Long Bayonet Poems
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To the layman’s unlearned eye,
Parliment is just another cigarette
To I, the educated expert its an extension
Its a bayonet with the mouth of a
cannon
A filter’s recession made with such
adaptive intention
Dab the divot in the pile of Columbian snow
Raise it like a glass to any curious biff
Just a sniff, a bumpskie, a twitch of the nose
Fireworks in the membrane and off they go
Under the cloud of cigarette smoke, the expert walks
a road of elation for eight minutes or so
Those days have been behind me for a number of years
and no matter how often i say cocaine is an unremarkable drug
As I was a conisseur of hypnotics and downers
the memories of explosive speed and dread and fear
Yet some are so comforting, when I see a Parliment
my eye allows the escape of one yearning tear
In the cold Russian Winters
To deter the enemy so
These red starred fighters
Street fighting they would know
The bloodiest in modern history
Thousands fell to earth
Fighting for their freedom
On the country of their birth
Hand to hand engagements
A bayonet to the girth
Another fallen soldier
Fighting for their worth
Operation Barbarossa
Is the theatre to discuss
In the boundaries of success
To free the likes of us
The power of it's industry
German's desired to greed
Avenue to the Caucasus
Would fuel their war torn seed
In the midst of battle
So many mechanical germs
The Stuka, dive bomber German
The T-34 in volume swarmed
But the winner in this battle
Was the want to save their city
Mother nature intervened
And the Germans were shown no pity
For all their strategy and might
The winter took it's toll
With fighting on two fronts
Their armies no longer strolled
Supplies were short in demand
What were, struggled through
For mother nature we thank
She was on the side of the true
When history looks back
In view to the red star brigades
The Germans held ninety percent
But the street fighters would never fade
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php
Hey, Mr. Politician, look,
Just look, what you’ve done
Stuck me back in combats
And carrying a gun,
Bayonet, spare mag,
Primed stun grenade
Sent to sort out the mess
You bastards have made.
I ain’t a fly boy
Whistling overhead
Not ever seeing
Their wounded and dead,
I’m just a foot slogger,
Feet firmly on the ground,
Seeing face to face
The chaos all around.
Mr Politician I’d like to see
You marching by my side,
Flush you out from all
Those places that you hide,
Uttering pronouncements,
Barely pausing for breath,
As you condemn a few more
Thousands to their death.
You murder by poxy
In the name of The State:
Rather than compassion you
Preach intolerance and hate.
When will you learn
War’s not a computer game
No reset button to
Return things to the same.
Those aren’t just fake bodies
Scattered all around
Those are the real dead
On your chosen killing ground.
And when our mission is over,
When it’s come to a conclusion.
Will me and my mates
Possibly face a prosecution.
Attiudes can change
With the passing of time
Accusations easily made
Of Historic War Crime
Hey Mr Politician,
I hope you don’t die well,
And, if such a state exists,
Spend eternity in Hell.
Although I've taken a break I've still been reading regularly and couldn't not publish this after reading Wen Horden's fine poem about the 1914 Christmas Truce. I performed it to mixed reactions at a Remembrance Sunday gathering. Veterans approved, not all others did.
In eighteen seventy nine; twenty second of January
Was the day of a great battle and for the Zulus victory
At Isandlwana the Zulu army showed no fear
Against British guns, armed with shield and spear.
Twelve thousand warriors from the Zulu nation
Wiped out the British, a total annihilation
With such a large force the camp was soon overun
With hand to hand combat, under African sun.
Nearly a thousand British soldiers died that day
A few played dead and managed to get away
Some headed for Rorkes Drift never looking back
Warning the soldiers there of an impending attack.
Not far from the battle stood the mission station
By the Buffalo river a tranquil location
Five thousand warriors marched on Rorkes Drift
A hundred and thirty nine stood ready to resist.
Dispite wave after wave the British repelled their attack
With rifle and bayonet; they pushed the Zulus back
The Zulus regrouped and moved in for the kill
An officer gave the command to fire at will .
The battlefield was covered with the bodies of the slain
With spears, shields and blood all over the terrain
It wasn't until the morning of the following day
That the Zulus retreated and went on their way.
Eleven Victoria crosses were won at Rorkes drift
For courage and bravery; shown in that conflict
Five hundred Zulu warriors paid the ultimate cost
Whilst seventeen British soldiers in battle were lost.
Against overwhelming odds the British held the line
And Rorkes Drift today is a museum and a shrine
Tour guides at the site will tell you the story
Of those brave British soldiers and their hour of glory.
(The Victoria Cross or VC is the highest and most prestigious award given
to members of the British armed forces for valour in the face of the enemy.)
In a world of hell, soldiers had songs they sung
Through standing in blood from bullets demonic tongue
As bombs explode, bullets whistle, its death they fight
Men fight hand to hand, through the night
A soldier alone lay huddled and frightened
To his rifle's trigger his fingers tightened
His body lay covered in smoke and mud
With death around him, stained with blood
No reason he finds for this unwanted plight
The death of every soldier until sun's light
A moment of clarity after facing death
His, the only chest left with any breath
The last man standing hard to accept
Faces of soldiers whom he'll owe a debt
A decision to face, comes to his head
As a future of memories lay ahead
A final stare at the mass of crumpled dead
This pile of friends where lifeless lives go unsaid
A crackling laughter from this vision he won't forget
Lets out a scream, falls on the point of his bayonet
9/6/16
contest Poem Ending with a 'Chilling Twist
Your country needs you!
Roll up roll up! we’re going to war,
It’s a noble cause, to be fighting for,
If your a boy, we’ll make you a man,
No rules apply, do anything you can.
Bomb our enemies, back into dust,
Blow up infidel’s, look at their guts,
Burn them alive, we’ll supply the flame,
Don’t ever worry, nobody’s to blame.
Rape the women, bayonet kids,
No ones accountable, is what it is,
Torture’s fine, we turn a blind eye,
Line em against a wall, say bye bye.
Get close to the enemy, hear their shouts,
Move up nearer still, see them inside out,
Prod with a stick, see if they’re alive,
Can’t get enough, when will more will arrive.
Can we obliterate graveyards, claim as our kills,
No problem at all, name it “operation goodwill”
Yes we’ll make a man, of you yet,
Teach them a lesson, never to forget.
What’s that whisper, I hear you say,
Geneva convention! Hush, only child’s play,
Don’t ever forget, God is on our side,
We fight for liberty, nothing here to hide.
Look at the medals, pinned upon your chest,
A real man now, and you belong to the best,
Before you know it, be back with the kin,
Tell them about the enemy, all their vile sin.
Don’t worry about an odd, sleepless night,
Carried out your duty, Goddamned just right,
What about reports, of protests back home,
They’re only cowards, who like a good moan.
But I reek to hell, after scrubbing clean,
That’s just the smell, of a killing machine,
Feel like I’m rotting, and drowning in filth
Snap out of it, or be eaten alive by guilt.
How does this stop, I’m overwhelmed with grief,
Screaming at night, and shake like a leaf,
Look in the mirror, Oh god what have I done,
Keep it together man, it’s ok because we won.
What if we lost, I’d be guilty of war crimes,
That’s the glory of winning, dumb swine,
You trained me to go, and commit bloodshed,
Now like a wounded animal, better off dead.
This wasn’t my fault, just did what you said,
Here’s my last order, put a bullet in your head,
I know it’s tragic, but happens sometimes,
This is a war poem, not a nursery rhyme.
By
David Kavanagh
Long bayonet, blood channel
Breaks suction to pull loose
After the thrust and twist so it is
Quickly ready for its next use.
Lovingly polished, honed and whet
Of finest steel, Sheffield made
A thing of beauty
This thirsty blade.
Seeming to quiver in the hand
As though anticipating his thrill
As he patiently waits for
The chance of his next kill.
Clothed all in black
With blackened face
Standing motionless
In his chosen place.
The watchers watch, monitor
His dreams, read his despair
The experiment conducted
With precision and great care.
Probing deeply in his mind
To discover why
He gets such pleasure from
Watching others die.
This tormented man
Creation of warring state
Trained to kill without
Remorse or hate.
Nobody prepared
To take their blame
For what he did
In their cause and name.
The probes record
His remembered hell
Tick, quiver, in his brain
As he sleeps in his cell
In his mind ready to thrust
And twist his bayonet blade
Long and shining and sharp,
Stainless Sheffield steel made.
You, looking at me
Come and let me look closely
To see what's behind those
Eloquent eyes, restlessly dancing
Bleeding ruby-red
With indecipherable meanings
Are you happy, sad, or in-between?
Do your eyes reveal wholeheartedly
Your inner turmoil and untold secrets?
Your virtues, vices and cardinal sins?
Your scars and demons? Will they explain
The answer behind the answer of you?
Come closer and let me peek
Longingly into the window of your soul
What stories do your eyes tell?
Do they speak of love and understanding?
Perhaps pain and sadness?
Care or cold indifference?
Will your eyes pierce through
My heart like a Cupid's bayonet
And wrap my soul in plenary bliss
Like a pleased dog wagging its tail?
Will they make my soul sing
When you lovingly gaze into my eyes?
Date written: 05/12/2018
11/16/21
It's all good, even though my life ain't the best
Another day ready to face what's next
Against major threats
Got to put in work and break a sweat
Take a drink, light it up and erase the stress
Living paycheck to paycheck
Is pathetic and a real pain in the neck
I need to take a trek
Can't expect change with the same attempts
I barely would take a step
Or I went to the greatest depths
Either I was a fool and made a mess
Or I became adept
Often seems like a waste of breath
Only made of flesh
Eventually there will be a date of death
Stay hep
Have we figured out the source of our creation yet?
Most don't, but some relate I guess
An addict full of pain depressed
Never been evil or a fake and pest
How quickly they forget
It had no impact, if I want to I'll make a dent
Take 'em out with an occasional Bayonet
No need to finish it all and say the rest
If you actually knew
Would it change your view?
Get a clue
Don't need to prove
What I can truly do
You're not better than me, and I'm not better than you
Staying true to who I am as a new day drew
Seeing it through
Then bidding adieu
Often I would lose
And booze
Full of the blues
Wasn't always what I would choose
I wasn't in yours and you weren't in my shoes
Heart black and blue
Bruised
With an ooze
Of reddish hues
Use to alcohol and drugs
Not use to hugs
Use to guns and gloves
Not use to love
One thing I want, but am not familiar of
Most so quick to judge
And shove
Or hold a grudge
It's the same old crud, causing blood
To be spilled in ways that are dumb
One of many things we have yet to overcome
Searching for love everywhere through all the sludge
Got to keep on and trudge
And do better at saving my funds
He had taken the last train to Stalingrad. ´Join the Army and see the World´.
The track of events unfolded when the tank chains came off. His brother had
bombed Guernica with the Condor Legion, when the war had been ´civil´, always
the lofty fellow he was, in full of flight. The infantry soldier's military canteen
had become rather frozen but the Russians did not wish to share their Vodka. Let
alone land, homes and women. Blood coagulated in his steel helmet from the
outside and he wiped off his comrades´ brain with a shoe cloth. Uniforms have to
be immaculate. It is quite a fine line between killer and puppet. But not to worry,
the Führer has decreed that with a folding spade one can dig out of any minor
obstacle. But when the frost broke his spirit, he saved the last hand grenade for
himself to go out with a bang. Sour Kraut and frozen legs. Much cleaner than a
bayonet although he would be missing in action forever. Maybe the supply lines
would take home his last letter.
not my fatherland
remember me my sweetheart –
disobeyed my oath
24th August 2020
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