city lights below?!
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Gathering in biopsies water colours...
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Moments splashed upon the vestige of neons
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Dissecting organisms hues called life; time
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Seeking purlieu sorties reasons incised!?
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Lifted from the palette of brushed; this rhyme...
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... * "SwitchBlade" ~
the following quite quirky epistle may not exhibit the ordinary characteristics of poetry, but i decided to share this self made challenge (where every word begins with the letter "S" - no explanation can be offered why such self cerebral torture imposed, nor what motivated me to focus on the nineteenth letter of the english alphabet at the exclusion of other noble vowels and consonants.
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Sunday September seventh started seemingly same since...silver screen show secured seventy seven SeventhSeals.
Soupy Sales supreme salient strengths (starring smart pet sidekick Springer Spaniel Socrates) salvaged sagging sporting sorties. Slap stick stereotypical swashbuckling shticks supplied shipshape shenanigans.
Spartan stage set spurred spontaneous simply stupefying solution. Suede shod schlemiel. Sartre seasoned scenes. Sharp sticks supported sphere. Seats situated semicircular semblance.
SPCA, Siemens, Sears sponsored soiree. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious shouted satirically 'specially Saturdays seemingly sellout. Spontaneous spritely Shogun Samurai sangroid stance satiated slipups stripping stellar seasoned Skidamarinks substitutes sacredly, seminally, silently, slipstreaming soulfully saving saga.
Sometimes silly spouse studiously sought spurious strategy stringing superlatives showcasing senseless sophomoric soporific skills specifically spelling storybook sassy sharpshooters supposedly sleuthing shapeless seated sideways (sic seasonal slate smug spotified snapchatting skippers selfishly scooped sloop-ful seasonal six-packs) sinister Swiss scalpers sat sometimes squatted.
Fighting God?
God is not a “fighter”,
nor is He a lover as is claimed.
He is a coward
lacking courage or compassion
for the millions He has maimed.
God sends in his “seconds”
to pander to the minions,
grand promises to sell
a little taste of pestilence
a righteous song and dance,
the overpowering promise
a lifelong trip to hell.
So I must fight His devils
God’s best chicanery
the “whipping boys” of heaven
“It was them – it wasn’t Me.”
I tossed to God the gauntlet
to meet me face to face
to discuss his purpose
for our failing human race.
I’ve been told that I’m a sinner
a blasphemer, even worse
and if I wasn’t careful
God would visit me - a curse.
I fight God in the alleyways
of winter’s frozen streets
where too many sit in hunger
with blue tinged freezing feet.
I fight Him in the corridors
where “learned” men conspire
dressed in flowing robes
beneath a phallic spire.
I repel sorties by legions
who attack us “In His name”
tar us with the brushes
of remorseful guilt and shame.
Thus do I battle God’s malaise
heaped upon mankind
and wonder at each sunrise
if God has changed his mind
left us on our own
to tend a failing garden
left us in the darkness
to watch the dead hearts - harden.
And so I fight Him, every day
for one of us has lost our way
and if at times it must be Him
I’ll teach the fishes how to swim.
2/1/2015
submitted to – Fighting God – Poetry contest
sponsor – rob Carmack
Spring field
Fun filled
Green teen
Play clean
Forties
Sorties
Sink Pink
Drink, wink
Spread Red
Hot bed
Love Fete
Soul-mate
01.03.16
Holika, commonly called Holi is a spring festival celebrated in India and neighbouring countries, at the approach of the spring season, during the 3 or 4 days preceding the full moon day in the month of Phagan. Holi is celebrated by throwing colors and colored powder in the air. Colorful Rangoli pattems are painted at doorways to houses. Families assemble around a fire throwing prasad and coconut in the fire.The Holi festival marks the end of winter and the beginning of spring.
Essentially, Holi means the triumph of good over evil and conquest of sensual values by spiritual values.
Rang = Colour
Winners Risk All
Aware, after spending the day teaching
Reminiscing, remembering, reliving
And interpreting events reaching
The wizened children of my own age.
We of the 1930s and 40s
Seem to have spent our lives
On adventurous sorties
Of claiming, defending, inventing
The stuff of which men and women today
Put together new adventures made of
Claiming, defending, inventing in a way
That seems bloodless, aimless and wispy.
We who are now on the frontier of old age
Can still taste the salt of the bloodlust
From the memories of the wars we wage
Alive still in the annals of our mind.
Have not given up on the battles we led
We have not given up the ground we stood on.
Our causes are anything but dead
Standing aged and worn, lined with time.
Though the energy is gone and strength is bereft
Compared to the younger set
There is more victory, more joy in the life still left
Than in bloodless games with no winners or losers.
One day we will all go down to the grave
Leaving only memories behind among the living
But this century's old ones go down brave
As victors with the decision to the winners.
by E. Marshall Evans
My dad always choked when he tried to name,
His friends and comrades who hadn’t returned,
From sorties, dogfights and reconnaissance jobs,
And would motion by his hands about church.
The service on Remembrance Sunday morning,
Would let his worn, torn-up, shredded insides out,
Give him his heart of thoroughfare and ambition,
Respected his silence on the matter of the mind.
Thy birth on January 13th –
cervical contractions
would not abate
the pesky master (papa), strove
to synchronize seminal bait
thence, forty-two weeks
after ma parents did pro create
imminent lviii plus years ago to date,
this present baby boomer doth
indubitably and inherently equate
nineteen hundred and fifty nine
bequeathed birthed mine kempf ill fate
neurological manifestation,
sans obsessive compulsive did grate
behavioral motif and analogous
to frontispiece per story I hate
of my life and hard times,
when all of a sudden out blue irate,
the onset of emotional nadir,
where ballistic ordnance bombed away
fancy free, innocent, naïve boyhood
decrying, detonating,
and describing me own Pigs Bay
Allied, linkedin, and synced Luftwaffe
and Panzer division invasion that clay
like materiel within southern cerebral hemi
sphere inroads usurped no delay
riding roughshod via synapse straits sporting
scoring sorties using every
axe n newer on dread did
Swiss hide dill naught
to decimate with spirited ghost
of William Tecumseh Sherman
determination tuff flay
leaving not one iota (oft times)
referenced as gray
matter unaffected quite aware
of rebellious confederated voices
yelling “HOORAY”
Sabotaging orbitofrontal communication
incorporating connection between anterior
cingulate gyrus cortex heightening activity
bridging (via atom sized pontoon bridges)
greater activity upon basal ganglia, which
synoptic description does nothing to alter
the predisposition to ingress of un control
able imbecilic, inexplicable, and illogical
fixation particularly during onset of puberty,
when an emotional kamikaze nose dive
at nadir of near lifelessness, the shadow
of me former self nowhere tubby found
on account of deadly symbiotic relationship.
Oh the glory! Of this my story
Upon a colossal, metallic beast
Did I sail, for many a year
Every ocean and sea, seemed the vastness of eternity
My name is Arthur Homer Creed, AKA -“Homie”
Chief Petty Officer, United States Navy
My job, dangerous as it was
Was my one true love.
Director on the flight deck
Of an aircraft carrier
We cruised from Japan to Quebec
The scream of the jet
Was Mozart to my ear,
Adrenaline rush
Newbies full of fear-
But taught them all I did,
To be safe and stay on the grid
To catch a Tomcat became second nature-
And soon, for the novice, a breathtaking adventure.
How I adored the hues of sunset
And the smell of intensity from a jet
Off we sent them,
In the fury of a screaming cat
A hundred miles up they would fly
While we waited to catch them
From a dismissive sky.
“Chief Homie“, my flyboys called me
I was their father, and mentor out to sea
Their only family.
The young ones who were here to serve,
This great battleship,
Only the best did they deserve.
Into ports we swept
Alluring the girls, and scoring some drink,
Then back to the ship we went
Refreshed, relaxed and ready to think.
Onward another month or two we sailed,
18 hours days,
Through high winds and formidable gales.
Then the time came to get serious
There was a threat
The “Old Man” was furious -
F-18’s sent to the Middle East
Dropping bombs
In the name of peace.
Sorties flown day and night,
Blackout ship- we were trying to hide
Manning all battle stations,
This was a defensive action.
Through the bulkhead it came -
Crashing, crushing, killing, exploding
Entire ship, quickly eroding.
This projectile -
Erasing the faces I had known,
My legs, I saw, off were blown-
I grabbed the hatch
To keep
This hell from reaching others,
Up on deck.
Heaving it shut
With all I had left
I got that watertight hatch closed
Then I knew I was dead-
As the water enveloped my head,
I could no longer breathe -
Sea pouring in all around me.
I saved that ship, and those boys
From dying that day-
Or so I suppose,
Because I hear their praises
Sung to me -
In my watery grave,
Under the sea.
A. Green
The battle of wits who’s quickest to the target
The Referendum becomes our battling ground,
To silence the tongues that vanity took apart.
Saying little or nothing and have no command.
By force of nerves all generals pitted and plotted
Referendum vote drummed out the matted voices,
Tweets on either side of the house in cyber-chatted,
Europe left with misfits and the approving choices.
The referendum matter leads our nation into battle
Conquering minds gallop in haste to beat off time,
Waiting around for baited fines of further tittle-tattle,
Make allowance for doubting putting firms far behind.
Bows in the left hand; poison arrows fight in the right,
A momentum pursuing no safer place but heaven,
Parliament eyes have it, smart sorties smitten by night,
Watch the big nations squabble for refuge mitigation.
Then Europe and the people that’s in it can dream,
But every nightmare release the creepy dark shadows,
Frighten fools, using outdated tools for a referendum,
Keeping our identity to chase after the distant rainbows.
Could the appeasing bung taken worth smarter living?
Begin to outrun the distances of our silent conscience
Before looking back over on our humble beginning
With Protestants breathing the ambiance of silence.