Long Army of one Poems
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(A Carnival Barker)
There’s no shame in my game,
I write to entertain
This is from my upcoming book
that has no name.
Poetry that entertains.
I am the halftime show
always ready to go...
A delightful distraction,
sharing that verbal interaction.
I’m a good time on two feet
An Army of one.
And a legend in progress...
As history repeats itself,
and criminal’s return
to the scene of the crime.
I like reciting my poetry
before an audience
each and every time.
My name is Bobby K,
and I am
The Poor Man’s Poet.
Another wizard of the word
that live in Williamsburg.
I appear before you
like an apparition on a mission.
Reaching deep
within your intellect,
bringing forth knowledge
in the form of old
forgotten memories,
that become epiphanies.
Making you aware,
that you now know
what you didn't know
a moment ago.
Here tonight, right now
in this room,
I am a little man
among poetic giants.
A veritable light weight
in the power of the word.
But as I'm relatively new
in the history of poetry.
You'll have to forgive me
as I find myself at fault,
for being wise
within my ignorance...
My name is Bobby K,
and I am The Poor Man's Poet.
I solemnly received my first toilet auger
As if it were a knight’s well-tempered sword.
It meant I’d passed my ninety-day audition,
And seemed to me a suitable reward.
And so began my tenure working maintenance
In the nasty nitty gritty of a toxic circumstance.
But I’d scored a small apartment, living duty-free,
So, it was time for starting over’s second chance.
A thousand plus apartments needed tending.
When a work ticket printed, I called dibs.
Seventy buildings built of brick and dreams.
I was privy to the skivvy in all those skeevy cribs.
I’ve encountered many silent tribal totems:
Hindu murti, Christian chi rho, Muslim script.
But no matter the religion of the trouble call,
For every useful purpose, I came suitably equipped.
There were feral cats, roaches, and bedbugs
Infesting hoarders’ floorspace wall-to-wall.
I dealt as best I could with the detritus,
But my biggest stress was over-night on-call.
While paying the price of complete independence
I may sometimes have hammered my thumb.
Though I may be a hack in the handyman trade,
I conducted my final campaign as my army of one.
And I came off a winner.
Rain never ends in the quick sand desert
It never begins either in this scorching heat
Blisters and parched lips are part of the mix
Brought on by the sun's drying effects
On lost bleached bones far from home
A lack of oxygen where no vegetation grows
You are never alone if you keep on marching
Talking to yourself in double time
There is the swirling effects of the mirage
Wavy lines seen by eyes and a mind half baked
Boots move slow, occupied by the army of one
A soul more dead than alive
Seen in the distance just over the horizon
Another afternoon illusion on the dunes arrives
Over the next heat wave bringing on doomsday
More rivers of light come down relentless
From the yellow sun on fire
Night never falls nor does a drop of water
Hell rains down from heaven as ordered
In mediation of my own identity, do you see an involuntary army of one?
Failed my fellowship, a downpour I need myself the most; affectionate landslides run
'Cause if rain erosion is all that matters, destruction at most may not have begun;
Incomplete confidence; me asking for anything from the world can not be undone
Consciousness is the way that my character has been branded by the sun;
So if me asking for help does surprise you or, for that matter, anyone;
My shoulders will silently continue to carry this burden alone by the ton
Admitting you were cherished to the edge of the greater; that's when I won;
Hidden in plain sight, yet it's beyond amazing how deeply you can stun
Infinity, selfishly rich, is worthless compared to a snow-day with someone
What they don’t tell You
What the recruiters tell you:
“Be all you can be.”
“An Army of one.”
“Fly high with the Air Force.”
“Join the Navy and see the world.”
“Be the best. Be a Marine.”
“Join the National Guard and get an education and keep your job.”
Things recruiters leave out:
Watching your friend(s) go home in body bag(s).
The dirt and sweat.
C rations, K rations, MRE’s.
PTSD, suicides, drug addiction.
Limbs lost. Traumatic brain injury.
Bloated, decomposing corpses.
Dead men, women and children.
Fear so intense you soil yourself.
Lice, sand, dust, cold, heat.
The stench of death.
Families torn apart.
Long road to rehab or death whichever comes first.
In the hive, she is so well attended -
thousands of workers, all pleased to toil,
hundreds of soldiers keep her defended,
all for her, and her palace of soil.
But when it comes time, my queen, I'm afraid,
it will be just me bound purely to you.
No castle with servants, no knights to bade -
and I'm hardly a king; I must speak true.
I do not drink ambrosial nectar,
yet, somehow, with God's grace, I shall become:
worker, warrior, provider, protector,
merely a man, yet an army of one.
I must do it all, such pleasure to strive,
for love of my queen and fate of our hive!
24 March 2023
A SIMPLE POETRY CONTEST Poetry Contest sponsored by John lawless
Some are born to carry shadows in their bones—
to know the weight of stones
uninvited visitors throw.
We are soldiers in a war with no front lines,
an army of one
navigating minefields,
exploding bombs inside our minds.
We live in nightmares dressed as ordinary days,
chasing peace through smoke and haze
while hope erodes like shoreline
beneath relentless waves.
The armor we bear is heavier than lead—
each plate hammered from a scar,
each rivet driven through the tender parts
we've learned to guard.
Tears descend in silent streams:
salt trails mapping territories of pain.
Trauma swallows us in waves—
pulling us under, again,
again—
until we learn to breathe
in the spaces between drowning.
Memories cling like winter frost
to window glass,
distorting everything we see.
They haunt the corners where light fails,
cruel melodies on endless repeat:
the songs life demands
we learn by heart.
Do you see me?
I see you—
the same fractured mirror,
the same shattered view.
But still—
In the caverns of my darkest days,
in the marrow-deep ache of surviving,
I find a strange and tender grace:
a gift the light-touched never claim.
This appreciation blooms
in soil where others see only decay—
I notice what they hurry past:
the way dawn breaks on broken things,
how shadows teach the light to dance,
the fierce beauty of a body
that refuses to surrender,
the sacred weight of second chances.
Even as I grow bone-weary,
even as I break and bleed,
I see extraordinary beauty
hidden from those who've never grieved—
The silver veining through the cracks.
The strength in things that bend, not break.
The way the wounded recognize each other
across crowded rooms:
a glance, a nod—
the silent language of survival.
The poetry in what we had to forsake.
This beauty rolls in with the seasons,
then away with winter's breath—
fleeting, precious, sharp as sorrow,
intimate as life and death.
We who carry melancholy
see what joy alone cannot:
the full spectrum of existence,
the terrible beauty we've been taught
by suffering,
by surviving,
by singing through the pain.
We are the ones who know
that breaking open
is how the light gets in—
That the cracks are not the ending
but the place
where we begin.