The Day After.

 

The Day After!

The cemeteries sit silent now,
the flags flutter almost lifeless,
in the late spring breeze.

The wreaths left on each grave
gather dandelion fluff,
like mournful dream catchers,
emptied of any chance to dream on.

 
The thump of the

many feet above,
caused by those who for
just a few moments in time,
paraded by in regret
echoed softly in the

dark boxes beneath the grass.

Each footfall was

much like the marching
all the boys below

at one time knew.

 
Bones still clatter

as they tumble
into small piles of

 what once was
a young man who

 died for his country.

The bones make

sounds much like the
metal nomenclature

on the straps
of long silenced rifles,
or the clank of canteens
against ammo belts rattling
in the dark jungles,

and searing desert heat.

Our resident president made clear
the imperative need for
dying to eliminate terrorist
but the terror of dying
is made much clearer still
here in the stark shadows

of the crosses
standing in endless

formations of grief.

Life goes on all around

these hallowed grounds
that hold the many sacrifices
to the privilege of living free.

 
Somewhere amidst

the 17,800 maimed,
tears fall from the one-eyed,
hugs are shared by the one-armed
and the legless sit deeply moved
by the true meaning of this day.

They are the living memorials
of the dire cost of wars.

 
They gave up large

pieces of their life
so that we could walk

amongst them whole.

 
There is no speech

that can compensate,
no reason that can explain away,
and no repairing the internal damage
that forever scars their souls.

 
Civilians by the

thousands lie in
mass graves, families

mingled with families,
3 year old's mixed with

those who were eighty
and unable to escape

the shrapnel of destruction.

 
There are no answers to defeating war
when war defeats the answers.

But still I shout out the realities
in black and white characters
to remind all of us of the many
precious characters we have lost.

 
Bold, and brave young men
and women as well,
laughing and loving
for but a few years,
and then being called away
to the stillness of these
back filled holes.

 
I am but one of many
poets on a rant,
fighting against wars
I am too old to serve in,
stabbing pencils

against it's madness,
and uncapping pens
that detail it's blackness.

 
But we can all serve our country
with preemptive strikes
on the buttons that move
the men who make armies.

 
Vote with your hearts
the next time you get a shot at
removing the great enemy
known as the status quot.

 
Take a walk near some
freshly dug graves and
remember the chads of war
buried beneath you.
Then go, and make a choice
that you can live with
in honor of those who
had little choice when death
played taps on their

weary shoulders.

Happy Memorial days
might still be a reality
but only when peace
makes us far more happy
to remember it's price.

 

 

 

©-MFB III