Patriotism Poems (214)

I was standing in a small bar in the town of Hemingway
Wasnt listen much to what anyone had to say
Things got quit and I slowly turned around
Next to where I was standing this old man sat down

With a beckon he motion us all to where he sat
And with a trembling old hand he removed his hat
He took a swallow out of the bottle that had been sat within reach
And with a voice soft and low he began his speech

Gentlemen he said ther,re was once a young man that lived in this town
He was probably the most respected man around
Johnny was the young mans name
But after the war he was never the same

His medals were many and he received them right from the start
He received the medal of Honor and the Purple Heart
But Johnny never wanted medals for the deeds he had done
He felt that medals should be pinned on everyone

They gave Johnny an honorable discharge after the war was all through
But shooting and killing was all that he knew
So he came back here to live his life out on his fathers farm
And he prayed that never again would he do anyone harm

But Johnny would have dreams of war at night
Time and time again for his life he would have to fight
Then one night he strangled his dad while in his tortured sleep
Johnny awoke relized what he had done and began to weep

I watched as the old timmer stood and walked away
I felt if there was more that he wanted to say
I ask the old man behind the bar and stood waiting for a reply
He looked at me with sparkling eyes and said Johnnys never been known to lie

We sit so proud
Wow

Bigger than
Gowns of golden glee
Hands
of flicking

Staid in music moments

Leftist coats
sweeping lights

rising tides
swinging

of all that died


Was there any whom had time
to have cried

You all should know, I do love so, that fragrance from, the spot below. That pubic bone, covered with mohn, as life you love, said nether zone. Oh what delight, when every night, I get to sniff it, nose buried tight. Osh Kosh by gosh, you may well nosh, but 'for I get there, please don't wash. That spot-that spot, all pink inside, soft hair all'round, no fungus rot. Some poor girls yes, may think it fine, to air it out, from time to time. But not my sweetie, she knows the sense, of keeping it hidden, till I enter whence. I know my place, yes well enough, is right on top of, that tasty muff. So fellas think, and know you place, with that sweet twat, right on you face.

What I see are politicians redefining fallacious and self-serving
power and prestige taking precedent over honest governing
I see what's deemed "entertainment" demoralizing mankind
instead of accepting actual reality most prefer being blind

I see that crap called Rap permanently scaring our youth
political correctness is all about abolishing what is truth
The relevancy of "We The People" never truly was
when you start believing it can't get worse it does

The indigent struggle to survive while the wealthy excel
right here on Planet Earth is where you will find hell
What I see is "America" steadily losing it's identity
this lands uncivilized a clear reflection of obscenity

I'm certain that for "What I See" there is no mend
things worsening unfortunately won't ever end

The blood of the patriots has dried,
no longer staining the fabric of our dreams
fervent ideals remembered
in dust ensconced history books.

And we are as Javert,
blinded by the comfort of law
mute to the cries
of today's Fantines.

Rest not in peace Mr. Kennedy,
Mr. King, Mr. Chavez
your work remains deficient
for the palette is absolute.

And the cities give birth
to tomorrows patriots
in barrios and ghettos and hoods,
those born to the cries of their brothers.

With callused hands and hungered belly
they will raise their fist
and the thunder of their march
will be the tolling of the bells.

And we the elite
with our Visa's, Clubs and SUV's
will demand of our leaders
the end of this strife.

It is then we will find
once our leaders have fled,
that we have armed the new patriots
for they did the work that we dread.

The new hero's will be different
from those in our past
for finally the colors will mix
in this palette of blood.

~SAS~

The soldier engulfed in a common confusion,
Torn from green grass, planted in dessert sand,
Grasping at courage, his roots the only anchor,
As terror shakes the ground on which he stands.
Willows weep, though the sky is arid,
Autumn leaves scatter as family trees sway,
Painting the sands of the hour glass crimson,
The soldier shall be planted in green grass again.

Please buy a poppy to remember their sacrifice.

He is all one of us,Serves all for with time....
And we remember them only,by murmering few lines.
He is also one of a son,Who serves for the country...
And all such sacrifice let,nation grow like a tree.

Lets think of them also,only salutes are not enough....
They serves us all boders by,either some day dont have dough.
Let be not so selfish all,We enjoy all eve with our members....
For them nation only is family,The one thing only they remember.

Lessons learned
by first the Chinese
then France
and the Unites States...

Never underestimate
unconventional units
or guerrilla warfare
supported by regular units...

Dien Bien Phu
Bernard B. Fall
called it
"Hell in a very small place"
soon after 1954
America walked the "Street without joy"

The Viet Minh
attacking satellite positions
seven in all
such names as

"Huguette"
"Claudine"
"Gabrielle"
"Beatrice"

General Giap
former school teacher
later besieged Khe Sanh
saved only by B-52 air strikes...

What men will die for
makes less sense
as time goes by...

Perhaps it is
the unspoken honor
among comrades
and brothers...

Still they soldiered on
60 years has passed
and around the world
the madness has grown...

Another poem perhaps
nothing from the Muse
and yet I feel the glimmer of thought:

As I ride the waves of time
There have been many lives
Reading the histories of the Crusades
I felt myself at the gates of Jerusalem
The excitement of victory
The sadness of slaughter and mayhem
Vague memory of a Viking drowning
in a storm unable to die in battle
of entry into Valhalla despairing
The end of the Celtic World
And the bitternsss of defeat

I shrugged off these morbid thoughts
And had recourse to lunch al fresco
A cheddar sandwich and a glass of beer
and drank to past comrades in arms.

coming out enchanting
sparkling shamrocks on
a harp playing
bewitching music
from the irish sea
from the mist of hibernia
entering a cold mystical island

a lonely teddy bear out in an ocean
dressed in her forty shades of green
her lush finery
from the land of the leprechaun
king of the fairies

tales of a land of forever young in the fianna
soldiers of the king
magical blossoms shades her beauty
classical in her name eire
modern irish emerald green
jewel of her color
arising from the land
of eternal winter

geographers strabo
pomponius melba
quoting describes a cold chilling land
inhabitated by a bunch
of wild savages
who feast on the flesh
of their dead fathers
despite the cold
the grazing was so tasty
very lush sweet
that cattle exploded fat
if allowed to eat unchecked

in a new kingdom
penunnular broach
used to fasten her shawl
son of the high king
fiacha finnfolaidh
his father was overthrown
killed in a revolt
by the king of ulster
tutathal's mother
who was daughter
of king of alba

britian at the time
because alba became
the name for scotland
later on fled to britain
with her son 20 years later
he returns to eire
defeating his father's enemies
turns in history

subduing the
entire country
he became the high king
of tara
there he conveyed
in a conference
were he established
himself law in the land

he annexed territory
for each four provinces
creating central control
in the province of meath
four fortresses where built
one for each our green fields
span an irish republic