War and childhood (jobee's poems merged)

jobee · 30-08-2010 12:40am

Antilles wrote: »

Jobee you seem more interested in having a go at people offering suggestions than in actually taking on board their advice, so I'm ending my involvement in this thread before it gets locked.

Regardless of whether you have been published or not, if you want to grow as a poet you could do worse than listening to what people are telling you.

I'm all ears, I see no reason to lock the thread. I dont want to write like other poets no matter how well known they are.

jobee · 30-08-2010 12:51am

cobsie wrote: »

That's funny, I happen to love war fiction. I've probably read 20+ war novels, as well as celebrated WW1 poets like Wilfred Owens and Sigfried Sassoon.

One common theme is the chaos of combat, the haphazardness and confusion and fear.

Another theme is moments of small beauty given irony or poignancy against a backdrop of brutality. The soldier-protagonist in All Quiet on the Western Front is finally killed when he stands up to get a better look at a tiny bird that lands nearby.

I could write a thesis on the representations of war in literature. I could make no comment on what war is like, though.

This is where art and life intersect - your job, if you like. It is not up to me to experience war, it's up to you to share the experience.

/QUOTE]
I dont read war fiction, I like researching war fact. I do not want to write like any other poet. I want to improve my own style tho', such as, cutting stanzas out, using less words. That why i ask them to re-write, let me see how they can improve the same topic using less words.

jobee · 30-08-2010 1:04am

Field Marshall Erwin Rommel.
Iron Cross First Class.
Pour Le Merite.1891-1944

Born in Heidenheim an der Brenze,
His father he viewed with deference,
His father a teacher at the local school,
Noted for authoritarian rule.

Telling Erwin where his future would be,
Either schoolteacher or military,
Erwin selecting the warrior class,
Macho men with courage, dash.

'The Fox' was educated at Tubigen,
In 1910 he joined the military men,
As an officer cadet at Wurttenburg,
Such a meteoric rise they'd never heard.

In just six months a Sergeants rank,
All his buddies he did outflank,
12 months later a commission was his,
Showing recruits the tactical biz.

1914 he joined the Great War,
His tactical talents came to the fore,
Finding weak spots in the front line,
Stalemate he began to undermine.

The Iron Cross was his reward,
By buddies and seniors he was adored,
But defeat and ignominy the final score,
Alsace and Lorraine theirs no more.

Between wars he studied his craft,
By a man named Hitler, he was asked,
To captain his bodyguard, keep secure,
Whilst Adolph applied anti Jewish law.

When Rommels daughter Gertrud wed,
She was ask if hubby was Aryan bred,
An ardent admirer of Hitlers regime,
He believed Aryans were supreme.

After Poland’s crushing defeat,
He stood on the podium with Hitlers elite,
Rewarded, promoted, for this little stance,
A tank Division, sent to France.

With blitzkrieg tactics France soon fell,
Paris reduced to an SS hell,
Erwin’s next task, on Egyptian sand,
Victory acclaimed in the Pharoes land.

But a man named Monty turned the tide,
42' began Marshall Rommel’s slide,
Ousted from Egypt, sent to France,
Badly wounded in the allied advance.

Home for sick leave, well earned rest,
The SS ordered to make his arrest,
On Hitlers life an attempt was made,
Rommel a suspected renegade.

Ordered to die by suicide,
Hitlers wishes, he would abide,
His reputation intact, family safe,
After a national funeral he went to his grave.

JB.A coy.3 Para.

LegacyUser · 30-08-2010 3:08am

Thank you for posting Audie's wonderful works. Just a correction on his birth date. He was born in 1925,he entered the army at age 17. His sister Corrine fudged his birth certificate. That just makes in more amazing the things young Audie did in the war for almost 3 yrs from age 17-19. So much sacrifice for our freedoms. God bless him.

pickarooney · 30-08-2010 7:33am

I don't really 'do' poetry critique but if you want my honest, blunt, opinion, you should try writing one poem about something that really means something to you, and work on it until you get something you can be proud of. What you have here is basically a set of lists of facts which are made to look like poems by the use of rhyme.

If you want your poetry to have an impact on the reader, you should try focussing on one aspect of the subject and writing something meaningful about that. Try not to let the poetic structure impinge on the flow of the words. The introduction to this poem describes an eccentric individual who should be fascinating to read about, but the poem just lists off facts about his life with no real insight into the man.

jobee · 30-08-2010 7:39am

Antilles, the intro tells you about him.

The most unconventional General in the British army
during the Second World War was undoubtedly Major
General Orde Charles Wingate. His eccentricity in
matters of dress, diet, and military operations had
caused comment even before the Second World War.
Military they were not successful , therefore Wingate
can only be regarded as a pioneer in that field.

jobee · 30-08-2010 7:48am

DAWN

At first, a misty stirring light,
Dewdrops glisten, still, bright,.
The sun begins its dewy climb,
As it’s done from dawn of time,

Something stirs in the bush.
Quickly silenced, not to rush.
A misty meadow appears in view,
Bidding the silent night adieu.

Cowslips raise their sleepy heads,
Mottled sunlight slowly spreads,
Just a touch of gentle rain,
As birds begin their ancient refrain.

A young foal begins to rise,
Falling against its mothers side,
The air warms, starts its rise,
Mist disappears in a swirling glide.

The patter of rain begins to stall,
Just drips, drops, from branches fall,
By the sides of a swirling brook,
Gnats, dragonflies, feed, suck..

A gentle steam leaves horses sides,
As filtered sun their body chides,
Frolicking lambs, skip, play,
Welcoming the heat of day.

The cool of morning says goodbye,
As skylarks ascend to hover on high,
We bid goodbye to another morn,
Wait the morrows refreshing dawn.

jobee

cobsie · 30-08-2010 11:24am

jobee wrote: »

I dont read war fiction, I like researching war fact. I do not want to write like any other poet. I want to improve my own style tho', such as, cutting stanzas out, using less words. That why i ask them to re-write, let me see how they can improve the same topic using less words.

Wilfred Owen: a stanza from of one of his famous poems...

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

Can you see how Owen takes the facts of war and brings them to life? An overview of historical fact set to rhyme is not the same as writing a real poem.

Anyway, good luck with it. I've got my own work to do!

jobee · 30-08-2010 12:30pm

cobsie wrote: »

Wilfred Owen: a stanza from of one of his famous poems...

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

Can you see how Owen takes the facts of war and brings them to life? An overview of historical fact set to rhyme is not the same as writing a real poem.

Anyway, good luck with it. I've got my own work to do!

He was very good, and only 21 when he died.

My battle field poetry is under Attack on this site.

I do not want to emulate Owen.

jobee · 30-08-2010 12:38pm

cobsie wrote: »

Wilfred Owen: a stanza from of one of his famous poems...

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

Can you see how Owen takes the facts of war and brings them to life? An overview of historical fact set to rhyme is not the same as writing a real poem.

Anyway, good luck with it. I've got my own work to do!

The whole is even better.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST1

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest3 began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots4
Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.

Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .
Dim, through the misty panes10 and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering,11 choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud12
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13
To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.15

The Mad Hatter · 30-08-2010 1:20pm

Removed, 'cause it was kind of stupid.

jobee · 30-08-2010 1:31pm

PRO PATRIA.

In far off lands, out of sight,
men still fight for what is right,
give their lives to sought things out,
lose their limbs, writhe, shout.

Called up men were forced to fight,
to bite the bullet, not take flight,
glad to see that call ups gone,
but spiteful wars still drag on.

Those called up lads are old, some gone,
some nerves still shattered by shell, bomb,
the fist of government we did our best,
still no medal clasps our chest.

Britain’s small wars are ignored,
as long as government is assured,
men will face the gun, die!
no one hears their widows cry.

For many years we have asked,
some small medal you give at last,
so as our children, and theirs too,
know their kin fought good, true....jobee 3 para.03.

pickarooney · 30-08-2010 1:48pm

This is easily the best of your poems that I've read.

jobee · 30-08-2010 2:06pm

pickarooney wrote: »

This is easily the best of your poems that I've read.

Thanks pick, it keeps me going.

jobee · 31-08-2010 8:58am

The ground awash with dying leaves,
as dismissive, sleepy, wearisome trees,
cast them off to flutter down,
die unwanted on autumn ground.

Cold, cheerless, the autumn air,
offers nothing to help or care,
huddled together as if for cheer,
but spiteful winds divide, clear.

All the browns, ochre’s too,
nature's carpet open to view,
every single shade of green,
as nature's palette reigns supreme.

Twigs, branches strewn around,
Magpies search, probe the ground,
foxes peek, search, inquire,
approach, stop, as if to admire.

Cautiously taking a guarded stance,
ever fearful of man's violence,
The sky above cold, blue,
clouds mixed in a grey white hue.

And then to man I next inquire,
as extra warmth he does require,
all wrapped up in jumpers new.
fearing colds, chills anew.

Then the autumn day is done,
giving way to nights kingdom,
a chilly cold watery sky.
watches nature's foliage die.

John Bishop
Copyright © - John Bishop - All rights reserved
jobee

jobee · 31-08-2010 3:25pm

by jobee

Korean War
Awards Army Distinguished Service Medal
Navy Distinguished Service Medal
Silver Star
Legion of Merit
Bronze Star
Mexican Border Service
Knight Commander of the British Empire
Order of Polonia Restituta
Presidential Medal of Freedom
Order of Suvorov
Order of Kutuzov

Omar Bradley

Omar Nelson Bradley KCB (February 12, 1893 – April 8, 1981) was one of the main U.S. Army field commanders in North Africa and Europe during World War II and a General of the Army in the United States Army. He was the last surviving five-star commissioned officer of the United States. He was the first officer assigned to the post of Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Omar's father a teacher by trade,
A young pupil he made his fair maid,
Marrying , then settling down,
Clark, Missouri, his adopted town.

The Bradley's were quiet, content,
1893 saw a special event,
A boy was born they named Omar,
The baby destined to travel far.

When Omar was 14, his father would die,
Just a moment, to sit, sigh,
His mother a seamstress, not well to do,
Taking in boarders to see them through.

Working hard, collecting rent,
Eventually, to West Point, Omar she sent,
Omar was interested, devoted, keen,
Graduated easily in 1915.

The rank of Major quickly attained,
A teachers manner, quietly restrained,
The First World War came, went,
Omar missing this tragic event.

In '29 at Fort Benning he trained,
Infantrymen, their respect he gained,
Modest, quiet, a regular guy,
Subdued, aloof, publicity shy.

In 41 a Brig. Generals position.
Preparing to deal with axis opposition,
Pearl Harbours attack, caused a fright,
But the U.S. braced, ready to fight.

But Omar wasn’t heading this way,
Ike called him to Europe’s fray,
As Ike’s advisor on N. African sand,
Omar prepared for combat command.

At the Kesserine Pass Gen. Fredenall failed,
Omar advised, Gen.Patton be hailed,
Ike took the advice, Fredenall went,
Never recovering from this tragic event.

Whilst Patton was planning the Sicilian Campaign,
Omar took over the 2nd Corps rein,
Heading north to the town of Bizert,
Omar was King in this scorching desert.

At the Casablanca conference the big boys agreed,
Sicily next, would be made to concede,
On Sicilian land Omar made his name,
The ‘Soldiers General', lasting fame.

The Normandy landings the next big task,
Were Ike, Monty, Omar were ask,
To push the Germans out of France,
Over the Rhine to break their stance.

A million men Omar eventually ran,
All but Ike he eventually outran,
Take your time, easy as you go,
A nice little climb from a log cabin in Mo.

Jb el gamil club©©---- Mo. Missouri.

Omar was made Chief of Staff , eventually.
jobee

Black Heart · 31-08-2010 9:17pm

Interesting poem. The one issue I have is the mention of winter in the fourth line of the first stanza. It's probably because I see autumn and winter as very different, so it threw me off.

jobee · 01-09-2010 7:25am

Black Heart wrote: »

Interesting poem. The one issue I have is the mention of winter in the fourth line of the first stanza. It's probably because I see autumn and winter as very different, so it threw me off.

Thanks for the constructive criticism. I always associate Autumn with the approach of winter, each to his own.

jobee · 01-09-2010 9:43am

Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery.
London 1887-1976.Hampshire.

His father a Bishop with prayer in mind,
But Monty's thoughts were war inclined,
Different they were as chalk, cheese,
With driving ambition, ways to succeed.

St Paul’s in London- Monty's chosen school,
Impish, playful, but nobodies fool,
Sandhurst academy he eventually went.
The Warwick’s Reg. he began his ascent

Off to India to assist the Raj,
His five years there he didn't enlarge,
1914 he returned to these shores,
Eagerly entering Europe's wars.

Badly wounded in a machine gun tirade.
A young medic came to his aide,
A snipers bullet hit the medics head,
Falling on Monty, instantly dead.

The young medic Monty claimed,
Saved his life as the sniper aimed,
Two years in hospital Monty spent,
Then returned to this ghastly event.

Surviving this war with great valour,
He then addressed the Second World War,
On Dunkirk beaches on the retreat,
To blitzkrieg tactics he conceded defeat.

Learning from this traumatic event,
To African deserts he next was sent,
A man named Rommel was in command,
Ruling the roost in this desert land.

Methodically assembling all he could get,
Leaving nothing to chance, with this little bet,
With set piece tactics, classical war,
He relieved Gen.Rommel of his African tour.

Now the world looked with the greatest of awe,
Not one more battle would he lose in this war,
Like Wellington before him he had found,
His own ideas were most profound.

Alas on D Day he was not selected,
Although on all sides most respected,
The great American Eisenhower,
Was elected to lead this finest hour.

After the war he settled down.
Not to far from a Hampshire town,
He bought a mill on the river Wey,
In Binstead churchyard his body does lay.

JB. A Coy 3 para.55/57.

jobee · 01-09-2010 9:21pm

Ira Hamilton Hayes (January 12, 1923 – January 24, 1955) was an Akimel O'odham, or Pima Native American, and an enrolled member of the Gila River Indian Community. A veteran of World War II 's Battle of Iwo Jima, Hayes was trained as a Paramarine in the United States Marine Corps (USMC), and became one of five Marines, along with a United States Navy corpsman, immortalized in the iconic photograph of the flag raising on Iwo Jima.

1923

1955.

Nancy and Jobe gave birth to a son
a true American from the Pima kingdom
the first of eight was shy, reserved
quiet, solemn, a man of few words

his mother Nancy a woman of God
Presbytarian doctrines not sparing the rod
to Pheonix school he eventually went
till zeros attacked, tempers vent

this spurred young Ira to quit his school
America made to look a fool
his tribe approved his will to fight
he packed his bags, took the next flight

to the Marine hq. he reported next
passed his medical and initative test
fit as a fiddle ,ready to go
this Pima Indian was ready to show

into training with zeal, zest
his wily frame passing the test
paratroop wings he had in mind
exuding courage of a special kind

his wings he got, no problem at all
chief Falling Cloud stood proud, tall
the South Pacific his next port of call
where Japanese soldiers were standing tall

Iwo Jima was the next acid test
where men would clash to see who was best
the dying game became common call
but American troops again stood tall

on Mount Suribachi they raised their flag
from that moment on Ira began to sag
dont make me a hero because of this
many of my buddies I’m starting to miss

but hero they made him against his will
the moment he scrambled down the hill
President Truman he met for a pat on the back
but Ira's mind was on Iwo Jimas attack

his conscience eventually beat him down
he loathed, detested the heros crown
demon drink consumed his mind
changing his character, an insipid kind

in ‘55 not far from his home
Ira Hayes made his last pleafull moan
they found him dead in a rainy street
this gutsy soldier had beat a retreat

but even dead the public cried
another American hero has died
amongst the great his body does lie
at Arlington Cemetary they said goodbye.
jobee

cobsie · 02-09-2010 12:52am

Rommel, you magnificent bastard! I read your book!!

(Gen George Patton, aka George C. Scott)

Jobee, I'm just going to come right out and say it: Has it ever occurred to you that your celebration in rhyming couplets of heroes of the British Empire (and to a lesser extent, the Raj and wartime America) are not placed in their best context on an Irish forum?

My comment has less to do with nationalism and much more to do with the fact that I don't accept the starting premise of your poetry - these men are heroes.

Where is the anger at the waste and futility of war? Where is the acknowledgement of other viewpoints, those upon whom war is waged, upon whom Empire is brought to bear? The Indians of the Raj, the Egyptians of the Suez Canal crisis, the Native Americans pressured into service without the privileges of citizenship in return? There is no complexity of viewpoint here and that makes them shallow.

I expect a vitriolic defence from you, but it doesn't matter. I am your reader, like it or not. I am reading these poems, one by one, and I do not like them.

davyjose · 02-09-2010 12:52am

I'm very impressed by this. What inspired you to write about someone who would, to most people, seem obscure?

I like the rhyming pattern. Intended or not, it jars against the theme of the poem. I also love how you spend little more than a few lines on the actual events that made hima hero, instead focussing on the man himself.

A truly wonderful piece, well done.

jobee · 02-09-2010 9:07am

davyjose wrote: »

I'm very impressed by this. What inspired you to write about someone who would, to most people, seem obscure?

I like the rhyming pattern. Intended or not, it jars against the theme of the poem. I also love how you spend little more than a few lines on the actual events that made hima hero, instead focussing on the man himself.

A truly wonderful piece, well done.

Ira Hayes wanted to remain obscure. I've been to war, there is nothing glorious about the battle field.

We must stop glorifying war.

Audie Murphy spent most of his life on Prozac type drugs after his war experiences.

The Church gives soldiers 'special' type funerals, they too glorify war.

I was raised thinking all military men were glorious/glamorous.

I now think war should be played down.

My writings reflect what actually happened, that doesn't mean I don't want a change of attitude

by the establishment and newspapers. just me.

jobee · 02-09-2010 9:36am

cobsie wrote: »

Rommel, you magnificent bastard! I read your book!!

(Gen George Patton, aka George C. Scott)

Jobee, I'm just going to come right out and say it: Has it ever occurred to you that your celebration in rhyming couplets of heroes of the British Empire (and to a lesser extent, the Raj and wartime America) are not placed in their best context on an Irish forum?

My comment has less to do with nationalism and much more to do with the fact that I don't accept the starting premise of your poetry - these men are heroes.

Where is the anger at the waste and futility of war? Where is the acknowledgement of other viewpoints, those upon whom war is waged, upon whom Empire is brought to bear? The Indians of the Raj, the Egyptians of the Suez Canal crisis, the Native Americans pressured into service without the privileges of citizenship in return? There is no complexity of viewpoint here and that makes them shallow.

I expect a vitriolic defence from you, but it doesn't matter. I am your reader, like it or not. I am reading these poems, one by one, and I do not like them.

I was in the army, thousand of men from the Irish Republic serve in
the British armed forces and always did.

I was raised to think all soldiers were glorious.

My poems reflect what actually happened.

I now think war should be played down. Its still glorified by the church.

Special funerals for soldiers killed, the church cashes in on war.

Many Catholics serve in the armed forces world wide-'volunteering' to kill

anywhere Governments send them to kill. What happened to 'Thou shall not

not kill' [Deuteronomy] The Pope says nothing. ALL senior Prelates say

nothing. Will you open your mind to what is going on?

Johnny Cash.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdNV9JX-Xi8

jobee · 02-09-2010 3:30pm

I thought of you again today
did you host some small soiree
I feel you are amongst your friends
unless of course my mind transcends

occasionally I get like this
the precincts of my mind dismiss
any thoughts that you are down
tears beget that puzzled frown

I think of all the lovely things
meeting you, warm feelings
Northampton town on our first date
how cool you looked, so sedate

the library another day
how simple was that T.M.A.
when you ask me to assist
a gesture I could not resist

that classy two piece suit you wore
not anybodies paramour
lovely tussled flaxen hair
aloof, remote, debonair

my eyes beheld a wondrous sight
to me you felt exactly right
this ambience of country life
rustical, free of strife

o well, i’ve got my mind back now
I don’t think you will mind somehow
my sincerity when I say
I thought of you again today

jobee

jobee · 02-09-2010 4:16pm

Thank you Tom.

jobee · 03-09-2010 10:16am

General George .S. Patton.
1885-1945

Mexico, The Great War, The Second One two,
Warrior enthusiasm came shining though,
A fervent belief that life goes on,
Dying in battle not your swan song.

His father a lawyer a Virginia man,
His mother a Southern Californian,
In California Patton was born,
In 1885 he gave his first yawn.

A fanatical student of tactical war,
All the great soldiers he studied with awe,
Dyslexia didn't stop him learning the lot,
Enthusiasm overcoming what nature forgot.

A leader must be acclaimed by one, all,
Victorious, glorious, standing tall,
A little shy by nature, somewhat withdrawn,
But the battlefield he advanced with pistols drawn,

Off the front foot every time,
After Pancho Villa he started his climb,
But Pancho was an artist at hide, seek,
Chances of capture extremely bleak.

The First World War he next addressed,
Where tank tactics he quickly assessed,
Into battle with his own command,
Walking then riding across open land.

Old Blood and Guts became his name,
With disciplined tactics he rose to fame,
Wounded badly in the field that day,
Stretcher men took him to the medical bay.

But victory it was his tanks attained,
As hero of the tanks the press acclaimed,
Not long after the war came to its end,
In peaceful years more knowledge he gained.

But a longing for war his thoughts retained,
Glory in action his motifs were aimed,
Disappointed by peaceful times,
He thought his career was in decline.

But shortly after Pearl Harbours attack,
Germans, Italians, made a pact,
Declaring war on the USA,
Regretting it bitterly one fine day.

So Operation Torch came about,
Fedala and Morocco put to rout,
The Vichy French conceding defeat,
Pattons ambitions becoming complete.

After Fredendall's mess at the Kasserine Pass,
Another star he was to flash,
A three star General he had become,
A life times ambition nearly done.

From Bastoigne to Berlin like a man possessed,
The German army he most surely addressed,
Eventually getting the top rank he deserved,
A place in history most surely reserved.

A motoring accident in '45
His weakened body could not survive,
Buried at Hamm in Luxembourg,
A greater General you've never heard.

Jobee El Gamil Group Club© Aldershot

jobee · 03-09-2010 10:28pm

Col. James Stewart-pilot-actor.

1908-1997
DFC.Croix De Guerre
Air Medal with Oak Leaves.
Brig. General retired

Indiana the place of his birth
extremely modest down to earth
tall, gangling, smooth, cool
speech affected by a halting drawl

a degree in architecture he gained with ease
but the great depression started to squeeze
so off to Hollywood, not to sure
if his amateur talent would mature

but acting he mastered with the greatest of ease
the camera, audience, were easy to please
his honest character came shining through
in one year just, he was head of the queue.

the rumblings of war were heard afar
stirred the conscience of this superstar
he volunteered, quick as a flash
the recruiting office he made a dash

at the Army Air Corps training base
flying talents were honed apace
an agile mind, quick to learn
a commission, wings, he was to earn.

training pilots he took for a while
but training really was not his style
In '43 to England he went
to Tibenham in Norfolk his talents were sent

with the rank of Captain, his own command
they commenced to bomb Adolph Hitlers land
success, promotion, came his way
by clever decisions in the heat of fray.

with the rank of Colonel and Chief of Staff
the town of Brunswick he commenced to trash
another success with him in command
a nail in the coffin for Hitler’s land

shortly after he left the war
he'd done his best to settle the score
modest to the end about his success.
his achievements in war he did not address.

James Stewart made 78 films.
the first .Murder Man
the last The magic of Lassie
he won an Oscar for The Philadelphia story
jobee

jobee · 04-09-2010 9:47pm

Brief Encounter

An uneasy glance across the room, a second glance none to soon
she’s looking at me that’s for sure, she’s very smart with much allure
the guys she's with seems to care, his arm around a waist that's bare
she turns him with his back to me, her eyes just say she can be free

An uneasy wriggle in my seat, where, when, can we meet
who is she then, what her name? I sure enjoy this flirting game
I reach the bar, get a drink, then ask the barmen" who's that in pink" ?
he shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, "I haven’t a clue who she can be"

I’m heading back to my seat, her lovely perfume my nostrils meet
I think he's twigged it I saw him glance, our sly glances spoiling the chance
he then heads her to the door, she gives that look, "what’s this for"?
my stomach sinks, we've lost our chance, a brief encounter has no romance.

jobee

baalthor · 05-09-2010 1:44am

I think you should stop writing poems about war heroes and focus on writing about people and situations of which you have personal experience.

I think you have a real talent for the latter kind while the "war poems" have the emotional depth of "Jack and Jill went up the hill". The exception is the one about Sepp Dietrich where the first two verses are maybe based on someone you know from real life?

War and childhood (jobee's poems merged)

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