Long Artillery Poems
Long Artillery Poems. Below are the most popular long Artillery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Artillery poems by poem length and keyword.
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A whale in a pail is far more active in a gale or in copious amounts of hail. Putting money into sharks is a shifty act involving the shuffling of coats in cloakrooms. And clown costumes placed in the bowls of women's frames are reserved for the elite attire of lemmon lipped bowler heads whose acidic tongue holds the weaponry speeches of tomorrows gore. Pain is a painted potato placed with the pilots to place on a place numbered out and planned on maps arriving by facetious fax machines whose many layered buttons seek to halt a single growing grass level with a shard spoken key. Turning a keyboard to an angle one can visit the highest climate but coinage is best reserved for a large bull with a blue tie. Behind many layers. Many layers is not many lettuces it is merely many lanes. And lanes are lovely on a summer evening returning from the abbey to the house in eighteen fifty-three in long beautiful blue dress with fancy earrings and hair wound in a tight bun. Looking around it is unsurprising that history repeats in the timeless whorl akin to stirring an acre pan of stew or making sandwiches for two hundred people at a picnic. Societal swamps seek some swanky shuffle starting storms. And all the while the little pixies dance in the trees. The unicorns prance, the fairies fly round and round, and all other realmes folk sigh at the endless processions of humans making endless chain of woe. Cause no pattern to rise up from a paper print. For if you do your whole world and house will be prints causing visitors to arrive in many windows to create a karmic reaction and a reaction is a realism and a responsive reach but not a retch. Little frog hums in the kitchen cupboard. He is very bored today and would like to go visit the pond but the machinery placed there ensures it is not safe to hop and when hopping it often is the case that shots are fired from the artillery of the ant people in plastic helmets. They move akin to a swarm of kettledrums on a backlit of carbonised baking trays. Powder that then. Beetroot faced woman in that raspberry printed dress. And to encourage the wrath of a walnut is to embellish a multicolumn of static electricity. Wow. Mish mash mush then. Hahahaha the dancing in the bathroom door hahaha mixed-use mixers mingling mangy mincemeat. Xxxxxxx prese tart structure Paden tar xxxxxxx invertebrates z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z THAT;
Form:
...He reformed the routing patriots,
formed a line atop a rise, Perrine’s Hill,
brought in General Knox and the artillery,
commanding the mass through sheer force of will.
He needed to buy time for the main force
to march on and join up in the battle,
the British kept coming, soon to attack,
convinced they still had the patriots rattled.
Before in battle the Redcoats just had
to flash their bayonets in the bright sun,
that was enough to scare Continentals
and assure them the battle was won.
But they were no longer facing such men,
the Americans had learned Europe’s game,
they did not flee at the sight of steel,
gave hard volleys once the foe was in range.
Britain’s field commander, General Cornwallis,
made several attacks to break up the line,
only to run into fire and rage,
with his Redcoats turned back every time.
They he tried to turn Washington’s left flank,
the boldest maneuver of the fight yet,
but the main force had come, and pushed forwards,
striking hard under young Lafayette.
Seeing there would be no quick victory
the British withdrew there forces back,
both armies in defensive positions,
the fight would become a long slugging match.
Soldiers hunkered down as across the fields
artillery thundered and cut loose,
both sides trying to break up the other,
their foe’s ranks they sought hard to reduce.
The heat was such that many of the men,
suffered and even died from heat stroke!
One man passed out and his wife manned his gun,
fighting on alongside all the blokes.
Then Washington sent Nathaniel Green
with artillery up towards Comb’s Hill,
a high position on the British left,
from which the guns could enfilade and kill.
The British saw their hopeless position,
and quickly began an ordered retreat,
marching north towards Clinton’s main force,
having blown their opportunity.
Washington saw his enemy leaving,
and sent Mad Anthony Wayne forward,
to harangue the British as they marched off,
cutting down men despite their good order.
And through the battle ended as a draw,
for the nation it was victory,
they’d kept the field in an open battle,
and matched the Redcoats in soldiery.
This changed the calculus of the whole war,
all knew battles would be more costly now,
England would no longer campaign in the north,
hoping for easier prey down south…
OLUPONNA: MY LAND AND TERRAIN.
Oh my mother land; wealthy in soil
To my grip held so highten; not soiled
So cultured and nurtured in legendary
To a land whose worth is never lost in form
Will I soon be so held up in apostasy ?
To forget thine beautiful terrains and slopes
The contour rich in overview than none has
Welcome to her broad-day light of sparklings
I told my mama not to let go
Cuddle me more, on the vent
To thy bossom full of blooms
Heartily warmth in thee to survive
She had her emotion to train
Let go her feelings to take over
Off the truck! Gone to the village
Then in despair of holding my heartaches
Even number to parity, a space of oddlines
Oddity easily known, hers was agility signified
Onus laid on her was to make a legacy to trail
And that she heartily did, her type' s rare in millions
Oh my memory not vague in rust
Get a sit, don't entertain a rush
So I'll paint her image on this crust
That her good deed be linked to her cross
On the furrow of the farmlands set miles away
To Olomu; the archives of the tons of products
To Odanla; the gazetters of hazels and expectants
What have you got to offer to myriads of waiters?
Oh Yeah! To the arsenal of thy strength
And the fort of thy fortress in strength!
The eulogy which is second to none
The artillery and the fighters of war
Omo olofa mojo, omo ola nlomi "abisu jooko"
Ijakadi loro offa, ija peki abe owula, biko base
Oju ebe lofa; a soju poro loko, iba soju oloko iba lawon, O soju agunmona l'Offa, o soju agbele yarara.
In the centre of thine beauty
Romance of taste in cultural reality
Oh come to ojude Oba, gladen thine heart
In the rhymes of beat on the path of gongs
Moon smiles to her heart, on a meadow
As her breast full of milk smile from window
Even if her men were waned, they'd join the lyrical
Oh a taste of memory s would never have!
God bless Nigeria to a united stand
Bless her, let my motherland blossoms
As gold flows her ways, let myrrhs and
Frankincense meet all her daily need (Amen)
Excerpt: Descriptive Poetic rendition .
A loving memory of good old days, from farm to School. Tis so beautiful to relive good memories.
(In happy memory of my mother; Aderinola Taiwo)
Like wounded soldiers they walked down the street, carrying their bullet less guns on their shoulders leaving a war that is not yet over, their marred with sweat and tears drips from their swollen face, it is not victory or defeat but they must separate themselves from the fleet.
With battered bodies and broken bones they journey towards their celestial home, with a rancid stench seeping from their breath, and a bashful frown leading them toward a woeful death.
They come from various clans and multiplied all over the land, many of them were slaughtered like trapped sheep in the land; they are no match for an army carrying tons of artillery, rockets, missile and automatic weapon .
The wounded soldiers were placed on the frontline without handguns and grenades, without trenches or barricade and so the bullets from the sky rained upon their head leaving blood spilling all over the street.
Like wounded soldiers they marched on to a place of nothingness, going to place where no home exist, burnt out buildings’ and charred body left in the street and the wind carried the stinking aroma and deposit it in the sea. There is no sign of life, and even the trees have to pay a woeful sacrifice, animal and beast lie down dead and there was no one to bury the dead so they kept marching on.
The other side was bursting with life, traffic was flowing up and down the street and some people went shopping for meat. The smell of freshly brewed coffee perfumes the atmosphere and the smell of fresh baked bread tempted their appetite.
People were having a feast and others were dancing in the street, the markets were busy the malls were overcrowded and life became alive in that city but they kept marching on.
They came to the roundabout, and converge underneath a big tree, nothing was happening there but they had something dynamic to share, the leader pulled out a map and everyone was shocked.
He circles some points and said. “we are crossing over there”, we are going to take this city be surprise with just a butcher and a knife and so the wounded soldiers cross on the other side in dead heat of the night and took the entire city by surprise with just a knife.
1861
Dust rises from the rutted road. Cannon laden caissons rumble slowly forward. A red sun competing with the campfires glow. Weary troops break camp, joining the ranks of
colleagues on the move. An enemy, unseen, lays before them, waiting to exact a deadly blow.
Bellowed orders cut through the hushed encampment, bugles sound, urgency pervades. Battle lines are drawn, men marching, resolve and fear etched upon their hearts.
Artillery from behind sing the opening anthem. Flashes on the horizon acknowledging their song. In quickstep they press toward the waiting army, searching til they face the long gray line.
A fusillade rips through the forward soldiers, leaving death and carnage in its wake. A
row of men drop in lines of destruction, their cries of pain soon muted by the battles call.
Panicked faces seek cover as their Captains, yell and threaten, urging them on.
Deadly canister screams overhead, delivering their fingers of death, Fragments of life left littering the field. “Close ranks” the Captain cries. “Rally round the colors.” In the
face of death the army presses onward, drummer boys beating cadence on their drums.
Smoke and bodies soon consume the landscape, fragments of lives lost, attesting to the
horrors of the day. On and on the contest rages. Giving, taking, winning, losing, dying.
Until welcome darkness cloaks the field of battle, forcing war to take a short respite
In darkened fields, litter bearers rummage through a broken army. Seeking those whose ravaged bodies won’t surrender, selecting those who might still have a chance.
Hot tears run down the face of hardened soldiers, gripped by a mix of anger, fear and
sorrow. Mourning for the sons and brothers taken. Respecting those that they must leave behind.
Unknown to them this is but a beginning. A scene to be replayed so many times. Our
nation would become a blood soaked homeland. Each side sure that they were on His side.
Time would leave its scars upon our nation. Destroying in an effort to unite. A terrible
price would be exacted. With the lives of many men it would be paid
The War Between The States officially ended April 9, 1865. The conflict cost 624000 lives.
When I consider this tug-of-war that lingers
And for which neither camp will forsake
Even for the sake of avowed earthly love
I see disinterred before my weary eyes
The folly of the wise and bravery of the coward
Where bliss and abyss eternally duel
Where in some cases adoration at first sight
Turns into fight at the slightest provocation
And love and hate choke each other’s throats
I see men cringe at being called equals
And women go to war to be called equals
Both recruit ignorant foot soldiers
In vain pursuit of ephemeral vanities
Ignorant that these mortal titles will mean nothing
When and where souls enter retirement
They hurl words as hard as stones
For a cause more passionate than religion
And a tradition foreign to their ancestors
Pride-sink souls fuel arguments that foul the air
Unable to find the compass to each other’s minds
The woman asserts that the man is a mean despot
Her soul despises him and his voice makes her spew
And he claims she is the tyrannical weaker sex
Glances of fury and murmurs shoot darts at him
And a ten-fold anger burns in his heart for her
Both are the objects of each other’s scorn
For which they engage heavy artillery to tarnish
She uses her garden and mouth as weapons
And he, the unknown mistress to fan
The embers of her jealousy
She mobilises hosts of female trumpeters
Waving banners of hate
He gathers a legion of male drummers
Seeking to proclaim the woman’s
Contempt for the Holy books
The man sees, as Divine, his right to be head
The woman her undeniable right to be heard
At the height of passionate ignorant arguments
Where there is no balm to calm frayed nerves
None of these hearts can vow to purity of purpose
Yet, alone at night, far away from opposing camps
That fuel this vicious and dubious battle
There rest the exhausted stoic woman and enduring man
Seeking fraternity of the loins before dawn breaks
When they return to the folly of contention
The next generation shall validate what I write:
When foolishness from all eyes evaporate
The mortal warriors from both cliques will realise what
Has been there since Eden that
Spirits and souls have no sexes
Take it away
Right now—see here…look here
Run into the light where one shadow casts an intent, lowly eye
Into the very heart of the storm, the words fall with might
You see a word and take sail as doubt and understanding foretell
A heartfelt message meant to destroy all that behold
Look here!
Crush the thoughts that bind you
The past that releases shards….murders of ravens
Pecking infidelity into your weakened visions
Forcing you to turn the other way and not listen
NOT listen
To the sounds of vibrant declaration driven from the blood of the lost
To the taste of defeat lathered in pride for the slowly dying sun
To the pinch of the skin upon the tethered limbs
Squeezing the wrists holding the ink
Releasing…releasing
The very blood that drives it!
That mind—how burdensome to the mass!
Crawling about for purpose
Searching—the best for last!
Firing squad!
Gone—
Sniveling snobs of insipient tact—obsessed with some artillery pact
Marveling at what sophisticated solidity can do to drive down a life
Move a herd of scared animals across a wasteland desired
Bile like the water source held back for the more important
Sniveling sad, chauvinist snouts tracing the secular age of rot
Eating everything they got
Wishing for what the sad ones hold on to
The only thing that keeps that eye dry
Take it away and words go awry
In chaotic monotony
Barging in matrimony
Forcing the impaired to repair
Kindling a fire already put out by your thoughtless glare
Curse this burdensome mind of the masses!
Curse the unpainted lines that omit from my very lips!
As I read every scourging fire bolt out
All one sees is the words protruding out
From a heart so bitter by bitter alone
Trusting in the meter, the rhyme, the tone!
I left the earth too far to return!
Fresh! Lowly, but fresh!
Immanent in high regard TO THE OPPRESSED
Take it away
Right now—see here…look here
Run into the light where one shadow casts an intent, lowly eye
Into the very heart of the storm, the words fall with might
A burdened firing squad faced a mirror
And shot blindly
Through fear
>>1111>>MATRIX HIT>1111>>Quincy Mac<<1111<<
date written: 26.11.2015
I quickly joined the Navy on June the 4th, 1943,
As soon as I graduated at 17, life was definitely to be;
I received boot training in the state of Maryland,
At Bainbridge, became a navigator noble and grand.
I was sent to Amphibious Training wet, phew wee,
At Little Creek in Virginia, where I got my crew,
Of different ranks including machinists as gunners,
The craft was 56-foot, our rations made us stunners.
But I was separated from my crew, went to Plymouth,
In England, placed on a Liberty ship used to house,
Replacement cargo for artillery that got destroyed,
Which was so much longer than the crafts deployed.
In Fahnouth England, I memorised Normandy maps,
Prepared and used a Reflectoscope to turn on the taps;
We were scared of poison gas when we hit Omaha,
I was quarantined on June 1st of ’44, needed mama.
We saved many from the crafts using cargo nets sublime,
But they were difficult to climb in the rough seas, crime,
A craft almost mounted the ship ‘cos of a high wave,
And always we had to be steely and very, very brave.
The bombs from the Nazi’s were the size of footballs,
And we painstakingly recovered many bodies, stalls,
From the water which had just beaten them cruelly,
And that first D-Day morning we were losing brutally.
The Germans hedgehogs, or bombs for the landing crafts,
Fired on us from a pillbox, but in my case American staff,
Took my attacking pillbox out, and I was just so grateful,
‘Cos it was causing me havoc ‘cos I almost felt too awful.
Luckily that night two German planes simply just avoided us,
After a few days we did hydrographic 3D printing work, suss,
For which I was commended, I contributed to today’s 3D printing
Then I lead the invasion of southern France, which was amazing.
The Panama Canal saw me on a rocket ship headed for Japan,
But the A-Bomb ended the war, and we went state-side to tan,
My Honourable Discharge was in March of ’46, and I was quick,
To get back to my peacetime activities, but never forgot the sick.
Battle of Arras April – May 1917
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
& A Poetry Soup honourably mentioned poet
I was not there. I have to say.
I was not born. I meant to say.
Had I been of age, you know.
None these words would surely show.
World War I was finally won.
Many battles were fought in that one.
Each one was fought until the death.
Rolls of honour reveal what I’ve just said.
The Suffolk Regiments did us proud.
On that Arras bloody battleground.
Many souls were lost, I do implore.
Seek elsewhere, their battles scores.
The Battle of Arras was our men’s one.
The 2nd 7th 11th later 4th Suffolk regiments one.
From April to May 1917; so much carnage was then seen!
So many souls rose they say.
158,000 from both sides in that battle heydays.
Many more were no doubt lost.
For ground, that was won at such a cost.
It matters not what I say.
Many Suffolk folk mourned and prayed.
For that Battle soon did end.
Other battles went before.
The Somme, Passchendaele to name just two more.
But of all of them, you must agree.
Arras was the greatest for, ‘The Suffolk’s,’ you see.
May, ‘The Suffolk’s’, with their Canadian allies.
Rest now their weary battle cries.
As through those chalk tunnels they did go.
Named Wellington, Nelson, they did so.
Then finally, once under no man’s land.
Took battle, to their enemy Germans.
On Arras bloody battlegrounds.
(N.B. No man’s land is the name given to the space between two enemy positions; it is an area of land covered by weapons of both sides, so whoever enters it is sure of being fired upon. There was usually little or no shelter; apart from crater holes, caused by either sides artillery shells. On this particular battleground tunnels were constructed by the British/Allied forces through the chalk soil, they were named Wellington and Nelson. Thus bypassing this particular killing ground, allowing more close quarter fighting. The tunnels were named by those that constructed them, New Zealanders, need I say more. Apart from thank you.)