Long Soldier Poems
Long Soldier Poems. Below are the most popular long Soldier by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Soldier poems by poem length and keyword.
I remember
That summer
Days in slow motion
Longer nights
Nothing to do
Bored
And angry
I enlisted.
Military orders
In breast pocket
Standing In formation
Gear
Next to my right leg
Family, friends and memories
Lurking
Somewhere in the shadows.
Cargo plane
Engines thrusting
Size beyond imagination
Pushing through a crowd
Of olive green fatigues
I grab a seat near the back
Meet another soldier
Friendly round face
Broad shoulders
Southern drawl
We share some things in common
I call him Country
He calls me City.
An eternity
Flying in the clouds
Hours pass
We finally land
Stomach churning
Running on adrenalin
We disembark
Carrying 90lb backpacks
Walking into
Oppressive heat
Nauseating smell
Suspicion everywhere
In the distance an ugly black cloud
Blocks the sun
From a place where children hide
And death is just a step away.
Numb with fear
All the tough words and slogans
From basic training
Slip away
I grip my rifle
A soldier yells out
Watch my back
And I’ll watch yours
The words strike a raw nerve
Country slaps me on the back
Up front someone cracks a joke
Nervously we laugh
And I think to myself
Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.
“Kill a man, and you are a murderer. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill everyone, and you are a god.”
- Jean Rostand
Behold, when the old woman woke up
Then all around are filled with ruinous world,
With blood-stained body watching the procession of death scene
Seeing the child crying, it is understood that he has lost everything
Postmodern ravenous robotic vultures are flying on the sky
Gulping voraciously all altruistic groaning as if enjoyable pie
For the hideous sound of hostile war between home land and abroad soldiers
Now all become deaf, dumb and blind in fearing of cold-blooded superpowers
The old in traumatized and impaired speech
With devastated eyes moans – Where, O Peace!
Yes
The world is engaged in demonstrations of the best scientific energy
Who cares about the costly meaningless war of the imperialist’s key!
If the soldier dies become great martyr,
If he survives become godly warrior!
Public - the meaningless fat of a democratic constitutional body;
Increasing-decreasing them, is miracle of superpower leader’s fee!
Valiant hero-just for warrior of homeland but traitor for the conflicting country
War-elite merchant scheme; extreme revolution - just destruction, clash worldly
In these inhumane sense who listens to whom, who understands whose language
The one who has power is also the ruler, is also constitutional creator of all smash!
If the war destruction unveils any new creation; if this constitutes any peace
Why so delay? Kill, kill mass, be a hero; kill all, be God; be a war prayer beast!
© Mahtab Bangalee
March 03, 2022
Chattogram
That homeless guy out on the corner,
Carrying a sign that says he’s hungry;
Maybe he’s just a drunk or a ‘stoner’,
But he might be that one-out-of-three.
That one-out-of-three is a veteran,
Who in uniform served his country.
There’s a good chance he has an addiction,
Or is still suffering from PTSD.
One out of three of those ones-out-of-three
Fought in one of America’s wars.
Did he scream on a beach in Normandy,
Or did he at Inchon go ashore.
Did he hunt Charlie in a rice paddy?
Was he in the Balkans, or lost in the sand?
One out of three of those ones-out-of-three,
Were the heroes who once took a stand.
If you can spare a few dollars, then feed them.
If not, at least hear what they say.
Their country may no longer need them,
But they don’t deserve to be thrown away.
They might not have all bled in battle,
But each one came home a casualty.
With your help, they may someday be able
To leave the ranks of the one-out-of-three.
How small we were sitting in the backseat of that mammoth car. We were dwarfed on the giant sofa-like bench waiting like a great amusement ride about to start. While we waited we explored our new surroundings. The lining inside the cavernous car was short-hair and smooth and as we ran our small hands across the surface, it felt like a young boy’s scalp after his first summer haircut. It was grey, the color of an elephant toy that had been won by our uncle last year at the fourth of july carnival. We explored the shiny chrome ashtrays. You could see your reflection in them like a mirror and we wondered if the owner used them to shave in the mornings as his chauffeur drove him to work. They were spring-loaded and snapped viciously at our little fingers. They smelled of foul ash and stale gum. There were large cranks with polished brown knobs, handles that controlled the windows. Turning them took all our strength like cranking the hand pump for water in the kitchen at Grandmas house on the farm. There were baby windows beside the big ones and they closed with little widget clips, swiveling inward so you could control the direction and amount of air that rushed in when the car was in motion. Too small to see outside, we sat dwarfed in the backseat watching the tops of trees go by and playing with a doll and a green plastic soldier. The doll was homemade from an old sock. The soldier, alone, separated from an army of plastic soldiers that came in a bag we could not afford. He was found, as most toys were, in the gutter or on the schoolyard, abandoned by the more affluent children. Small, simple toys that would not be missed from a rich kids over-stuffed closet. We knew we had to be quiet, for to make noise would be to draw attention that would come in the form of punishment. A slap on the bare thigh of a young boy in shorts or a young girl in a dress would leave a red welt for hours. The ride always seemed so very long that soon our patience would give out and a bump in the road would trigger a tidal wave of emotions; a push escalating to a shove, a pinch and then a shout. The crested wave would end in a crashing roar with a parents’ curse, a stinging slap, and a whimpering cry. Only puddles remaining, tide pools composed of wet pants and tears.
We lost a good guy within the last week
Name of Dean Parry Val halla did seek
A full military career this gentleman had
His family and friends are now very sad
We've known Dean since the age of sixteen
When we joined a life in green
A top soldier and tradesman for sure
Serving abroad in many a war
Tommorows the day he'll be laid to rest.
From all of us you were one of the best
The current climate won't let us attend
But we will raise a glass for this absent friend
You join Andy perks at the bar in the sky
Leaving us behind wondering why
We know about demons that you had
Now they are gone and you can be glad
Our condolences to your family
I hope it goes well. as well as can be
R.I.P Dean Respect to thee.
From all the reprobates of 87C
Champion Squadron
Champion Recruit troop
1st Sept 87
a Loop poem
Tomorrow will surely dawn,
assuredly as in days bygone.
Will tomorrow be the same
as yesterday and today exclaim?
The Fates have been less than kind
kind is saved for those who do not doubt
doubt will cause the whole cosmos,
COSMOS, to unravel like loose weave.
I am of no importance,
in the grand scheme of things I’ve no chance!
Happiness for those who dwell
in kingdom’s light far away from hell.
Does death remove the torment,
torment memories when love was young,
young we imbibed precious wine~
wine and magical fruit of our youth?
Dead is dead like love fallen,
like in war my soldier was fallen
Death will claim me in it’s time
and erase my poem and my rhyme.
*****
Couplets mixed with 4 line stanzas, the last word, first word scheme is maintained in the stanzas. It can also be used in the couplets. Rhyme scheme is ab, cc, defg, hh, ii, jklm, nn, oo.
A variation of the Loop poetic form created by Hellon. There are no restrictions on the number of stanzas nor on the syllable count for each line. In each stanza, the last word of the first line becomes the first word of line two, last word of line 2 becomes the first word of line 3, last word of line 3 becomes the first word of line 4. This is followed for each 4 line stanza .
Shadow Poetry - Poetry Types - Loop Poetry
I really didn’t like him
But what the heck
He was a fellow Yorkie
And he had a lot of neck
He played the piano by ear
And that’s just how it sounded
You couldn’t say his technique
Made notes in any way rounded
He churned out the favourites
Notes here there and everywhere
But in a Friday night squaddie mess
Who was in a state to care
As loud voices belted out
The old favourite songs
All comradely joined
In Buddy’s sing along
Just keep buying him a drink
He may not get many notes right
But in his own peculiar style
He would play with verve all night
And he would beam at all and sundry
But I’m sure that in his head
He wasn’t in that mess
But another place instead
Maybe the Albert Hall
Not a Joanna under his hand
But his fingers gently caressed
Instead a concert baby grand
He was too big a character
For even army ways
And he just wasn’t there
One particular day
Just an empty locker
Just a bare bed space
And the next day
Another was in his place
I saw him five years later
Both back in civvie street
Buddy dressed in a suit
Looking sharp and neat
He tried to borrow some money
In typical Buddy bent
And when I refused
He just turned and went
The last time I saw him
But I’m sure he’s still around
Maybe tickling the ivories
In a shady part of town
7 Aug 08 1:00 PM
I once thought I had awaken from a dream.
I bolted upright and let out scream!
I ran from my bed and out the front door jumped into my boat and grabbed for the oars.
I rowed down the street and took a left on main and lost one oar cause it stuck in a drain.
But I kept on rowing as hard as I could round in a circle like a good soldier should.
I never gave up and I didn’t quit, until my last oar in two halves it split.
Then I really woke up and realized the dream and pondered all day just what it
might mean.
In life we hurry and worry so much, we don’t even take time to finish our lunch.
I’ve got to do this I’ve got to do that, take care of the dogs take care of the cats.
I’ve got to go here I’ve got to go there.
I know my keys are here hiding somewhere.
Around and around where I’m going I don’t know.
I’ve worked and worked and have so little to show.
But then my oar broke and I finally stopped and out of that boat I came with a hop!
My head has quit spinning and now I can see,
My purpose my treasures. . . . are God and my family
Today and onward...
Soldier of Christ,
there is a great fight ahead of you:
Daily praying for others, leading them to God,
discipling them conscientiously;
Helping the prodigal children go back to the Father,
encouraging the wounded to endure holy battles...
Hence, always and daily...
Put on the whole armour of God.*
You are that Christian warrior
of the spiritually-armed forces of the Supreme Commander
mandated to wrestle "not against flesh and blood
but against rulers of the darkness of this world in high places."
Thus, today and constantly...
Put on the whole armour of God.
As commissioned to be strong in the Lord,
fight the good fight of faith
empowered by the might of Christ,
not as one that beats the air...
advancing His kingdom
populating heaven
vanquishing hell's gates.
Therefore today and everyday...
Put on the whole armour of God.
*Ephesians 6:11 "Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil."
Ephesians 6:12 "For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places."
February 19, 2019
Warmly dedicated to SMJ
Three Sonnets Inspired by my
Reigning Ex
Part 0
Sitting at the edge of the universe
like a man atop a modern skyscraper
who might look down to see the manic street
full of yellow taxis and distant peers,
the first thing I notice on a backwards
glance is my snake-skin mortality
shed and skipping across the flattened ether,
a luminous orb on a linear course
like a puddle-hopping pebble, eager
to sink a lily-pad a child targets
for the hell of it. I realize then - either
I’m dead as a god should be, or just a pet
project of a German ghost, his meager
objective merely my way to forget.
Part I
Before you bed me, I assume the herpes
risk you ignored so many turn-style clicks
so many thick-like quick-strike Rolodex entries
not so long ago made that cavalry slicks
and right-swept Tinder mounts dutifully
saddled have begun their bountiful itch.
A testament, truly, of how beautifully
done was every each one, each surgical stitch
precisely sewn to salvage squeeze-box juice
of battle-field strewn, the red zest of life
a dead soldier blew, is once more, for you,
stalling to flow; knowing your rusty knife
has yet to slice temptation sterilized;
knowing your scalpel’s cut keeps cancer canonized.
Part II
All around you, this kelp-wall compartment
appears an ocean bloomed with room enough
for early light to shuffle halfway bent,
like time’s unpolished hedge, across the rough
field where too young have men gone to die.
Someone is responsible for all of it:
The ghostlike fish who grimly swim upstream;
the crunchy autumn leaves all creased and clustered;
and this, the box you loathe in sleepless dream
of birthday cakes and candles your grandfather
fed the wish-away lawn using mustered
strength from tears his daughter leaked, sprung to lie,
who now only cries at her daughter’s grave,
complaining of stubble when Pawpaw shaves.