Father was trained in the army by WWI veterans. Many of his poems cover that period.
The Convent of the Guns
The Daily Maroon
Oct 18, 1828
Our clean curved mouths are cold and dead.
Our polished skin is marred.
Our tawny thighs are thick with dirt,
Dinted, cut, and scarred;
Our day is done! But once!
Our open mouths blazed Deaths’ caress
Our tongues with steel were tipped!
Ah! Bitter spinsters were we then
As we slashed and cut and ripped;
Our youth was filled with lovers
All laughing, joyous boys
Who stroked our slim, proud beauty
Their latest, deadly toys.
Then clean and fresh and polished
We went forth with the Dead
The living, lovely happy lads
Whose last touch, dyed us red.
But supplanted like all harlots
By the newer fresher one
We turned to rest and quiet
As our kind have always done,
With a printed tag about our throats
To inform our lovers’ sons
We’re an Ordanance Exhibition
The Convent of the Guns!
El Tigre.
The Zero Hour
Daily Maroon - Nov 2, 1928
Grey stars agleam in a blank, dead sky
Grey guns agrowl below.
Grey clad men out beyond the wire.
Grey fields in the star-shells glow.
The barrage is a pounding symphony
That ears attuned cannot hear.
There’s something flicking the parapet
There’s something above you fear!
Not fear of “stopping one” above,
Or fear for the man beside.
There’s something flicking the parapet
There’s a fear that you cannot hide.
“Stand By!” The rifle is cool in your hand
And your heart pounds hard and quick.
There’s something flicking the parapet
Number Three of the squad is sick.
The rifle hurts the palm of your hand
Like gripping a stiff wire brush
There’s something flicking the parapet
“Walk slow through the wire, then rush!”
The whistle! The ladders! Up over the edge!
And your legs seem stiff and sore.
There’s something flicking the parapet
Number Three is sick no more!
Grey stars agleam in a blank dead sky
Grey guns agrowl below.
Grey faces turned to the glowing stars
Where men lie dead in a row.
El Tigre.
Thank you! Beautiful ad for this sad remembrance weekend. :)