Long Flotilla Poems
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OUR TIN POT NAVY so THEY SAID in 1914 Sydney in the first World War 1
In 1914 German cruisers were cut loose
and Emden she was one…………….…(fired 38lb shells)
the Indian ocean she did for hunting choose
and 9 ships were sunk by gun…….
Then she sailed and shelled Madras , I say
captured 10 more ships, when off Ceylon…
Penang harbour a night visit,… hey!
sank Frog and Ruski warships, and was gone ….(Emden was daring!)
November 8, morse code it said… strange ship a passing there,
out near Cocos island, the German raider caused a stir
Cruiser Sydney she raced west at 25 knots or more
And sighted wily Emden who opened fire for sure
Sydney took 15 hits before, she then hit back …..(with 100lb shells)
blew away her steering gear and knocked her funnels flat (Emden)
.. ………..demise………..
The Scrap Iron Flotilla they said in 1940
Light Cruiser Sydney in World War 2
Light Cruiser Sydney had some 6 inch guns
she met Italians in the med.
sank destroyer Espero not for fun
in nineteen forty, yes its said
17th july Sydney was on patrol, when,
she was called into a fight
2 Italian cruisers waited, then,
sprung some pommy destroyers in flight....(pommy English)
Yes Sydney came to even up
the poms out gunned for sure
when she arrived with blazing guns
the Italians run for shore
Bande Nere and Colleoni rushed a bit
made smoke to get away
Band Nere then she took a funnel hit
as Sydney passed her way
Collenoni then she wore the brunt
stopped dead by Sydney's shell
so Band Nere escaped the hunt
Sydney's out of ammo… well?.:)
But if you live by the sword you die by the sword
cunning German's had their day
Sydney met a ship with hidden guns aboard
Raider Kormoran made her play
Kormoran she hid behind a Dutch flag
and when Sydney came in range ………a sitting duck ... 1000 yards
she fired first, jerked down the rag……...old navy trick
two equals did exchange………………….similar guns…
Though mortally wounded Sydney, still,
had some guns to fire,
x turret still fired with a bitter will
burnt Kornoran …'the liar'…….Don Johnson
……….demise of both……….
No trace of the Sydney sailors ...Kormoran sailors made it to the barren west coast of
Australia
and were interned as P.O.Ws....Almost seems like Karma with payback by the German navy...
Scarecrow Addict
Gritted and dusty
Powered by flack jacket eyes
Bootsteps through grey puddles
Flotilla of cigarette butts
Trash kicked aside
In a desert of litter
Seeking the soulless of death
Chattering on split lips
The grimy irk of air
Festoons the rink and rack
The floating black
Sucks unbidden
Horses into battle ridden
Scream through his lungs
Broken weapons
Filled with empty bullets
Enemies in their colours run
Demon angel
Of the iridescent metal
In the bars of sculptured hell
For the hot choke of alcohol
Has squandered his nights
And burnt his will
The vengeance of mirrors
He cannot defy
He has become
The man with the gun
And rabid dog bark
Is the music
The fang gangster rap
Chews on his pride
Coughs back and spits
Too many drugs
To fill his hate
As he seethes through the alleys
The ricochet sound of poverty
Slaps hard at the cold
Whistle through the doorstep
The vicious snide crack
Scavenges his chest
Scarecrow buckshot
Trammels his lungs
And coughs up plastic
Iron girders against shattered walls
Where the whole world threw up
His sick
Chokes on the disgusting chuck up
Of need
So full of promises
But still lets in the freezing winds
To whined up urine stained
In the pallor
The colour
Of his sky
Bandit warrior and loser
This brave young man
Watched this driven and ploughed memory
Eat away
By iron vice drag
Devastate his pale haired wench
Leaving blood trailing on her breast
Pimped
She was
And hate in grey battered uniforms
Drove the callous on
And lifted him from the reeking cans
Of his desolation
Bled him through nights of sweat
And cold turkey chewed regret
The plaster wet billboard and pealing advert
Have no idea
What they have unleashed
Brittle as long dead bones
And screaming head
No longer hates
But still sneers revenge
In tattered loose rags
He staggers from the vomiting pit
Emaciated wolf
The grinning scarecrow eyes of merciless
And the jagged teeth of candle lit
The reek of vendetta
Hangs ever about his lips
And woe betide the gun smith
Woe betide indeed the needles
Wet prick
Nothing left to fight for
Other than
A long dead
Lover
At
Dunkirk,
where thousands
of stranded men
lined a bloody beach,
hope was draining with each
air strike delivered by the
unrelenting Germans’ aircraft.
Cold, starved, and injured men watched from shore -
their few rescue ships being bombed and sunk.
How must they have felt knowing their homeland
was so close – and yet so far away?
Horrific days passed when at last
brave civilians came with boats,
so it was that ten times
the number of those
not expected
to live were
instead -
SAVED.
Aug. 16, 2017: Double Etheree written for
JPContest 6: WAR AND HEROISM Contest
From Wikipedia:
The Dunkirk evacuation, code-named Operation Dynamo and also known as the Miracle of Dunkirk, was the evacuation of Allied soldiers during World War II from the beaches and harbour of Dunkirk, in the north of France, between 26 May and 4 June 1940.
The operation commenced after large numbers of British, French, and Belgian troops were cut off and surrounded by German troops during the Battle of France. In a speech to the House of Commons, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill called this "a colossal military disaster", saying "the whole root and core and brain of the British Army" had been stranded at Dunkirk and seemed about to perish or be captured.
On the first day only 7,669 men were evacuated, but by the end of the eighth day, 338,226 soldiers had been rescued by a hastily assembled fleet of over 800 boats. Many troops were able to embark from the harbour's protective mole onto 39 destroyers of the British Royal Navy, 4 Royal Canadian Navy destroyers,] and civilian merchant ships, while others had to wade out from the beaches, waiting for hours in shoulder-deep water. Some were ferried to the larger ships by what came to be known as the little ships of Dunkirk, a flotilla of hundreds of merchant marine boats, fishing boats, pleasure craft, yachts, and lifeboats called into service from Britain. In his We shall fight on the beaches speech on 4 June, Churchill hailed their rescue as a "miracle of deliverance".
From the yonder hazy horizon,
the blue hills undulated gently
down the emerald gradient
of the rhythmic rolling waves
of the luring landscape,
that carved the contours
of the charming hamlet,
where my endearing home
was once cradled in its cauldron,
nurturing me in the beguiling bounty
of the mesmeric nature.
The fairy flotilla of the cotton cloud,
making pristine celestial panorama,
slid silently with scenic flair
upon the curved canvas
of the cerulean sky,
where my childhood joy soared
to great heights of ebullience
with the colorful kites,
I loved so much to fly.
A gleaming stream of susurration,
gliding with melodic grandeur
with glistening liquid pearls of elegance,
flowed with the flamboyant facade
of silvery splendor of grace,
flowing through the verdant vale,
that bedecked our sprawling house
with an ornate garland,
made of embracing loop
of mesmerizing meander.
At scarlet sunrise hours,
on its rippling aureate water,
passing me by with alluring rhythm,
l sailed the paper boats,
laced with rainbow ribbons,
that floated with fascinating finesse,
wobbling in the current’s tortuous trail.
On these to a distant unknown dreamland,
I imagined my mariner mind sail unbound,
suffused with the teenage trance.
The boats disappeared to nowhere
with the receding ebb of the lost time,
within the cloudy cleft of memory.
In those adorable tender moments,
gone by like the autumn breeze,
I now live lonesome in winter twilight
with my inner child.
The infantile images deeply engraved
in the fossilized young mind,
trampled by the footsteps
that have walked me so far,
on the transcendent topography of life,
lie buried defaced under the dust of time.
Now, at the edge of the falling night,
I reminisce as I walk the last mile,
follow the outline of the faint footprint trail,
taking me to the end of time,
where I miss my childhood landscape.
There’s a burning yen nomadic deep within entrenched,
to absorb fresh environments ambrosial on foot,
where incidental hue or august colour wash abound,
or that March bloom tantalising shady patch,
with its dreamlike mystic wide-flung allure,
some blue pigment dawn whisper tempting spur on,
that hidden orange-red sunlit prompt I can’t curb,
I follow blindly without oppugning brier cloak
pitfalls,
yet noonday mishap neither blight nor wanton cross,
as other fellow venturers might script a manifold offshoot,
but from sound and slant sentient aspect,
I can awaken fond galvanic episodes,
of uproarious elation emanating from a golden grained beach,
where energetic offspring unleash their zeal,
adjacent to labyrinthine thriving townscapes,
ancient river, the stuff of verse and bard,
parallels its salted surging thunderous ripple,
with its indigo bold rush beneath a stoic wharf.
to capture lush spots
with the pourboire of bright eye
as timeless haven
Yet late phase hours settings have cachet,
in tandem with the peep of day burst,
as I reveal a harvest swept ashore,
flotilla at a dock and day boundary,
so nocturnal bliss enraptured round each plinth,
and plethora of svelte unearthly steps,
where haunted hair-raising halos splash,
adding lustrous night fly element,
beside the raucous alleyway caper,
inchoate, invisible, intriguing inlay,
shards of boisterous daring impishness,
cast at my intrepid moonlit atman,
enigmatic echoes chase skinflint shadows,
whoosh of splintered black ice sepulchral,
under reckless swerving car manoeuvre,
muddy slush speckled rim upshot,
street lanterns wondrous wide arc madrigal,
spoon wink and woo lambent opus,
banisher of eerie eve ghost glow silence
earth atmosphere shall
watch bemused as moonlight orb
peers at globe beneath
The first
close-up of Mars was 1996 since then-
a flotilla of fly-bys orbiters landers and rovers
fourth planet from the Sun
roman God of war it is called
always the question is Mars habitable for living life
key to existence water is there water on Mars
could living creatures still exist
perhaps WE will become life on Mars
a continual chain of explorations finding new discoveries
polar ice caps
drifting clouds in its atmosphere
seasonal weather patterns
huge volcanoes the size of Arizona
canyons and proof of former flooding
it is rocky and cold and dry with a-
a hazy pink sky (that seems beautiful to me)
is Mars habitable for humans
the Curiosity Mars science laboratory
rover is on a bold exploration of discovery
for science
for technology
to find answers to questions and questions
did you know you could send
a postcard to Curiosity
the future holds promise with the launch in 2020
of a robotic science rover seeking life
all part of the Mars exploration
program to address the key question
the potential for life on Mars
And why 2020 you ask
well that is when Earth and Mars are
in the most advantageous positions of orbit
but for me there is another key question
would I-
leave this beautiful place of Earth
for a unknown existence
on a planet rocky cold dry with volcanoes erupting
but oh
something about that hazy pink sky beckons
______________________________
June 22, 2015
Free Verse
For the contest, Subject Mars, sponsor, Joe Maverick
Third Place
There is an urge within me to wander randomly,
to explore in vivid detail each kaleidoscope,
incidental hue or pristine colour I encounter,
or just as likely that tantalising shady patch,
with its dreamlike mystical allure so faraway,
this blue pigment dawn whisper as tempting spur on,
that hidden orange-red sunlit prompt I can’t curb despite myself,
I follow blindly without oppugning brier cloak
pitfalls,
yet noonday mishap neither blight nor wanton cross,
and I glad to extol such plus point impact,
as other fellow venturers might script a manifold offshoot,
but from sound and sentient slant,
I can recant galvanic episodes,
of uproarious elation emanating from a golden grained beach,
where energetic offspring unleash their zeal,
adjacent to labyrinthine thriving townscapes,
ancient river, the stuff of verse and bard,
parallels its salted surging ripple,
with its indigo bold rush beneath a stoic wharf.
to capture lush spots
with the pourboire of bright eye
as timeless haven
Yet late phase hours settings have cachet,
in tandem with the peep of day burst,
as I reveal a harvest swept ashore,
flotilla at a dock and day boundary,
so nocturnal bliss enraptured round each plinth,
and plethora of unearthly steps,
where haunted hair-raising halo splash,
adding lustrous night fly element,
beside the raucous alleyway caper,
inchoate, invisible, intriguing inlay,
shards of boisterous daring impishness,
cast at my intrepid atman,
enigmatic echoes chase skinflint shadows,
whoosh of splintered black ice,
under swerving car manoeuvre,
street lanterns wide arc madrigal,
banisher of eerie indigo silence
earth atmosphere shall
watch bemused as moonlight orb
peers at globe beneath
furkan’s flotilla
a year ago this past tuesday,
may 31st,
young furkan dogan,
a native to the united states---
born in troy, new york & living in
turkey after a move at the
age of
2,
was shot four times in the
head &
once in the
chest
(point blank) ,
because he was
on a boat which was part of a
group of six---dubbed the
GAZA FREEDOM FLOTILLA.
desperately
trying
to bring aid
supplies to
the suffering people of
gaza,
these
civilians
traveling in
international
waters were attacked
by the israeli
military &
as a result of their
blatant & brutal
force,
9 other turkish citizens died alongside
this young man
(at age 18, the youngest of the group).
this month,
another flotilla bearing 15 ships
will try to bring aid to the
suffering, again,
& this time, with 1,500 activists
from 100 different countries
traveling to do so,
hopefully this
FREEDOM FLOTILLA II
will be able to make it to
the palestinian people who are
so very much in
need of
help.
these courageous individuals
will pay homage to the
memory of this compassionate
young man,
whose life was stolen from him---
as so many have been during the
period of israel’s policy of
apartheid or
drawn out genocide---
whichever you prefer, in this
game of semantics which always seems to
trump
humanitarian concerns.
this nonviolent group of
individuals will once again do their best
to bring the attention of the
world to this issue---
please listen when they speak
& walk with them in solidarity
for the freedom of an oppressed
people
& the hope for the palestinians
to someday have a secure home of
their own,
unoccupied by the military of another,
whose big brother
still manages to rule the world.
Mars the fourth planet from the Sun and named after the God of War,
The first close-up was in 1996 and since then a flotilla of orbiters;
Fly-bys, landers, and rovers have been looking for existence of life,
Always, is there water on Mars and could humans exist there?
A continual chain of explorations, finding new discoveries like polar ice,
Drifting clouds in its atmosphere, seasonal patterns, and volcanoes,
The size of Arizona, canyons, prove of flooding, proof it is rocky and cold,
But what seems beautiful to me is the hazy pink sky above.
Is Mars habitable? The Curiosity Mars Science Laboratory Rover,
Is on a bold exploration of discovery of science for technology;
To find answers, did you know you could send a postcard from Mars?
The future holds promise with the launch in 2020 of a robot.
A robotic science rover seeking out life, all part of the Mars Exploration,
And why 2020 you ask? Well that is when the Earth and Mars;
Are in the most advantageous positions of orbit. Will they find life?
For me, even if they do, will I want to leave beautiful Earth?
Will I want to live on a cold rocky planet with volcanoes erupting,
With no forests or rivers and streams, no flowers or cities?
But perhaps in time we will have no option as the Earth is failing,
And there is something about that hazy pink sky that beckons.
___________________________
May 7, 2016
Poetry/Verse/Life - Perhaps
Copyright Protected, ID 16-787-509-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
The smoky dust screen blows away far,
beyond the halcyon horizon to nowhere.
The flotilla of cotton clouds sails
in the concave ocean of cobalt.
Bowed slender blades of cinnamon grass sway
in the crisp air on the lap of pasture turned fawn.
Lining up the sun-burnt cinnabar garden path,
I pave anew to engrave your footprints,
the trunks of tawny trees stand forlorn like me.
The setting sun ignites the inferno of spectrum
in the seamless blazing sky of my longing,
makes the crumbled collage of vermillion embers.
Soaking the scarlet of sunset my heart is drenched
by the tinsel drizzle of the dwindling twilight,
I see the stars sprout in pellucid autumn night.
For the frozen gloom in the winter of discontent
I retain the endearing warmth embedded
in autumn’s buoyant afterglow.
I see then how the argentine aura
of the mesmeric moon envelopes you,
where I float on the stardust waves of your charisma.
My vision is enmeshed with the lilting lattice of dreams,
weaved by the enticing filaments
of your entrancing fervor.
The diadem of diamond dew decks the dawn,
while the malachite tapestry spreads unfurled
on your emerald meadow,
where my yearning saunters to reach you,
following the new turquoise trail
I wish you trace only for me.
The true essence of love I then perceive enthralled,
configured with the glint of your sequined charm,
designing the milky way in my psychic firmament.
Draped by the enchanting luster of your alluring shine
my heart’s horizon will forever radiate sanguinity
as the epitome of your afterglow.