Long Regimental Poems
Long Regimental Poems. Below are the most popular long Regimental by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Regimental poems by poem length and keyword.
“METROPOLIS BLUES”
The elemental wind
curls in from the north east,
sublime salon creations in
disarray, in grimy profusion
inventiveness subsides.
The town clock strikes out,
within ear shot, a bench seat plays
host to a cast of thousands.
Soon! succulent rotting form to be
replaced by concrete.
“A dental job needed
for those poor little mites?”
Corrugated iron
picturesque in shades of autumn,
rattling in regimental disorder,
a haunting requisition
for regeneration.
Rogue waves spill over the
quay, reducing feathered messengers
to squatters alms.
Honking horn for the many that
miss “Cross now.” Hot profanity
escapes in sheer frustration,
diamond studded ladies,
gents in pin stripe suits
reduced to gutter sniping,
intellectual street wise gnomes
aroused by verbal definition.
Skywards, elevated glass menageries, a
product of inner city germination casts out
buoyant clouds, plays
yo-yo with minute window cleaners,
perched precarious in prefabricated
isolation.
One does get lost in
Duty Free! Polyglots
strutting between glass cabinets,
exemplification of
exaggerated personification!
No English! Here, yet many tongues
in resonant sounds, reverberating
throughout the confused clamour.
Idiot in pearly white
“BMW” Snookered
in “Victoria Street”
came in “Off the black” Seven
points away, no consolation for
the hot “Mini Cooper”
all concerned carried away
under flashing lights.
“Cardless head banger” In
aggressive mood, his
four numbered digits he
had forgot, so the machine
decided to take the lot!
Shades of the fifties roll on
by, silver wheels impeccable
against an opaque sky.
“Boom boom ‘John Lee Hooker’”
drifts into contention
a competitive participant
within the metropolis;
as aren’t we all!!
© Harry J Horsman 2012
Some soldiers receive medals for their bravery in war,
Or praise for their services on ships, air, or shore.
Men and women fight for world peace,
Continuous battles that never cease.
Make love, not war is an adage,
Where is the love? when wars are savage.
Wars cause death and destruction to all.
United, we stand, divided we fall.
There are no medals or words of praise,
Or sculpture busts or honour flags were raised,
For the victims of war, who through no fault of their own,
Have lost their homes, livelihoods and families,
And struggle alone.
Alone in a world that is alien to them
A world where you lose trust in your fellowmen.
Doubt creeps in, and the truth seems to hide,
But with their strong faith that comes from inside,
These courageous, faithful, stoic folk,
Even when they are down and broke
Soldier on and endure it all,
Until they hear a ceasefire call.
Unsung heroes everyone
Who, without cover and nowhere to run,
Lived in fear every day
Praying their enemies had gone away.
The world should give a rousing cheer,
A cheer that men and creatures hear
No medals made of solid gold,
Or regimental marches to behold
Was expected from these human beings
Who are the salt of the earth
Their fight for survival
It showed their strength of character and worth.
The survivors of these war heroes
It will not be recognised.
They had to suffer in silence,
As there were so many watchful eyes,
They would not want medals,
Medals would not be right
The world could raise a glass to them
That would bring pleasure and delight
A glass full of praise and friendship, too
A symbol of unity, a vow to stay true
To each other as much as we humanly can,
It should be the purpose of every man.
Poets Hanging from a Poet Tree
Poetry in motion is perilous a dangerous pastime a thing of the anachronistic
past in the global villainous village in which minds are colonised for the greater
comforting good of synchrony when all are equal at speechless lack of words
It is decreed on pain of death that meter rhymes and scripted feelings tercets
appealing to the trinity of liberty justice and dignity are abolished from now on
that reason must appeal only to the rationale of what the rulers think for us
Signs around rebellious broken necks state crystal clear suggest resistance to
be futile ‘I am a poet swine and slept with words’ draped from the garrotte of
those scribes who could not be reformed in genocidal concentration camps
Surely civil society is a better place with those demised who smear the thought
police with craft and artistry dreams fantasies and aspirations of a loving kind
or critical reflection of virtues happiness not derived from greed or power
Will I hang gladly from the tree shout in defiance ‘death to silence long live free
expression eat my words’ or would I prefer to save my skin since once the chip
to monitor my mind has been implanted all evidence is centrally collected
Or underground persistence burrowing subterranean streams of consciousness
hacking into silicon and copper in my brain to garble up regimental surveillance
short circuit and cross wire all those in power with one massive Trojan virus
Scaremongering you think and cynical exaggeration spreading rumours croaking
ominous fake news and propaganda well think again and make a plan for how
you’ll fare with threat and passion because the trees are there and so are the signs
There’s Scottie in his chair
Tongue firmly in his cheek
Trying to wind up Old Noel,
The highlight of his week.
Noel, over eighty, Veteran
Of the Korean War
Gives as good as he gets
And dishes out much more.
Gordon’s his visiting carer
Sits there with a big grin
Not himself a veteran but
He’s managed to fit in.
Big Dave is eating as usual
Throwing in the odd word,
The vision of him ever fitting
In a tank now patently absurd.
Crann’s the honorary caretaker
Helping out while he waits
For his entry Visa to join
His fiancee over in the states.
Emily the teenaged volunteer
Who won’t take any lip
Has those hardened veterans
Under her slender finger tips.
Tuesday morning at The Centre,
Stacks of admin there to do,
Bur I’ve had to close the office
And get on with the brew.
It’s not yet ten o’clock
The Drop-in looks nearly full
Already starting the craic
The banter and the bull.
So many other people coming
In and out in a steady flow
As one comes in another
Just seems to get up go.
Regimental rivalries
Black Forces Humour
Downright lies and
Manufactured rumour.
Hobbie’s by the door
Taking the whole scene in,
Vic’s chatting to Chris
Who’s sat there with a grin.
That’s the way it used to be
But now it’s closed and gone
In a Covid changed world
Where things have moved on.
So many years we lasted
Existing from day to day
And then for some reason
We seemed to lose our way.
The rise of the Pandemic
Seemed to be the last straw
And the founding spirit just
Wasn’t’ there any more.
The Drop-in that helped so many
Was just too good to last
Like so many valued things
Just a memory of the past.
The train trundles on, leaving behind at each station a soldier with his own past
Heavyweight in its endeavours portraying its only passengers as its un-holy cast
Each face a palpable grey, their blackened eyes sunken within their vast sockets
Each sat at their given seats characteristically sullen, with their hands in pockets
One only feels the coldness, within each carriage that descended upon them all
As not one ice breath plume emanating from the mouths, or nostrils did sprawl
Lifeless grey of their eyes gave nothing away of their hell, or of the horrors seen
Of a war where no real moral understanding is ever found for any of us to glean
Each un-sung hero now taking his last journey home, each to its own eternal life
Each one given their own time to offload their burdens of the unforgivable strife
Only once the reality of what has happened did the train lessen its speed to halt
As the one last soldier left his seat, then upon the platform made his last assault
He was going home now, but with no lessening of the grey pallor within his eyes
His home a cold grave now, lying under the darken un-forgiving, harrowing skies
He had fought for his country with an unquestionable honour, lay now as forgot
His remains under a white ensign Portland headstone buried within its own plot
A young man with no wife, or child, just parents themselves long gone deceased
His secrets of the war held within this mound of earth remains to all unreleased
So if passing a graveyard, and upon your eyes a lonely regimental grave you see
Place a flower of remembrance and set a well-earned soldier from his sleep, free
The greatest holiday gift I ever received
Goes back so many, many years
Before my life became turmoiled
And before my tears for fears
I was a child like many out there
Torn, strewn and split of kin
Mother and father in differences
Confused at seven, wearing their same skin
For I was one of the lucky ones
To a Highland Estate I would go
It's on the west coast of Scotland
Where my holidays desired me so
Secretly I internally smiled
For a whisper of where I was heading
To live with a movie star hero
No longer my life was in dreading
We were picked up by a man so fine
His manners were an absolute joy
Regimental he was in his approach
To me, just a seven year old boy
We travelled through the village of Plockton
Crystal clear waters edged to it's shore
I knew from this very moment
Being here ebbed previous family sores
On entering his house I was in awe
Movie pictures came to my view
They were images of James Bond
At seven I was totally through
A voice called to me
Hey James! sit down and I'll tell you me
Still in circles in walking awe
This is what he told thee
My name is Patrick Dalzel Job
In the Second World War I served
But this recognition I bestow
Humbles me to it's deserve
This honour that's been given
Was blessed by a colleague in war
What desired Ian Fleming to be so striven
Possibly, what we were fighting for
We served on the same destroyer
Fighting to make the future free
His tribute, in his novels I became
James Bond, it's incredibly me
Not many seven year olds have stayed with James Bond.
This seven year old Scot's boy has, maybe I learnt?
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patrick_Dalzel-Job
Profiling Contest Entry
The mother sat pale with an exhausted look
The policeman sat writing notes in his book
The fire, he said caused damage so bad
But we think it was arson, a crime that is bad.
The child looked up at his father and said
‘Daddy I’m tired can I now please go to bed?’
The mother patted his hand but he pulled it away
It’s strange I thought as I watched the child play.
Lining up the matches all side by side
The man with a smirk at his wife to the side
Her eyes they did plead to the husband sat there
He gave her a frown and pushed back his chair.
She sat there unloved by both of her men
It was then I knew who started the fire back then
She mumbled and blinked her leg swinging to and fro
Ignored by them both her eyes glued to her toe.
The father removed the matches from the boy
‘I’ve told you before son they are not a toy’
She jumped in her seat as he said these words
The child grabbed them back as thought he’d not heard
To the conclusion I came that the father set the fire
As I watched the boy stack them, like a funeral pyre
The woman sat afraid, the boy carried on
The father though sat back, not a care, no not one.
He had been in the army for most f his life
He liked regimental including child and wife
The boy though his father, he did now copy
When he saw him light a fire, with not one match but three.
The father although setting the fire knew his son
Now wanted him to light fires just like he had done
He took away the matches and said now my boy
‘I have told you before these are only daddy’s toy.’
© 30 09 2013 GG
Contest Entry Profiling
THE BALLAD OF MISS DUTTON
Little Miss Dutton,
Bright as a button
Sits with hands in her lap just so
Neat and petite,
Friendly and sweet,
With little girls all in a row
Quiet and demure,
Polite and pure
She teaches girls how to behave
Not like the rough boys
Scuffing shoes, making noise,
Shooting guns, the things little boys crave
But little Miss Dutton
Bright as a button
Has a secret, her own rough boy
Though with her he is gentle
He's a force regimental
Has a gun and it's not just a toy
They'll live life in clover
When this trouble's all over
But meanwhile they'll make the best
Who can say what's to be
Before the world is made free
'til then hope that their lives are blessed
Little Miss Dutton
Bright as a button
Today has an extra bright gleam
For one sacred day's leave
To themselves they can cleave
Live each hour in a blissful dream
They have sworn true love now
And he's made solemn vow
To return when he's finished his chore
He tries fears to dispel
Kisses fondest farewell
Then he's gone - and it's June ' 44.
Little Miss Dutton
Bright as a button
Sits there now and a sad smile she yields
But for him it's all over
He touched the clover
Now at peace in a Normandy field
Quiet and demure,
Polite and pure
Girls follow in every way true
Not like the rough boys
Scuffing shoes, making noise,
Shooting guns - that's what little boys do.
This poem tells a touching story, contains a message, and has rhyme and rhythm
It was a desperate situation,
Regimental honour at stake,
Decision urgently needed
As to what actions to take.
The Colonel was in paroxysms
The RSM was spitting blood
The M.O. was overworked and
Things just weren't looking good.
An outbreak of indiscipline was
Fast spreading through the ranks,
Squaddies dying without permission
Without a by your leave or thanks,
In such sloppy situations which
Caused the C.O. to angrily mention
They didn't even have the courtesy
To die properly lying at attention.
With ruthless Military action
With no thought of pity
Permission to die withdrawn
Without the relevant chitty.
Two weeks notice of intent
Sent with an application
Was now the requirement
To sort out the situation.
Expiring without notice
Became a disciplinary offence
Combined with an appeal
To use their common sense.
Extra duties to be imposed for
Future unauthorised expiration,
The deceased’s unit being held
To blame for the situation.
The system worked a treat
For any squaddie hates
Being held responsible
For letting down his mates.
The situation stabilised
Until finally at length
The regiment returned to
Fully operational strength.
Sanity quickly established
Thanks to the decisions made
And the Colonel and Sergeant Major
Held a celebratory Regimental Parade.
Pardons were quickly issued for those
Who’d died without permission
And the Regiment quickly returned
To its allocated operational mission.
NOT A VETERAN
I’m not an Army veteran, it’s a cap that doesn’t fit.
I’m a guy that wore the green yes, but I don’t feel I did my bit.
I’ve never faced the enemy, stared down the barrel of a gun.
Neither firing nor receiving, truth is I’d sooner run!
I never sat in armoured vehicles, not a tank or APC.
Gone on patrol down south Armagh or engaged with LMG.
I played at being soldiers, did long runs and BFTs.
Had Naafi breaks and Naafi breaks, and Naafi breaks and tea.
I did my tours of duty, got the medals and the tan.
But did I really earn them? I’m not sure that I’m that man.
Time’s gone by, I’m civvy now and I sometimes miss the craic,
Of the life I left behind that day, and the lads that had my back.
I go to some reunions, and to the Army/Navy game.
But keeping touch with times gone past, has become a wee bit lame.
I stay in London often, in a club called Union Jack.
I see the war-torn veterans; it wears heavy on their backs.
They stand proud in all their colours, in their regimental suits.
Limbs replaced with metal; prosthetics stuffed in boots.
They, to me are veterans, the ones that fought for real.
They are men that live in honour, with the scars that never heal.
The scars that maybe we don’t see, with the never-ending stare.
That says, just like I wasn’t.........
........they know that they were there!