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Long Poems
Long poem by Donal Mahoney | Details

A Man of No Words

Virgil comes to group therapy every week in his pick-up truck with his dog, Buster, standing in the bed of the truck. The sessions are held for veterans of Korea and Vietnam. Quite a few veterans in this small town because not many males applied for deferments back then to go to college. Money for college wasn’t available and this is, after all, a farming community. In one way or another people here earn their living from the fertile land.

This week as usual Virgil gets out of his truck, flicks a cigarette away and goes in the center. He leaves Buster as usual standing untethered in the back of the truck. Not many Dalmatians around here but Virgil got him somewhere as a pup and for the last six years Buster has been coming with him to therapy once a week. 

People in town think Buster is the best-behaved dog they have ever seen. He remains standing in the back of the truck in driving rain, heavy snow and even while a squirrel or two cavort tantalizingly on the ground nearby. The dog seems oblivious to distractions while he waits for Virgil to return. 

Other vets in the group feel sorry for the dog in bad weather but talking to Virgil about anything doesn't work. Over the years he has never sought nor offered comments or advice. He is a man of no words.

Every week on therapy day Virgil enters the therapy room before the session starts, looks around like he’s casing the place for interlopers, turns around and walks out. Then he goes into another room and basically repeats the performance. 

In that room are women waiting to begin group therapy for domestic abuse. Virgil gives them the creeps, they admit, but he leaves the room as quickly as he comes in. He has never said nor done anything untoward.

His next stop is the table in the hallway where his best friend, Mr. Coffee, waits. He likes his black with lots of sugar. 

Next Virgil heads for the room where some men play pool before therapy starts. Over in the corner there’s always a serious game of poker in progress. 

Neither the pool players nor the card players look at Virgil anymore. He sips his coffee, looks around the room carefully, turns and leaves.  

When the staff serves lunch, Virgil goes to the dining room, leans against the wall and watches the people eat. He has never sat down to eat. 

Folks new at the center have complained about him and have been told by the regulars that Virgil is harmless but not quite right since he came back from Vietnam. It helps when they mention that he was All-State in football for the local high school before Vietnam but that was a long time ago. He didn’t go to college when he came back although a football scholarship was waiting for him.

Virgil steps outside the center every now and then, has a cigarette, sometimes two, and says hello to his dog. Then he comes back and watches the pool players again, mostly old-timers who are veterans from Korea. They don’t know Virgil was a pool shark of sorts but that was before Vietnam. Although he was in high school at the time, he used to beat many of the men. He hasn’t played pool since Vietnam. 

In fact, Virgil hasn’t done much of anything since coming back except come to group therapy once a week.

During therapy, he sits in his chair for an hour, says nothing and looks around. Any time a new person is introduced he’s obviously concerned.

In the past, a few Korean vets have tried to engage Virgil in conversation but he says nothing but his name, rank and serial number. The men mean well but they came back from Korea where there was no Agent Orange. Monsanto and Dow did not provide any spray in Korea. Korea was bad for many reasons but it had nothing to do with Agent Orange, which still echoes today in veterans all over America and in the people of Vietnam. 

The Vietnam vets don’t bother Virgil. They just advise any well-meaning vet from Korea to let Virgil be Virgil. If they want to help him, they suggest they make certain Mr. Coffee is ready when Virgil arrives. He asks for nothing more. 

Every veteran in the group has his own coffee mug with his name on it. 

Virgil’s mug has no name—just a big navel orange.


Donal Mahoney

Copyright © Donal Mahoney | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by James Edward Lee Sr. | Details

Remember Me I Am a Soldier

I'm on my way, to save the day;
On a bus, then on a plane I'm on my way;
to a war to defend an unknown territory
to defend them children, women and men;
fighting for rights and freedoms
while in my hands, arms I'm holding guns;
shooting to defend the rights of others;
the enemy "who am I" to not call them my brother;
Who am I,
Well remember me ahh, yes please, please, won't you please remember these;
Remember ME!!!

Remember me, the soldier whose life I put on the line(s)
to save you from the terrors inside;
of those men whom would have your souls;
Kill you just to have their stores head;
Remember me!
Remember me!
one of the soldier whose life which was placed on the line;
the line of battle, stepping in harms way liken herds of cattle;
walking, marching, running crawling;
does our life's matter we shed blood, wounded and paralyzed for you..
of those men whom would have your souls;
I'm a soldier, well, won't you please just remember,
remember;
remember ME;
remember me I'm a soldier;
well you please just remember me when I'm gone;
I'm a soldier, well, won't you please just 
Remember
Remember me I am a soldier
and I am on loan for a moment rumors and rumors of wars;
sometime God sanctions battles to fulfill His wishes;
while mothers, son, and daughters are at home washing dishes;
I'm a soldier, well, won't you please just remember
remember;
remember ME;
I am fighting, some of us have fallen to promote and sustain our liberties;
I'm a soldier well, won't you please just remember me;
the one you loved holding this gun;
in  the country of an unknown tongue, please don't forget me I'm so alone;
even though I have my fellow soldiers with me;
we are all fighting this battle with our sleeves up;
remember me so that I may make it back home in peace;
that I'd have all my limbs and that I can still speak;
this is why I am here to instill peace;
please, please remember me 
remember me
remember me
I've made it back home
you look down on me and I still can't afford to by a home;
stand for our freedoms overseas now back still so all alone;
I was off to war now I am back;
where this the life get so off track;
stood for our freedom over there and now I am here;
I was off to war now you are treating me so wrong;
a battle hero might as will as die on foreign soil;
all I wanted was to help prevent, back in the states you won't even represent (me)
it's no colored blind by my skin;
only when I wear my camouflage green, do you, will you;
remember me
remember me
to have saved you from the terrors inside;
of those men whom would have your souls;
have murdered with their eyes;
kill you just to have their stories heard
remember me
remember me
remember me
I am a soldier
will you please just remember me when I'm gone;
I'm a soldier, well won't you please just 
remember
remember
remember me
not in my casket
not in the grave
not in disillusion, not dismembered;
embodied nor enslaved;
don't remember me cause I held a rifle, a gun;
don't remember me so that I may make it back home in peace;
Remember me because I AM GOD's SON 
and I belong first to HIM and Jesus
Remember Me I am and will be in the Arms of Jesus
remember me I am a soldier
who will no longer get and be older


Thank you for your service

10/29/2010
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.
From the anthology "  Change Is Gonna Come  "

Copyright © James Edward Lee Sr. | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Jamie Walker | Details

The Forgotten Voices

The date
July Twenty Eight
The year, 1914
The War which we feared 
It began, something we could not foresee
This date, still haunters me
To this very day
Those bewailing screams
And those traumatic scenes
Words to do not to justify 
The violence I've seen
Those images cemented in my brain
I still have those vivid dreams 
From what took place 
That no matter how much gin
I drink it will not go away
I pray for forgiveness for my sins
For those i killed in the war
My families even more distraught
This carnage i couldn’t bare 
A pray to him up here, make it back from the war
I shed blood sweat and tears for my brothers 
Living in pure darkness for so many years
Barbaric injuries that cant be Unseen
Blind to the cold war's corruption
And the overwhelming destruction
The hellish scenes, the smell of death
The air breathed in and breathed out
Men bleeding out, guts open on show
From the broken torsos
Broken bones
I tried i to heal him
Whilst in the mist of the battlefields
I cant see him breathing
Tranquility masks over him
Hes close to leaving 
Hes dying right next to me, I blamed me
We were meant to be a team
He went charging out ahead of me
He was only young, he was was like my son
The fight with death that was the battle
A brave soul but looking back at him
Was the darkness of gun barrel!
I failed him as his sergeant
And as his farther!
I couldn’t look at his broken carcass
And my pain bleeds 
Eternal may he rest in peace
That day will be remembered with me
Taken to my grave
Trapped in hell my tombed sealed
But I'm still awake
My eyes still twitching, they flicker
I'm itching to put the gun 
To my temple and pull the trigger
To ease the pain emotionally and physically
Get out of this hell hole instantly 
We cant we have more love and peace!
7 million civilians deceased
Bodies piled up in a heap
My gun wound though my leg 
Reminds me of my narrow escape of death 
As i stick my fingers in pulling out the bullet 
Through sheer will power and adrenaline i manged to do it 
As the blood oozes I'm losing too much
When we it stop 
It ensues blood
My life flashes I'm doomed
Must I stop thinking I'm a useless solider
I still have both my arms
And firearms 
In my holster,
Bomb blast off just over my platoon
My brothers fatal wounds 
From there firearms
Bleeding out hes dying in my arms! 
And theirs nothing i can do!
Go for cover dragging my brothers limbless body out fast
From the depths of despair 
Muddy helmet and bloody chest
My impulse to pull my trigger to revenge my brothers death
I clench my gun and come out screaming out of my trench
My ordeal
I wake screaming
My nightmare isn’t real
Gulp the vodka, numb the pain
The same nightmare again!
 Night after night day after day!
 I can still smell the scent of rotten-ting flesh
The only thing the war promised was death!
A minute silence for all those
Who died 4 years ago wont
Bring those broken souls home 
But with restore some hope
This war has finally fished today the date 
11th of November Nineteen Eighteen
A date that we be forever remembered
But even more traumatic than fortitude 
Was returning home too 
Loved ones and breaking the there bad news!
She asks you how did he die?
You say peacefully, you lied
We both know its not true
R.I.P Private Mathew Blue.

Copyright © Jamie Walker | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Frederick Moore | Details

memories of a Green Beret

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......

Copyright © Frederick Moore | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by John Posey | Details

A Letter To My Hero

  


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,
John

Copyright © John Posey | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Terrance Upham | Details

Latest Epic poem pleasing astectics

Wicked Romancer a provocative Prince of fanatics in the dramatics of fashionable word's. 
 Giving orgasms of mind unique one of a kind pleasures of my rhythms in rhymes. 

Mesmerizing feelings of exquisite emotions written in every line unique prisms of brilliance &  elements of resilience relevance to my intelligence. 
Poetically staggers with sharpest poetic swagger. 
Whispers of my rhymes philosophize & hypnotize delinquent eyes with provocative lies undercover an in disguise.

Measures of legislations failed litigations an hesitations of my provoking seductive imagination.
Adjudication of a provoking provocative artist with abstract crimes my words slinging dope rhymes standing in felony profiling lines.

Broadcasting smears of ink's future place's somewhere in time.
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Prophet smearing every mythical line proportions of monumental rhymes. 

My rhymes stimulate eccentricities in personalities aesthetically pleasing and teasing giving orgasms of mind with pleasurable word's action's of my verbs. 

My rhymes scour & devour discombobulated ambiguities of pathetic fairy tales tasting stale as I prevail. 
Complexities of my dynamics in words whale & impale on world's monumental scales. 
Forget Princeton Harvard and Yale & f*** the Prince of Wales & all his small details.

Philosopher’s soft caressing words in philosophies the economy of efficiency in exquisitely unique wizardtrii. 
Echoes of my whispering words give harmonies to life's tranquility qualities of virtue's in equality.
Times destination is a destiny of universal fate of the universe's humanity in which all mankind shares.

 Dynamic depths of fathoms are Phantoms of my complexities in unique abilities.
 You can't conceal and you must reveal feelings & emotions written in every line the economy of every word efficiencies in designs of my written rhymes. 

Discombobulated ambiguous lines of pathetic fairy tales my rhymes twist and burn leaving your ashes in an ern.
 Universal dexterity in ambidextrious configurations of unique twin inline designs is complexities of dynamics aesthetics of life's beauty's. 
Wicked romancer aesthetically pleasing and teasing the unique pleasures of an architect in the aesthetics of love’s romance.
Aesthetically pleasing to the mind sweet silhouettes of divine beauty's succulent poetry. 

?Universe interconnected?      
            ®O?N~§ € £ F€º 
?{Interconnected»«Universe}?
    Pen's Broadcasting Brilliance 
           21st century's Poet
           #WickedRomancer
       ?  #poet #poetry #poem?

Copyright © Terrance Upham | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Damian Cranney | Details

Duties Reward

Smoke wafted across the village,
The swack,swack, swack, sound
Of a helicopter inbound, 
was heard,
Grass and dust churned and curled,
As it landed, 
Amidst the carnage caused,
By it’s crew now disbanded,
The horrors of war, 
are but dreams when they sleep,
the traumas they live with,
they always will keep.

Just then he awoke,
from this dream,
Being kicked by a cop 
in an alley not clean.
Wake up, wake up, 
you can’t sleep here,
He remembered his dream, 
and had no fear,
I can sleep where I like, 
I’m  an ex army vet,
I fought for my country, 
which I do not regret,
But for all of that suffering, 
I’m still owed a debt.

He found himself bound,,
As the cop read his rights,
Was held hard to the ground,
Then thrown in the back,
Of a sleek, black and white,
Was charged and locked up,
In a  cell for the night.

The judge in the morning,
Was unsympathetic,
If you're an ex veteran,
You should go get a job,
You make us feel guilty
When you sleep in the street,
It was not our fault,
that you died In that war,
You just haven’t realised 
You should not be here. 
Eventually you will realise,
And will then disappear
Thirty days was his sentence,

He was marched and locked in the cells,
The arresting officer treated him  ok,
Would you like some pie he heard him say 
Well thanks said the vet,
No probs, said the cop,
What's your name I forget,
Its Robbo I guess said the vet,
Mines easy the cop said it’s Joe.

I guess it ain’t fair, 
what was said just out there,
The cop said, as he handed him pie,
That’s life said the vet,
It’s what I’ve come to expect,
And as he munched the food,
In desultory mood
He gave out a long sad sigh.

Again he was locked, In a six by nine cell,
Was he pissed off, I guess so,
But then who can tell.
He served the month out,
He had done this before,
And the lock on the door,
Made him feel more secure.

The time passed by, quite easy,
To him it was free board and lodge,
He picked up his things, 
His wallet and rings,
They were matching, 
And Joe had to ask,
Hey Rob are you married, 
I was but she died, 
She was pregnant, 
and the feotus miscarried,
While I was fighting away,

That’s tough, Joe the cop said,
That’s life said the vet, 

You know it’s not right,
But you just have to fight,
The fight is what keeps you alive,
But sometimes I want to, 
just not to respond to, 
the walk, talk, and jive,
With That he just went,
Joe watched him walk out of the door,
Who was that, said the sergeant,
I am afraid I don’t know,
I have never seen him before.

Copyright © Damian Cranney | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Rhoda Monihan | Details

May Life Bless You

May life bless you with real freedom, 
Keep enjoyment as your place, 
May you find your own confidence, 
From your education and your space;
May you entertain discernment,
Whilst fulfilling your desires,
And may platitude be rescinded, 
By real love in your eyes.

May life be all it can be, 
May your realities come from your dreams, 
May your work become your eulogy, 
And may your identity give your memes. 

May you receive more than you give, 
And see reason when there's none,
May your friends light your inside,   
May you give hope to those with one;
May you save the exploited from oppression,
By making despair to you most personal,
And may equality be the standard,
For your repudiation of its dismissal.

May life be all it can be, 
May your realities come from your dreams, 
May your work become your eulogy, 
And may your identity give your memes. 

May you always uphold justice, 
Even in dark and uncertain times,
When faced with honest requests, 
And its unsettled times sometimes; 
May you do what’s right no problem, 
Not questioning the strain, 
Nor grumbling about the consequences, 
Of morality’s devoted love train. 

May life be all it can be, 
May your realities come from your dreams, 
May your work become your eulogy, 
And may your identity give your memes. 

May your diamond be stalwart honour,
For war heroes old and injured,
Tormented by battlefields and sights,
Of the mangled and beleaguered; 
May you testify to fact and truth, 
And publish what you know;
And may reason be your sociology, 
To dictatorial governments overthrow. 

May life be all.... 

May you respect others in esteem, 
For kindness and achievement,
May you follow those you understand, 
As beautiful in accomplishment;
May you undertake endeavours, 
Which ramify the other unstudied, 
By embracing love and laughter, 
As whispers of grace embodied. 

May life be all... 

May you always say what’s inside,
Whilst giving other people a chance,
Trusting them with your memories, 
That history upon which you cannot glance; 
May you always speak your mind, 
To make rationality your guide, 
And in dignity confide and correct, 
To let the delinquent within you abide. 

May life be all... 

May your philosophies be trophied,
As a garland by the lonely,
And may your way be warmly accepted, 
Without negotiation or apology;
May righteousness be your hallmark,
And caring thought your attribution, 
And may you prevail generally as a good person, 
Bringing light where there’s intrusion. 

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Su Ben | Details

Wounded Soldiers Returned From Iraq

              -Thinking of Iraq Ware Veterans on Veterans Day-

The day after the terrorists attacked our country, I joined the military and was deployed to Iraq. I fought in the desert far away from my sweet home defeating terrorists because it was the nation’s call that I must listen to and to comply with.

I witnessed many brave men and women fall in the battlefield. All those fallen heroes’ wishes were, without exception, our nation’s peace and freedom. 

And that’s why, though the people may think or say:

you cannot fly in the air without wings; spirit can soar in the air without wings however. That’s why, though a soldier’s both wings burned to ashes under scorching sun in the battlefield where Babylonian might once maneuvered their chargers freely, rising a cloud of dust; gliding high in air above the highest ridge of Whitney, standing tall in the Pacific Cordillera with no wings spread;

you cannot swim against the current without fins; the soul is able to go up the river with no fins nevertheless, and that is why, in order to spawn the pride of our nation’s virtues for future generations to come and preserve, a soldier is swimming upward against shallow rapid current in a tributaries of Mississippi with fins blasted off by a roadside bomb along the bank of the River Tigris;

you cannot run through the prairies with cracked hooves; you can swiftly maneuver yourself even in a cross-wind if you have a will, and that is why, a solder gallops on a high ground of the Appalachian Plateau with the hooves blown off by a bombshell from a flaming cars to quench her thirst which, comes from bitter feeling left in the battlefield because of a mission unaccomplished, from water wells up in Lake Tear of the Clouds that pours into River Hudson;

you cannot walk holding loved one’s hand without a body; keen desire of the dead who perished in a battlefield, and now lying under the ground pillowing a tomb stone, can come back and live in the loved one’s heart, and that's why a man with dust covered military fatigues is walking behind his sweetheart stepping fallen leaves on a path in the forest by his home town, he whispers affectionately when she turns back and looks at him sadly with tearful eyes, “I love you.”

I am sitting in a wheel chair, watching proudly fluttering Star and Stripes through a hospital ward window. I salute the flag with great respect. I recite the nation’s anthem, the Star-Spangled Banner, with pride and joy.

Copyright © Su Ben | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by gregory boyer | Details

AMERICAN SOLDIER RISE

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
AMERICAN SOLDIER...RISE

Copyright © gregory boyer | Year Posted 2013

Long Poems