An American Warrior
please tell me why if you can
the reason I don’t have a right hand
my right leg is missing as well
all I can say is war is hell
I volunteered to serve my country
to defend it from harm
and to protect peoples in foreign lands
who wanted to live free from tyranny
when I look at the news I shed a tear
at what my buddies and I gave
and all my brave buddies laying in their grave
was all for not
the country of Iraq is worse off today and falling apart
and will not survive
so I ask again
what did I give my right hand and leg for
for what for what I scream and shout
what was my sacrifice all about
please tell me if you can
my mind and body are in pain
tears fall from my eyes like an April rain
my body is not whole
I am one man who is mad as hell
The way this poem came about is, I was sitting in my easy chair when these thoughts kept coming into my head. I wrote these words down. Some American Warrior Hero somewhere was thinking these thoughts I just happened to tune them in I have written 6 poems this way over the years. God bless our American Warrior Hero’s Dennis Davis July 4th 2014
She sits beside the fire
As failing embers dim.
Lost smoke trails up the chimney . .
Like dreams she’d shared with him.
She sits and grieves for children
That never will be born.
Because his life was briefly lived,
There’s darkness in each dawn.
She thinks of how he looked that day
When last they had embraced . .
Young and handsome, unafraid,
Of perils he would face.
While she must stand there brave and strong-
To meet each day with hope.
She kept her outlook bright and clear,
She’d done her best to cope.
He’d left her for a war, you see . .
So proud and full of fire.
His country and his flag came first,
“Stay free” his great desire.
For on the day the towers fell,
He vowed to God above . .
To do his best to keep 'Her' safe,
This country that he loved.
Then in the fiery sun of May,
In a land beyond this shore . .
He laid him down and shed his blood;
She'd see his face no more.
Now time has passed since learning
Of the sorrow she must bare.
Grief still raw as at the first . .
No lessening of despair.
Her anger now replaced by voids
Of empty time and thought.
A life now full of nothingness;
Is what his death has wrought.
Summer’s past and then the fall,
Now winter cold and sad.
She sits beside the fire
And remembers all they had.
She can’t remember springtime
And renewal of her life.
Surely this must come someday
With the lessening of her strife.
She can’t remember laughter
Or smiling from her heart.
But God will refund gifts like this;
In time He’ll do His part.
It’s then she'll come to realize
That her love is safe and well.
He’s in a place far better
Than the land in which he fell.
Then she will grow to honor
The love that sent him there.
That day she’ll fall on bended knee
And speak to God in prayer.
Then life will once again become
A wonder to be lived . .
Touched by wisps of sadness
When remembering his gift.
Love and children will be hers,
Then joy and laughter too.
She will know that he looks down
And smiles upon his view.
For he is always with her
Even though he’s not in sight.
He’s in the heartbeat of our land,
He’s in our country’s might.
He’s in the vastness of the plains,
In mountains capped with snow.
He’s everywhere that freedom rings;
He’s where 'The Brave Ones' go.
What can I do?
My brethren - Dank. We are
not fit to wipe the asses of
these sons of the star of David -
and yet, we crush their horrid
corpsed lives beneath Nazi-issued
boots. We want to live, too.
Say I actually approach my
officer, pout, give him my best
spiel, if you will. His hand will
grope the trigger faster than the
breasts of his sweetheart in
Barrack Neun during a roll call
So I plug my rounds,
rotate a new traincar through
every Montag and Freitag.
And when I sit down to table
with the uniformed prison guards,
I take an extra drink -
and drink to forget.
This poem appears online at http://wordsareaneed.blogspot.com/2014/07/pity-me-or-on-second-thought-dont.html.
First time I saw them all together,
They were waving at me from old glory.
Never saw so many stars before that day either;
There were a lot of nights I saw more yet not as close.
Ripples of freedom met my eyes that sunny afternoon;
That special piece of cloth transfixing a little boy's mind,
Finding later that heroes had kept her flying all along.
Watching now as evil ones try to burn her down.
Problem is they'll have to torch every liberty loving heart,
Now that task will not be a simple one to accomplish.
Ever tried to lock up a spirit and keep it there?
No colors in any rainbow have ever flown brighter.
Even with the many faults that have creased her fabric,
She still soars freer above those who would bring her down.
This flag which once mesmerized that five year old boy,
Wraps around this man now in an embrace that won't let go.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
The village head Pymy Gruzz was hundred years old
He had no daring self neither a piece of gold
Only a daughter had he she was a foster child
She was fifteen years old Kiki– sweet, gentle and mild
She gave him comfort with a docile, obedient smile
“No worry, father”, we are all together in our Lyle.
Night was perilous, hazy, and yellow as a ghost
A chill crossed the craven moon and a platter of duck roast
Kiki awoke and stepped out, in the dark the dragon queen snored
She crossed the lake Obenjinn and mounted the hill of sword
She felt the pricks of crusty prickles but she was climbing on
She must save the village Lyle where she was born
The dawn showed her chubby face happy on the child
Kiki made her journey’s end the day was sweet and mild
She found a man with sunny face god showed her in a dream
She went to him with folded hands and made a pleading to him.
Sire, I am Kiki from village Lyle bleeding in my heart
My village folks have turned to rocks in fear of Kunnegert
She is a dragon fire breather, keeper of skull on pyre
She must be killed by a happy man I want your sword on hire.
My blood my sweat and all I have will go to you my sire
I cannot delay; my folks are locked and human skull on pyre.
The sunny man stood up straight with a radiant face
“Little kid my Kiki sweet you will not fall from grace.
I will go with you my little moon and kill the dragon sure
I say you clean in voice plain what a happy man can endure
A happy man is happy because he lives with his lord
A happy man is happy because he keeps all love on hoard
He gives it free to every creature lord had made on earth
Lord made him his best seraphim to take a human birth
He is born for others and dies for all and in compassion he is tall
A dragon’s vice in valley of Lyle he must have to forestall
So Said he and took her hand and sword shone in golden orb
They climbed down the narrow gorge in finest pace the earth can absorb
Kiki, the daring daughter of the village stepped along the happy man
The golden sword the golden orb reached the final lane
The misty valley still in spell
the misty opiate dulled the souls and spurred the hell
The poet stopped his pen, slept a little, the stories told he had to retell*.
*This is the second part
(c) RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY
14 September, 2014
WROTE A BUJA...
A buja wrote a song
it rubbed the who in power
the wrong way...
to the slammer bujas..
self imposed insanity....
Called his government plunderers
stealing from the poor mans pockets
the system turned on the heat....
and our young bujas -
declared himself mentally insane...
committing himself to the loony bin...
The young musician
gave them people good advice
...its hard to get a good advice,
while lacking in cash or scandals....
and scandal-ed he was
and advice we got...utawala
the Rule of the elites..
Lewis k Nyaga