Long Sergeants Poems
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Only eighteen and conscripted to the military,
no choice of mine it was the norm at this time and scary,
barely out of school and still wet behind the ear,
too young to watch an adult movie or have a beer.
Disadvantaged to study and too white to be left behind,
this I never understood till today, rightfully grew up blind,
this pain will never leave me as I walk through life,
explaining, I can’t understand myself, the past strife.
Ready to be trained to kill another nation’s child,
leaving their family with the loss and our side smiled,
dejected as I waved goodbye to my family that day,
my girlfriend was there too and my friends to stay.
To a military camp for 2 years, programed and trained,
based in Kimberley 900 Km to be mentally stained,
infantry intelligence was my involuntary military calling,
not knowing what was in store for our adult life’s stalling.
On my new bed listening to songs of memory and waiting,
corporals, sergeants screaming at youths scared, hating,
nobody knowing what or who, or how, where to show,
disconnected from family and treated like **** dough.
Moulding us into military men without feelings,
chased and forced without asking or dealings,
involuntary wearing uniforms, carrying death,
brainwashed, to march in unison, out of breath.
Bushwhacking, crawling under barbed mesh,
ripping our faces, shredding our young flesh,
many a youth destroyed mentally for gore,
but guaranteed that we were ready for war.
Your rifle is your wife; the military is your mother,
drilled into our minds and began a smother,
fired our weapons at fabricated enemy,
re-loading and then screaming with venom.
Indoctrination and mental instability forced,
not ourselves but killing machines endorsed,
spread across African borders to kill on sight,
innocent, women and child death is our right.
Many a friend made and many a friend lost,
this is for our nation, family and worth the cost,
under the impression of protecting our nation,
living off measly dehydrated and shared ration.
We the soldiers of our South African un-united nation,
proud and ready to destroy, our new minds creation,
all others were the enemy and terrorists,
to them we were the same to kill and create hero lists,
Friends and Time with family are lost forever,
memories of the past in our conscience lost never.
A problem with fundamentalist short-circuits
is their Left-dominant tendencies
over RightBrain polypathic-polyphonic resonant feelings.
Fundamentalism shrinks Left-RightBrain Both-And
WinWin ecopolitical thinking,
strategizing,
democratizing,
domesticating,
creolizing.
For example,
imagine your nationalistic domestic policies
to pit those who victoriously have
against marginalized and criminalized lepers,
parasites, really,
in your not-so-humble,
vaguely fascist,
opinion,
are not going so well
as you might have Republican conservationally predicted.
You need something
you know everyone, of importance, will champion,
so you point out that transgenderal confusions
are not appropriate to military-industrial's bottom-line
compete unto death
monoculturing focus.
Transgenders must, then, be an unnecessary economic liability
and political loyalty risk
because they aren't decisively anything fundamentally patriotic,
much less appropriately straight patriarchal.
Unfortunately,
for the fundamentalist Either-Or nonthinker,
without richly constant and diverse healthy relationships
with any ecopolitically multicultural depth,
what might sound like a political big win
over little inconsequential losers,
breaks down with actual one-on-one experience.
The anti-transgender agenda
breaks down because too many sergeants
and corporals,
lieutenants leaking counter-factuals
to admiring admirals
and generalist generals
about the long history
of incredibly excellent military-industrialized service
individual transgender personnel
in the thousands
have delivered in the past,
unlike a dysfunctional bicameral Congress
and a sociopathological White House;
whether a swampy, witch-infested dump,
or not.
Transgender co-intelligence
tends to understand
cooperative media economies
and political persuasion.
That's a bicameral nest of honey bees
you don't want to fundamentalistically mess with,
because they will make you look politically stupid
and economically bereft of moral integrity.
It's rather like believing health-assurance climates
of care-receiving
and for mutual healthcare-giving
is just a Democratic women's eco-survival issue
when your own nationalistic patriarchal prostate
is growing in a cancerous viral,
self-imploding,
wu-wei.
In little towns the big events are locally presented,
and every family in the town is usually represented.
Shopkeepers shut their doors when a pioneer curls his toes,
and if someone’s up to mischief, then everybody knows.
Every sporting club is well supported, right down to the wire,
they are the social hubs of towns to set the youth on fire,
through footy clubs and netball clubs combining into one
to sing and dance the night away, promoting local fun.
Of course when youth is mixed with party love can fill the air,
so Cupid’s firing arrows through the hearts of those who care.
This sometimes leads to earnestness when love gets in the way;
the town is now preparing for there’ll be a wedding day.
There’s heaps of preparation from the family of the bride;
flower girls and pretty maids to stand right by her side.
There’s the minister and invitations; the caterers are right.
All the groom must think about - “Are you coming to the bucks night?”
It’s half past five and dawn is breaking; we’re coming back to town.
God knows who is driving but their foot is going down.
There’s nugget, sauce and butter, smeared over everything;
the bucks party is over now - it’s ten hours ‘til the wedding.
And now coming up behind us is a mass of flashing light,
when a siren started blaring; we thought it better to take flight.
We shot around some back streets trying to lose this cop,
then someone with a drunken slur, said “I think we better stop.”
Popularity is not the word that I would say is spoken next.
This angry cop took any plea completely out of context.
He wouldn’t listen to a word that’s said, repeating “That’s enough!”
before I heard the second click of a closing set of handcuffs.”
In a cell back at the station there’s a pall of doom and gloom.
And there’s a hint of panic when it’s mentioned in the room,
by the cop who indicated strongly that by giving him some flack,
we’re gunna stay locked up until his Sergeant arrives back.
I made every kind of plea I could, but this cop avoids my dreading.
He said “Young lad you’re lucky; my Sergeants at his daughters wedding,
so he’ll be in a good mood when he greets you in this room.”
“Don’t bloody count on it” I said - “Because I’m the flamin’ groom!”
I went straight from High school into the service,
I was feeling proud but extremely nervous.
My mother cried with tears of joy,
she said, “I will try to stop referring to you as my little boy.”
I arrived at Basic Training with a bus load of candidates,
we were greeted quite loudly at the main entry gates.
The Drill Sergeants called us everything they could think of,
we knew, at least from them, we would receive no love.
We were too young to drink and barely able to vote,
we were all different races, but we were in the same boat.
We had eight weeks to learn how to work as a team,
we started to believe that it was all a bad dream!
We went to bed late but were up before dawn,
we do more before nine is definitely right on!
Basic Training was tough but we all got through it,
things would get worst and we pretty much knew it.
We would be on the front lines as Infantry Soldiers,
there would be a lot of responsibility put on our shoulders.
The first orders we received took us to the Middle East,
our primary mission was to bring about peace.
For the first time in our lives we were in a foreign land,
the things we saw you could never understand.
The precision bombings caused so much destruction,
the whole place looks like it needs reconstruction.
We are under attack on a regular basis,
our so-called enemy is in more and more places.
Perhaps we are acquiring more and more enemies,
the hate for us here is like an infectious disease.
We were instrumental in removing a terrible dictator,
but the level of danger here has gotten even greater.
Nobody wants to admit that we are in a civil war,
many of us are now on our second or third tour.
I have lost some of my comrades along the way,
we all know the risks and that is all I can say.
We will defend our country from all enemies, foreign and domestic,
we are a force to be reckoned with and we are not to be messed with!
We will win this so-called war on terror,
messing with the United States was their biggest error!
A successful completion of our mission would be a thing of beauty,
we are proud we answered “the call to duty.”
2 a.m. Another Mother's Day morning. Today I'm going to relate army life to some ladies in my life. This past Thursday my Infantry company conducted a training meeting. Weeks ago I had thought about using helicopters to transport the majority of the company out to gunnery instead of using buses, borrowing other vehicles or using solely sole power since our combat vehicles have to be transported because of money reasons. Keep in mind, the two star general mentioned leaders should implement all systems into our training a few months earlier. Kinda amazing we need to be told these things, but I was never a believer in training non-thinkers. Some of the specialists sitting in for platoon sergeants eyes enlarged with excitement, other members of the team thought, "yeah right," while others laughed as I had said it jokingly, even though I was as serious as, Yolanda Linn checking corners after her oldest got done scrubbing floors.
Anyways, the XO comes back the next day and says, "1sg, so I ran that idea by the Battalion XO, and he thought that was a great idea. It'll save money on buses because helicopter fuel is already budgeted and our Soldiers will enjoy it." What my company didn't know was that my reasoning went beyond the stupidity of taking buses to training. If you think my mom would allow me to ride a bus in Afghanistan, you are outside of your god-given mind!
Mother, thank you for discipline, for teaching me humility. For months on end, I watched you make ends. Thank you for making me think. I remember asking you questions and you would never tell me directly, you'd point to a dictionary. You were the first step in self discovery. I'm reminded of a Curtis Mayfield song "The Makings of You" when I think of you: a little bit of sugar... Undoubtedly, the infantry will thank me, but it will be in honor of the goddess who named me her first born baby. Love you from the depths of the ocean to the most distant star the human eye can see. Happy Mother's day too you, and too the woman who loves a deep reflecting man.
Two grizzled master sergeants repaired to the NCO Club to cry in their beer.
Their jawing invariably turned to discussing the 'old army' of yesteryear.
They grew up in the 'brown shoe' army and of it they liked to reminisce.
'Twas 'happy hour', beer was cheap and their gripes went a lot like this:
"By gawd! Used to be I could take a kid behind the barracks and kick his ass!
Now, ever' time ya turn around they're buggin' ya fer a three-day pass!"
"Yep, they think they can git away with anything jesh 'cause they're a volunteer!
Ya won't believe what I shaw today! An earring danglin' from a soldier's ear!"
"We ate C-rations in our day without all them fanchy frills they have today.
Today, if a kid don't git schteak and lobster on hish plate there's 'ell to pay!"
"It wassh called a 'mesh hall' in the old army and we ate off'n schteel trays.
Now, it's a 'dinin'' facility' and, yesh, we schlept on cots in open bays!"
"Yesh. Things was so schimple when all we dealt with was mornin' reports.
I'm scared of them computin' things that is invadin' all the army forts!"
"In the old days I'd tell a kid what to do and he wouldn't give me no shass!
In the new army if I chew out mommy's boy he goes schlobberin' to the brass!"
"Now, they make us wear them silly lookin' berets jesh like them blimey Brits!"
"Yesh. I don't know about you but I schtink it's time I called it quits!"
"Yesh. I agree. I schtink it's time to retire and end this miserable career!"
"But jush a minute, old pal. Before happy hour ends lesh have 'nother beer!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Let not your heart be troubled by the recruiter's garrulous spiel!
After all, he's paid to embellish army life to offer you a fabulous deal!
When he called you 'private' you assumed there'd be privacy in store.
Never mind that you must share the latrine with fifty guys or more!
Make it a policy to eat all the curious grub the cooks slop on your tray!
Compliment the mess sarge - it might defer you from KP for another day!
Tell your sarge his wife is lovely - though she's as homely as Hooligan's goat!
He is certain to acclaim your acumen and a three-day pass he's apt to float!
Always appear busy - walk around with a clipboard in hand wearing a frown.
The captain might promote you to PFC on the spot so don't you let him down.
If a grumpy sergeant should deign to ask what you're doing, you could retort,
"Sarge, the colonel told me to inventory flypaper use on post and submit a report!"
Never volunteer for anything, though it may be an offer you shouldn't refuse!
Arrange things neatly in your footlocker for display and always shine your shoes!
Sergeants like things regular and complete, so don't give them any sass.
Officers' mega-egos are crushed if you don't salute, so always salute the brass!
Scrub the floor, shave your mug and be ready for Saturday morning inspection.
Best you pass the captain's scrutiny else he won't shower you with affection!
Keep your hair cut, a crease in your pants and you'll get along without a glitch.
They might even see fit to promote you to general on your very first hitch!
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
I was relaxin' on the patio the other day, musin' as I often do,
About a few things that brought about vic'try in Dubya Dubya Two.
There were no computers, cell phones, night goggles, drones or such.
How we won the war sans such contrivances, I have wondered much!
One thing that played a vital role was Coca Cola fer GIs their thirst to quench!
Another was Rosie the Riveter in baggy coveralls wieldin' hammer and wrench!
Moms saved grease, tended vic'try gardens and the kids collected scrap,
And workin' overtime makin' planes, tanks and guns was dear old Pap!
Air Raid Wardens prowled about at night raisin' 'ell if they saw a gleam of light.
Plane Watchers strained their orbs so enemy planes would never over-flight.
"Kilroy Was Here!" was our battle cry but no one ever saw that elusive dude!
Glenn Miller kept spirits high playin' "Dawn Patrol" and romantic "In The Mood!"
Mean ol' sergeants yelled and screamed at recruits whippin' 'em into shape!
(Second lieutenants were a nuisance - good fer nuthin' except fer addin' red tape!)
We would never, ever have won the war without the lowly but reliable jeep,
Nor the GI helmet, great fer bathin', boilin' beans or yer joe to steep!
V-mail letters kept loved ones in touch - there was no E-mail way back when!
War Bond Rallies to "Keep 'Em Flying" and "Buy A Jeep" were held now and then.
Folks tightened their belts fer the rationin' of tires, sugar, coffee and meat.
These are just a few things that helped bring about the enemy's utter defeat!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Is it any wonder that on a recruit's first day of service he is befuddled?
From day one he's told to do things by the numbers and his brain is muddled!
From the moment he stepped off the bus, mean ol' sergeants began to yell!
Sergeants, it seemed, were born to make life for raw recruits a living 'ell!
He was herded to the barbershop where he was shorn of all his hair!
He was as bald as a billiard ball, but the barbers didn't seem to care!
Next on his rite of passage was to strip bare as the day he was delivered,
To be poked, prodded and given shots as he moved along and shivered!
Sergeants double-timed him to the quartermaster to be issued all his gear,
Still smarting from all those shots he'd just received in his arms and rear!
He drew a gun, socks, drawers, uniforms and a couple of pairs of boots,
Then the sergeants taught him close order drill and how to make salutes!
The next stop was at the mess hall where cooks concocted dubious fare,
Mysterious vittles that in no way with his mom's cooking would compare!
He was double-timed to his barracks where he was assigned a sagging cot.
Along with fifty snoring and snorting troops, this was to be his hapless lot!
He aspired to be a fighter pilot but the tests he couldn't comprehend,
So he was assigned to the good ol' ground pounding infantry in the end!
At the sound of "Taps" he felt mighty blue as he collapsed on his bunk.
He was disillusioned with the whole affair and was in a dreadful funk!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved