God signs off on His handiwork
releases into the world a human soul
First inside the womb and then outside
that soul begins to unfold
For mankind yearns to be free, free of direction
ignores all instruction as its sets sail
Free of direction and of directions
Freedom the goal, man’s Holy Grail
With good luck comes wonder
at creation, at a cosmos so awesome
Though the journey leads, inevitably,
to frustration, disappointment, unripened blossoms…
Then the cruelest blow when eventually
the unfolding process reverses
The ramrod-straight frame
folding in on itself as it rehearses
its return to its Maker, Who delivered it here
Who lets man search vainly for freedom
and come up empty year after year
~ for only His Truth makes everything clear
I knew a gent
ramrod straight
meticulously dressed
Shoes laced tight
polished to a ‘t’
Vest, exquisite timepiece
Punctual meant
ten minutes early
Sipped tea, no coffee
Poker face, played whist
dined fastidiously
Folded the ‘financials’ just so
No hint of a lady or passion
when he vanished
His timepiece was found, stopped
A question like a ramrod
Could an interviewee hit like rod:
For The Recklessly Unprepared
And the sure disaster prepaid…
As question waits for the rare gem,
Heard slight noises a big problem,
The smashed fist on his face Emblem,
At long last, Gem turning a Clem
“God, why didn’t I a lot read?
On me interviewers’ eyes feed!”
“I know there is Morocco
But funny it sounds: Sirocco!”
Only able to keep his smiles
But soon they read into it wiles.
Just for eyes no longer focused
A mind wrestling With The Discussed…
“Thank you, Young Man; you’ll hear from us
And make sure you try The Best Bus.
The Guildhall clock chimes
Eleven times this special day,
A great silence descends as
The two minutes tick away.
On parade at the Cenotaph,
An old man among old men
(Where did the years go for
In my mind I’m young again):
Not in best battledress
Or even Regimental Blues
But I’m booted and suited
With not quite bulled shoes,
And the old drill moves come back
So i manage to get them right
But age won’t quite let me stand
To attention, back ramrod straight.
Mixed in with the younger ones we old
Men marched with swagger and pride
Through the applause of the crowds,
Who lined the streets on either side.
For each of us in our way
Have walked that special walk
And we all still today
Can talk that special talk.
With pride and emotion we accepted
From those crowds at the parade
On behalf of those long dead
Recognition of sacrifices made.
I shall not march again, this
Time I just needed to appear
To show my respect in this
One Hundredth Anniversary Year
Please don’t ramrod your rules to me
I am a hippie woman, wild and free
I truly want to treat you kindly
Enjoy your should’s I say to thee
But I am not rule oriented, you see
Which explains my gorgeous flexibility
I will invite you to a scone and tea
But please don’t bring your rules with thee
Either sooner or later,
Every transfer letter
Would a chained worker unfetter,
Him moving from an old camp
To a new station dry or damp,
This validating with a stamp,
The reason for it not voicing
But its taking of effect noising
Him reminding of Diligence,
As The company’s still trusted Agent,
The message flashed across:
His relocation’s a gain: not a loss,
A new salubrious air to be breathed
In a new scene hating knives are still sheathed
The language of Transfer Letters!
The carefully couched by our Linguistic Betters:
Always as plain as a pikestaff
And straight like a ramrod
Not anything stating by a half;
To seekers of alterations, a cord:
“You are to report to branch B within one week,
Further instructions at your new station seek”.
Up every day well before five
if you plan to do more than survive
Polish those boots and tuck in that shirt
Don't let your C.O. see any dirt
Stand in the line-up ramrod straight
Don't move a muscle while you wait --
for the signal to take off at a trot
whether your joints be yet limber or not
Drills until nine before you can eat
make eggs every day seem like a treat
Then return to the field and the blazing sun
Oh, when-oh-when will the morning be done
Israel's military's sure tough to beat
Her soldiers unlikely to wilt in the heat
Ramrod straight and true blue
With just a gaze he would look right through
He could tell those who were weak
And were hiding something to secrete
He would walk into a room
And would turn the jukebox to his tune
Always sitting with his back to the wall
Drinking his beer slowly was his call
The stories told were of tough men
Who could use their fists in the end
But they could never beat him in a fight
So he would go and do whatever he would like.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Knees bent, slightly
Right elbow in at side, tightly
Squeeze buttocks, mightily
Shoulders squared, rightly
Chin tucked into neck, militarily --
Breathe in and out, warily
Left arm ramrod straight, scarily
Right arm looser, barely
Head still, completely
Feet shoulder width apart, neatly
Now address the ball, discretely
OK! Keep all those instructions firmly
in mind, and just try and HIT THE LIVING
DAYLIGHTS OUT OF THAT TINY WHITE
BALL -- without twisting yourself into
a human pretzel ~ so sweetly
Small train of pack horses walking slow,
five of them, to be precise,
on the shore of this rock-choked river,
opposite where I make my way.
Led by three men wearing buckskin,
one is Injun, must be their guide,
must’ve married into the tribe
or they wouldn’t be so friendly.
Their hoses full of plews, like mine,
a year’s work of trapping beaver
in icy pools by granite peaks,
all fringed by ramrod-straight spruces.
I ride one horse and lead two more,
fetlocks splash in the shallow water,
had to divert through the river
to avoid a stretch of rocky bluff.
Didn’t want too, I had no choice,
now three of them can see me plain,
see my year’s worth of beaver pelts,
out here where man makes his own law…
Maybe they’re the honorable sort,
but coin does strange things to a man.
grasp tight my big Hawken rifle
as one of them calls out to me…
Rod Flaccid faced up to the facts:
A passionate love life he lacks
Girls come to his room
But leave him no groom
Rod Flaccid just falls through the cracks.
Majestic evergreens, ramrod tall, towering over the fence they border
Long-ago runts, thirsting for water, struggling for their place in the sun
Bought for a pittance, a young man's dreams egging them on
Now he's older, they've left him behind, stumbling in their wake
As they fight back against the chill Spring wind, headstrong as he once was
His laughter parting the very skies, pleading for Nature to take her course
A curious cocktail of odours greets us
as we move in from playground
to corridor, to cloakroom, to classroom.
Beeswax fragrance: freshly buffed parquet.
Brasso smell: base metal turned to gold.
Jeyes Fluid: vapour killing vile germs.
Such alchemy starts our day with clean slate.
Playground cacophony left behind.
Now each sound has discipline, has purpose.
First bell: registration shall begin.
Next bell: proceed to assembly hall.
Lasses stand on round marks; lads on square marks.
Regular rows, parallel precision.
Stand to attention. Uniform inspection.
At ease. Handshakes and smiles. Peace be with you.
Silence pervades as we ponder our sins.
With ramrod fingers Miss thumps on the keys.
Staccato. Left. Right.
'Ride on Ride on in Majesty'.
A short sermon on compassion is served.
Then, school notices: soccer successes
and the listing of scallywags destined
for public thrashing at high noon next day.
Third bell: learning shall begin.
RI lesson. St Paul's Journey yet again.
In silence we colour in his route map.
With crayons on auto-pilot we day dream.
Our apostle arrives in Rome by morning break.
Yippee! Nothing hurts!
There's no pain anywhere
Not in my feet, not in my knees
I'm so happy, brimming with glee!
Standing up ramrod straight
I don't resemble an early primate
Squatting almost down to the ground
Perched on my head, a golden crown
Nothing hurts! Yippee!
I feel alive again, you see
And the best part, glory be --
It doesn't hurt at all when I pee...
**********
Thanking God for small favors
Gratefully, I approach the laver
My sombrero is black, my bandana is sweaty black too.
Digging up weeds in the east field is hard work, but I don’t mind.
That field is mine and every last weed and whatever in that field in mine
I can do what I want and don’t have any ramrod to tell me what to do.
That field is mine now and maybe I can make it earn me some money.
Cattle won’t work, crops won’t either. Guess I’ll just let it sit there until I’ve
a good mind to know what to do with it.
Put some horses on it, I don’t think so. Too far from the bunk house for their
proper care. No water to speak of for them to drink.
Why’d I buy it? Land is better than money. Money can fly away like a bird in the sky.
Land is for ever and my nature is to sink my roots deep into it. Guess I'm just doing that.
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