Long Patriots Poems
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Neither a patriot nor a cosmopolitan
I’m walking no party line, carrying no cross
Sorry for this, but I’m just metropolitan
Making the ends meet, giving no toss
About others, and they feel the same
About me, so we’re on equal footing
Have a nice day is the one thing we say
Whoever we meet, doesn't mean rooting, tooting
Once I had a dream to live by the sea
Then in the garden I wanted to spend
The rest of my days, but it wasn’t to be
So I waved goodbye to both dreams that I had
That’s how I see it, patriots and cosmopolitans
Immigrants, refugees, seekers of home
Set your sails straight away to the dearest ones
Otherwise, you are bound to make it alone.
The British had stumbled
in Boston the year last,
but came again for vengeance bold
to bleed freedom, damage untold,
with fire and with blast.
To New York their ships sailed
thirty thousand men strong,
and Washington, on islands spread,
awaited their coming with dread,
with his militia throngs.
Twenty thousand untrained souls,
armies came right for them,
divided, not knowing just where
the British would come, all were scared,
these untried minutemen.
But defenses they made,
on Long Island’s low hills,
Brooklyn Heights was their great redoubt,
of its defenses they could tout,
its battlements they filled.
But to Gravesend redcoats
would soon begin to land,
fifteen thousand went unopposed,
and on to Flatbush they did go,
trained soldiers to a man.
When Washington heard this
fifteen hundred he sent,
bolstered that front to six thousand
to try and defend the homeland,
from being torn and rent.
But the militia planned
to block hilly passes,
the British has to pass through these,
where patriots would make them bleed,
then fall back to assess.
But this plan came to naught
when local localists
spoke up of the Jamaica Road,
a small pass of which few would know,
a force marched for it, brisk.
British general Clinton
divided up his troops,
for Jamaica his main force went,
scattered the five defending men,
marching in a great loop.
Grant attacked to distract
at the pass of Gowanus,
while Hessians marched for Flatbush Pass,
where General Sullivan held fast,
to match them thrust for thrust.
But then Britian’s main force
from Jamaica arrived,
Attacked the rebels from the rear,
while in front the Hessians drew near,
the trap sprung, rebels died.
Sullivan fought two fronts,
and knew that he’d be beat,
now crumbling from the attack,
he ordered his men to fall back,
in orderly retreat.
Many didn’t make it,
some got the bayonet,
Sullivan himself was captured,
but despite this the fight endured,
on the right it raged yet.
General Grant’s distraction
became full-fledged assault,
but the rebels had held the line,
under Lord Stirling they did find,
and made the British halt...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Everyone knew that there was something amiss,
but no one was stirred enough to even lift a fist.
Patriots and paupers alike saw no such enemy on their list.
They were surprised that someone ascended from the abyss.
They were rendered helpless, unable to resist, and had
no allies with any ability to assist. They stared in disbelief,
constantly asking, "What is this?", but no one answered from the fog and the mist; nor would there be a Knight in
shining armor coming to the rescue. And now, their once
freedom-bearing dream was fading from the scene. Like
Ancient Rome, Acirema did not go dark overnight. But there
was a gradual trod, committed efforts, and shifting priorities.
Common Sense disappeared and they dismissed the difference
between wrong and right, before the darkness blackened the light.
There were too few warriors in their midst, and most
of their worshipers would simply hiss. When they realized they'd been deceived with a kiss, with a child-like tantrum,
they had a little hissy fit. But like Judas, there was no exit,
the dye had been cast, and a way of restoration did not exist.
Yes, after many years of division and hate, it was now too late.
There were guns, tanks, and troops stretching for miles and miles.
There were masses of people and a large scattering of paper files.
It was a clear and slightly windy day, although sunny and mild. There
was a myriad of crying eyes, and in vain I searched for just one smile.
Acirema was later sentenced to death after a hasty kangaroo trial.
062221PSCtest, Let Er Rip #3, John Lawless
Fiction
Nobody ever sees a drop kick today.
The days of its popularity have gone away.
Look in the rule book; it’s still a legal play.
This is a move teams tend to avoid
since the ball took the shape of its familiar spheroid.
It is rare to get a true bounce when the ball touches the ground.
That is why attempts are practically never found.
However, a New England Patriots quarterback had no fears.
He performed the first drop kick in over sixty years.
The ball successfully went through the uprights for a score.
Since 2005, we have not been able to see anymore.
Information taken from the website of the Pro Football Hall of Fame
Wat?!?
No jovial banter? No easy give-and-take of rivalry? Naught there be a good-natur'd ribbing between courteous competitors? Nay a rusty-edg'd petulance on propriety's behalf? No acrimonious innuendo f'r the sake of the game? Nay there a parry and thrusteth of verbal interaction, given eagrly in the hon'r of athletic engagement? Not yea a poison-ting'd barb-or-two f'r a corky adversary?
Ah well, I s'pose 'tis f'r the best, lest naught gallant Prince Brady springeth from the ramparts and striketh said foes to the quick . . . dark h'rse ye sayeth? Aye, I grant ye such, but such darkness yea the fires of Hades himself shant cleave in their most earnest reakoning, n'r shall thither be any who abscond the ire of it's somb'r intent.
Hearken ye anon to the soundeth of the armorer's accomplishments . . . the busy hammereth closing cold the rivets, as valiant Sir Thomas shall likewise closeth the lighteth from his foes' furth'r days. Seekest thou mercy? Dost thy heart thump with the rhythm of a calleth f'r clemency? Dost thy eyes endeavor to findeth the spark of benevolence in Prince Brady's gaze?
No one - nay, not yea I - can knoweth of such things . . . but ye can, as all creatures of similar acumen art apt, prayeth. Thou shalt findeth eventual attainment on thy boney knubs anyway, best prepareth f'r such ends willfully, hands clasp'd and eyes to the heavens . . . thy doom is thy salvation, as is the glint of Sir Thomas Patrick Edward Brady's salient blade!
Consid'rest thou admonish'd.
The Meglomaniac of the year,
Maybe seeing his mortality,
Craving a way to ensure
A really lasting legacy,
Launches his tanks
Expecting might to be right.
Conscripts don’t beat patriots
Giving the Meglomaniac fright.
The promised quick victory,
The annexed state of slavery
Crumnbles and quivers in
The face of Patriotic bravery.
Half a pound of tuppeny rice
As the cost of oil is rising
Costing more and more to fuel
A tank, which is hardly surprising.
Combat continues with
Refined tactics and stealth,
Rumours and counter rumours
Of the Meglomaniac’s health.
Dictatorships don’t listen
Or tolerate the question why
So the rest of the world waits
For the Meglomanic to die.
Today or Yesterday
Today the gas price is over 5.00.
We struggle now to decide what to pay?
The food bill,
the rent bill,
or the gas?
Yesterday,
or at least...
not so long ago,
it was different.
We were self-sufficient.
We were helping each other.
We were helping those,,,
outside, as well.
It does not matter who you voted for,
or if you believe it was fair or not.
The fruit of the labors we see,
shown by those in charge,
are sour and rotten.
The smell reeks,
the sight, unbearable.
They have removed,
"In Trust".
Now we are on our own.
You and me, and them.
The difference I do not agree.
I did not vote for killing babies.
Not at six months,
not at three.
Not at any time,
for any fee.
I did not vote for the fairness of swimming meets,
that should never have taken place,
uneven in their base conception,
inevitable to fall.
The truth even a high school boy,
could match, anyone in the strawberry patch.
Hands DOWN!
I don't see the "pride",
in changing the face of our country,
to suit a few, while others lose
all the rights they ever had.
I don't see the fairness,
in others that come here...
and take all that is free,
leaving those that fought for that,
"FREEDOM" hungry.
We are at war,
indirectly but still.
How is that okay?
They burn the fields of food,
take from the people,
all that is left.
Where does it stop?
Where is the line?
Where are the people, that don't just whine?
Where are that patriots, that still exist,
in the heart of heroes,
sublime.
I don’t own a car,
So I use my new dog sled
These January winters
Blowing ice right through my head
I don’t have a lover
So no friend or special one
To ease my February
When Valentine’s fail to come.
I don’t own an umbrella
So my hair is stiff and wet
St. Patrick’s Day spent in the rain
When March brings her regrets.
I don’t own a bathtub
So I hope these storms are strong
It’s time for my yearly bath
When April showers come along.
I don’t have a garden
No tulips or roses share the light
When May bring flowers everywhere
My empty lot is quite a sight.
I don’t own a bonnet
So no flowers and bows for me
June shows me no warmth and sunshine
When summer breaks the monotony.
I don’t own a television
So parades must all be live
Flags and flowers, bands and food
When July brings patriots to life.
I don’t have a gazebo
So no waiting on the lawn
For children playing on the steps
When August rolls along.
I don’t have a radio
So the silence creates a fuss
As school starts up in my town
When September brings the bus.
I don’t have a front window
So no display of fright to see
Pumpkins, candy, trick or treat
October has nothing for me.
I don’t own an oven
No baking pies or turkey birds
November shows me cold instead
My life is so absurd.
I don’t own a living room
No porch or hall or tree
No decorations at Christmastime
I created a world of just me.
Ten thousand eyes will each day pass but not a single one will see,
for the folly of their hubris hides from harsh reality,
and when they pass by homeless people posted prone in poverty,
cold cloaked, they are invisible.
Ten thousand ears will each day pass but not a single one will hear
any proper prayers of the sullen souls that live their lives in fear.
And so they sing their psalms in silence praying angels will appear,
their sadness semi-visible.
Ten thousand nostrils will each day pass turned up and they’ll all detect
the foul fragrance from a stumbling bum with bubble bath neglect.
And yet their greatest fears are fostered by his foreign dialect.
So sobering, so risible.
Five thousand hearts will each day pass but not a single one will feel
for the burdens borne by a beggar with war wounds that will not heal.
Still they will paint themselves as patriots, American, genteel.
One Nation, indivisible.
Now forty-nine hundred ninety-nine, by bike, by car or by train,
still each day pass oblivious, while the one that they thought insane,
is a poet who rode to heaven on his high horse dubbed Disdain,
his verses inadmissible.
Submitted 3/5/2021
This is a substantive re-write of “Urban Commuter Scents and Sensibility,” posted in August 2020, with new content to create a new dramatic monologue poem for the “Biting Satire Poetry Contest,” sponsored by Edward Ibeh.
Hey, You, Patriots of Ukraine,
willing to sacrifice
their lives
for their beloved country!
Except folks all around the world,
not any so-called leaders
of the developed countries
care whatever happens there,
cause you are left alone
just before a hound
as a hare,
Even if you feel
so much pain
and grief,
nothing should frighten you
beyond belief;
I believe you have the power
to shake up the whole Russia,
one of which is the chief general
was dismissed from his post
and if you keep fighting
be sure Russia will pay a higher cost;
However, there is a harsh reality
that you should deal with,
And no need to mention,
It is only you
who can put out the whole fire
in your country
with the strength you have
but unfortunately
with your own tears