Asymmetrical Warfare

Tags

Asymmetrical Warfare, Guerrilla war, poem, poetry, Triolet, Unwinnable wars

𝐀𝐬𝐲𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥  𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐞

The powerful complain that it’s not fair

When they are badly beaten by the weak.

When weaklings bring ignoble force to bear,

The powerful complain that it’s not fair.

The weak by any means may trap or snare;

By treachery and cunning havoc wreak.

The powerful complain that it’s not fair

When they are badly beaten by the weak.

— D.N. O’Brien

Crystal Clear

Tags

poem, poetry, Red China, Taiwan, Triolet

𝐂𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥  𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫

It’s clear as crystal, so cannot be seen —

Red China’s plan to take over the world.

They see no need to lay a thick smokescreen —

It’s clear as crystal, so cannot be seen.

A bitter and revengeful war machine —

On conquered isles their scarlet flag’s unfurled.

It’s clear as crystal, so cannot be seen —

Red China’s plan to take over the world.

— D.N. O’Brien

Battle Dress

Tags

Australian poet, poem, poetry, Trans soldiers, Trans women, Triolet

𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬

Our general’s at the front charging the guns!
The Taliban are heading for the hills!
He hitches up his skirt — clenches his buns!
Our general’s at the front charging the guns!
His bra is binding — his mascara runs!
The Taliban are all preparing wills!
Our general’s at the front charging the guns!
The Taliban are heading for the hills!

— D.N. O’Brien

Alternative WW2 News

Tags

Australian Aboriginals, Australian poet, New Guinea Campaigns, Pacific War, poetry, World War 2

(What would have happened)

𝐀𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐖𝐖𝟐 𝐍𝐞𝐰𝐬

In news, the Japs have taken The South Land!
The aboriginals put up no fight.
We’d left this wilderness of scrub and sand
Since its discovery, untouched; no hand
From the outside had guided it — each band
And tribe had been protected from the light.
In news, the Japs have taken The South Land!
The aboriginals put up no fight.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Invader

Tags

australia, Australia Day, Australian poet, Invasion Day, poem, poetry

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Invader you call him, this true native son?
When enemies threatened he took up the gun.
His father before him — his father before —
His father before him — they went off to war.

And there in lands foreign these fathers and sons,
They fought the invader — they silenced his guns.
Those men who lie buried far over the sea,
Those fathers and sons, died for you — and for me.

— D.N. O’Brien

Certa Cito

Tags

121 Signal Squadron, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Gough Whitlam, poem, poetry, Royal Australian Signal Corps, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝑪𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂 𝑪𝒊𝒕𝒐

The plan is hatched by foolish faceless men.
The squadron’s fate by treachery is sealed.
The method and the why, the where, the when,
Is to the gathered malcontents revealed.
All that the patriotic have concealed
Will be exposed just when the time is right;
The squadron will be banished from the field —
Its troops will be destroyed without a fight —
All trace of it will fade into the night,
And none will mourn its swift and sure demise;
And on its fate no one will shine a light.
But those who filled its ranks — its ears and eyes,
Who served and sweated on that Asian Hill,
They know how easily mere words can kill.

— D.N. O’Brien

A Killer

Tags

Australian poet, poem, poetry

𝐀 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

Two soldiers in an empty room.
One on his bed, a tale he read.

Bleak barracks, sombre like a tomb;
The second woke and quietly spoke:

“I feel this day a sense of doom,
For with a knife I took a life.”

The other answered in the gloom:
“Then I must know — a friend or foe?

I think a foe — that I’ll assume —
The one who fell — so all is well.”

And so did silence then resume;
But one, afraid, he clutched a blade.

— D.N. O’Brien

War Paint

Tags

Australian poet, Australian SAS, poem, poetry, SAS, SAS accused of murder, SAS Regiment, taliban

𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭

The SAS have fired upon the foe?
From now on they will only fire paint balls!
It’s rumoured by observers, don’t you know —
The SAS have fired upon the foe!
We’ll paint the Taliban from head to toe!
We may unearth another Picasso!
The SAS have fired upon the foe?
From now on they will only fire paint balls!

— D.N. O’Brien

Real Fear

Tags

Australian poet, poem, poetry, sonnet

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐫

From the firmament do the dead men peer
At the world below with their long dead eyes;
At a crazy world they don’t recognize.
And the sounds of strife reach each ghostly ear,
From the crowd’s foul mouth that is twisted, queer,
And they see the smoke and the headline lies,
And the idiots who are now thought wise;
And the shades, they mutter: “They know not fear.”

For these ghosts have been to the depths of Hell,
Braved the bayonet and the screaming shell.
Now they fix their gaze from beyond the sky,
And they see the truth —see the traitor’s lie.
Now see clearly what they have seen before:
Unmistakable are the winds of war.

— D.N. O’Brien

Pat

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Shell shock, World War 2

Pat

To join his brothers he was keen.
In forty two at just nineteen,
With both he sallied of to war.
Though never under fire before,
Courage he showed, no lack of will,
But no rejoicing at the kill.
But then there rolled a hand grenade,
And with his life Pat almost paid.
Upon a stretcher he was placed.
With morphine were his veins then laced.
A brother’s hand upon each knee,
Pat asked: “What will become of me?”
“You’ve scored a homer”, they replied;
But twice under the knife he died;
For fragments lay close to his heart —
Cold iron with which he’d never part.
Evacuated back to home,
Not buried under foreign loam,
He thought now of the future peace
When murderous war would wane and cease.
So back to health young Pat was nursed,
For by good fortune he was cursed.
Brought back to life when all but dead —
“You’re fit to fight again.” they said.
Too much to ask of one so young,
Scarred by the blast and by the gun;
And in the morning he had fled.
A note his elder brother read:
“I’m sorry Noel, I’ve done my best,
I’ll wait this war out in the west.”
A tear ran down a weathered cheek;
Noel knew that Pat was far from weak,
So three words with a steady hand
He wrote: “Brother, I understand.”
The two boys fought three more campaigns;
Were members of the few remains.
They both returned in forty five,
And thus did all three boys survive.
Then Pat came back to pay his dues,
And to the state his honour lose;
But all three brothers then embraced,
For each had death in battle faced.
But Pat, the guilt bore all his life —
Cared for his mother, took no wife,
Trod the straight path, and bless his soul,
Revered his brothers, Ron and Noel,
Who kept his secret — his great shame —
They knew that he was not to blame.
And when he lay on his death bed,
A doctor turned to me and said:
“Those scars upon your uncle’s chest —
They’re battle scars, we all have guessed.”
“A hand grenade”, I then replied,
“It’s not the first time he has died.”

— D.N. O’Brien