Long Sergeant Poems
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I remember the weight of your glasses
Every time I see them on some dorky hero
Springtime brings stupid memories
Dragged those words on your skin to bring us to zero
And they get me going like a voice of a sergeant
Ashen memories forever casted in argent
Wondering what it'd be like
To be reborn
Awful, to say the least
A knight lifted up by her neck for speaking back
Forgiven by a sainted priestess
But those sins still weigh me down like a leaden sack
And I'm fine carrying several adamant crosses
It's the least I could do for inflicting those losses
A shining knight gleaming bright
For another king
But I can't look back on that old crumbling kingdom
To live with that choice is my holy opinion
To wish for more invites more
Than I could bear
A sainted phoenix flies again
Under a bright and holy wing
I can't voice a reason against the way
You're flying towards a brighter day
And to this day, I guess I'm right
To separate, to pick that fight
I couldn't save a damaged soul
It'd be a different kind of whole
But who's to say it'd be correct?
Or that the current one's a defect?
To live a life of pained regret
It's not a life that I'd beget
But I see your face inside of theirs
And feel a charge within the air
I'll forever carry that tiny stone
To ensure those days won't die alone.
I am a new you when I drink
Amazingly witty; almost too witty for myself
Charming to the utmost degree
I would ask my friend
But they are gone now
Because they cannot take my magnificence.
I am truly the royal Canadian queen of America
When I drink.
I am the Pharaoh of Egypt’s right hand sergeant at arms.
I am the cat who invented cream.
I am all that and more when I drink.
If you leave how will you understand brilliance?
Man I am witty! Spectacular! All of that plus to bags of chips.
For some reason, when I drink I become the best me
The best of the best of the best of the best me.
Man, I feel powerful right now.
I am truly stupendously awesome!
Sure. Hit me another.
Many are the 'characters' I met while serving my nation.
Seems there's always one who stands out in every organization!
In Bermuda (where I fought the Korean War) was such a cuss.
He was my bunkmate and he went by the name of Gus!
Gus was the old man of the outfit, a staff sergeant as I recall.
He'd been up and down the ranks and boozing caused his fall!
Never to be promoted beyond 'staff'', he was happy with his lot.
Gus floated on cloud nine as long as he had his daily tot!
Near payday, funds depleted, out of booze, in a nervous funk,
He'd surreptitiously place this beseechng note upon my bunk:
"My boy, may I propose for your benevolent consideration,
A temporary loan for relief from my dire financial situation?"
Now, how could I deny his plea phrased in such flowing verse!
Besides, on payday, he'd promptly seek me out to reimburse!
On paydays, Gus and his pals were wont to go on a spree!
He'd relieve his bloated bladder nigh any convenient tree,
Proclaming, "Wherever you may be let your water flow free!"
(For some reason the local constables happened to disagree!)
Gus was a good man and I enjoyed our comradely association,
Despite his innate proclivity for intemperate intoxication!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Alas, we've elected bozos on both sides to again guide the nation!
(Some folks are sobbing in their ale, others are filled with jubilation!)
To rid this great nation of such knaves, here is what I would propose:
Elect retired noncoms who are well qualified to lead, heaven knows!
Noncoms are known for their integrity and by the way, lead from the front!
They don't take shhhtuff from anyone and are known to be rather blunt!
There should be a crusty Master Chief to head the Navy overseeing the fleet,
And a Marine Gunny Sergeant should occupy every congressional seat!
A Staff Sergeant who's been in the trenches should be the Secretary of Defense.
Chief Master Sergeants qualify for the oval office (Obama, take no offense!)
Sergeants First Class would eminently qualify for the Secretary of Labor.
They'd put deadbeats to work so as not to mooch off their neighbor!
There's a horde of Navy Petty Officers who'd qualify for Treasury Secretary,
Who've faithfully paid their taxes unlike some Yale czars to the contrary!
There's a brigade of Sergeants Major who'd excel as the Secretary of State,
Who'd tell other nations where to go if they didn't deal with us straight!
Master and Technical Sergeants are well qualified to occupy a governor's chair.
Their prime concern is the welfare of folks, not just building castles in the air!
Retired Noncoms are a special breed who believe in and uphold the Constitution!
Patriots who'd oust the current clowns, some of whom qualify for a mental institution!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
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
The cigar box reposed upon the closet shelf for nigh on fifty years.
Oft his family wondered what it held. Perhaps some treasured souvenirs?
The old man, a veteran, had fought in the European Theater of Operations.
He never talked about that nor did he ever boast of any special decorations.
Alas, he mustered for that final call of the roll to begin his eternal bourne.
His passing left behind a loving family and a grateful nation to mourn.
Rifle shots echoed o'er the hills - the clarion sound of "Taps" was played.
The Chaplain rendered words of hope and in hallowed clay he was laid.
His son sorted through his Dad's things learning facts he never knew.
Neatly folded in a trunk was his army uniform looking almost new.
He found hundreds of ribbon-bound V-mail letters to his beloved wife,
Expressing his love and hope for their life together beyond the terrible strife.
He was curious about the cigar box and pulled it down from the shelf.
There he found treasured things that his Dad had kept to himself.
His dog tags on a chain, faded snapshots of his wife and old army pals,
Staff sergeant chevrons, his honorable discharge and some old decals.
He choked back tears of pride as he discovered the coveted Silver Star,
And the citation that read of his bravery for heroic actions on the Saar!
There was also a Purple Heart and two Bronze Star Medals he had earned.
He was in awe of his humble but heroic Dad and the things he had learned!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The Union Pacific steamer billowed clouds of smoke as down the rails it raced!
Young soldiers aboard the crowded train contemplated the dire fates they faced.
Melancholy thoughts of hearth and home this Christmas Day were hard to bear.
The mournful wail of the engine's whistle added to their loneliness and despair.
The troop train provided very little conveniences for the miserable men.
No showers, a potbellied stove for heat and a tasteless meal now and then.
Little sleep was had since there were no berths or fancy Pullman cars.
Even a nap in their seats was fitful due to the coaches rocking jars!
Ah, but there was good news ahead for these young men on the way to war!
The sergeant announced, "We're stoppin' at North Platte, Nebraska! Ain't very far!
The kind ladies of North Platte is waitin' to greet youse on this Christmas Day!
Now, watch yer language, comb yer hair and shine yer shoes wid'out delay!"
The ladies of North Platte met every train passing through since the war began!
From the bounty of their farms they provided food for each and every man!
Ladies from miles about brought fried chicken, candy, apple pies and cakes,
Even popcorn balls with addresses of girls wrapped therein, for heaven's sakes!
Each train stopped for twenty minutes or so to take on more water and coal,
But those precious moments lifted the morale of the men which was the ladies goal!
They met as many as thirty-two trains a day serving nearly six million guys!
Decades later those men, now old vets, recall North Platte with teary eyes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
The Volunteer
by Bob Moore (c) 2019
A volunteer is worth, a thousand conscripts so they say
I would never volunteer, if I had my own way
but when the sergeant says, two volunteers, that’s you and you.
you have to grin and bear it, and do what you are told to do
It may just be KP, or police the parade ground
but it could be latrine duty, digging trenches in the ground
then you have to go, and fill the old ones in
hold your nose, and gag a bit, the air in here is thin
Sometimes you go out on patrol, to see what’s to be seen
I’d rather be warm in my bunk, than walking jungles green
then someone yells out “contact” and you just hit the ground
and swear and keep your head down,
as you chamber another round
Then contacts lost, if it ever was, more than a nervous call
now back to base, and thankful, as into the bunk we fall
tomorrow it will all start again, and if good luck goes my way
I will not be volunteered, and I will last another day.
The child, now sleeping, loudly snores.
The nightlight shines there on the wall.
If you could peer under the door,
The sight awaiting would enthrall:
It seems the toys have come to life!
They are engaged in no mere game:
A toyland battle to the death!
The superheroes are to blame;
The men in green have few troops left;
Their losses heavy in the strife.
With Duplo blocks, they barricade,
Regroup their forces there behind.
They inventory their grenades,
Make mental notes of where they've mined,
Prepare to meet their tragic end.
Magneto rises from the floor,
Unleashes his attractive beam;
The troops let out a racous roar,
for they are plastic, it would seem,
thus to his will they do not bend.
A team dispatched to try and flank,
To scale the chair, come from the back.
But Hulk awaits them like a tank,
Behind a pillow, sneak attack.
The spear is blunted, further thinned.
The captain, knowing things are dire,
Determines he will save the men,
and laying bare some lamp cord wire,
he challenges Magneto then;
His sergeant understands and grins.
Magnetic forces back in play,
the soldier runs, flips the switches.
The predator becomes the prey;
Magneto, arcing current, twitches:
a turning point in this grim war.
The flash of light wakes up the child;
she bolts up, eyes now open wide.
The spell is broken; meek and mild,
the toys, inert, lay side by side.
Her head back down, again she snores.
----------
So that's an ABABC DEDEC tail-rhyme, and kind of a fun one!
Sheba had that twirly whirly jumpy bumpy personality
That told you she was either a Gemini or on drugs
I am a Gemini, and on drugs, so I recognized her right away
Others steered clear of her, using monikers like
Crazy, weird, unusual, off-the-chain, strange.
That is why I ran toward her and made her a friend right away
Sheba had grown up in a carnival, learning to read tarot cards
I love tarot cards; I have tried to read them but
They always end up reading me….
I had grown up in a strict clean house with a mother
Who dragged us to church six times a week
And Sheba thought that was charming….
Sheba had a host of people raise her – the fat woman, the thin man,
The mustached woman, the bearded women, lots of women.
She was used to ignoring orders from everyone….
I had grown up with a drill sergeant of a mother
who expected us to jump hard and fast,
so I was used to lots of belt whippings…..
Sheba and I had not grown up in the same way at all,
but we clicked immediately, understanding that we had all
kinds of things in common
Possibly because we are both crazy, weird, unusual, off-the-chain,
and wonderfully strange.