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Bomber Command Poem

Bomber Command Poem

The nose section from Ex-RAAF Lancaster ‘Old Fred’ being discussed by modern suits at the Imperial War Museum, Lambeth. James Kightly.For me, the poem sums up some of the diversity of the contribution from within the UK and outside. Although titled ‘Lancasters’ it stands well, I think, for all of the Command and the crews of the less well remembered types. Found in Martin Bowman’s excellent ‘The Royal Air Force at War‘.

Lancasters
Where are the bombers, the Lancs on the runways,
Snub-nosed and roaring and black-faced and dour,
Full up with aircrew and window and ammo
And dirty great cookies to drop on the Ruhr?

Where are the pilots, the navs and air-gunners,
WOP’s and bomb-aimers and flight engineers,
Lads who were bank clerks and milkmen and teachers,
Carpenters, lawyers, and grocers and peers?

Geordies and Cockneys and Wiltshire moon-rakers,
Little dark men from the valleys of Wales,
Manxmen, Devonians, Midlanders, Scouses,
Jocks from the Highlands and Tykes from the Dales?

Where are the Aussies, the sports and the cobbers,
Talking of cricket and sheilas and grog,
Flying their Lanes over Hamburg and Stettin
And back to the Lincolnshire wintertime bog?

Where are the flyers from Canada’s prairies,
From cities and forests, determined to win,
Thumbing their noses at Goering’s Luftwaffe
And busily dropping their bombs on Berlin?

A reenactor in the RAF’s airworthy Lancaster PA474 seen in 2003 at the Royal International Air Tattoo. James Kightly.Where are the Poles with their gaiety and sadness,
All with the most unpronounceable names,
Silently, ruthlessly flying in vengeance,
Remembering their homes and their country in flames?
Where arc the Kiwis who left all the sunshine
For bleak windy airfields and fenland and dyke,
Playing wild Mess clinics like high cockalorum,
And knocking the Hell out of Hitler’s Third Reich?

Where are the Poles with their gaiety and sadness,
All with the most unpronounceable names,
Silently, ruthlessly flying in vengeance,
Remembering their homes and their country in flames?

Where arc the Kiwis who left all the sunshine
For bleak windy airfields and fenland and dyke,
Playing wild Mess clinics like high cockalorum,
And knocking the Hell out of Hitler’s Third Reich?

Where are they now, those young men of all nations,
Who flew though they knew not what might lie ahead,
And those who returned with their mission accomplished
And next night would beat up the Saracen’s Head?

The Lancs are no more, they are part of legend,
But memory stays bright in the hearts of the men
Who loved them and flew them through flak and through hellfire
And, managed to land them in England, again.

The men who were lucky to live to see victory,
The men who went home to their jobs and their wives,
The men who can tell their grandchildren with pride
Of the bomber which helped to save millions of lives.

Audrey Grealy

Lancaster G for George at the Australian War Memorial. James Kightly.

Audrey is the widow of an RAF pilot, and while the poem may not achieve greatness as a poem for some, the reason for its creation is more than good enough for me

Poem – On Lancaster Bombers

Lancaster617

 

 Poem – On Lancaster Bombers

on lancaster bombers

there are gunner turrets

this is where gunners live

occasionally the gunner

gets to protect the plane

the plane does’nt care

and the gunner is expendable

gunners can’t work effectively

when 12 people are talking to them

hence turrets

they are hard to get into

they are exposed

many of the basic human needs are absent

a turret is a fairly decent place to write poetry

all things considered

so don’t bother me when I’m in the turret

dear

the plane will thank you

later

A new poem from John Challis – Accident Hotspot

avatar

John Challis is a poet, producer and editor. He was born in London in 1984 and is currently working on a first collection of poetry. In 2010 he was gained an award to study for an MA in Creative Writing at Newcastle University. Since then John has started a PhD in Creative Writing at Newcastle University on contemporary poetry and Film Noir, and now works as a teaching associate. He was awarded a Northern Promise Award from New Writing North in 2012 to help develop his first collection.

I recently saw John read at Blackwells bookshop in Sheffield and was struck by the clarity and concision of his poetry. John kindly agreed to send some poems
and generously sent ‘Accident Hotspot’ which is  previously unpublished.

John’s poems have appeared in The Rialto, Clinic II, Lung Jazz: Young British Poets For Oxfam (Cinnamon , 2012). John also edits NCLA’s online journal of Creative Writing, Friction Magazine, and is the director of the Newcastle based live literature, theatre and music events company, Trashed Organ

 

Accident Hotspot
Our bodies, central to this evening’s action,
are lit by streaks of rain.

The radio strains to hear its voice
under this guttural chorus.

We brave the road the dark has taken,
whittle a lane with our headlights.

We yawn past sleepers on the shoulder,
having met their mile quotas,

and when the headlights appear
behind us, and use our mirrors

to blind us, the impatient will pass,
stretching the fabric of the dark;

the dark speaks back with sirens.
Everything slows to a curve of brake-

lights glowing beneath the flood.
In the window the phosphorus smudge

of a fluorescent accident worker
is mining a car from the water.by

 roymarshall

An early start

bird in tree

I woke early in the morning and nothing could be heard

But as I listened carefully I could hear the singing of a bird

It was the early morning chorus bidding welcome to the day

And listening to its singing that bird was heard to say 

Wake up, wake up everybody the sun is on its way

Daylight will soon be breaking, prepare to meet the day

Don’t lie in bed a’sleepnig, when there is so much to do

Rise early in the morning, take the opportunities life gives to you

They won’t last forever, they will quickly pass away

The time is ripe to take them at the beginning of the day

If you miss these opportunities it could bring sadness to your heart

So take example from the birds and make an early start

RON MARTIN

Read more: http://www.thisisnottingham.co.uk/poems/story-18502990-detail/story.html?oo=10001014#ixzz2OSvWYoWr
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New Moon Poem – Promote Yourself

rocketrocketrocket

A tongue of wine curls in slow-motion against the side of a cup.
Aldrin has checked with Armstrong; there is time, time enough
for Communion. He reads from the book of John.
They start to suit up.

“Locks are checked. Blue locks
checked. Lock-locks, red locks, purge locks.”

Oxygen circulates in the tubes of their suits.
There’s silence in a barroom, the flickering screen
a window on a dream. One of six hundred million
Jim holds a cold Bud,
thinks of Nevada desert painted white

as the roof-fan spins and the door of the module swings open.
Diane the waitress rests her chin in her hand
as the snowman climbs onto the ladder.
Wisps of Eagle’s atmosphere rush into the vacuum,
become particles of ice.

Janice and Kris cook up in a spoon.
They’ll come down tomorrow
when it’s done, when rocks and dust
are bagged and tagged.

Kids crayoned rockets are stuck
to classroom walls. Gold-plated visors
reflect unfiltered rays
while Bob is running to a grocery store.
Marie’s says she’s out of diapers
and B.J needs a change.
He buys a pack of Oreos and some Lucky Strikes
as Armstrong bounces on the last rung,
testing to see if he can get back up.

Amphetamine sweat on Nixon’s lip.
In Harpersville a fly is landing
on the back of grandma’s cotton-roughened hand.
Beyond a roll of chicken wire
and a Dodge truck on blocks
a little girl stands on tip-toe
to peer at white ghosts.

One takes off on a slow jog, each stride
launching him into black, suspended on a ballistic arc.
The war is not suspended. Death is not
suspended. GI’s are listening in the jungle.
On death row they listen to the radio.
The little girl’s brother listens in Vietnam

where death is not suspended
as Aldrin hangs mid-stride and lands,
his boot sending a spray of powder
into the Sea of Tranquillity.

by Roy  Marshall

A visit from st Nicholas – Your Favourite poem

st-nicholas-mag-1916

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

Attributed to Clement Clark Moore 1823

Probably written by

Major Henry Livingston 1808

Soldiers’ Christmas

soliders christmas

Soldiers’ Christmas

Creeping through the silent night,
Things that move are things of fright,
Sleighbells never ringing now
Angels seldom singing, now
Nothing comes to make their season bright.(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers’ love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember … their gift forevermore.Helicopters – guns and tanks
Moving now in guarded ranks,
Not a bit of Christmas cheer
That must wait ’til Home next year,
Since their only present is your “Thanks.”(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers’ love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember … their gift forevermore.

Now with many flags unfurled
Boys and girls from ’round the world
Lift their voices – battle cry
Bound to win or bound to die
Brave young heroes all – to chaos hurled.

(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers’ love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember … their gift forevermore.

Here at home with Christmas cheer
In this fun time of the year,
Let’s pause a bit from what we’ve planned,
Singing songs – with praises … and
Send a loving hug to soldiers dear.

(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers’ love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember … their gift forevermore.

Christmas Poem

Our soldiers know exactly what it is like to be serving so far away from home and thinking about you on Christmas Day (and every other day). Your letters and care packages mean so very much to them. Many of them are in Iraq and Afghanistan where life is waiting for the next gun shot or explosion. Many others are in support postings elsewhere. I have a friend serving in a German hospital where her patients are wounded soldiers from the war zones. She has a deep need to know that you care about her. They all do!

A different Christmas poem

 
 
 
A Different Christmas Poem
 
The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.
The sound wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn’t quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold..
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.
“What are you doing?” I asked without fear,
“Come in this moment, its freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!”
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..
To the window that danced with a warm fire’s light
Then he sighed and he said “It’s really all right, 

I’m out here by choice. I’m here every night.” 
“It’s my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at ‘ Pearl on a day in December,”
Then he sighed, “That’s a Christmas ‘Gram always remembers.
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ‘ Nam ‘,
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.
I’ve not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he’s sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue… an American flag.
I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.
I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall.”
“So go back inside,” he said, “harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I’ll be all right.”
“But isn’t there something I can do, at the least,
“Give you money,” I asked, “or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you’ve done,
For being away from your wife and your son.
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
“Just tell us you love us, and never forget…
To fight for our rights back at home while we’re gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.
Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.”

PLEASE, Would you do me the kind favor of sending this to as many people as you can? Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our U.S.service men and women for our being able to celebrate these festivities.  Let’s try in this small way to pay a tiny bit of what we owe. Make people stop and think of our heroes, living and dead, who sacrificed themselves for us.

Into the west

golden ship
When will this toil end?
Must I remain affixed to this mortal coil by silver thread?
I long to climb aboard a golden ship and sail
Into the western sky 
 
Over the rainbow where years of dread
No longer hold power to bow my head
I’ll sail away in my ship of gold
Where sadness is nothing but a story once told
 
Descend once there into fields of green
Laced round and round by lively streams
Land there to till, and good work to do
A pub there is too for a fire and brew
 
No more deadlines to meet or diesel to breathe
No cold winter chill to bite through my sleeves
Just sun, and rain, and the scent of the sea,
Good friends to hold dear whom I’ve long wished to see
 
Beyond the horizon I so long to go
Over the rainbow, far past the snow
I long to leave these dark-lit shores
And sail the western sky

Sent from my iPhone

CreAtivity

 

faces

 

If i wanted to be a lion and hang as tall as a tree i could, but that would be irrelevant can’t you see
I am a man, a wo-MAN, a fe-MALE so that would make us one … am i right?
I may not be a girl i may not be a boy i may just be a being living in a world
What is creativity if you look inside and see its understanding your subconscious self and questioning your reality
If we are made in God’s image and all Religions say God is creator then we are also creators, projecting our inner light called “creativity”
We can’t all be painters the world would be ugly! But we can all be creative and express ourselves individually
One colour on a pallet will make the plain paper look dry, but many colours on the paper will create a story of why?
Not wanting to be yourself will erase your story, paintings and more colours will manifest your glory
Beauty is individuality so express it and be proud even if others don’t like it at least you stand out from the crowd

Debby

Constant Pain – Promote Yourself

 

pian life

 

 

 

 

 

which is always there with me

There is absolutely no gain

In pretending what others want you to be

May be the pain will fizzle out

but I will miss its presence

Among all these self doubts

Constant pain is my life’s essence

Gaurab   Country : India

Blog : http://processingthelife.com/about/

About : I like travelling and photography. I’m an avid reader, I also write,mostly about my experiences and journeys. 🙂

A Western Australian Piano Graveyard

sheeppppppppppppp

The famer’s pressing oil, olives spread
on mashing mats. We talk of chooks
and foxes, irrigation and bush fires.

I’m here to see ruins in meadows,
on outcrops, brought from sheds
and yards, lashed to utes and trucks.

“All good things return to earth.”
She tells how a choral hum is raised
by strong wind, how possums nest in felt

and termites engineer collapse; how once
after rain, a derelict played like a pianola
as green tree frogs leapt in its heart.

I take her hand-drawn map, find
a Gold Rush era upright, laminate
blistered, keys jammed and gapped.

Despite its barroom look
a brass plaque by the keyboard
names an outback orphanage.

A Foley artist’s dream, felt-less hammers
conjure horror from bass notes, or tap
a level crossing where the hero speeds

to make the gate. Each instrument
decays uniquely; a baby grand is legless,
veneer turned peeled like cherry bark.

Under cracked coffin-gloss
a clutch of white eggs.

by Roy Marshall

A PLACE WHERE LOVE BEGINS – Promote Yourself

reachingxxxxxx

Not in the past where your tempests raged;
Or in the future, when unknown forces could shatter dreams;
Not in your soul, skewered by hatred and resentment;
Only in the present, as an open heart awaits.

Not by running from what is given;
Or hiding in bitterness and acrid thoughts;
Not in your head, where too many goals are left unfulfilled;
Only in hope, not beyond your reach.

Not in innocence lost or violence found;
Or misguided battles, conflicts unresolved;
Not in your body, ravaged with time and pain;
Only in forgiveness of yourself.

Not in others’ perceptions of who you are;
Or finding reasons to run from promise;
Not in your losses, though hard to bear;
Only in taking her hand; reaching for the sun.

Wendy Shreve

I still miss you – promote Yourself

 

trexxx

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are days,
When I miss you
With a sudden intensity
Which surprises me.

It aches, in a way I didn’t deem possible,
In a heart, I didn’t know I possessed.
And I lie in this room feigning sleep.
Pining away, struggling with my existence.
While I choke from these strange arms enveloping me.

Should I strive, in vain, for you, most divine?
Or should I instead, be miserably content with what’s mine?

– Sreshtha Sen
sreshthasen.wordpress.com

Wrong – Promote Yourself

 

paintxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everything in this world is not color correspondent.
Like people.
Pink does not always mean female,
Blue does not always mean male.
Rainbows are not enslaved to queer folk.
This trinary only applies to things that are not complex enough for spectrums or intersectionalities.
Contrary to popular belief, gender is not pink or blue or vice versa.
Gender is a spectrum, mixed with complimentary colors.
Not a grey scale from light femininity to darkened masculinity.
New colors are made everyday by mixing, and extracting personal characteristics.
THE ARTIST IS THE ONLY ONE THAT CAN NAME THEIR COLOR.
Although too many people think they’ve discovered all of the colors, just because they’ve looked in their medicine cabinets.
Just because they’ve seen the outside world, they think they know the colors.

If I ever decided to have off-spring, their nursery will be painted in all custom colors:
To my queer child
Darling, do not allow your mind to dictate you.
Inside influences will tell you that you aren’t allow to exist.
Do not listen to them like I almost did.
Ignore the colors around you.
Instead of a gun, take a pen to your hand, and let your heart pour bullets to the page.
Write the synopia red-morbid things, write about the black olive world around you, write what goes through your minds.
Never conform to the point of dysphoria.
It only results in displaced self-loathing.
I feel that it’s only a matter of time before your Carolina-blue tears waterfall over your pillow.
Your rapids will sweep you away into a world of shades you’ve never seen before.
Don’t stop here, you will find your self stuck cycling somewhere that makes you feel like a stranger.
But just remember to find the colors that make you feel good.

______
Also, I have more poems at bucketsaurusrex.wordpress.com

ALL FACETS – Promote Yourself

hugsxxxxxxxxxxxx

I’m trying to attach
Meaning to you like a door with no latch
Or me without you on my mind, how can I explain that

                                                                           I’ll

always love you no
matter your issues
I’ll hug & kiss you
comfort with soft tissues

What

Other words can I say or you to me
When you’re the epidemy
of where love should be
Cause there’s never any riddle to be solved
I know where my heart truly belongs

I

Smile out loud
How can that be…well you’ve shown me how
With all facets of your beauty that I want now
I write,you read as it all comes out
My pen turns us singular into a noun

One

picture & thought with no sound
With many years of internal feelings written down
just thinking about you on my sofa
typing away wishing that you were closer
written from my feelings for you in my mental folder
as i cater to your emotions till the night is over

Lino Robles

ART OF HUMAN NATURE – Promote Yourself

shadowglowxxxxxxx

Smooth surface;
Water-chiseled
Stone with curves of
Henry Moore,
In a stream.
 
Girl stricken,
Taking her legs
But not her heart;
Andrew Wyeth,
In the field.
 
Black & white figures;
Modern day
Rockwell;
Banksy.
On concrete canvases.

Chiseled names
In blackness;
Sunlight &shade
Reveal lives past;
Maya Lin,
On the grass.

Women of texture;
Ordinary scenes,
Superlative color;
Romare Bearden,
By a tree.
 
Mother, child; boat;
Strokes of light & shadow;
Mary Cassatt,
On the water.

Murals of
Bracing colors;
Struggles for dignity;
Diego Rivera
Beyond the breadth.

Palette stream
In cataclysmic ash;
Framing“Scream;”
Edvard Munch,
In the sky.

 Wendy Shreve

A mate is true

 

 

Yesterday I did a poem about how my grandmother would’ve worked in the isolation of the country of South Australia. I never knew my grandfather but having known my father as a true person I can only imagine my  grandfather. I gave thought to my Dad’s brothers and the legend of the men from the early years of the country. I hoped he would’ve been true to his mates.

 
He would have learned the mateship oath
Along a railway gangers camp
From Broken Hill to Adelaide
The mateship oath in good times
And out of work

The oath from town to town
And by the billabong
The oath no matter what
A mate is true
He can do no wrong

A mate respects his mate
No matter what
Sharing in all kinds of weather
A mate can do no wrong
Along a railway gangers camp
From Broken Hill to Adelaide

No matter what
Sharing in all kinds of weather
A mate can do no wrong
There may be bitter words between mates
At times

But when he is away or passed on
A mate is loyal to a mates memory
No matter what

Posted on July 16, 2013 by 

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