Long Canteens Poems
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The grandkids are heading to sleepaway camp,
Their clothing all labeled and packed,
Plus all of the extras they may or not need -
Way too much, as a matter of fact.
They bring pillows and blankets and flashlights and fans
And shin guards and sandals and cleats
And towels and bug spray and sunscreen and stamps
And shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste and sheets.
They need rain gear and sleeping bags, books and canteens,
A laundry bag, backpack and socks,
Plus sweatshirts and jackets and underwear (lots!)
And their sneakers and rain boots and Crocs.
Of course there are bathing suits, t-shirts and shorts
And sweatpants and PJ’s and fleece,
But there are no iPads or Switches or phones
So some wonders, I guess, never cease.
The days spent at camp will fly quickly until
All that stuff gets repacked to go home,
With some missing or ruined or filthy, but that
Is a topic for some future poem.
What if..
What if; it wasn't a lockdown forenoon
Mommies whisking to kitchenette
Daddy's out with newspaper headlines
Little cubs denned in their late quilt and wishing no schooling today
Rest world racing themselves to indulge in work deadlines
What if; it wasn't a lockdown noon
Chefs busy preparing victuals to serve in eateries
Office canteens loaded with lunch boxes and gossips
Some heading for evening tales
What if; it wasn't a lockdown evening
Coffee shops buzzing with bud pairs, roasted coffee beans and whiffs of smoke
Peeps roaming and returning their abodes before the dark was deep
Little cubs falling asleep in their study and no Surf, no Netflix
What if; it wasn't a lockdown night
Dinner table would filled with traffic and homework folklore
Bedtime would doubly the fairy's list-
Children wishing for no school tomorrow,
Men for hike up his business,
Women emancipation from irons of household chores and society norms
What if; it wasn't a lockdown
Contemporary would have been so lost in it's own bloods and veins
June month would have brought us fruity summer of 2020
And I would have written a poetry of love and lust
Vibram lugs 2 inches thick
for edge work back when
I was so young
with mountains to climb
the leather uppers
with mink oil spread
in the oven baked
again and again
Mountains I climbed
and dusty trails walked
like friends of old
they still remain
in dark of night
as I do cry
in fear I tremble
and wonder why
dreams of youth
in spring of years
golden sunshine
that could never and
a orange back pack
on aluminum frame
4000 cubes
that so much held
Baseball mitts
and skiing wax
holstered canteens
and hammocks of string
wonder I now
just what it will hold
if the long road
my feet will find
when does come
new dawn breaks
life begins again
and death flees away
a sleeping bag filled
with hollofil II
will it then replace
my King size bed
nightmares were then
a distant unfelt thing
words on the news
unknown to me
if healthy lived
kept active mind
dreams then could grow
keep nightmares at bay
yet dreams now do end
golden sun does set
dark of night will fall
cannot be held at bay
again take up my staff
and the backpack fill
sturdy boots again to wear
and on the road go away
Ft Leonard Wood Mo.1961
Combat Engineers
Miracle Man
10/18/2024
Most days we awoke feeling quite asinine,
choice wasn’t to get up or remain supine.
The bugle was telling us rise and shine,
fall in formation “cruits” and ditch the whine.
After a five mile hike you’ll be feeling fine,
with their way of thinking we wouldn’t align.
Our canteens contained water tasting like brine,
with spit shined boots each cleaned his carbine.
K.P. and cleaning grease traps is hard to define,
another duty intended to harass but was benign.
Just one lousy gig got us a barracks confine,
but finally after 9 weeks we were on cloud nine.
All this happened with purpose and by design,
to make men of boys that would toe the line.
Form:
The old fashioned monsoons
Meant for the flowers and cacti of Arizona California
And New Mexico
Have fled those deserts and dusty reservoirs
To find a new friend instead in Michigan
Up here in the Great Lakes
We’re not used to summer waterfalls
And sweaty doors
Swollen
Refusing to fit their frames
Stair railings sticky to the grab of hands
Hostas
Soaked and dripping
From late afternoon and overnight rain
Shaking their elephant ears
To the canes of a next-day morning sun
Shimmering to the swab of legendary Bumblebees
Lavender born again
We should fill our canteens with this new paradise
Wait at the edge of our frontier with these gifts
For our brother and sister American migrants
Who will crawl here on their knees
At some point
Or we could build a “great beautiful wall
It’ll cool down”
To keep those parched rapists murderers and deniers out
At least
Until this dusty herd of yesteryear
Moves past us and with us
Up the stairs to Canada
And then it will be we
Who knock on that door
Ajar
To see if we are allowed in
From there?
In a someday soon?
It will be like the Earth’s atmosphere itself
Peeling off into space for the barren moon
Mars or Neptune.
“Let ‘em loose,” came his bellowing yell,
“I got 3,000 head I gotta to sell,
Goin' 1,000 miles in weather that's hell,
You're all gonna sweat and all gonna smell”-
The boss’s eyes on ten cowboys did lay,
With disdain in his words he smirked to say,
“Keep ‘em cattle rollin', don’t let ‘em stray,
If one ends up missing, you’re all gonna pay,”
They worked hard, like good wranglers would,
Never slowing down, even when they could,
Their sleep was short and their food no good,
At the end the boss said, "they'd misunderstood"-
A man doesn’t work for two months on the trail,
Through dust storms, winds, the rains and the gales,
To be told by his boss “You utterly failed,
and if you complained, he’d put you in jail.”
Most walked away, with no money in hand,
The boss was a cheat, like no other man,
Two stayed behind and took a firm stand,
“Give us our pay!” that's our demand!"
They swallowed hard and filled their canteens,
These two rugged cowboys were tough and lean-
“South Dakota Badlands,” neither had seen,
One of them was thirty, the other nineteen-
“Partner,” the younger one said,
“Don’t know if we should’ve fled-“
The other stared, then shook his head,
Saying, “It was either him or us dead!”
The older one, his chaps he unfurled,
His chew on the ground he spat and hurled-
“An old Indian belief,” he said with lips curled,
“There ain't no death, only a change of worlds,”
No one knows if they made it across,
If they found refuge or if they got lost-
Or with their lives, paid the ultimate costs,
All because they had shot their range boss-
Cowboys at home spun their tale that night,
While eating ‘round the campfire light-
‘bout two heroes who weren’t afraid to fight,
And took out the man who’d done none of them right-
Little brook of childhood,
your water flowed and stayed always cold,
I traveled far to reach that scented, steep hill
as winter ended with chill.
And listening to the babbling sound,
mist rose from the rocks and ground...
it seemed to make music without an instrument,
in fact, I wrote my first hymn at that very moment.
Like those travelers who took the same road,
I found it exciting to walk and move forward...
to be amazed at the magnificence and realize
the divine hand that made Nature so very nice.
Little brook of childhood,
you were as precious as a friend's word;
drooping willows seemed angels descending with wide wings,
offering shade to those who came to fill up their empty canteens.
Written by Andrew Crisci
on September 25, 2011
for Francine Robert's contest,
" Flowing Water "
we gathered our canteens
while coughing up
tar from the hidden gravel
across high terrain
through the mist of Ankara
teal fabric blew in the.breeze
over burnt orange fragments
torn from my temporal
mangled mind of madness
shifting the gates
of emotional tiredness
we'd waited above ground
as the evening roared
past us again in solitude
miles from Augsburg
I catered to the infamous thunder
beside the housing quarters
beneath the wretchid callings
shattered beyond such graveness
that beckoned our soul's to port here
a silence abode within me
amid the character lessons
followed abroad the cold shoulders
hitler had morbidly left behind
A cavalryman's day was guided by a series of bugle calls,
The dulcet tones reverberating within the palisade walls.
Wanting to hurl a boot at the bugler for "Reveille" at dawn,
Instead he stumbled from his cot at "Assemble" on the lawn.
Before he had breakfast, the horses must be tended to,
So "Stable Call" was sounded to assemble a working crew.
"Breakfast Call" invited him for coffee, bread and bacon.
"Sick Call" was announced ere daily tasks were undertaken.
"Fatigue Call" called for troops to "police" the parade ground trim,
Then, at "Guard Mount" assignments were made at old sarge's whim.
The dreaded "Drill Call" meant many weary hours in the saddle,
As sergeants berated recruits, trying to keep them astraddle!
At last, "Dinner Call" for a repast of pork bellies and beans,
Then "Water Call" to water the horses and fill empty canteens.
Later called to quarters to ready for "Assemble For Dress Parade,"
They paraded their steeds, in uniform with gleaming saber blade!"
"Supper Call" sounded meaning more pork bellies and beans.
After "Roll Call" they entertained themselves by any means.
After the sun slowly descended in the vast reaches of the west,
Plaintive "Taps" closed the day, bringing to them welcome rest!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Jill and Lucille are two very hungry slugs
They often dine out at their local garden food hubs.
Lettuce, flowers, fruits, sunflowers and beans
These are a few choices from these veggie canteens.
Some clues are noticed from a gardeners view
Slugs are not clever, they often leave one big clue.
Slime trails are generally very clear to see
When they travel for food that they eat greedily.
Flowers without heads and partially eaten veg
It all looks a mess when a gardeners work has been wrecked.
But hedgehogs love slugs that are plump and juicy
That's when Jill lost her friend, who's nick name was Lucy.
Jill left the garden when her best friend became their snack
Near to a hill, is where she met her new friend Jack.
But as with all stories, they change over time
Snails morphed into humans and birthed the Jack and Jill rhyme.
But that is not the first or last of the Jill and Lucille tales
Many more will be published about their life in the Dales.
These girls will be as famous with modern songs for the young
Feminine nursery rhyme rights will never be outdone.