Best Squadrons Poems
THE MEADOW
Spread
Neath umbilical sky
On nutrient Earth
She stands alone this noon
Surrounding woods
Mountains
Distant structures
Seem to encase the lush green plot
Have taken on a sunny sheen
Then there is this peaceful babbling brook
running through
sparkling
wetly whispering
GOD!
What an ecstatic vision!
But wait!
Come
Lie down on fairy moment’s colorful hay
Smell the wild flowers
Hum a happy tune
Then Listen!
Oh!
Below!
A wild bacchanal defames all empyrean image
Slither-slide –
Bunnies mice POP!
Bees dragonflies
Winged squadrons buzzing BANZAI!
A billion glassy eyes of every size
Looking for kill
Or pre-empting demise
Shiny black bugs on nature’s green rug
Distant
The sound a staccato wheeze
A high wire din
Like one hundred tortured violins
Then rise
Return to that simpler view
Smile in wonder
That nothing in nature is static
And wonder what’s going on inside of you?
Dave Austin
Categories:
squadrons, nature,
Form:
Free verse
White chevron squadrons usher in spring
With squawking and honking and flapping of wings.
Their return brings a weekend to revel in fun.
The locals all love it, and hundreds more come!
But the poor migrant snow goose must be sorely perplexed;
Revered on one weekend, then slaughtered the next!
Categories:
squadrons, spring,
Form:
Couplet
SCENERY TO PAINT
Every day we reviewed them in parade attitude
Along the Snake River in the Tetons’ solitude,
Or at attention on the banks of the Volga
In the infinite taiga -
In neat ranks along river terraces
Warm dark firs mixed with yellow acer,
All with the wind slowly leaning,
Their branches across the river-ice signalling
To great endless squadrons of their fellows :
In spring with their full flowers - yellows :
An army in a gold and topaz uniform
Ready and waiting for orders to fall in and conform ;
And in fall with their rich golden foliage
Always polished and ready for duty with courage.
In poor soil, in tough climate, these were heroes
Prepared for all their tomorrows.
Each morning we watched “Reveille” parade
In the dawn’s early light; and the evening shade
Gave “taps” for that heroic multitude -
The taiga’s topaz army, in golden solitude.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written by Sydney Peck
Entered in Tracie ~*~ Indigo Dreamweaver's Contest ...Paint the world...
Categories:
squadrons, art, river,
Form:
Couplet
The USA is not perfect
never has been
never will be
Unlike Russia, which has
‘no alcohol problem’
‘no civil disobedience’
‘no LGBTQ populace’
Not to mention no truth in the
information it disseminates to
suckers around the world...
Yes, indeed, the USA is not perfect
not with George Washington
the 1700’s slaveholder (gasp!)
on our currency, not to mention
Susan B. Anthony, who was proudly
anti-abortion, pro-life – for shame, for shame!
~ Our ignominious past consigns us to eternal penance ~
Unlike Libya, where an ancient slave trade flourishes
to this very day: Muslims enslaving black Christians
which does not fit the media’s narrative
so most people aren't aware of it
and the rest don’t care about it
Unlike Afghanistan, where the repression of the 'Old Taliban'
is now fully in place under the ‘Newer, More Gentle Taliban’
or Syria, whose butcher of a ruler has made refugees of half his
citizenry, gassing thousands of others with chemical weapons…
But yes, indeed, the USA is not perfect
Never has been
Never will be
Let us forever grovel in abasement to all the tin-horn dictators of the world
not to mention our home-grown squadrons of regressive radical progressives
Down with Jefferson, Lincoln, Grant, Teddy Roosevelt, Truman and Reagan!
Up with Omer, Tlieb, Pressley, Sanders, AOC, Corey Bush, Schiff, Nadler...
Long live Maduro, Castro, the Mullahs, Xi, bin Salman, Abbas, Gaddafi et al!
Lies are Truths Might Makes Right Facts are Opinions
1 9 8 4
Categories:
squadrons, america, history, international, leadership,
Form:
Free verse
Sam is a novice gardener who stamps on all ants
He doesn't like them near or crawling on his plants
Their Queen was angry and wanted revenge
For the ones that had fallen she wanted to avenge.
They planned to get inside and under Sam's clothes
Cover his whole body from his head to his toes
The queen gave her order for her ants to attack
Every inch of his body, every orifice and crack.
There were flying ant squadrons in groups of twelve
Soldiers in lines and a lone scout out by himself.
The others were preparing for a mass swamping
While Sam continued with his clomping and stomping.
They entered inside both trouser leg realms
These little feisty red insects, these hardcore rebels
From somewhere inside it was smelly and breezy
And their night vision eyes made navigation more easy.
Sam's legs were hairy and wiry, like a hot tangled jungle
With volcano like spots and some weird looking fungal.
They battled there way through, this united strong army
While Sam was going mad and looked rather barmy.
They bit, they chewed, they spat and tickled
Sam smacking himself as he wriggled and wiggled
At all times they were all on high red alert.
To avoid being splattered by this mad dancing berk.
These tiny ninja assassins crawled under his shirt
His four limbs wildly failing; he went completely berserk
Flying ants swooping and diving to created a distraction
Sam's reaction to their actions gave them great satisfaction.
He jumped, he hopped, he twice did the splits
They bit here and there, including his small naughty bits
His limbs in and out; the ants hokey pokey
Limbs moving so fast they felt hot and smelt smokey.
Sam screamed "I am sorry please leave me alone
My garden is yours and every ants home
I didn't know aphids left you a sugary sweet treat"
I surrender, I give up, I admit my defeat."
Harmony and peace, balance restored
Nothing is mightier than a little ants sword
Sam's body now healed, no more ants in his pants
But beware if you ever harm a red or black ant.
04.06.24
Categories:
squadrons, insect,
Form:
Rhyme
mosquitoes mutter
against the backyard deck screens
they say let us in
kamakazie rain
drops shower on their squadrons
that's evolution
life just comes and goes
as if of it's own accord
and the humans dream
as if tomorrow
will always be there for us
we're just one species
stan sand
Categories:
squadrons, allegory, analogy, animal,
Form:
Haiku
Let it be that - we are simply disconnected
And all of it that was before is now neglected.
Just as in an international call
And I'll stop knowing what you whisper all
Over her right ear,
Petting her mere
Hair. Listening to the cheerful imps
Of your disturbing thoughts. A glimpse.
And recognizing every rustle
Around you. A twitching muscle.
Here's the sound of keys jingling,
Here are her fingers mingling
With your fringe, here's the wind strangled in the curtains,
The load of memories it burdens...
Sms beep, the block is off,
The parquetry squeaks yet the steps are easy,
Flick of a lighter and that's it - the tone. How cheesy...
And I'll stay a bit in the telephone booth
Reciting poems of my youth.
Awaiting for the firing of invisible squadrons in my temples to cease.
Oh would I ever feel the ease?
Of simple being, I'm happy as old colonel Frehley
Who died with a reciever in his hand.
Let it be that as if it's five years past.
And we are all steady here at last.
We're not as booming with the decibels,
But we're worth a 1000 for a ticket.
There might as well be time for cricket.
We are working like real men,
Making money as easy as trimming a bush. We stem.
We're not giving our minds any downtime.
What's mine is mine.
And I am aware of what I am worth.
It doesn't matter that nobody is willing to pay the price.
We run in circles just like mice.
We meet and knock back three
Glasses of Chilean semi dry and you look at me.
And then you say "I am pround of you, Polozkova!"
But no - nothing breaks inside me.
That August we were still drinking outside
And you were wearing
My jacket - we are joking, singing and smoking...
Probably you never knew that from that night on you
Become the protagonist of my hysterics and mimes. All anew.
One day we'll recall this -
And wouldn't be able to believe it ourselves...
Let it be that my vim and naughtiness
Are back; My slouch and flabbiness
Are gone; And nothing's beating me inside
No pain within me would reside.
And there's no need to write
My poems. How can I ignite?
Let it be that I don't sob hoarsely with every chorus
Just like a dyed-haired singer with little morals.
How nice that you're sitting
In front of the screen and thinking
That you're reading
Of somebody else.
Categories:
squadrons, poetess, poetry, poets,
Form:
Peace is though difficult
Yet not impossible to uphold,
All the kings of the states
Must remain self-concerned,
Without poking noses
Into the affairs of others,
Curbing cupidity
To expand the territories,
Subjugate the nations of the world,
Enforce the so-called personal visions,
And put the humanity
Into new-fangled trials.
All the weapons
Latest, conventional or primitive,
Precious or utterly worthless,
Nuclear or less potential
Made of common explosives,
Be spoiled,
Be thrown into the deep waters
Of the unexplored seas,
Wherefrom no devilish character
Could ransack them back.
When some is killed
Neither Hindu, nor Muslim,
Neither Christian nor Jew is killed,
But a man: a child of Adam and Eve,
The same red substance
Pours out of his injured ragged body,
And it pains me.
All the weapon producing units,
And the blood spattering gadgets:
The tanks and cannons,
Mortars or machines guns,
The armadas
With the squadrons of fighter-jets,
Submarines that navigate
Secretly chase the nautical targets,
Catapults and all the missiles launching frames,
Be thrown into furnaces
To be remodelled and redesigned
Into of the earth moving machinery,
Instead of the appliances
Colouring the Earth red.
All the medals or symbols
Of chivalry be taken back,
Combatants and men
With the crowned shoulders,
And medalled chests,
Who often move in the battle-fields
Puffed with the martial pride,
Imparting, rendering
No service to humanity
Be employed to plough the lands,
Plant the gardens,
Make the dams and reservoirs of water,
Feed the cattle and get them milked on time,
Engaged them
To perform some rewarding assignments.
Upon the earth,
There must not be a single
Blood-claiming weapon;
If men are incensed
And fight is unavoidable,
They must fight with knives and rapiers,
Swords and shields made of gossamer,
All the time heeding
Lest they should break;
And all inhabitants of the world
At least once a day must trim their nails,
Lest when they are indignant
And resentful should scratch
The skin of fellow beings or their own.
Categories:
squadrons, peaceearth, men,
Form:
"Blue Avians and the Poetic State of Mind
post apocalypse
the mother
sought the assistance
of Blue Avians.
when it came to
eggs stolen from a nest
who better than to
seek the assistance
of those ancient
wise creatures.
they had a keen sense
of the poetic.
without speaking,
they intuitively
understand
the misunderstood.
The Blues
shot right through
to the heart
of the matter.
Triangulation.
seated in
lapis lazuli
Merkaba
thrones
they fly
in fierce squadrons
sharp eyes, and minds
surveying the In-Between Place.
extra sensory perception
they lock into targets
reading signals hidden
under the radar
the cloaked
co-ordinates
of the Draconian
the great pretenders,
finding weakness
in the criminals’
fading camouflage.
slippery scales, light weights,
the Draconian
are bird bait;
too shiny,
inherent and inherited
reptilian, lizard minds
unsettling reprobates
in false light armour;
their dangerous enabling
supporting the
underbelly of it all,
their brother,
the venomous
Arachnid army.
The Blue Avians
saw deep inside
the Necromancer’s
deep indigo heart,
the blue heart of true mother.
they were for her
with faith
every time;
for like them, after all,
she also could fly
with the full strength,
the force of will in her mind.
they would fly
by her side. anytime.
they held no fear
of her motives,
her just moment,
her calling mission
for return of her child,
in the fullness of time.
they see
and they feel
the fierce call
of the Necromancer’s
true mind.
post apocalypse
the mother
sought the assistance
of Blue Avians.
when it came to
eggs stolen from a nest
who better than to
seek the assistance
of those ancient
wise creatures,
they possessed a keen sense
of swift justice.
they read
without speaking
truth in
the poetic,
a unifying
undying
poetically alienated
state of mind
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"I am the blue-lidded daughter of Sunset;
I am the naked brilliance of the voluptuous night-sky."
"In the sphere I am everywhere the centre,
as She, the circumference, is nowhere found."
Eye of Horus.
Horus.
Thoth.
Nuit.
Categories:
squadrons, muse, psychological, symbolism, war,
Form:
Narrative
The Queen
obvious to all who dare notice,
knows no peer.
Drones rush in to orbit in frenetic
sublimation; workers dutifully push
the floor buttons of departure
destinations,
releasing squadrons of gatherers
eager to conquer cubicles of source
data.
The Queen with mysterious grace,
wisely chooses reproduction mates
with visionary lineal accomplishment;
handheld devices whir complex
commands.
......not a word uttered
in the elevator.
04/06/16
Categories:
squadrons, culture,
Form:
Free verse
The shoulders chaffed, the weary backs
of pack mules cursed with intellect,
so briefly were unburdened from
the detrious of war.
A break for a line doggy
from the green corrupted alley,
the worst stretch of the worst path;
hell's putrid inner city.
The Pall Mall you were having;
a cardboard box of four;
packed in nineteen forty six;
tobacco stripped three years before
the two of us were born.
Pungent smoke for driving off
the squadrons of mosquitoes,
drawn to the stench of uniforms
unchanged
in forty days.
Facing out; back to back,
your pack and mine supported.
I welcomed the distraction
of dreams softly spoken.
My pound cake and your peaches,
in drab green cans, divided,
thoughts of small town rodeos,
cool beds, with sheets,
and warm...
Precious breath not wasted
on Patriots,
or Politics...
Categories:
squadrons, friendship, wargreen,
Form:
Free verse
Bozhidar Pangelov&Vania Konstantinova/In Memoriam/
Under the Coat of Arms
In Malta, in the ancient walls
is beating the sea so salty.
Somewhere behind,
distant,
hidden
are shining through southern almonds.
There is no moon.
The light is illuming
herself
in the pearl of your eyes.
Harmonious.
Without gunshots
of the squadrons by Lepanto.
The falcons on the coat of arms fall asleep,
never wanted,
in honor
and dignity.
Vania Konstantinova
Behind the Gates
Behind the gates
of Mdina I hide you,
far of any nemesis,
of foam and stretched sails.
Behind the towers of the castle.
In the most inner yard.
Under the spurts of the cascade,
more precious than silver.
Here they see only
the eyes of the peacocks,
whisked their tails
for cooling.
Keepers of the secret
with their tongues wrested.
And when your brush sculptures
the bracelet around my ankle,
reflected in Venetian mirror
like a trap –
I forget who you are and the sin
with head chopped off,
I forget about the death …
Vania Konstantinova was born, in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in
her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and
Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along
with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published
in autumn of 2008. Death 2015
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
Categories:
squadrons, death, death of a
Form:
Bio
The first time the Japanese were stopped in World War 2...
was 7th of September 1942...(Before Gaudacanal fight was finished)...they retreated then
back to Rabaul after heavy fighting with the Aussies in the muddy swamp at Milne Bay, New
Guinea...
http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush/
Milne Bay Battle 1942...
In the mud of east New Guinea by the shores of Milne Bay..
The Yanks had laid an airstrip made of mesh or so they say...
It was 1942 the Japanese would land...
Never beaten till this point, unbeatable so grand...
2 Squadrons of Yank Kittyhawk's all covered in the mud...
Flown by game Australians who spilled the Nippon blood...
Six 50 cal machine guns on the Kitty they did sit...
Bullets wobbled down the barrels, sank the barges just a bit...
Fighter Ace our Truscott he'd often lead the charge..Bluey...
He'd barely left the airstrip, wheels up, strafe a barge...
Barges full of soldiers packed in like sardines....
And on this beach the slaughter of the Japanese Marines...
The rain came down in torrents never dry, how would you be....
Aussie soldier were in battle in mud up to their knees...
So driven from this swamp were the awful Japanese...
By the 7th of September, what weren't dead were glad to flee...
Don Johnson
Categories:
squadrons, war
Form:
Ballad
A long time ago in a galaxy
far far away. . . .
There was a Dark side,
and an equally Light side,
With the Force of Universe!
We have Klingon on our tail
Captain!
It is illogical to assume their
intention as hostile,
Chief Engineer full power to
shields and Phaser
torpedoes...
To go into battle where no
man has done before.
Viper Squadron to Galactica
we have multiple Ceylons
approaching. . .
Deploy all gun turrets and
Battlestation everyone,. . .
Send out Red and Blue Viper
Squadrons. . .
Sorry Commander we only
have the Mark II squadron on
standby. . .
Stardate 201184 we are now
entering Prison colony sector
Alpha31,
Prepare for landing and recon
Marines,
We have an intruder on
board the ship, an Alien form,
Do not kill it! I want this
creature alive. . .
Humans have been to the
point of extermination,
And Skynet has control of the
whole planet except a few
rebels,
And their fearsome leader
one John Conner,
But the T2000 Terminator will
be back!
Categories:
squadrons, celebration
Form:
Free verse
The Twenty first division of the airborne flying rats,
were perched upon a building ledge above my block of flats.
This way and that ,their beady eyes, sought targets on the square,
and then en masse, they launched themselves, in squadrons to the air.
One little lady unaware of the danger from above,
was busy feeding sparrows with crumbs of bread and love.
The Formation of the Twenty First began their bombing run,
Camouflaged in pale blue plumes, they dived out of the sun.
Too late, too late, the sparrows launched, in panic'd flapping group,
as both the lady and the square were raked by pigeon poop.
A passer-by in sympathy produced tissues in in a wedge
‘No it’s far too late for that; they’re already on their ledge!’
Then the Twenty First Division of the Airborne flying rats,
returned to base, their run complete, re-landing on the flats.
With chests puffed out and heads pulled in, the squadron stood so proud,
as far below the carnage wrought, attracted quite a crowd.
Looking up man exclaimed, ‘I seen it, it was them,’
and pointing to my block of flats, let fly a gob of phlegm.
‘Those dirty flying poop filled birds have made this town a mess,
Someone ought to do something, we ought to make redress.’
A committee formed and motions passed and poop law was laid down,
that any pigeon, found at large, was fair game on the ground.
Dogs were trained and cats were bought, to thwart the dirty foe,
and with catapults and airguns everybody had a go.
Thus the mass attacks were finished, and group bombings lost their fun,
So the flying rats just changed their ploy, and started solo runs.
Categories:
squadrons, funny, flying,
Form:
Rhyme