Impermanence by O.J. $traight
Inspired by Happy Hurts - Icon for Hire
My blood, my life source
I fear waking up
An atheist.
No atheists in foxholes.
Well I’m in the hole,
The pit,
The depths of despair, the
dead poets society
Carpe Diem, Seize the Day, boys
Help me.
…I’m not that innocent.
There exists no place
Outside the Lord's grip -
From the outposts of space
To the eclipse of a pit -
He's never far away
And even more so -
He's on the war field
In the foxholes -
In the nursing ward
And in the catacombs.
Where else should He be
But with the wounded
In body and spirit, prithee?
As two are wed -
Jesus - be ever with me.
When his stiff larynx shifts,
a caviling bone that darts for cover
as if caught in its bell tower
with a high-powered rifle.
I see his desperate need to talk.
"Those dumb forks,
ingrates, free-loaders, punks."
Salty epithets
march up and down his throat,
as if menacing the very fabric
of his Adam's apple.
Behind his eyes
the damned are piling up.
We are out here alone,
just him and me, and this anger
strangling his windpipe.
He once carried a buddy
out of a kill zone,
but not a lot of himself,
just this bitter slanguage.
I want to grab hold of him,
hug him,
let him talk it out,
allow his wounded words,
to spill out of their foxholes,
then share a dirty joke or two.
The kitten patrol was alert and ready for something to start.
Hiding in the hills among the leaves of autumns’ trees.
Kicking oak and maple offerings out of their foxholes.
What do you see Captain? The head guard kitten asked.
The other kittens were at a loss as to what they were expecting.
The road was clear, there was no indication of a warring troop.
No dusty trail; nothing!
When the larynx shifts
(a caviling bone) darts for cover,
as if caught in its bell tower
with a high-powered rifle.
I see his desperate need to talk.
those damn people,
ingrates, free-loaders, punks.
Salty epithets march up and down his throat,
as if menacing the very fabric
of his Adam's apple.
Behind his eyes
the damned are piling up.
We are out here alone,
just him and me, and this anger
strangling his windpipe.
He once carried a buddy
out of a kill zone,
but not much of himself,
just this bitter slanguage.
I want to grab hold of him,
hug him close,
let him talk it all out,
allow his words
to spill out of their foxholes.
Then break some ciabatta with him,
some Ligurian olives and chianti,
share a dirty joke
between wine sweetened gums.
Blessed be the LORD my strength,
which teacheth my hands to war,
and my fingers to fight:
Ps. 144:1
Thank you, LORD!
Thank you, LORD!
I want to thank you
for teaching my hands
to war against evil
Thank you, LORD!
Thank you, LORD!
I want to thank you
for teaching my fingers
to fight for righteousness
Thank you, LORD!
Thank you, LORD!
I want to thank you
for teaching my heart
to be not fearful of the battle
Thank you, LORD!
Thank you, LORD!
I want to thank you
for teaching my soul
to not fret, or be afraid of death
Thank you, LORD!
Thank you, LORD!
I want to thank you
for letting me be a Calvary student;
learning to cross enemy lines, cold foxholes in the dust
Thank you, LORD!
Thank you, LORD!
I want to thank you
for being my shield and buckler
Teaching me that only in you, I should ever armor trust
Thank you, LORD!
Thank you, LORD!
I want to thank you
for teaching me to be a do-good soldier
in the daily battle of Armageddon: the wicked vs the just
I AM THE VETERAN
I fought in the trenches of World War I
In the foxholes of World War II
I was in the Korean Conflict
And the rice paddies of Vietnam too
I've been to Afghanistan
Kuwait and Iraq
Spent long months away from home
I've been to hell and back
But the stars and stripes will forever wave
In honor of those who went to their grave
To ensure that America will always be
The home of the brave and the land of the free
The bells of freedom will continue to ring
All across the USA
And it can be said, without a doubt
Our veterans paved the way
Curtis Moorman
5 February 2010
In the shadows an enemy lurks, it’s where they hide.
While inside my foxholes, a Marine grunt, I abide.
A poncho line wrapped around my body that shivers;
Steeled nerves, impenetrable will, I refuse to quiver.
I wait soaking wet in my restrained prime.
Its death that haunts me while I suffer this time.
My mind is troubled, yet there I’ll remain
There’s no pretending, its death, not a game.
Trained to fight and not to run for the Vietnam War,
Where time has forgotten, and joy comes no more.
Waiting for the enemy, faces without names;
Their bodies mount-up now God’s to claim.
Marines died in the jungles of South Vietnam
While outside of country, the world moved on.
They dared not dream, for it might be forever.
O’ Home, Sweet Home, twas' their bold endeavor.
Tattoos were anathema in ‘52
on any man who got one
after an all-night drunk
or to impress a girlfriend.
But not a word was spoken to
a man who made it home
tattooed after serving
with his company in Korea.
Any man who made it back
was welcomed whether
he had Popeye on his bicep
or his girlfriend's name
even if the girlfriend married
someone she had met while he
was digging foxholes in Korea.
Donal Mahoney
DEFEAT
Out of the waves they come.
Helmeted army of crabs
Trundle over the perfect pools
Of starfish and periwinkle,
Murking up the sandy bottom
Of their foxholes,
Armoured claws testing each mollusk for food,
Sidling up to my toes
In marauding hunger.
I retreat inland,
Allowing them their beachhead.
Saw some quilts constructed
In the Civil Wartime years,
One made by a soldier,
Not as strange as it appears.
Cloth was cut from uniforms,
With both sides represented –
Harmony in textiles
Way before some men repented.
Wonder what that soldier thought
While sewing up his stitches,
Maybe as he hid himself
In foxholes or in ditches?
Was he thinking of his home,
His family or his honey?
Worrying about the war
Or keeping warm or money?
Could he ever picture
That the quilt that he created
Would be hung in a museum
With admirers belated?
As I wandered the exhibit
I was taken back in time
Where my musings and imaginings
Were stitched into this rhyme.
can we find peace
under a pillow
under the covers of
a lonely lovers bed
in a field blown by the wind
or in a back yard swimming pool
weighed down with lifeless feathers
or are we merely flying
to the tops of living roots
set for us by generations of followers
dug in foxholes dig
lonely soldier never thought it was to be
caught in the crossfire of some foe
his dream was of home
swallowed in shrapnel
we don't think on this dream much
for the nightmare has begun
life in it's short shell, impenetrable
from all .
now when we dream
are we alive walking on
live wires burnt and scathed
by angry wise men
fall back on everything find
your death and embrace it
sleep the good sleep
smile for life has begun
VETERANS ARE PEOPLE
I fought in the trenches of World War I
In the foxholes of World War II
I was in the Korean Conflict
And the rice paddies of Vietnam too
I've been to Afghanistan
Kuwait and Iraq
Spent long months away from home
I've been to hell and back
But the stars and stripes will forever wave
In honor of those who went to their grave
To ensure that America will always be
The home of the brave and the land of the free
The bells of freedom will continue to ring
All across the USA
And it can be said, without a doubt
Our veterans paved the way
24 August 2018
For the contest sponsored by July Morning
~~ Yes, Virginia. There are agnostics and atheists in foxholes. ~~
A lonesome boat in the harbor rocks insanity.
Big waves of the black sea roll across the white sands
that fade into darkness for eternity.
Far from the life giving drops of rain are predators
in the city of shadows.
Feelings from the last solem breezes blow.
As the evening sun fades slowly into the night,
the pavement glistens like cracked glass
from the earlier evening rain.
A lack of silence remains.
In the city of shadows,
screaming voices creep in the corner of your mind.
Visions of the garden where the flowers died.
The dark alley reveals the emptiness of peace within your soul,
and death reveals the cold, cold truth way beneath the black crumbled earth.
Slapped with a strike of lightning,
disrupting the fall of silence where secrets crawl to hide,
in the foxholes of one's mind.
In the city of shadows, bewildered minds tick with the time of the clock.
Breath by breath falls perfectly out of place,
and darkness opens a new gate.
Tunes of the violin slowly fade away.
A new awakening to blindness,
in the city of shadows.
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