The mission was simple;
To save the whole planet
From white clouds
Lies the troopers
The wind howled
As they fell down
A headfirst dive
At the speed of sound
Death is a friend of the Earth
They thought, as they fell across the sky
I am the savior of the Earth
But I know not how or why
Today they made a sacrifice
That little drop of rain
But it went over our heads
Life seems still and same
Thud
They disintegrate into the hungry plants
They watch their friends get absorbed
This perilous journey they undertook
For the good of our world
Like a termite eating willow oak, Herod felt empty.
Fear of the threat of dethroning Brim-filed abundantly
Could a little lamb invade the den of a lewd lion?
Could a rod of reed face the force of a pole of iron?
Like a mad monkey, Herod scattered fragile eggs and nests.
Troopers cut kids to pieces, pulling them from mothers' breasts.
Weeping and wailing tore the veils of the night of Ramah.
Who could consent to be consoled by Covert’s crude drama?
Wanting to know you, the unknown hero, they were born
Before seeing their hero face-to-face soon they were gone.
Had they seen you, their friend, wouldn't they have reviled Herod?
Was this why the coward, like a wounded jackal, worried?
Little humans, destined for eternity, were slaughtered
Wasn't this why roots and routes of law to love got altered?
From interstate
to racetrack
cars build up their speed
racing past troopers
who don't know
which one to pull over
'Cat's Cradle's' a string game, --forty inches
enables a noose. Fastened end, handles
it's stable. Weave string through finger-pinches
finagles new patterns that'll form like, 'Candles.'
'Soldier's Bed' is another fine heartburn,
bolder threads perfect, designer fashion,
shoulders had carried the full weight in turn.
Old sage said, "Time waits for none," new passion.
'The Manger' is the fourth well-known styling,
form major curves, though new sorts of concerns,
the nature, be wrong for Christ's smiling,
become fainter, --drinking trough, hoofed beast yearns.
Hand strings, a challenge that'll be quite scheming
that springs unexpected hurdles, loopers
then straying's toward taxing twist-seaming
planned strips; string game for two-handed troopers.
You should check some Brussels, its really a treat
To stroll on, protected by troopers
Fast people in Brussels their cigarettes lit
With ignition key of old Coopers
They serve freshest mussles in Brussels, you must
Leave on a table some fee
And worshiped by Auden Beaux Arts you can pass
If your bag hangs down to the knee
There is no menace in the Grand Market place
NATO patrols are boys the most thin
Their fingers on triggers, would you be amazed
In Brussles its just a routine
Attend darkened bars by the harbour, proceed
A midnight with Chinese lanterns
You’ve come for experience, gone with the weed
That's Brussels, in cheerful abundance.
Swerving in and out of lanes without
A care in the world. Great, now you cut
Into mine! Did you bother signaling?
Of course, you didn't. The impatience!
The rudeness! Flipping birds? Really?
Feuding with time could prove costly,
So ease off the gas pedal; stop baiting
State troopers. Reduce speed; you're
Heading home from work, or an errand,
I suppose, because the sun is setting.
Are you recreating "Fast Five" scenes, or
Living dangerously at motorists' expense?
Well, the highway is no NASCAR track!
I'm rather surprised you don't rack up
Speeding tickets, or do ya?
How about this; head to your destination
Half an hour early. Yeah, try that for a change!
Stay in your lane, slow down; you're begging
For an accident, the fatal kind. And quit
The road-raging! Should you even be driving?
Off was triggered a rebellion
And it was by a Battalion:
Troopers stampeding like stallion -
More than lost was Hundred Million;
Someone checked it: A Half Billion!
Some day might notch up, A trillion.
The contents of art Bank’s Bullion,
Each soldier’s stirred mind cast-iron
Of his own Devil – A scion…
I guessed what they’d stirred up-Trouble,
Whirlwind from sown wind reaped double!
Press I soldiers be promptly paid
And on Pay-Day nothing else said:
Money not paid shooting skills fade
Dues not settled like Razor Blade.
You don’t one turn An Avenfer;
He’ll be worse than A Scavenger.
Table for one?
Oh no, please seat us
With room for both me
And, of course, my fetus.
The HOV troopers
Tried hard to cheat us
But I drove with two of us -
Me and my fetus.
Life is sure sweet
Now that justice must treat us
Like equals, although
One of us is a fetus.
The garden sunlight plays tag
with our fat ginger cat.
Dad watches World War Two
he grinds his teeth
a general forced to take a back seat.
Mother is in the kitchen
not her natural territory.
She opens cupboards exploring contents.
It is a blue and white kitchen
made of trees that died in 1974
along with linoleum dreams.
She shakes a martini like a
blind cardsharp. Her wrists
are heron bones
that click a gold-toothed charm chain.
Flashes of recollection -
they follow me up beige carpeted stairs.
Small bathroom-toilet to the right
where once I saw mum naked.
Oedipus lives down the hall
as a young teenager.
From my window
I see the long narrow garden
with its back gate.
Passion-flowers entwining pine boards.
When the Nazi Storm Troopers come
I will fire down at them, lobbing hissing grenades
that land like angry cats onto their fleeing backs.
A knock on my bedroom door.
I can hear myself breathing heavily,
a teenager desperately yells: 'Keep out!'
Mum pauses to catch her breath.
She is out of uniform,
and speaking
to a camera in my head.
we pass through the gates
we pass the kindergarten with it's colourful play area
we pass the primary school with the din of laughter
we pass the middle school with the hubbub of whirlwind psychosis
we are hit with the high school building
we are hit with wild landscapes
we are hit with fickle wassails
we are hit with hoodoo troopers
i teach Wordsworth
there's always something missing
we come from a world that is more heavenly
our childhood happened to someone else
i''m going to give up poetry and teaching
and go into clowning
In the aftermath of battle,
One needs to find a place
Where one feels safe enough
To lay down one’s weapons
And let them tarnish and rust
And gather dust, at least until
The ink has dried on the treaty.
Then they must be cleaned
And sharpened and reinvented
And made ready for
The next ill-advised incursion
Into hostile territory.
This is essential.
Even the best troopers
Eventually get their fill of war.
Then they are of no use to anyone,
Not even themselves.
One can tempt fate,
But one can’t escape
The god of unintended consequence.
To all
Poetry Soupers
Merry Christmas Soupers,
Some have read my stuff like troopers.
Ignoring Poetry Soup would border treason,
but remember, Jesus is the reason for the season.
I’m praying for your health in the New Years beginning,
that it’s healthy, and prosperous and finds each one winning.
That the magic of words continue flowing from your pen to page,
and you remain an inspiration to others in this troublesome age.
Miracle man
12
25
20
What did Custer bluster as he saw the Indians rushin' up the valley?
"HERE COME THE INDIANS, BOYS! AIN'T NO TIME TO DALLY"!
Custer's brave troopers fought with all the force they could muster,
But the Indians won the day thereby makin' a widder of Missus Custer!
Are the exploits slowly fading of the folk who forged this land?
Are there more important factors, today for us to understand?
Are we prepared to lose our national character?
Erase our borderlines, and forget about Australia,
where squatter and selector, fought fire, flood and drought …
the Shearer and the drover helping cut the wool clip out.
Self-reliance in this dry land; suspicious of authority,
physical and mental toughness, laconic humour tempered eagerly.
The exploits real and fabled, our robustness could quite relate,
so in our generation - old qualities are ours to celebrate,
for the musterer and stockman on a cattle or sheep run.
The swaggy and the bagman tramping 'neath the burning sun.
The diggers and the miners. with their quest for precious ore.
Bushrangers and the troopers who were the lawless and the law.
The footsteps of explorers and those who died in war.
Bullocks and the Walers; axe ring and crosscut saw.
'T'is for the struggle of our pioneers,
and who's souls we can’t restore,
that we must preserve the heritage,
of Australians who have lived before.
I
If Jesus held his knee
on my neck for sins and crimes
it would be DARK indeed
II
Blue terror
evokes quiet from those
who hate terror
III
Neatly "dressed to kill"
as storm troopers
LEADER in the bunker -again
IV
why execute a suspect
no matter the crime
Milosevic died in his suit
NOTE: The police were called to a convenience store that had a complaint about an apparent $20 note that was fake. No evidence George Floyd was the one who had the counterfeit $20 bill. The CO$T of a life ???
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