Long Thinly Poems
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Operation Barbarossa
the panzers start to roll,
Breaking out from Poland’s Baltic,
towards Sevastopol,
Ten million soldiers strong,
go goose-stepping east,
The Fuhrer’s Wehrmacht,
alongside his waffen SS elite.
No margin for error,
nazi Germany’s biggest gamble,
Get this wrong, and under
the red army might get trampled
But no need for worry, as
all before starts to collapse,
Generals believe be over by Autumn
or Christmas perhaps.
Murdering and enslaving millions,
as they overrun,
Reds burn their own cities,
denying shelter for the hun,
Hitlers well oiled machine,
begins to slow right down,
As Stalin moves his factories,
to out of range towns.
Nazis keep attacking,
as only they know how,
But stretched thinly on the ground,
winter has settled in now,
Can see domes of the kremlin,
victory looked so close,
May as well be a world away,
buried deep in Russian snows.
So nothing for it, must dig in
wait for the spring,
Writings on the wall,
offensive over, blunting their sting,
Then comes the counter,
sure as day follows night,
Red army attacks all fronts,
clad in cloaks of white.
The tide starts to turn,
in ruins of Stalingrad,
Germans are surrounded,
uniforms reduced to rags,
No food in their belly’s,
living off dogs and cats,
Paulus the general surrenders,
Throwing Hitler into a spat.
Killing still not over,
lots more bitter fighting to be had,
Stalin sacrifices millions,
in suicidal counterattacks,
Both sides face off daily,
in a mammoth slugging match,
prisoners were not taken
none left alive to catch.
So in the end Nazis crumble,
not beaten by a better army,
Never stood a chance,
once America joined the party,
Russia lost thirty million people,
Stalin did not care less,
Was only one real winner in
WW2 and that was the U.S.
By
David Kavanagh
In WW2 every life and sacrifice counted,
my poem is looking at the wider bigger
picture and is not meant to belittle or
negate any of the other allied nations
involved in the ultimate victory.
The poet in me’s private and reserved for here and now
To express myself in normal life, I never quite knew how
The words I write are heartfelt and can cut straight to the bone
I write of thoughts and feelings that only I can own.
If ideas of that I dream could not find life in rhyme
The person that I could have been would just be lost in time
A life that’s kept on record in thinly picture painting meaning
All my raw emotions spilling out, with very little screening
I share my life with readers that will never truly know me
With words that open up a side, that real life will not see.
Is the poet that lives in others the same that lives in me?
Does he hide your true persona, leaving you anonymously free?
The poet in me’s cunning; some words not always true.
But what you see is all you get. The rest left up to you.
“The Big Blues and Baptismal Alice”
In the land of the dirty politician
Steely resolve was borne bidding
farewell to thinly veiled conceit and division
that particular brand of milk had long in the tooth turned sour
in her red-hot mamma kitchen
A racing Greyhound on the Going Nowhere Road
forever chasing the White Rabbit named Godot
counts time from its pocketful of ticking time bomb clocks
watching Pterodactyl hormones fly in formation
eating low lying ducks in a row
while the young Velociraptor sitting in her room drawing blood viper tongue fast,
has gone all Poe
The Greyhound turns tales around
and heads back towards Emerald City
flying fast away from a plague of Bubonic Black Crows
She says adieu to those dealing cards that were never real pretty
sitting at the Tea Party Table pulling Voodoo dreams
out of the Lyrebird’s duplicity
Departure
New journey
Two tokens
One kept aside for the Love
that’s steadfast and outspoken
the other for Bee Queen standing stellar
left-field not broken
The Buzzer claims the Chance Card
and moves way out past “GO”,
The Usurper Spell is now fully broken and blown
There on the open road destiny is cumulus now known
Face turned towards Big Blue Sky and Sunshine
a new life tapestry is sewn
Mystery mist whispering over Mountains of Blue
where angels set secret prayers
on the wings of swans who only speak home truth
soaring high upon Heaven’s stairs
singing loud and clear
new dreams do bloom
through cool clean white cotton clouds
face to the sun
feet on the ground
a new day has arrived
strong magic is found
Black ink words swallowed
charcoal spits out a burnt offering
through bitterful and twisted blisters
A New journey forward -
Home is calling her to the
Forest of the Three Sisters
There ensconced in her bucolic benevolent black heath of a palace
Born again in the Big Blues sings the bushfire burning in Baptismal Alice
(Lovejoy-Burton, August 2018)
"She's Leaving Home" / The Beatles
https://youtu.be/VaBPY78D88g
"Sky Above the Clouds", Georgia O'Keeffe 1962
Influences of Magritte, Bosch
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen_(chess)
the waning moonlight thinly enveloped
the dusky canvas obscurely sprawling
across the way from the window I looked,
I knew a park was there with slides and swing
but for the moment dark revealed nothing,
for the moment I didn’t care, either
because in darkness I felt even darker;
I was lying in bed embraced by regret
of decisions of love and time wasted,
spooning the layered sheets of doubt and fret
all thawed out from my heart into my head;
The memories of hurtful comments said
by and to me were chastising voices
of ghostly choices purposed to depress;
As dusk became the night I became lost
in whimsically strewn wishes and pleas
to gods and stars and genies alike, crossed
as eyes crying for mother drowned in seas,
I spoke to nobody but begged for keys
to unlock another time, another place
to start all over again with new space,
To unseen gods I had long since quit on
I prayed, bargained even, another chance
and I’d do everything right this season
- A jobless man needing a pay advance,
But for thirty three years nary a glance
had alpha or omega set on me
and this night I expected no divine decree;
several hours elapsed as I collapsed
in smoldering thoughts of suicide fanned,
- I had outlasted night’s concealing grasp,
and as the morning sun began its planned
ascent, I gave into Hades’ command
through my tenth floor window whispered to me
of hellish suggestions to jump and flee;
on ledge I stood and looked across the way
for one last glimpse of earth and pastel sky,
- a small souvenir of my final day,
My eyes settled on last night’s park from high
above, and that’s when I saw God’s reply,
- an unspoken answer for eyes turned blind,
His deafening promise to all mankind;
by his heavenly brushes came colors
where none had been, transforming lonely space
into one of vibrance and life renewed,
- and it was a different space,
I watched as birds celebrated morning
with songs of praise and thankfulness,
- and I felt a quick waning emptiness,
I heard the children below lining up
for the school bus all on time and ready
to live and learn in this new day granted,
- and I felt like I knew nothing at all;
but then I knew everything all at once,
and I stepped off the ledge ready to live,
ready to embrace
ready to seize life found…
in another time.
interesting
the girl has red hair
she is around 200 pounds
she dances well
people throw coins
into a violin case
no violin
there are pidgins on the pavement
they are also dancing
between the hurrying legs
The girl is an angel
I know these things
gut response things
reflected everywhere
glass me
moves in dozens of directions
the red head
follows my window forms
Interesting
skimming under thin ice
from underneath
i have no head
but the hat is very smartly placed
dancing particles are named
only when they join
even when the street has no name
the cold weather has dead-fisheyes
sex talk overhears itself
interesting
naked slippers walk quietly into the light
a red face melts on its own hot breath
fat girl stops dancing
winks at my thin lips
the thin coat and thinly disguised admiration
only my ankles are swollen
interesting
*Image of Tennyson Cross, Isle of Wight provided by Pixabay.
Forlorn Hope
Poetic Form: Sonnet
Divined amassed, thinly advance their scope
bloodlines warrant one soul's intended quest
persuades enhanced history, constants hope
pastoral guides sculptors essence is blessed
Readiness spurs insights, smoothing passion
unforeseen tests that fool-hearted, not them
their unbidden stare on death's face, cash in
pushed e'er determined, tensing a rose stem
Unchecked horses, intrepid horsemen burst
barrage relents as foe feared those affirmed
lurked rears castle shadows most accursed
chance lights an afront darken all confirmed
Bold few opinions charged submits warlords
fruition won swords gained Heaven rewards
2021 May 08
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS (May 18): Judged 2021 May 18
~~Brian Strand
*2nd Place*
This or That, Vol 2
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2021 May 13
*HMS checked 10 syllables x 14 lines.
Long gone are the golden
Dusty days!
Where once, like Blazons
On Armorial Shields,
The gathered bronze sheaths
stood -
Cut through at the stalk...
Raised from time honoured
swathes.
Burnished like brushed copper
By high summers slanted rays:
That were sliced so thinly
From the thickening air,
As they brightly
Caught the hot glare,
From the grass mowers blades.
For the singing scythes,
Once wielded so ably
By strong, capable arms,
Are standing abandoned and
Forsaken:
Blunted, left rusting,
Languishing alone
In damp, dilapidated barns.
Now their songs are forgotten -
Lost within a woeful winds
lament!
Blown far out
From the green meadows;
Separated from their verses
Once sung so heartily
With purposeful,
Lusty, well practiced intent.
So think you all well,
Next time you pause
Your drawn eye,
Upon Englands rich harvests
Of ripened barley,
Yellow wheat, and stiff rye...
To dwell on the lost seasons
With melancholy tears...
And think of the old reaper
Who cuts back at the years!
Messianic Zeal Of This Good Humored Punster...
Without making a
twit tarring buffoon, sans unshackle
irrepressible bone a fide
funny reaction, or appearing
the foolish spectacle
of myself, trying to tackle
a mal hip apropos
prism mirth wells up
inducing me to cackle,
neither explaining any rhyme,
nor giving reason, then busting
out in laughter obliquely
analogous to ramshackle
structure, resultant outcome
from some slapstick
Vaudevillian farcical debacle,
perhaps regarding the heady
beer burr of Seville scene thru
black and white daguerreotype mackle
more or less hazy, gauzy,
or fuzzy warm
feeling in actuality
thinly disguised as
dog gone hackle,
which vicious canine attacks ready
to tear limb bough to limb mitt,
thus luckily handily repair
with accessible spackle
ye kept on yar person, which caper
doth captcha an instantaneous titter
easily confused for
mating call of grackle
giving rise to a raft of songbirds
that incessantly crackle
snap, and pop with...witch sounds
indeed oven eerily
bloody suck'n vampire
bat out of hell cackle.
Other creatures in
the animal kingdom
cane be barley able
to communicate wheat seems
oat rage juice lee wry,
no matter how
much horse sense,
a smart species doth
porpoise lee try
though porcine not
remiss to wallow
in mud as seen high
atop a bridge
abutment over the River Kwai
ah look...a pig in a poke
unable to pry
loose caked mud blocking snout
prematurely ejaculating, an outcry
for help even fishing for small fry
doubling up as
potential best buds
with Englishman such as Dry
den, and/or dear reader
hood doth lamentably cry
claiming this badinage i.e. my
trademark gobbledygook didst render
momentary lapse of
reasonable judgement alibi.
Let's sit back, relax
And all count out the cost
As the initial wave of shock
Wears itself thinly off
One side had to win
While the other side sadly saw
The beginning of the end
In what is now their loss
But aren't we still Americans
When all of this is said
Some voted with their hearts
While others with their heads
No need to roll over
And wish that you were dead
With history in the making
We've all gone through worse than this
While a select see a set back
To others it's a gain
What may have come as a flood
To some it's needed rain
True a few must lose
For another cause to win
But when it comes down to it all
Aren't we still all Americans
The shadow in the night beckons.
I slowly rise from my warm and cosy bed
Only to follow the urge that drives me mad
Into spectral half-fledged woodland,
That spreads beyond my lonely tower.
Without volition, I approach slowly
A great, gaunt gate that towered
Over a ghostly path among the ashen trees.
A pale moon lights the blanched greensward,
That covered thinly the winding trail,
And from afar, I hear a river,
I hear its humming, throbbing, low, ferocious call,
Meant to disturb the serenity of my soul.
But I force myself into my somnambulism,
And perhaps, lull myself to dream of angels.