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Night Sounds Gnaw For Decades Survivor Days

sentries are we who hear
are haunted by shrill sounds
sounds we heard sounds

nights in jungle line cam masks
fear rank heat sweats insects
in nights crawl drag never ends

as we lay in frag illusions
safe behind wired claymores
we laid in killing grounds

as silent as combat night prayers
black clothed crawled flesh shadows
into embrace welcome waiting mines

fan teethed fan-shaped are fury patterns
steel balls arc in 60-degree horizontals
at a casualty radius instant to 100 meters

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Fame's Penny Trumpet

Affectionately dedicated to all original researchers who pant for endowment.

BLOW, blow your trumpets till they crack,
Ye little men of little souls!
And bid them huddle at your back -
Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!

Fill all the air with hungry wails -
"Reward us, ere we think or write!
Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails
To sate the swinish appetite!"

And, where great Plato paced serene,
Or Newton paused with wistful eye,
Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean
And Babel-clamour of the sty

Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise:
We will not rob them of their due,
Nor vex the ghosts of other days

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poem by Lewis Carroll from Phantasmagoria and Other Poems
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The Rosy Bosom’d Hours

A florin to the willing Guard
Secured, for half the way,
(He lock'd us in, ah, lucky-starr'd,)
A curtain'd, front coupé.
The sparkling sun of August shone;
The wind was in the West;
Your gown and all that you had on
Was what became you best;
And we were in that seldom mood
When soul with soul agrees,
Mingling, like flood with equal flood,
In agitated ease.
Far round, each blade of harvest bare
Its little load of bread;
Each furlong of that journey fair
With separate sweetness sped.
The calm of use was coming o'er
The wonder of our wealth,
And now, maybe, 'twas not much more
Than Eden's common health.

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poem by Coventry Patmore
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On Several Levels of Your Unawakened Consciousness

You were the one who chose to feed,
Your knowledge and ego...
To the benefit of corporate interests.
And for those perks given in exchange for your loyalty...
You delighted in the purchase of things.
With an arrogant snobbery that affords one shallow...
To flaunt a good salary,
That the selling of one's soul brings.

I've seen you in the midst of socialites.
With broad smiling faces in newspaper clips.
Expressing an excitement that showed your delight.

Those corporate successes,
Has today left you stressed and disconnected.
And you've chosen my shoulder to weep nonstop.
Caring not to remember,
It was me you dropped.
Erased...
From your fast paced life.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Yanks

O'Leary, from Chicago, and a first-class fightin' man,
For his father was from Kerry, where the gentle art began:
Sergeant Dennis P. O'Leary, from somewhere on Archie Road,
Dodgin' shells and smellin' powder while the battle ebbed and flowed.

And the captain says: 'O'Leary, from your fightin' company
Pick a dozen fightin' Yankees and come skirmishin' with me;
Pick a dozen fightin' devils, and I know it's you who can.'
And O'Leary, he saluted like a first-class fightin' man.

O'Leary's eye was piercin' and O'Leary's voice was clear:
'Dimitri Georgoupoulos!' And Dimitri answered 'Here!'
Then 'Vladimir Slaminsky! Step three paces to the front,
For we're wantin' you to join us in a little Heinie hunt!'

'Garibaldi Ravioli!' Garibaldi was to share;
And 'Ole Axel Kettleson!' and 'Thomas Scalp-the-Bear!'
Who was Choctaw by inheritance, bred in the blood and bones,
But set down in army records by the name of Thomas Jones.

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poem by James W Foley
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Vision at Little Bighorn

I went to Little Bighorn
On a hot summer day,1987,
I wondered if the Seventh Cavalry
Was in hell or heaven -
Out there all alone
I came upon the old General's ghost wandering around,
He kept glancing far away
While staying close to the ground -
I'll never know for certain
If he saw me or not,
He just kept wringing his hands
As if he couldn't stop -
Upon the path where he paced
Blood dripped from his boots,
It soaked in deep and wide
Down to the prairie grass roots -
From way down in this hallowed ground
I heard the dead soldiers cries,
The agony of the lost
Who so long ago on this spot died -

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poem by Smoky Hoss
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Doubts

Another night alone.
I was doomed to spend.
Watch, yet again.
Evening's linger.

Its drawn-out game.
With my notes, I stirred the air.
Caused, a candle's wisp.
With it, soothed the night.

Keen, cold was its plight.
As I listened.
Immersed myself.
In a whispered melody.

Experienced.
The gathering of flames
Tenderly playing upon my space.
As walls slowly bent around - Closed in.

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poem by Ilari Rahja
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Anecdote For Fathers

By the late W. W. (of H.M. Inland Revenue Service).
And is it so? Can Folly stalk
And aim her unrespecting darts
In shades where grave Professors walk
And Bachelors of Arts?
I have a boy, not six years old,
A sprite of birth and lineage high:
His birth I did myself behold,
His caste is in his eye.
And oh! his limbs are full of grace,
His boyish beauty past compare:
His mother's joy to wash his face,
And mine to brush his hair!
One morn we strolled on our short walk,
With four goloshes on our shoes,
And held the customary talk
That parents love to use.
(And oft I turn it into verse,
And write it down upon a page,
Which, being sold, supplies my purse

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poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Oliver Basselin. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)

In the Valley of the Vire
Still is seen an ancient mill,
With its gables quaint and queer,
And beneath the window-sill,
On the stone,
These words alone:
'Oliver Basselin lived here.'

Far above it, on the steep,
Ruined stands the old Chateau;
Nothing but the donjon-keep
Left for shelter or for show.
Its vacant eyes
Stare at the skies,
Stare at the valley green and deep.

Once a convent, old and brown,
Looked, but ah! it looks no more,
From the neighboring hillside down
On the rushing and the roar

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Unexplained Feeling

Unexplained feelings
When I first saw him
he took my heart away
Now I need someone to
put my heart at bay
him still on my mind after all this time
How did I mistake
love could be so blind

we took it faster then I thought we would
Only if I can go back
to change the past
would I
would I change it
I'm afraid not
would I have paced myself
and took it slower
or would I
would I have taken it slower
I'm afraid not

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poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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