1968.......Reflected In Pools Of Blood.

"Only pools of blood reflect upon

the hearts of great men stilled

whose dreams for all Americans,

went mostly unfulfilled."

Young Bobby had hopes
he would be president
and maybe end the war
shot down he died,
eyes filled with shock
on a cold, hard,

kitchen floor.

The scumbag who
destroyed his life,
still breathes,

he's doing well
applying for parole

each year,
should've sent him

straight to hell.

The Reverend King
could stir up souls,
many white folks
chose to back him
but his great words stirred
some racist groups,
who plotted to attack him.

They set up such

an easy shot,
any coward could

have taken,
its blast rang out,
then hopeless shouts,
over Martin's

dreams forsaken.

Many maggots were
behind that shot,
letting one man

take the blame
while they stayed
hidden in white sheets,
only God now knows

their names
lost in hell in
sheets of flame.

What they

didn't know,
was that all

their actions
caused by vicious hate,
set into motion
their downfalls
through Civil

Rights debates.

And on distant

foreign soil,
young men every

night were dreaming
of homes they missed

so very much,
far from  the dying,

pain, and bleeding.

There were

pressure mines,

and punjee stakes,
coated thick with

urine, and feces
one pierced boots,

and poisoned blood,
one blew good

men to pieces.

At Scarborough fair,
two minstrels of peace
wove songs,
with words

that taught 'em
the woes of the young
who polished guns
and fought for
causes forgotten,
leaving their loved ones

misbegotten.

As for Me,

I was a hippie,
with beads and  

long,  wavy hair
still a bit too young

for that war unwon
to be sent then

over there.

But soon enough

time changed that fact,
when I too felt that

cold... cold draft
soon it's sorrows
I would share .

I wish there was

some magic way
to travel back in time
and change the things
that fate decreed,

plus all those ways

that men would bleed.

I'd use that chance
to let peace dance,

in a much more

glorious happenstance

I'd step in fast and

stop the bullet,
that fate had

marked for Bobby
defeating Sirhan

at his plans,

by killing him

with my bare hands

I'd catch him

outside the lobby

King would be

much tougher,
for he was

so damn devoted
he'd tell me "

Thanks for the warning son,
the threats have been duly noted."
then he'd continue on his way
out that dark door to death
he faced  such dangers day by day,
with every single breath.

Perhaps I'd have to trip him
and draw his bullet to me
as I stepped through time to block it,
on that tragic balcony
then Martin would still be here,
helping keep all people free.
And I would end up wounded
in my brush with history.

The White House

would confront me
as the hardest to convince
I'd beg them all to end war,
with words I could not mince,
I 'd bring old Lyndon

Johnson proof,
back from my distant time
and show him 58,000 men,
who all died in their prime.

I'd also show him

just as many

who after Nam had died,

from Agent Orange, PTSD,

and endless suicides.

I 'm sure that

he would listen,
cause their deaths
each caused him grief
I witnessed this,

his face of pain
He longed for

some relief.

Old LBJ

could have

been swayed
to bring the boys

back home, 
if there was no

chance of winning.

from his capital

pressure dome.

But sadly there's

no magic way

to bend time and return

to re-rehearse

fate's well staged curse 

that's only grown

much worse.
The die was cast

and from our past
so little has been learned.

We still have young boys dying,
in a far off desert place
while Bin 

who needs some killing,
has a big smirk

on his face
he sends out his insurgents
as he cowers in some space,

like a cockroach

hiding in the dark

while his cohorts help erase

our boys with

handbuilt roadside bombs

he's a scourge to every race.

I'd like one shot at his head

plus ten more to wound and shred.

 

Our former Commander-In-Grief,
said it would end real soon
while he built 14 bases,

guarding precious oil boons.

Then he closed

so many bases here,
in his game of "Let's pretend,"
that we won't bestuck for many years,
in two wars that have no end.

No, I cannot travel back in time,

so sadly I remain

with just an empty peace pipe,

full of smoke and mirrors and pain

much like Vietnam again.

But my pen can still

speak of great dreams,

Much like Kennedy and King

we must support our tired troops,

and bring them home....let jet planes wing

across the skies and save some lives

from any more suffering.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~©-MFB III

"What great dreams they had, before their hearts were stilled
they gave their all but yet, their hopes unfulfilled."