Unholy Nights....The Scars Are Brightly Shining.
the scars are brightly shining)
December twenty fifth,
Christmas dinner was in a can,
C-rations, dark green containers holding,
de-boned chicken that was killed
in 1942 years before I was born,
perfectly preserved like a bad fruitcake,
in the back of a fridge come April.
A few thumb cramping seconds spent
with a John Wayne, (can opener)
yielded even more exquisite fare.
Foil wrapped Crackers,
and some pasty vegetable pulp,
a stale candy bar.
and a pack of smokes too,
but I traded them for another
antique chocolate square.
Plus one Sterno can to heat up the glop,
and maybe make it a bit more palatable.
No tree, just a ramshackle bivouac,
and the stench of death all around me.
Stockings were hung, with care,
but simply to dry,
from a massive rainfall just passed.
The smell of toe jam
prevalent as we slept,
No sugarplums dancing
in the fetid air.
Tracer bullets crisscrossed
the skies on Christmas eve,
like multi-colored streamers
decorating the heavens.
We sang Silent Night, but it wasn't,
a few boys got gift wrapped in body bags,
dog tags marking who they would be sent to.
I think about the troops in the desert now,
in a land of barbarians, intent upon death
who scoff at the very idea of the Christ child.
While each of our soldiers hope
their Christmas will pass quietly,
leaving them intact to enjoy the New year.
Back home our politicians and their children,
sit immune from the pain,
suckling the moist turkey from the bones
breaking wishbones with
no attention paid to the Y's of it all.
Huge plates dressed
in cranberries and gravy,
or plump hams, with pork fat rendered
into delectable slices of bliss.
While faraway the sons
of the lesser man,
breathe hot desert air,
and spend another holiday far from home.
Hang an ornament in their honor,
let it sparkle and shine,
for all men who have served
in the bleak
empty horizons of war.
All those who have taken
a bath in the mayhem,
amidst the pieces of their
rather then finding
peace from Bethlehem...
back home and wrapped
in the arms of their loved ones
at long last..
More by this Author
I'll Love You to The Moon And Back. ©-MFB III The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to it moves the tides of passion and of tears, as well as the oceans. While all around lover's woo under...
In the heat of the moment when life's at dire risk, one does not see the humanity of the enemy, one only sees the murderous intent. Only later if the opportunity arises can one sit and ponder it.
An extract remarks a north. Peace Sleeps in the the Dust of Lost Dreams. © -MFB III They came to the old hippie, a poet of great merit, asking him for hope. just some peaceful solutions freshly penned, ...
No comments yet.