Each year Memorial Day causes much lament,
and today will be viewed as another life recap.
A day we honor heroes whose lives were spent,
who, for freedom, willingly stood in the gap.
Too many families are attached to someone,
who served country and didn’t return intact.
Body bags, their ticket home to a loved one,
today, they remember that door knock’s impact.
Santa could you help me out, I’m in a dozen shades of doubt
Half the world is ‘weapons out’, all the rest just scream and shout
“Don’t do this and don’t do that, would you kindly pause your spat?”
Arms dealers are getting fat… I can’t afford to heat my flat
Grain and fuel are pricing high, body bags in short supply
And thousands duck yet thousands die
But Santa it’s the time of year to spread a little Christmas cheer
And let those that wont listen hear the guns fall silent far and near
So Santa could you help me out and sprinkle your goodwill about
To link the arms of atheist, agnostic and devout
For whilst so many gods abound at every compass point around
Can there not be a middle ground
But all the world says, “We’re the good,” or, “You’re the villain in the hood,”
Or, “You will soon be gone for good.” And diplomats are blocks of wood.
So Santa can you clarify the who, the what, the where, the why
For far away the people cry and one man says that nukes may fly
So war may soon be hereabout, I hope we have sufficient clout
Hey, Santa, could you help us out?
A snaking mouth sloughs two spines,
the rattle of small vertebrae
and delicate teeth.
A woman learns to ride them, feels
the trombone slide of a dragon’s tail.
A man lifts tugging fingers,
not wanting to fumble
as ill-illuminated aluminum rails
bite.
The zipper knits together lusts
or shuns and strips a thought away.
Body bags become bodily prayers.
It is a widening gash gleaming -
lip-gloss for unpainted desires.
Zippers may squeeze a tight throat,
or close an open face.
Buttons are collected or lost,
though once in a while rescued
from a box of other tangled trinkets.
will end when and where
have been many lives to spare
be kind and take care
many overwrought
by hamas they had been shot
so much sin was sought
lying and beguile
blew up buildings mile by mile
killed a little child
list of sins surpass
many body bags amass
where will it all end
will read this weekend
solve problems do intend
many minds must mend
The border is broken and ignored.
Mixed in with desperate angels are snakes-demons-gangsters.
The latest game of Chinese checkers
(the fentanyl plague) has taken the place of the Wuhan rage...
Body bags are filling with our young, their silky dreams-undone-undone.
A parade float governor belches.
No more cash bail for the violent.
Claiming (from behind his wall) this will make citizens safer.
Prisons are being emptied into once peaceful places.
Lori Lightfoot waves her dog-eared race card again.
The sheep will always vote the same-the -same.
As black brains are being sprayed with .38 caliber candy.
Even Afghanistan is a more peaceful place
than the Un-United States.
Soros hornets, along with the ghosts of Mao and Marx
are stinging Lady Liberty to death.
I missed Korea and Vietnam,
growing up too slow for the harvest.
Of the survivors,
many seemed numbed,
as if Nurse Ratched
had broken their minds
with a hatchet.
Out of Iraq and Afghanistan
came a lumbering beast
dripping sports metaphor,
waylaying us
with flags and body bags,
If I am dying, still telling tall-tales
I’ll invent a minor African conflict,
a covert operation;
speak vaguely of the missing,
the horror,
my personal bravery.
Insist that they place
a red poppy in a glass of water
by my bedside.
when we would ignore
not see around anymore
had gone out the door
below and under
were worse off than each other
fire out smother
once was the life blood
killed our flowers and each bud
body bags went thud
much trouble and strain
bodies blown up and blood stain
in Ukraine did remain
either will amend
or we did have to rescind
is what we intend
started bright new dawn
are building on White House lawn
huge crowd they had drawn
These are my latest Horn Haiku.
They were butchered in Bucha
Victims of unprovoked aggression
Wrapped in body bags of wickedness
Like chicken preserved in the cold room
What a world of brutality
What an act of bestiality
What a display of man’s inhumanity
It is man’s basest depravity
Let the world rise against this insanity
And bring the blood thirsty scoundrels
To the path of accountability
The world is watching
The God of the defenseless is taking stock
To mete out punishment
To perpetrators of crimes of war
They willfully exile themselves from fight,
turn into friendly sports their military training,
warming their old cold beds.
Save your charitable cause of lauding the warriors and
the body bags, and save your tears too, they frighten the
spirits, blind them with your waving flags, devour them with
your open enthusiasm for the new recruits who bought into the fable,
the fantasy that might rival the old St. Patrick's big bells.
You may serve them with cups and cakes,
bringing divinity to your noble cause, seldom think of
war a place of heroism, of fancy, as long as it's far apart.
You appear and speak only on stage,
profiting from war's rage.
As I lay me down to dream
Please don't let me fight or scream
Keep the nightmares far away
Don't let me watch
The death replay.
Let me have
One peaceful night
To stay asleep until the light.
Don't let me wake to sob and cry
Over and over
I've watched them die.
Just a few hours in a quiet world
No pink caskets or baby girl.
No body bags stacked 3 feet high
The smell of death from ground to sky.
No cold sweats, shaking in the dark.
The things I've seen has left it's mark.
Docs and pills and counseling,
Don't ever do a single thing.
So you suck it up and just turn cold.
Just let it go, is what I've been told.
You think I really want this pain?
To wallow in hell, going insane.
Not be able to FEEL like you?
I would have already,
If it was that easy to do!!
But tonight,
Just let me sleep,
Dear lord let it be dreamless and deep.
Did you go to the place of war? The place men leave and come back as bleeding souls, the place men come back in body bags with no story to be told, the place dementos suck the life out of your bones, the place giants are broken down like dust beneath my feet. How was it? The place of war? Was it a breath of fresh air? Or a stench of dead layers? Looking death in the eye, and watch him snare at you, ready to catch you when you lose your balance, so you hold your stance and only hope to avoid that dance, you grip your gun and patrol forward counting your bullets, watching that metal pierce through that fresh meat, as it digs deeper slicing through like the Butchers buffet, with a creeping smile on your face knowing today is not your day to dance a sly dance with death that has its conniving eye on your breath, a cold whisper in your ear "an extra day you have today, but remember tomorrow might not be yours to take".
condemned
died
reprimand
cried
government war
cease fire
democracy whore
more black men dying, dire
body bags
LSD
citizens cried for our guys, to be free
end this conflict please
Liberty
supposed to train oppress to be
armed to protect their liberty
the opposed then set free
Oh! So complex world South Vietnam
Condemned world conflict
60,000 Souls died
indigenous fortress
communist reprimand military conflict
Cries
started in 1955
stop prevent spread
of Communism
throughout all of Southeast Asia
Sound the alarm
End the war in Vietnam
9/5/74
Written by James Edward Lee ©1974, 2021
We accept tornadoes here,
expect them, tick them off
as they pass by like demon dreidels.
Usually they are not a big deal
unless they are.
Spring culls its little lambs
in all sorts of ways.
The murder rate in Chicago
climbs ever higher
until the city prays for more snow.
Folks in their privileged trailer parks
get rolled like dice.
A pressing need for body bags
creates work for some.
The addicted and dying oblige
as best they can.
It’s all a small town hush
unless a celebrity overdoses
then distraught, the news is spread
from parlor to parlor.
Shooting-up on the streets
is a recreational choice for those
who camp-out in Cleveland and Dayton.
Meanwhile birds keep singing,
Spring flowers struggle to bloom
squeezed as they are
between such climatic collisions.
We hear the roar and rumble
of funnels turning upon themselves
as they twist the nights away.
soldiers roam in rags
dead ones put in body bags
charcoal ~ get dog tags
By
David Kavanagh
Silver-haired generals
gather to tell us why;
yet they skip questions – salute
into the TV camera.
Mother askes:
“Who are these silver-haired gentlemen
wearing a uniform similar to your brothers?
“They are the Country Mom”, I say,
they are the men that appropriate
the exact number of body bags
so that there is never any waste,
for that would be a waste wouldn’t it mom”?
Mother nods then shakes her head,
as if trying to understand.
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