Poetry: Sammi’s Weekender 135, barricade


Seven-twelve, Forty-one

Sunday. Blessed dullness fenced
by deceptive barricades of ocean’s
water; the sails flotilla, distant bushido,
flying samurai set to slaughter
the honor of death to a sleeping
dragon, killing two thousand and more.

Pride in death over defeated dishonor
slithers and hums into beating hearts
of heroes from hell’s kitchen to honor
as oppressed saves oppressor,
as hours of death’s destruction
delights devils with a world at war.

Zeros screamed as tora roared and
state magazines exploded when the
dragon opened one eye and a bloody
mess of shock and awe was felt
around the globe and demon war
smiled, the angel of peace died.

Two thousand young dead,
two thousand more, thousands
butchered before
the sun set in the west
to a flash of final disgusting rage,
the emperor surrendered
with a whimper laid waste.


Look both ways, to a past of shameful honor and error,
as the future plays reruns.
Mind the gaps for truth of mankind’s inhumanity.

***

Poetry: On Being a Veteran

I chose to go into the Air Force,
twice,
and to stay long enough
to eventually be told,
“your service is no longer required.”
So, with that, I promptly retired.

I joined up. Some call it served.
I’ve never been thanked for joining,
only for service,
a word with twenty meanings
as a noun,
five as a verb, and five more
as an adjective, where I fit in;
but not in the three more legal terms
nor most of the twelve listed
as kids definitions.

My service included my promise
to kill millions of them
should they undertake
to kill millions of us, as we
would both destroy more than
half the planet in the process
of a world-wide Armageddon.

My service was learning
how to do that and fully
intending to do exactly that!

It was my sworn duty to protect
and defend the Constitution, and,
as I understand it, still is because
I have not been released from
that oath, and, technically,
I’m still on the payroll.

I struggle even today with
being anti-war, but if
there is one,
I’d rather not miss it.
If a deed needs to be
done to protect and defend,
and if I’m still able, let me
stand in line to join up again,
with others, willing to kill
and maybe to die for
some vague idea which
so few of us seem
to correctly understand.

Don’t thank me
for my service,
or for your freedom,
or for any sacrifice
by my family or me.

Thank the Constitution
for that. Or, better yet,
if you can do for your
country, which is the idea,
join up in a way
that suits your person
and your conscience.

As I watch the guards, I notice they march both ways.
There are no gaps.

Poetry – Cold-war Crew-dogs

Crew sprints to B-52 on nuclear alert

thursday morning – day one

of alert. go underground.

called it changeover day.

drive to base. park. unload for the week.

stand in line – at the shack

process through a sally port.

see guns, security,

tension cut with humor,

line badges and id cards,

secret signals and voice passwords,

briefings, weather, announcements,

need to know games.

meet with leaving crew at jet.

open top-secret boxes,

review more secrets.

never be alone,

be two-man in

no-lone-zone,

always.

nukes not nonsense.

check the jet.

check the nukes.

squeeze tight

between

aerodynamic

plutonium

cylinders of death,

check dial settings

for proper

megatonnage yields.

be positive. no room for error.

more jokes. more pokes.

sign for everything.

responsibility now ours.

for each a new identity

part of crew, a sortie number.

become the job; pilot, navigator,

gunner, bombardier.

trained killers without names.

captains, lieutenants some majors.

then to a study vault. more t.s. bs.

tankers, targets, terrain.

threats.

not to think of war. insane.

crew dog. be the bomb.

refueling

recovery

repatriation

geneva rules bring

more sarcasm.

back at the shack, more

jokes, games, pool or pool,

gym, phone calls, write, study.

tv, coffee, cokes, bs,

testing, reacting, napping.

bored before noon.

no booze, no drugs, no sex.

seven days to go.

relax. no war this week,

bored is good.

always,

just

twelve

minutes

to gear-up.

hasn’t happened.

yet.

© Bill Reynolds, 7/16/2018

Look both ways to see all sides. Mind the boring gaps. Dystopia awaits.

Minimum interval takeoff as would be for nuclear war. Black smoke is result of water injection to engines for more thrust.

To watch a humorous little Youtube video about this, click here.