Long Flak Poems
Long Flak Poems. Below are the most popular long Flak by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flak poems by poem length and keyword.
When I was young we had a station wagon and we never gave our parents flak
when, before safety regulations came along, they let us ride in the way back.
On any trip, when it came to my sister and me…the way back is where you’d find us.
Laughing together as we played games, fought and waved at cars behind us.
The way back was the most fun part of the car and if you need more proof:
We’d roll into each other around the corners
and on big bumps…our heads would hit the roof!
In the way back we pretended not to hear when Dad yelled,
“Kids…stop your fighting…don’t make me stop this car…I don’t want to hear a peep!”
In the way back on long trips it was easy to fall asleep.
The way back was built for imagining…all we had to do was close our eyes
and the way back became a fort, a jungle or a princess’s castle in the sky.
From the way back as we battled dragons or pirates on the seven seas
we thought we were just having fun…we never realized we were making memories.
But that’s exactly what we were doing…in the way back…don’t you see
before the station wagon was replaced by the minivan and SUV.
Oh, my children and grandchildren, strapped in seatbelts,
still imagined…still closed their eyes…
as their seats became forts or jungles or a princess castle in the sky.
And on long trips after all that imagining sometimes they’d fall asleep
and they still pretended not to hear me when I yelled,
“Kids…stop your fighting…don’t make me stop this car…I don’t want to hear a peep!”
But it’s not the same as it was for me…
for whatever story their imagination chooses…
The magic of their ride comes without the bumps or bruises.
That’s probably why as I watched my children and grandchildren grow up
In the car…as they played…then fought…then played again…
I’d smile…remembering when I was their age
in the way back…
way back when.
(buzzfeeding, kickstarting, needling darn noggin)
An effort to recall word, phrase,
musician... indigenous tribe...
most frustrating literary
endeavor to das scribe
aggravating enough to sub
bourbon spur teetotaler to imbibe
and/or nsync, whereby soul searching
devil's advocate demands bribe.
Lil brokeback Engelbert Humperdinck
(born Arnold George Dorsey) bent edict coercion
(think sexual mores)
scaring stripes off blushing zebra
bunched unencumbered vice pliable straw
aforementioned pablum admittedly "fake"
birthed within cerebral tenderloin
of impractical joker,
whereby fifty plus shades
of gray matter (mine)
chafed and rubbed raw
prevarication playfully did overdraw
and tax poetic license writ courtesy this paw
poor putz offal declension
sprouted within mum maw
noun tent to verb (bull eyes - red) to draw
flak, but merely to harmlessly entertain
so accept apologies (mine)
verses calling strong (lanced) arm of law.
I (garden variety poetaster) reckon fair game
media personalities grist for rumor mill, though lame
explanation given (funny first and surname)
adopted by supposed "finest middle-of-the-road
balladeers around," who co opted his stage name
from authentic Engelbert Humperdinck; selfsame
prodigy circa 1 September 1854 –
27 September 1921
German composer, who wrote, I gently exclaim
the opera Hansel and Gretel - a Grimm fairytale
actually frightful saga - read countless times
setting me boyhood imagination aflame
with mailer daemons, who haunted dreams
(mine) 'course in retrospect material tame
compared/contrasted with current pandemic
analogous as if mother Earth -
a metaphorical dame
experiencing long overdue reprieve, cuz shame
on *****sapiens belching pollutants
at any price to garner fortune and fame.
I know I'm slightly losing it and Jill sees that now too,
So all we can but hope for is to Bluster and to Woo.
What If I sometimes falter with names or something more,
Only Fox is bent on keeping that lame and pointless score.
The rest of my fan Media provides me with great flak,
While I air my inner Irish and repeatedly attack.
As to the clueless voters I truly feel for all,
I quietly do get them, as the choices do appall.
Trump is but a cannon with a worn-out rusty bore,
Little in the barrel spraying mayhem aft and fore.
And to my friend Kamala, words truly don't suffice,
But no-one of sound mind would want to roll that dice.
So what are we now left with that possibly makes sense,
To getting people voting and off that dreaded fence.
I'm quite the only choice if truth be clearly told,
Despite the fact I'm quirky and obviously quite old.
Thank goodness for the knowledge my team will see me through,
I bless HIM every night for this weird creative crew.
They tell me what to say whenever I might need,
Have me practice all darn day to show that I can lead.
It's a challenge for them all but what about for me,
I’m sure it’ll be worth it in the end as you will see.
And while this plan unfolds I’ll keep a low profile
Speaking ever less as has become my style.
There is one thing that worries me far more than I would care,
Jon Stewart's now resurfacing with his weird confounding stare.
Throwing comments like sharp knives as a rapper from the hood,
And jabs like some street thug with a blistering left hook.
I’m asking my top people to rush him off the air,
The answer that I’m getting is pretend he isn’t there.
None of this a problem, the story of my life,
I cherish a good brawl and every dose of strife.
Abortion is my ticket with progressives by my side,
This alone will stem the frothing MAGA tide.
Just watch me now perform with my wily stash of tricks,
For if Trump is made of Teflon, I’m made from Scranton bricks.
...And in that lies the irony
of this whole ‘social justice’ phrase,
it exists to excuse racism,
to put a nice name on mere hate.
You want to hate pale people or
attack any one that succeeds,
just claim that it’s ‘social justice,’
then you can go and make them bleed.
You want to say bigoted things
and not have to take flak for it?
Just claim that it’s ‘social justice,’
and that your group ‘cannot be racist.’
You want to put quotas in place,
and get jobs that you have no earned?
Then just cry out ‘social justice,’
and watched those wrong-colored folk burn.
You want to smash and loot your town,
but now have to do time in jail?
Just say that it’s ‘social justice,’
and they let you go without fail.
We really shouldn’t be surprised,
the left always divides by race,
from slavery down to Jim Crow…
of course they’d cheerlead this disgrace.
But there’s no need to buy into
a concept that’s so disgusting,
justice can never be social,
it’s an individual thing.
Always.
invincibility had been a difficult pastime
the flak vest of insecurity and coverups
had managed to inflate anxieties and fears
to the bursting point of impromptu explosion
the festering boil had to be lanced at any cost
for resentments anger hurt and self-harm to subside
a bullet proof illusion was no longer an option
to call it friendly fire would be an understatement
what started as a splinter soon became a red-hot cudgel
incising the mind soul body complex of delusions
yet no more fully detached from valid emotions
he decided that having feeling was better than amnesia
Coins made of chocolate, in a string bag
Bought for myself in case my spirits sag
But little can knock my good cheer off its feet
So, those chocolate coins are my own secret treat
I buy them to decorate my Christmas tree
But soon comprehend that the grand-kids would see
The one selfish gift that I buy annually
Those coins made of chocolate… I buy… just for me
In all other ways there’s a shirt on my back
That I would give you if you’ve taken some flak
If my kind demeanour has one little crack
It’s those chocolate coins in that little string sack
It’s not like I hide my treats in a locked room
With a sign saying, “Keep Out, or Meet Thy Own Doom”
But those chocolate coins, when I stash them away
Fall behind things not used since some long ago day
So now, here I sit, and Christmas is gone
I gaze at the TV at whatever’s on
And then I recall that my chocolate gift
Merely needs ‘peeling’ to give me a lift
The grand-kids are gone and the wife is in bed
“Go get your choccies,” the sneak in me said
And now I sit here facing one of life’s fails
I cannot eat foil… but I just clipped my nails!
I.
You see them on the media,
internet and TV,
people who say,”Take that man’s cash
and give all of it to me!”
Not caring that the rich fellow
has committed no crime,
that the cash the state steals from him
is a sacrifice of time.
Not caring that wealth is not a thing
that can be distributed,
that the productive must make it,
that it’s a thing created.
There is no ‘pie’ that we cup up,
but a force that grows and shrinks,
and when we take from those who earn
we undermine the whole thing.
The productive just shrug and leave
then the collapse begins,
don’t believe me? Well why don’t you
go ask a Venezuelan?
Jealousy is no excuse for
a confiscation sick,
you’ve no right to a thing they’ve earned,
you’re not poor because they’re rich.
II.
In the first place you have to see
businessmen for what they are,
they’re not monsters out to get you
or they wouldn’t get that far.
We all chose how to make money,
they go it on their own,
taking high risk for high reward,
often risking their homes.
Others choose to work for others,
and that too is okay,
differing methods, but the same goal:
To head back home with our pay.
Should we demonize a person
for the method that they choose?
Or do many of us simply fear
it’s not something we could do?
We don’t have the skills to run the show,
their talents we have not learned,
and rather then learn them for ourselves
we find it easier to burn.
Maybe we’re just too risk averse
to try surviving like that,
can’t stand people built differently,
so we hate them and give flak.
Maybe we just dehumanize to
make it easier to .
But if they play clean then we mus face:
We’re not poor because they’re rich.
The publisher of Roald Dahl’s books
Thought changes should be made
To make the books “inclusive,”
But attention has been paid
With many writers speaking out
To criticize the plan
(Despite the fact that Dahl’s ideas
Made many not a fan).
An example that I read of
Would remove the use of “fat”
If a character was overweight –
Now what’s the use of that?
What they’d substitute, I wonder;
Still, most children are aware
Of dishonesty in writing
As in life, which isn’t fair.
Yet another word replacement
Would be “parent” used instead
Of both “mother” and of “father,”
If one’s gone – divorced or dead.
Or if someone has two mommies
Or two dads, perhaps they mused
That by substituting “parent,”
Kids would not then be confused.
Still, a writer’s words are sacred
And reflective of the times,
Therefore, posthumous replacements
Feel like literary crimes.
Now the publisher’s decided,
After unexpected flak,
There’ll be two competing versions,
Which, to me, seems out of whack.
Thank goodness we're off that ship
I feel like we've been on an acid trip
To have my crew stand by my side
United together no one can divide
I recall the day our story started
My ship and it's entitlement slowly departed
To outer space at warp factor six we went
As we save mankind although tired and spent
Planets were reached as humanity stretched
The history of humans was now future etched
Our mission accomplished we headed back
I now sit in this room and take all this flak
Thinking, pondering in this padded place
As my shadow and I stare on fully laced
If it was not for this jacket I'd shake his hand
This dark shape on the wall is my second in command
They tell me I'll never be spaceman of the year
"I will so, have no fear!" I just have to get out of here....
Gawd! I awoke this morning wondering what I'm doing in this miserable place!
I thought the oath I took was to defend America's shores, not a foreign race!
The French made a mess and ran, now, America has to straighten things out.
It's a civil war and personally I don't give a damn what the politicians tout!
The president and his minions are making millions off my miserable back,
While I wade through these gawd-forsaken paddies dodging shells and flak!
Maybe I should've gone to Canada but I would have let my father down,
Who fought in another war and returned with honor to his hometown.
Colonels and generals sit on their butts in Saigon adding medals to their collection,
Enjoying air conditioning, steak, ice cream and the finest whiskey selection.
I dine on C-rations, get a shower once a month and a warm beer now and then.
I hear the screams of wounded buddies and weep at the agony of dying men.
I hear back home that peaceniks call us baby killers and spit on returning heroes!
If I ever get back home and that happens to me, I'll punch the SOBs in the nose!
Nams don't appreciate what we're doing and its a shame our people have to die,
While a lot of their young guys avoid the gore of war hoping it'll pass them by.
As I sit here in this filthy foxhole with water up to my knees, I fervently pray,
I can make it through my tour without a scratch and get home to a better day.
Will America ever learn from history and stay out of other people's wars,
And learn from the futility of war while the loss of our blood and treasure soars?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF
© All Rights Reserved
Honorable Mention in Miranda Lambert's "World of War: Vietnam" Contest
Apr 2011