Long poem by
Frederick Moore | Details |
Memories of a Green Beret
“Where have all the soldiers gone, Long time passing,
Where have all the soldiers gone, Long long time ago,
Where have all the soldiers gone,
Gone to graveyards, every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?"
(an old anti-war folk song from the 60's)
Ho Chi Mihn Trail....'68
Ten warriors camouflaged in wait
Prepared to deal a grisly fate
Hunkered down in jungled hell
Assured they've set the ambush well.
In silence they lay upon the route
When 'Charles' walks in…. he won't walk out.
A cacophony of fire and screams
Laid down with deadly skills, this team;
With claymore mines and booby traps
Left fifteen fragged and torn or zapped.
A trail once quiet, now instead,
Was piled with black pajama'ed dead
A kill zone full of empty life,
From M16 and combat knives.
Metallic smells of blood and gore….
Back to the bush, fear to the core;
On the run, escape, evade
This area where the trap was laid.
Bust thru brush at breakneck speed
Thru swamp and bramble, cutting reeds.
They're on your ass, their voices near
Being captured is your highest fear.
If you're caught you won't survive.
They'll disembowel you, flayed alive.
Your final screams, heard near and far,
The price you pay for what you are.
In time you finally get away,
But it was the VC's judgment day
Praise God we lived, is what you pray.
Old memories of a Green Beret
As on and on this game of chess,
Your mind starts crumbling with the stress.
More bloody trails and bloody hunts
And soon gone thirteen bloody months.
You pack for home and say a prayer
For those you know that's still back there.
The sights and smells flash on and on
Though fifty years have come and gone.
They steal your brain and steal your calm
Sometimes you think you're back in 'Nam.
And still today played o'er and o'er
Are vivid flashbacks of the war:
Young warrior's lives, gone much too soon
Dying moans and pumping wounds
Flashing guns in hot fire fights
In wet and frigid jungle nights.
Camps attacked in human waves
Death piled high in bulldozed graves
Fear like ice picks in your brain
Comes with horrid scenes and pain
Prisoners tossed from chopper flights
Blood smeared chaplains give last rites
Green bags filled with body parts
Images not for faint of heart
Fear that drives you up the wall
Soothed by weed and alcohol
Village kids all blown apart
Blood and guts served 'a la carte '
Air support with steel and flames
Dog tag heaps with buddies names
Rot gut beer, Saigon whores
Seeping rotten jungle sores
Now, most are gone, long died away.
While others here are silver gray
Their comrades gone, now mostly dead,
They fight the fight still, in their heads
Late of night, in sleep they shout.
"Medic here, he's bleeding out.
Call in support--lay down some fire,
God help us all, they're in the wire."
I pen these words and I decree
They were ten times best what I could be.
My praise and prayers I'll not detract
For the many who never made it back.
From long ago and far away........
These memories of an old Green Beret
Author's Note: to all my old comrades, MANY WHOM never made it back
...De Oppresso Leber....rest in peace old friends-- Sergeant First Class Frederick Moore
, 6th SF, 7th SF, and 46th SF Thailand......
Long poem by
John Posey | Details |
November 19, 2001
Dear Doc and Doris,
It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you. I believe it was some years ago at the Sims reunion. That was several years before we moved here to Florida after my retirement.
I talk to Dorothy and W. D. fairly often and got your address from them a couple of months ago. I also have a recent picture of you that was taken at Mike’s funeral in Marlow.
I suppose it was something about that picture that caused me to begin reflecting on when I was a kid in Cameron many years ago. We lived down below the railroad tracks there just south of the jailhouse. I was just a kid 6 or 7 years old. Then later we moved to Houston where Dorothy and Daddy went to work in the shipyard. I remember during those years thinking often of my cousin Carl Sims and his brother Melton Sims who were far away fighting the war against the Germans in Europe. I still have pictures of you somewhere showing you in your uniform. Doc, I remember how proud I was to tell everyone about my cousins in the army and how I wanted to grow up and be a soldier and fight the Germans.
In the last couple of years those memories have been revisited with the release of the movies “Saving Private Ryan” and even more recently, “Band of Brothers.” Having never experienced the horrors of war, I look upon these two movies as the most realistic presentation of wartime action ever made. Even at that, I’m sure they haven’t portrayed what it was really like.
Doc, I write you now having much more hindsight than when I was an impressionable kid. But the years have not robbed me of the pride I have in calling you my hero. I think of those years when I was but a child and you, a young soldier. I remember how excited I was to hear any news about my cousins in the army. And I remember the sadness in hearing of Melton being killed in action.
Though time has painted a different picture for each of us, those things that linger in our memory can still be seen through the eyes of a child and a young soldier. I look at that recent picture of you and still see my hero. I see a young soldier in uniform and feel the same pride well up inside a young kid in Cameron.
Doc, I wanted you to know these things. I could have kept them hidden inside my heart and never told anyone. But, they are mine to do with as I please. And I choose to send them to you and Doris with the love I have for you. As Christians, we know that the love we are sharing in Jesus Christ will be eternal. I believe the respect and admiration I hold you in for what you did will also last forever.
Maybe we will get back to Texas one of these days. If so, I hope to have the time to come by Mexia and see you. If not, who knows, someday a kid may tug on the sleeve of a young soldier. The young soldier might turn to find a freckle-faced kid, joyful in the presence of his hero.
Doc, if not before, I’ll see you in Glory. I send you respect and most of all, love.
With eternal admiration,
Long poem by
Cindy Lu | Details |
Perhaps it was a bit of old moral Navy nostalgia misting from Dad's brow as he taught us moral just rule.
At times in my life, honoring my father and mother; one of the ten commandments-- a must though it seemed when my father passed when I was a teen was the hardest thing to do. Living with these regrets of sin, and my uncle Bink introduced a slow gin fizz over dinner with my Aunt, to ease the tension of not shedding a grieving tear the day he passed or after. After all, the veterans were at the casket and someone had to represent.
Living in sin, leaving the foothills of Appalachia at the age of sixteen (not more than six months after I talked to God in that cornfield and was so angry with Him for taking my father when he needed to be here to protect me). I set out on my long journey to see the world and need and come back to serve Him (was my only hope) when in fact, my highest scores of the states district Sat's were repelling from a C average grade school girl.
Dad said on his dying bed he wanted me to be a nurse, or rather as the “humanitarian” I became at eighteen; perhaps someones distraught, personal nurse.
The three children, two of which were planned by a Common Law husband. I was a responsible, nurturing mother and wife. Perhaps, it is what held my emotions together after all the drunken beating he offered up. It seemed as though emotionally I could not do anything by myself. Tattered and scattered was I.
Dad taught my brother and I old school military boxing; my brother three years older and touched with the fever (a crying little girl not wanting to hit my brother at first) I excelled to a losing champion, still today. I never won a fight with a man, and that includes two officers I seriously accidentally hit in reflex order.
Today, I know my writing is a gift.
I know motherhood is a gift as well as being a daughter of my dear Mom that is frail now at 80. I somehow don't measure up and shall never to her just honesty always paying her bills on a limited income, before they are ever due.
Murmurs etched in my heart and soul, of a common advice from her frantic yet stern voice, “You'll never make anything of yourself with that writing; as my pen steadily purges and flows a steam of blood rights of an United States Citizen, on Veterans Day.
When will my ship come in? (perhaps it was pirated, and sent with the barges of plagiarist rhyme, sold off by a romantic)
Here's to the rich and famous that can't pass through the of a needle-- as I light a Camel Wide, and pray for them all a rich blessing.
Long poem by
gregory boyer | Details |
A FOREIGNER ASKED THIS QUESTION OF ME
“WHERE CAN I IN U.S. FIND SOLDIER TO SEE?”
HIS ENGLISH WAS BROKEN, BUT CLEARLY RECEIVED
YET, HOW COULD I BEST EXPLAIN WHAT I BELIEVED
THE ANSWER I GAVE TO THIS QUESTIONABLE TASK
SURPRISED HIM ACCORDING TO WHAT HE HAD ASKED
I SAID, “AN AMERICAN SOLDIER WAS MORE….
THAN SOMEONE ENLISTED OR SENT OFF TO SHORE”
“AN AMERICAN SOLDIER HAS MORE TO BE SEEN….
THAN A MAN OR A WOMAN IN CAMOUFLAGE GREEN”
HIS QUESTION HAD MADE ME LOOK DEEPER WITHIN
BECOMING AWARE OF HOW BLESSED I HAD BEEN
I POINTED MY FINGER AROUND SO HE’D SEE
THAT ALL THOSE AROUND US WE’RE SOLDIERS TO ME
INCLUDING THAT SMALL CHILD NEXT DOOR PLAYING BALL
THAT PERSON SALUTING THE FLAG STANDING TALL
THAT FATHER AND SON OUTSIDE PLAYING TOGETHER
THAT MOTHER AND DAUGHTER EMBRACING EACH OTHER
THAT DOCTOR OR NURSE SHOWING CARE TO THE ILL
THAT ELDERLY VETERAN-QUIET AND STILL
THAT CASE WORKER HELPING THOSE WITH SPECIAL NEEDS
THAT MINISTER PRAYING FOR ALL TO BELIEVE
THAT BANKER AND POSTMAN WHO WORKS ALL DAY LONG
THAT ARTIST AND SINGER WHO PAINTS US A SONG
THAT SINGLE MOM DOING THE BEST THAT SHE COULD
THAT TEEN WHO CONTINUES TO LIVE LIKE HE SHOULD
THAT AMERICAN IMMIGRANT LEGALLY HERE
THAT MAN IN HIS WHEELCHAIR YEAR AFTER YEAR
THAT PROTESTER MARCHING AND SHOUTING HIS VIEWS
THAT SPOKESPERSON GIVING THE SIX O’CLOCK NEWS
THAT CHRISTIAN WHO’S KNEELING AND PRAYING ALONE
THAT MOTHER OR WIFE WORKING DAILY AT HOME
THAT WOMAN WITH CANCER IS ALSO A FIGHTER
THAT WIDOW WHO CLINGS TO HER MEMORIES TIGHTER
THAT MERCHANT THAT SELLS US OUR FOOD AND OUR OIL
THAT CHILD BEING BORN ON AMERICAN SOIL
THEY ALL ARE AMERICANS DOING THEIR PART
AND IN SOME SMALL WAY THEY ARE SOLDIERS AT HEART
I ENDED MY TALK BECAUSE HOW HE WAS STARING
AS IF WITH CONFUSION AT WHAT I WAS SHARING
HE THEN, IN HIS CUSTOM, STOOD STRAIGHT WHILE HE NODDED
LOOKED AT ME AND QUIETLY-SOFTLY APPLAUDED
I THEN SHED A TEAR WHEN HE SPOKE THIS TO ME
“AN AMERICAN SOLDIER IN YOU I CAN SEE”
HE WALKED AWAY AND APPEARED TO HAVE FOUND CLOSURE
WHILE I STOOD THERE PRAISING GOD FOR THE REAL SOLDIER
THAT REAL ONES NOW SERVING RIGHT HERE AND ABROAD
I STAND AND SALUTE YOU AND LOUDLY APPLAUD
TO THOSE WHO ARE SERVING AND THOSE WHO HAVE DIED
FOR THOSE WHO ONCE SERVED AND REMEMBER WITH PRIDE
THE STRUGGLES OF WAR TO KEEP FREEDOM WON’T CEASE
FOR FREEDOM EXIST WHILE YOU FIGHT TO BRING PEACE
BECAUSE OF YOUR SACRIFICE GIVEN EACH DAY
I’M ABLE TO LIVE IN THIS GREAT U.S.A
THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE IS WHAT SHINES IN YOUR EYES
Long poem by
Robert William Gruhn | Details |
Below is my original post from 2 weeks ago, President Obama has
announced that VA Secretary Shinseki has resigned "voluntarily" from
his position, but let's face the fact the President fired him behind closed doors
so that Shinseki could save face and save Obama from more embarrassment.
Yet, this resignation does not relieve the President from his personal responsibility
for the deaths of these veterans, and in his statements today he did not personally
apologize and ask forgiveness from the families of the dead veterans, this whole situation is criminal, instead, he just railed on about how
wonderful Shinseki was, how much more disgusting can this get? Obama thinks he can just fire the Captain of the sinking ship
and everything will be OK? These crimes against veterans have been blatantly ignored for over 5 years now, and when it comes down to
who is ultimately responsible? Well, Mr. Commander-In-Chief, as Harry Truman said "the buck stops at the President's desk", so you need
only to look in the mirror to see who needs to accept full responsibility for this tragic VA disaster! Mr. President, as you know, my father Albin was President for 36 years of the California AFL-CIO, and before he passed away in 2009 he was a big supporter of your 2008 Presidential Campaign, and I can tell you now, he would be so disappointed with you on this VA debacle. He was not just my father, he was my best friend, and one of the finest human beings I have ever known, let alone probably the greatest champion of all workers in the USA and the world, and I know he would ask you now to take immediate and decisive action to prevent anymore of these terrible acts of neglect to our brave veteran heroes!
Very truly yours,
Robert William Gruhn
(posted 05/15/14) Here Lies Veterans Administration Washington D.C. 2014
This government bureau and its chief secretary Shinseki refusing responsibility.
40 Arizona veterans died while on shameful death waiting list.
Chief saying he's "MAD AS HELL", to senate hearing then doing nothing.
Well, Mr. President, its time to fire your VA chief and apologize for this failure.
These brave veterans have been allowed to die needlessly while on your watch.
You need to get a spine and do what it takes to save any more VETS from this horror.
So, Mr. Commander in Chief Obama, please show us you truly are our LEADER.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn A.R.R.
Long poem by
Scribbler Of Verses | Details |
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom:
Solomon Mahlangu was trained as an MK soldier with a view to later rejoining the struggle in the country.
He left South Africa after the Soweto Uprising of 1976 when he was 19 years old, and was later chosen to be part of an elite force to return to South Africa to carry out a mission commemorating the June 16th 1976 Soweto student uprising.
After entering South Africa through Swaziland and meeting his fellow comrades in Duduza, on the East Rand (east of Johannesburg), they were accosted by the police in Goch Street in Johannesburg.
In the ensuing gun battle two civilians were killed and two were injured, and Mahlangu and Motloung were captured while acting as decoys so that the other comrade could go and report to the MK leadership.
Motloung was brutally assaulted by the police to a point that he suffered brain damage and was unfit to stand trial, resulting in Mahlangu facing trial alone.
He was charged with two counts of murder and several charges under the Terrorism Act, to which he pleaded not guilty.
Though the judge accepted that Motloung was responsible for the killings, common purpose was argued and Mahlangu was found guilty on two counts of murder and other charges under the Terrorism Act.
On 15 June 1978 Solomon Mahlangu was refused leave to appeal his sentence by the Rand Supreme Court, and on 24 July 1978 he was refused again in the Bloemfontein Appeal Court.
Although various governments, the United Nations, International Organizations, groups and prominent individuals attempted to intercede on his behalf, Mahlangu awaited his execution in Pretoria Central Prison, and was hanged on 6 April 1979.
His hanging provoked international protest and condemnation of South Africa and Apartheid.
In fear of crowd reaction at the funeral the police decided to bury Mahlangu in Atteridgeville in Pretoria.
On 6 April 1993 he was re-interred at the Mamelodi Cemetery, where a plaque states his last words:
‘My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom.
Tell my people that I love them.
They must continue the fight.’
Mahlangu died for a cause!
The Struggle Continues…
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
Long poem by
Shanity Rain | Details |
America the Free ~ America the Brave ~
Freedom with price Capitalism attacked
the many taken hearts broken still
one World try to rebuild
sadness and tears fall hard with fears
guilt by association many accused still
souls evaporated shattered dreams
tears fall on innocence left with anger
The proud fearless knew the inevitable
policeman fireman many lives lost
grieving does not stop 12 years later
New York city once proud & shameless
refusing to let fears in protecting ours
left in shock still question's unanswered
nothing learned nothing gained
ready to attack many left behind
anger greets denial anger meets rage
unacceptable still refusing new love
wanting days to rewind let us go back in time
acceptance allowing the victims leave in peace
the brave taken young leaving us sadly old
haunting dreams lost spirits dwell
no answers to hate never forgetting that day
Evil entered suddenly unforgiving fate
entering our City we stand with the fallen
How to fix how do we Change
This can be read many different ways ~ This is a poem I am so proud to write ~
Long poem by
John Nesbitt | Details |
A poem by John Nesbitt © 22.11.2013
I was eighteen years old and wanting to fight
I found what I looked for, in bars late at night
I took on the big guys, the small ones as well
They were all tough, as far as I could tell
As a jobless young man, proud of my country
I joined up with the army and trained how not to be
They told me I’d fight to keep us all free
So that we’d never have to bend the knee
They trained me in weapons, unarmed combat too
The use of explosives and what they could do
And how to take cover behind rocks and trees
They taught me to find bombs and those I E D’s
So step up to the plate boys, start waving the flag
We’ll be all draped with medals when it’s all in the bag
Think of the glory, this conflict will bring
A few months away, then we can all sing
On my very first mission, I was told to unwind
I took lead position, when searching for mines
The blast threw me up twenty feet in the air
I couldn’t feel my feet for they were no longer there
My right arm was shattered my left fingers gone
I once had two ears but now only one
I thought I was dying, I couldn’t hear a thing
I wasn’t thinking of the medals or being dressed up with bling
Now all I can do is sit here on the floor
and wonder what it all had been for
my comrades call around from time to time
I can see their discomfort when they’re thinking of mine
They wouldn’t trade places, no matter what for
They each have their memories, of that terrible war
My fighting days over, no more blood and guts
So I’ll settle right down in my terrible rut
I stepped up to the plate boys and I waved the flag
But I’m not draped in medals and it’s not in the bag
I thought of the glory the conflict would bring
No legs, no fingers and in no mood to sing
Things soon will be over in Afghanistan
Talks are on-going with the Taliban
We struggled against them for thirteen hard years
But all we produced was billions of tears
Fathers lost sons and Mothers lost child
business got rich, there were deals on the side
Where’s the next country they’ll start a new war
Let’s hope….. it’s…. not ….yours
Long poem by
Euginia Liapich | Details |
Your true dearest point when you harbored Dear dreams
And then you discover life’s not what it seems
Like abandoning hopes at an age Fresh and Young
Did you have an idea that it’ll last so long
For you left your dear home at only 18
And sent to Iraq at only 19
And been left forever with permanent scars
Even though you shone through with your sweet talent bright
So why did you enter with a 4.0 GPA?
When the Scholarships showered you at a Multitudinous rate
So Bright you could Major in any Subject you wished
And still Financial Aid Mounds till your Graduate Degree
So what did you think of that Beautiful Voice?
If you entered in Youth at least College Choir was a choice
Now Stubborn Hard winds stole most of the Treasure
And the New,Mature Life Obliterated your Thoughts of Such Pleausure
So what did you think of the Vagabound Life?
While you prized poetry collection on the shelf gathered dust
One which some though very mature, others overly ideal
Therefore what crossed Your Mind when you Witnessed the Real?
Did the snobbish streak strike you in diverse circumstance?
Did you feel they were commoners and you better than best?
With the dear loving members holding Fancy Degrees
And did you look forward to the end of ordeal?
And while at boot camp did you attempt to contain
Your own disillusionment and a deep poignant stain
At that tender age did you still fight your tears?
All the while duty called you to conquer much greater fears
All this Strain and Attack plagued you with horrible Nightmares
Not to Mention it gave you the disorder of stress
Yet the terrors continued for seven long years
For you definitely felt life to you wasn’t fair
Even though you gave Your all for hard won GI Bill
Did ever hold thoughts that this path’d be so Grim?
Though the dear teaching program greeted you with open arms
P’haps you had to abandon it due to Inner Snob
And continue life of horrors begun
All this adversity gave you the outlook glum
And your Engulfing eyes look Perpetually lost
The once Muscular Frame to a—Bare shadow gone
Long poem by
Jecon B. Nadela | Details |
Dedicated to Lt. Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. (November 11, 1885 – December 21, 1945)
I'd fought a hundred battles
through the ages past and new
I'd been a lowly foot soldier
But at times commanded too.
I was a witness of Arab mothers
Fleeing cities under-siege ;
A new age liberator,
The commander of the third.
I had served with Ceasar's legion;
The Carthaginians; and the Greeks.
When Arthur was in his Kingship,
I was a captain of the knights
A horseman tough and skillful
Of medieval cavalier;
But ages had transformed me
to dash with iron wheels
The only time I meet MacArthur
Was in the salient of St. Mehiel
We both stood erect, calm, and unmindful
To the guns and bursting shell.
Oh well take a look at Monty
Too slow for his advance
He didn't expect me to take Palermo
or Mesina to my plan
I was reproved of my harshness,
They knew not that I was somber too
I cared not of my language
As long as my point would get through
I'd mixed my words with profanities
That my orders surely stick
My men would always remember every word
While they're in the battle field
Oh my, I hate those yellow bastards
They have no place on this earth
I sent them to the frontlines
That no more they would breed
Those swivel chair commanders
Discounted my two days time
But brave soldier deserved to be rescued
Before his dog tag stops to chime.
So my men made it to Dunkirk
To the delight of McAuliffe
"Surrender!" yelled the Nazis
but "nutz" was all he said.
I was cut off of supplies and fuel
For Market Garden's sake
But after pissing the flowing River
I held the Fuhrer's nest
So soon another war was ended
Mine enemies had lost
The iron carver claimed the glory
And relieved me from my post.