The cemeteries sit silent now,
the flags flutter almost lifeless,
in the late spring breeze.
The wreaths left on each grave
gather dandelion fluff,
like mournful dream catchers,
emptied of any chance to dream on.
The thump of the many feet above,
caused by those who for
just a few moments in time,
paraded by in regret
echoed softly in the dark boxes beneath the grass.
Each footfall was much like the marching
all the boys below at one time knew.
Bones still clatter as they tumble
into small piles of what once was
a young man who died for his country.
The bones make sounds much like the
metal nomenclature on the straps
of long silenced rifles,
or the clank of canteens
against ammo belts rattling
in the dark jungles, and searing desert heat.
Our resident president made clear
the imperative need for
dying to eliminate terrorist
but the terror of dying
is made much clearer still
here in the stark shadows of the crosses
standing in endless formations of grief.
Life goes on all around these hallowed grounds
that hold the many sacrifices
to the privilege of living free.
Somewhere amidst the 17,800 maimed,
tears fall from the one-eyed,
hugs are shared by the one-armed
and the legless sit deeply moved
by the true meaning of this day.
They are the living memorials
of the dire cost of wars.
They gave up large pieces of their life
so that we could walk amongst them whole.
There is no speech that can compensate,
no reason that can explain away,
and no repairing the internal damage
that forever scars their souls.
Civilians by the thousands lie in
mass graves, families mingled with families,
3 year old's mixed with those who were eighty
and unable to escape the shrapnel of destruction.
There are no answers to defeating war
when war defeats the answers.
But still I shout out the realities
in black and white characters
to remind all of us of the many
precious characters we have lost.
Bold, and brave young men
and women as well,
laughing and loving
for but a few years,
and then being called away
to the stillness of these
back filled holes.
I am but one of many
poets on a rant,
fighting against wars
I am too old to serve in,
stabbing pencils against it's madness,
and uncapping pens
that detail it's blackness.
But we can all serve our country
with preemptive strikes
on the buttons that move
the men who make armies.
Vote with your hearts
the next time you get a shot at
removing the great enemy
known as the status quot.
Take a walk near some
freshly dug graves and
remember the chads of war
buried beneath you.
Then go, and make a choice
that you can live with
in honor of those who
had little choice when death
played taps on their weary shoulders.
Happy Memorial day
might still be a reality
but only when peace
makes us far more happy
to remember it's price.
