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http://allpoetry.com/poem/40588

O N E V O I C E F R O M

T H E W A R ' S D E A D.

I am coming home at last Mom
it is awful dark for me
in this bag they tagged
and placed me in
where above my soul floats free
there are other boys around me
they are going home now too
and we're forming a platoon, Ma
that should help us to get through
the fact is we won't see our girls
or get to hug our Moms-------------- (or hug Mom's when we get back)
or have a life past nineteen
cause we died in Vietnam--------------- (cause we died here in Iraq)
this will surely dissappoint Dad
cause he begged me not to go
even had tickets to Canada
Oh, God, I miss him so
something took me really quick, Mom
it was almost painless, but
the coffin will be closed Ma
cause that shrapnel's deeply cut
I just want to say "I love you!"
as you're tossing in your sleep
and the promise that I made you
is one that I now will keep
I am coming home to you Mom
but not like you dreamed I'd be
I'm another darned statistic
for the land of brave and free.
tell them to remember me
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If ye break faith with we who've died we shall not sleep.....
though poppies blow in Flanders Fields
......my favorite quote on war


A -lways

R -eady

T -o

I -nspire

S -omeone



Check Out my Dear Artis, it's a Dear Abby style advice Column set up to answer your puzzling problems or your poetic dilemmas. Thanks!

THEY ARE ALL HEROES TO ME.

They are all heroes to me,
row upon row of battalions
laid out in horizontal formations,
dressed in fine wools
and bedecked with ribbons.

Here where their youth
moulders into rot,
underneath occasional
flags and flowers,
and endless crosses of white,
where they were crucified,
for some glorious cause,
long forgotten.

There are no explosions,
or bullet's whines
inside these gray metal coffins
where the only sound heard
is the tumble of the bones,
crumbling to dust.

The unknown dead
are the saddest,
no names mark their final
real estate on this planet,
a resting place to tuck them away,
as twenty-one shots are fired
in tribute to their passing.

Do they quiver or tremble
at those final blasts
when their spirits
hover over the grave.

Over 4,000 currently reduced
to hamburger as blind leaders
secure a foothold for oil,
in the Middle East,
will we remember them
when we pump carbon fuels
into our tanks
that do not kill
but simply transport us
to places they will never go.

Can you name even one who died,
picture his or her face,
shed a tear for their loss,
if so then you are a patriot.

I know of many
who took my place,
when the bullets went astray
bullets that held my name,
then changed their mind,
in a time not that long ago for me
but forever for them.

I broke the aluminum bracelet
of Major William H.Condit
that I had worn for many years,
as a reminder of his status
as a POW-MIA from Vietnam.

Shot down in the 60's
held prisoner for.....
God knows how long,
died in captivity,
and his bones were returned
sometime around 1997.
hope in shattered
shiny red pieces
adorned his grave that day,

And of another,
who recently died,
riddled with cancers,
he spoke of dreams to me once,
in colors that were magnificent,
but agent orange rusted them away.

He was a poet, unpublished,
because no cared
for his poems of war,
I hold some here,
haunting words
of another time,
another futile war,
that ground up 58,000 men,
before troops were withdrawn,
and chaos ensued.

History is a repeating echo,
that whispers softly through
the trees at Arlington,
and falls on deaf ears,
in the halls of the capital,
and in the hearts of
our commanders-in-grief.

Pray for peace,
and remember the fallen,
for they remembered you
when they breathed their last,
some clutched the flags
that you cross your hearts for,
before sucking down beer,
and chili dogs at
the baseball and football fields.

They took the flaming
shrapnel of death
in your place,
how often have you visited
their place,
where the quiet is so loud,
that you can actually
hear the whispers
of what could have been
rustling restlessly
in the well groomed grass.

It emanates daily
from the depths
of our nations
expendable losses
spent in lost causes,
even now as I write this poem.

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Oz is where I go to find heart....use my brain.....add some body to my work...put on red shoes and dance.....slip a little oil into something dry..and be a wizard in a humble mortal body.....it is my poet-tree...where the shade brings the whisper of soft breezes that inspire...and the reflection off of the yellow brick road brightens my somber moods./I will now respond to all who do not comment on my poems in the feature box with a comment on one of thier poems that looks like
this..~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis.../


Ozymandias: by Shelley~~( my favorite poem)

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said-"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."



P.S.- my age just changed to whatever and holding...what I'm holding is of little import as is the age of any poet...lol
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"A POET"S LIFE FOR ME !!!!"
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We sail Through
a river of emotions
on a tiny white slip
of ground up trees,
with a pencil for an oar,
or a pen for a tiller,
making ripples in the flow of languages,
cutting through them swiftly and often
causing them to overflow....
all ordinary boundaries
we are but pirates
serving out our sentences
for the treasures gathered
from other peoples lives
We keep one eye closed to the fear
that keeps others from writing
and expressing themselves.
We look for a hook to draw the attention
of all who pass by hoping
they'll pause and simply study
our scratched out renderings...
our graffiti of the mind
We find safe harbors in dreams
and spend idyllic moments there,
and then share our booty with any
who would enjoy perusing it
We turn the lines of the equator
into the lines of an equation....
equating life's sorrows, and joys
with words that sing, dance and move souls
We build bonfires in the hearts of men
and prance like drunken minstrels
around the feelings they
subconsciously share with us
It is good to be a poet....it allows
ones mind to travel and unravel
all of the mysteries of life
by simply moving across
an 8 by 10 " space
with a lead tipped sword.
Our sails are the bending,
and the turning
of the pages of our thoughts,
they allow us to soar
beyond the humble bindings
of daily drudge into
the imaginary realms of splendour.
Climb aboard, grab an Oar and dip it
to the empty white waters waiting below,
chart a course to verb island
stumble on a treasured thought,
add it to your priceless collection,
and if they hang you for your crimes
you will only be
another dangling participle
still giving meaning to life
as you gasp out your last breath.
Aye mateys,
poems are the pebbles of the Gods,
they toss them in a flat arc across
the streams of our consciousness,
and watch gaily as they skip and dance
with lilting joy from our lips and pens.....
In the hold of my heart many poems tarry,
and are cargo for starving illiterates
seeking sustenance.
A glass of port wine,
a spark of inspiration fired,
some soft music,
a wanton women,
and a poem,
what else has any meaning,
what else has a point at the end
that sets so well................period.
Artis
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