Long Reveille Poems
Long Reveille Poems. Below are the most popular long Reveille by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reveille poems by poem length and keyword.
Translation of Eric Mottram’s A Faithful Private - 3 Dolores Huerta by T. Wignesan
3. Dolores Huerta
aucun coq n’y annonce la reveille:
les étudiants et les dirigeants des travailleurs
font partie du piquet de grève contre les Wine Brothers:
les bourrasques collent contre les pancartes de grève
les jeans trempés les bleues de travail réfléchissant:
à Los Altos ils chantent des chansons de grève
à l’honneur de Chavez et de Dolores
dans un camion emménagé en un lit plat:
les enfants et les pères qui portent des enfants
la famille la United Fruit Workers
tout l’été sur les lignes de piquet de grève
dans des prisons des maisons et les meubles
vendus pour d’hivers vêtements voitures
les essentiels pour le travail au delà
de ce mois d’août au-delà d’épreuves:
deux hommes tués à Arvin
Nagi Daifullah tué
par la lampe électrique d’un chérif
Juan de la Cruz fusillé sur le piquet de grève
Dolores Huerta la vice-présidente
stratège négociatrice
ses dix enfants prises en charge sécurisés
sa grace
son rire par concentration
prends soins de sa santé
pour sa fille afin d’être saine
contre l’avarice
contre la charité des libéraux:
le machisme gagne maintenant les femmes
le non-violence provenant des femmes et enfants
leurs bras meurtris par les planches des Teamsters
les yeux de la police cernés par le plaisir
caressent leurs étuis de revolvers:
à la maison pas de conflits
l’homme est le chef:
une famille soudée par le respect
quant au machisme des hommes toujours
la vieille religion:
le mariage dissout détruit le Syndicat
des badges d’officiers des cultivateurs brillent
au lever du soleil les .22s en défense-propres:
“nous étions si heureuses, en paix et jolies
même les grand-mères jusqu’à
ce qu’ils commence à tirer avec leurs fusils”:
Reagan fut photographié
en train de manger des raisins scab:
les troupes de Vietnam
mangent des laitues du gouvernement provenant des champs de l'entreprise
les trottoirs lézardés
stroes en délabrement: bousculent
dans les campements de l'entreprise
des terminus plein de poussière placés sous surveillance:
les travailleurs de Brothers dispersent
surveillés par des brigades en voiture
“you find a way
it gets easier
all the time”
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
"Suddenly you remember an old Chinese tale in which cats once ran
the world until they decided it was too much bother. That's when you
stepped in, another story. Say you get up now and go back to work"
Dian Duchin Reed
I once had a Lilac Point Siamese of royal lineage
who entered our commoner family as a small
ball of silky fur, home-schooled in the basement
until he discovered the joys of the climb.
In time, he grew beautiful, sleek, and mischievous,
loved the warmth of sunshine and stovetop,
delighted in rearranging the coffee table flowers
in front of my egg yolk yellow plastic couch,
(it WAS the seventies, after all). One shout,
and he was out, knowing the rules
of the house, knowing too, noblesse oblige,
that pardon followed hard on the paws of beauty,
intelligence, and a feline sense of humor.
At bath time, cats and water at polar ends
of the tub, I was a Botticelli nude, awash in suds,
cat at breast, his blue eyes black with dread,
and though love prevailed between the species,
when toweled dry, cat fled, taking his righteous,
royal rage to simmer beneath the bed.
We named him "Charlie Chan" for the serial
father of forties' movie fame, Charlie when in grace,
C Chan, shouted out when in the cathouse
with his mom, Super Cat by any name. Daily
reveille was his, crouching bedside each dawn,
minutes to spare by cat time until the alarm clock
triggered a leap into our bed, and a practiced
tread over recalcitrant bodies.
If, as it is said, animals have no sense
of future tense, then Chan, a blessed Buddha
of the interminable now, could not foresee "NO pets"
unwelcomed in our path. Into the arms
of another woman who pledged to love him, I
placed one confused and frightened cat. Now
years past, absence making missing stronger,
I cannot part with the broken heart
I ask this poem to mend.
Pale pink peonies, I carried on the day we said, "I do."
Not the innocence of white Queen Anne's Lace of spring,
nor romantic stems of red roses on a sultry summer day.
In all the years shared together, we were never apart,
but now, my heart grieves as it does for withered petals.
On each anniversary, you gave me a large bouquet,
and not once did you ever forget the day, my love.
In a crystal vase, the blooms were arranged with care
and enjoyed for days until the petal's color began to fade.
This year, there will be no pink peonies on the table.
I bought some for you, and tomorrow I'll take the walk,
to bring them to you, arranged in a crystal vase
carefully placed in front of the nameplate of your grave.
I wish my wedding flowers had been roses or tulips,
for the number of their petals are far less than a peony.
Pity for me that as each fragile flower head droops,
each petal will wilt and one by one fall upon the ground.
A tear for each one will ribbon down my cheek
and although my lips will form the words, "I miss you,"
I know they will be impossible for me to speak.
The stem of a peony has no thorns to prick my finger,
but when each velvet petal plummets to its death,
I will hear the notes of Reveille echoing in my ears
as if it was being played in a brass section of horns.
I will scorn the mortality of death, and the sorrow it brings
as the pain buries itself deeper inside my heart.
I am withering like a flower from my wedding bouquet
that has been pressed between the pages of Keats.*
We are crumbling and fragile, now that you are gone.
**********************
*Two favorite verses from John Keats' 'Hither, Hither, Love'
Though one moment's pleasure
In one moment flies ~
Though the passion's treasure
In one moment dies; ~
Hither, hither, hither
Love its boon has sent ~
If I die and wither
I shall die content!
Every time I get happy
the Nana-Hex
comes through.
A dog's canines
change into chainsaws,
toothpicks turn into knives,
coral reefs diverge into dirty sponges,
a sandcastle into a mausoleum,
a soldier-ant burrows deeper
into my borrowed grave,
reveille trumpets tap
a tip-toed timpani of
disenchanted malevolence;
all for the Nana-Song.
I am eleven.
I am naked.
I am screaming.
I am kneeling in the shower
and every time I shriek:
"I feel like dancing today or
look, I can tie my shoelaces or
my bruises have healed or,
my neck is not scarlet like
the underskin of
Grandma's fingernails" -
it plays again, it reprises -
like a Bizet refrain
scraping pitchforks
against agate slabs,
shaving fresh flesh.
All for the resurrection of...!
All for the redemption of...!
the Nana-Hex.
Now, I am fifteen.
I don't talk. I fail to eat.
I scratch poetry and snivel.
My front teeth
are chipped and broken
like the high-browed brim
of Nana's low-ball snifter.
I picture four undertakers
from my windowsill.
Three of them are for me -
the fourth filthy fist,
clutching a scratched
chromed rung,
is for her.
Throwing confetti
from a guarded train
as she selfishly vacated me,
Dr. Zhivago evasive and...wait!
"look I've made my bed, dear Nana.
I lost another tooth, I received
an A+ in geometry.
No. I'm not part of one's family circus,
I'm not a crippled duckling
in a shooting gallery anymore."
Mom, Momma - I...
I can't catch her confetti, Mother.
I can't, poor Momma - but...
when her swastikad locomotive
bleeds into the
frozen chambers
of Auschwitz's
omnipresent shower heads,
and my stifled tears choke
your starved larynx
like a rabid cat
untangling balls
of matted string; then...
and only then -
dear God,
please tell Grandma Nana -
I've formidably said:
hello.
Their murkiness has begun, an agony may follow,
Yet, you can see their faint smiles with their eyes losing their glow;
There’s a cap on their head concealing their sparse hair,
Still, they don’t want to judge that life is so cruel and unfair.
They’ve accepted the fact that anytime may happen,
With this horrible disease which is also inherited from relatives and parent;
With all their gumption and fortitude, they wear prayers and faith in heart,
Strength in spirit to face the battle and trust God without a doubt.
They bravely underwent several treatments on pains without complain,
Knowing that some get streak of bad luck even from their environment;
All they wanted to do when amelioration happens,
Continue the struggle and show good examples to women.
On month of Breast Cancer Awareness, they’re making a shout,
Conducting the reveille for us all to keep abreast for the fight;
They believe that we’re in a brink of prevention which is better than cure,
If we avoid smoking and minimize alcohol to make our body safer for sure.
Having a healthy lifestyle is still the best,
Consumption of many fruits and vegetables and watch our diet,
Positive mental outlook and regular exercise are very important,
For a brighter tomorrow, against breast cancer- together we stand.
October 18, 2013 7.15 pm
Note:
This poem was written with the inspiration again of my cousin (now my 2nd poem dedicated to her ) and one of my colleagues. They’re both survivors of breast cancer. I lovingly dedicate also this poem to all our the breast cancer victims.
First Place
Contest: Pinktober
Judged: 11/6/13
Sponsor: My Greatest Poet/all time Fave, Linda
Sergeant Major O'Malley, Seventh Cavalry, had served nigh on three decades.
He rose through the ranks havin' served in squads, companies and brigades.
Second lieutenants were nuisances and he treated them as if they didn't exist!
He took recalcitrant lads behind the barracks to administer discipline with his fist!
You'd better have your horse and tack lookin' keen for Saturday mornin' parades,
Or Sergeant Major O'Malley would sear the ozone with his thunderin' tirades!
He'd escort you to the stables to shovel manure if you ever mistreated a horse!
Sergeant Major O'Malley's colorful lingo left one with a feelin' of remorse!
He had absolutely no patience with the foibles of raw and bumblin' recruits.
Lord have mercy on the hapless lad who failed to shine his saber and his boots!
Should a trooper snooze in the saddle when escortin' the colonel's stage,
Sergeant Major O'Malley would stomp and rave unleashin' a towerin' rage!
At the break of dawn when reveille sounded, he'd burst through the barracks door,
Yellin' "Up and at 'em me lads! Outta them bunks! What am I a-payin' ye for!
Ye sorry excuses fer sojers! Hie to the stables! Them hosses needs oats and hay!
And when that's done, git back here to eat yer grub and scrub this filthy bay!"
Things were different when he dismounted his horse and entered his house!
The one who gave orders and 'wore the stripes' at home was his formidable spouse!
He meekly responded to her constant commands with a resigned, "Yes, my dear."
"Taps" was a welcome sound at close of day in Sergeant Major O'Malley's ear!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
His day began with "Reveille" blaring from within the bowels of the ship.
Sergeants yelled, "Up and at 'em lads! We're takin' a little trip!"
He wearily arose from his bunk to don the accoutrements of war.
He'd survived Guadalcanal, now he faced Iwo Jima's fearsome shore.
They fed him steak and eggs - rookies joked that it may be their final meal.
But the battle-weary Marine was very grim - to him it seemed so surreal.
The chaplain gathered them around and offered a fervent prayer,
Pleading for God's protection and committing them to His care.
The grizzled old "Gunny" yelled, "First platoon over the side!"
"Down those lovely cargo nets, boys! Semper Fi!" he cried!
Bobbing Higgins boats waited below to take him to that perilous strand.
The engines roared as the boat wallowed and rolled t'ward that ebon sand!
He hunkered down with the others, his helmet beating upon his nose.
Others used their helmets to receive bits of breakfast as the boat sank and rose!
Adding to the din of battle so familiar to his ears were shells flying overhead.
As his boat with its precious cargo neared the beach it was hit by zinging lead!
The boat struck a coral reef so they had to wade in water up to their hips.
He struggled with his heavy pack and rifle with a prayer upon his lips.
Brave men fell under withering fire that day as they tried to force a breach.
Brave men forever lost their innocence that day on that hallowed beach!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
This morning I stumbled out of bed and stood at rigid attention!
(I thought I'd had a nightmare and had lost my military pension!)
A familiar strain wafted across the valley and swirled about my ears.
'Twas the "Reveille" bugle call, a sound I hadn't heard in years!
The sound came from nearby Fort Carson since the wind was just so.
(I recalled my warrior days rising at dawn to earn my meager dough!)
I pictured in my mind the bewilderment of the young and raw recruits,
Cussing the bugler, gathering up their gear and pulling on their boots!
At noon the bugle called, "Come and get your chow, boys! Come and get your chow!"
(My grub was slopped on a battered steel tray - troopers dine off china now!)
That's just the way it was - I'm happy for them tho' - they deserve the best!
For their devotion to duty and firm resolve, we are truly blessed!
At five o'clock, the bugler sounded "Retreat" to end another day.
The garrison flag was slowly lowered, folded and stowed away.
The cannon boomed - its thundering boom reverberated about the post.
Every soldier stood proud and tall and saluted the flag, totally engrossed!
The haunting notes of "Taps" sound at ten o'clock then fade away and die,
As sleeping soldiers are assured, "All is well, safely rest, God is nigh."
How I relish the dulcet bugle calls echoing from across the way;
I wouldn't object if the wind would blow my way each and every day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(©All Rights Reserved)
There are so many annoying sounds that surround us,
That we are often tempted to notify the police!
(Sounds causing consternation and such an awful ruckus),
To obtain much needed quiet and restful peace!
Some of the sounds could be disallowed,
If we were more considerate of each other;
For example barking mutts and music so loud,
Roaring automobiles and other such bother!
But the sounds that never bother me,
And I hear them each and every day,
Are the sounds of freedom that keep us free;
Sounds made for the protection of the good ol' US of A!
The scream of aircraft launching from a base;
On the firing range the roar of booming gun;
Means our forces are keeping training pace,
Ensuring peace is preserved for everyone!
Sounds of freedom bring comfort to my soul,
Knowing the military keeps us free from strife,
And that they have everything under control,
Defending our precious American way of life!
(I live about 5 miles from Fort Carson, Colorado, and hear the rattle of
musketry, the boom of cannon and the sounds of helicopters every day!
During the day I'm soothed with the dulcet sounds of Reveille, and other bugle calls throughout the day. At 1000PM each evening I hear the mournful
sound of Taps. Peterson AFB is nearby and I hear the scream of jets reaching for the blue. Some local people are irritated by these sounds, but to me they
will always be THE PRECIOUS SOUNDS OF FREEDOM!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, Chief Master Sergeant, USAF, Retired
The bugler's piercing call sounds "Reveille" at the break of dawn.
Young horse soldiers rise, rub their eyes and stifle a gaping yawn.
The brawny Irish Sergeant bellows, "Up and at 'em lads!
You belong to me and the army now - forget your moms and dads!"
A wretched meal of bacon, beans and coffee awaits them in the mess.
Endless bugle calls throughout the day adds to their duress.
There are horses to curry and saddle and other chores ad infinitum.
All of this for a lousy one hundred and fifty-six bucks per annum!
Perilous patrols in the saddle in every sort of miserable condition:
Heat in the summer, freezing in the winter - a never-ending perdition!
Weary, saddle sore, ever heedful to the commands of their "sarge".
Ever alert to the bugler's clarion call, " To Horse! Charge!"
At the end of the month they collect their meager pay.
Most repairing to the local "hog ranch" just down the way,
To enjoy the delights of a "soiled dove", gamble, drink and fight,
Later to be confined in the guardhouse feeling mighty contrite!
These stalwart men ensured that Manifest Destiny was carried out,
Enduring untold hardships and protecting the treacherous route.
Many paid the ultimate price and lie in a desolate, lonely grave.
Soldiers who our horizons expanded and whose lives they freely gave.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved