Brothers in Arms

When I read this I was touched by the power of the words and the subject matter. This is from my friend Rob Fletcher, a talented Welsh writer and photographer. Thank you Rob for allowing me to share your words.

Brothers in Small Arms

Born of metallurgy and chemistry I was:
Stamped, checked, moved, spilled and counted with millions of brothers in a grim piranha factory.
Automated, made, bought and sold with a quiet conscience of lethal exchange.

Destiny discovered fate and decreed my instant made
birth which heralds a coming death in a far distant country.
Cousins larger, nieces smaller…pieces put together quickly as
Productivity swears at innocence.

Tumbling shiny into green coffin boxes…
Stacked, steady, stable…waiting weds anticipation.
Sold in white and black markets and traded silently for a single drilled duty.
My sole mission to expend death.

Packaged and sent on a demon journey I’m:
Trucked, planed, boated and trained because my demand outstrips its supply.
I’m really wanted, loved and caressed.

Jungle appetites, African friendly
I arrive clinking and jangling…jostling my brothers for my
awaiting providence
My liaison with short life.

Strong black fingers pick me up admiringly…
I’m embraced, turned over and fondly kissed
under a hot and brooding war sky!
I’m wished upon…and I shall fulfil this desire.

Gently, I’m click-pushed first into my temporary steel curved prison along with my immediate band of siblings above me.
Then we’re snapped into our final position.
Smoke, noise and murder prevail…we are turned safety left, lorded and loaded and aimed not aimlessly.
Suddenly, mechanical release action jerks us free!

My brothers fly orgasmic allies
barrel tearing
and I explode
by engaging rifling as I spin free velocity charged, prior sighted and trajectory traced.

I speed towards a soft sweat-sheened forehead as young feared eyes see my untimely arrival and realize my tidings
bring death out of its hiding place as I thwack flesh and snuff out misplaced
youth soldier dreams in a lost sorry battle.

Fallen teen-torn blood spills from a 7.62 millimetre hole.
My slim body sent care of Kalashnikov and
with impartial human target remembrance,
bullet boy expires with diamond-fixed glory.

© Rob Fletcher. All rights reserved.

Author’s Comments:
“Death and life were not
Till man made up the whole
Made lock, stock, and barrel
Out of his bitter soul.”

-WB Yeats.

“Son, the only thing that guns are good for is making holes in things.”

-Eric Fletcher.
1921-1989.

The Eagle Cried

For Memorial Day – A poem from Rick Turton.
Note: Rick is usually making everyone laugh. He is awesome that way. But here he makes us think and remember and maybe even cry. Thank you Rick, again, for your moving words.

Vampire Maman

I’m honored to share a poem from my friend, Northern California writer Richard Turton.

eagle

The Eagle Cried

The acrid smell of cordite

Still hovered in the air.

No breeze to wash away

The scent of Satan’s hair.

The Medivac’s are fading now,

Their cabins filled with dead.

So many grisly pictures

Are surging through my head

Another hill’s been taken

The earth all charred and black

We all know what’s coming;

Tomorrow…”Give it back!”

The Eagle cries from barren trees

His tears, he cannot hide.

Where once a proud, young soldier stood

My Warrior Brother, died

The scorched ground that surrounds me;

Am I in Dante’s Hell?

This skirmish now is over

We saw them as they fell.

My Warrior Brother, Donny,

Died that gruesome day.

He took the bullets meant for me

With his final words did say,

“Tell Mom and Sis I loved them!

Please! Don’t let me…

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In Honor – Thoughts on Veterans Day 2012

In Honor…Veterans Day 2012

From my friend Dave Stone:

The officer stood framed in the doorway, looked over the class of cadets, and began to speak.

“Cadets, look around you at these walls.  The portraits you see are the great heroes of this country.  Eisenhower, Patton, Marshall, Grant, Jackson: great leaders all, but not the true heroes of this country.  For these people, while they led armies into battle, actually planned the campaigns, and waited for the results.  The true Americans heroes were the thousands of men and women under their command, the soldiers and sailors who fought and died, pushed forward and fell back, won…and lost battles.

Read the rest at: http://davestone1.wordpress.com/2012/11/11/heroes/

This is one blog I will recommend hands down that you follow. It contains some of the best writing on WordPress (or anywhere else).

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Why they deserve our honor.

This morning I was taken out of my comfortable can and brought into another world by David Zeitz.  Please listen.

Commentator David Zeitz was a “sapper” in Afghanistan. He detected and disassembled mines. He tells the story of a colleague who was seriously injured just feet away from him on a minefield.
Hear the complete story on the NPR web site: http://www.npr.org/2012/11/12/164940220/veteran-of-afghan-war-searched-for-deadly-landmines

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For The Fallen

by Robert Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

In peace and remembrance

I find myself without words for those who we lost both home and in the aftermath of war. It is a tragedy I can’t describe in words. It is a feeling that tears me apart even after 11 years. We have come together and come so far, but we’re still so far away.

In peace and remembrance…we shall never forget.

For some reason this poem always brings me comfort.

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost