Update:
I've decided to self publish a poetry collection through Lulu until I can find a major publisher. I will be working on the book this coming week. If you're interested in a copy, send me a private message. This collection will have final drafts of many poems on the HUB and some you've never seen before. I'm very excited about this and, even though self publishing is not the same as being published, it'll still be nice to see my books in print and, possibly, in book stores. thank you all for your kind support.
View the original here
THE BATTLE OF BUNK BED RIDGE
The little green men were made of plastic
and fashioned like heroes
from world war two.
Some held bazookas. Others: mortars.
Machine guns. Pistols. Mine sweepers.
Hand grenades, molded in constant readiness.
Some drove tanks. Others crawled
through imaginary mud.
They all stood on feet, or crouched with knees, melted
to plastic stands. Some took shelter
behind sandbags. The bravest stood,
ready to advance.
The medics were off limits; they could not be killed.
Two units, one commanded by my dad the other
by me, facing off in my room.
My territory stretched
from the wooden blue toy box
to the center of the room, his from the lower bunk,
the one my brother slept in,
to the center of the room.
Common kitchen knives were used
to determine the lengths
of troop movements and the radius
of shots.
One bazooka shot could take out twenty men,
if you were careful.
It was a winner- take- all battle.
The last man standing would get
the unknown spoils of victory.
My army took heavy causalities, yet advanced
towards Bunk Bed Ridge,
steadily, winning the battle—a sniper the lone obstacle
to victory.
The seven year old would triumph over
the old man.
We continued advancing, up Bunk Bed Ridge and took out the sniper.
Victory was mine!
And that’s when I noticed the trap he’d set,
the hidden tank, escorted by half a dozen infantrymen.
I was doomed. The allies would fail!
As dad commanded his battalion to advance on my surrounded men,
I said “shit”
for the first time.
all rights reserved. Copyright Justin W. Price, December 30th, 2011.
I've decided to self publish a poetry collection through Lulu until I can find a major publisher. I will be working on the book this coming week. If you're interested in a copy, send me a private message. This collection will have final drafts of many poems on the HUB and some you've never seen before. I'm very excited about this and, even though self publishing is not the same as being published, it'll still be nice to see my books in print and, possibly, in book stores. thank you all for your kind support.
View the original here
THE BATTLE OF BUNK BED RIDGE
The little green men were made of plastic
and fashioned like heroes
from world war two.
Some held bazookas. Others: mortars.
Machine guns. Pistols. Mine sweepers.
Hand grenades, molded in constant readiness.
Some drove tanks. Others crawled
through imaginary mud.
They all stood on feet, or crouched with knees, melted
to plastic stands. Some took shelter
behind sandbags. The bravest stood,
ready to advance.
The medics were off limits; they could not be killed.
Two units, one commanded by my dad the other
by me, facing off in my room.
My territory stretched
from the wooden blue toy box
to the center of the room, his from the lower bunk,
the one my brother slept in,
to the center of the room.
Common kitchen knives were used
to determine the lengths
of troop movements and the radius
of shots.
One bazooka shot could take out twenty men,
if you were careful.
It was a winner- take- all battle.
The last man standing would get
the unknown spoils of victory.
My army took heavy causalities, yet advanced
towards Bunk Bed Ridge,
steadily, winning the battle—a sniper the lone obstacle
to victory.
The seven year old would triumph over
the old man.
We continued advancing, up Bunk Bed Ridge and took out the sniper.
Victory was mine!
And that’s when I noticed the trap he’d set,
the hidden tank, escorted by half a dozen infantrymen.
I was doomed. The allies would fail!
As dad commanded his battalion to advance on my surrounded men,
I said “shit”
for the first time.
all rights reserved. Copyright Justin W. Price, December 30th, 2011.
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