Nightmares still unsaddled.
Not My Flesh And Blood Sired For Another Futile War
Nightmares Still Unsaddled."
reach for the keys
but can seldom
open enough souls
to the hunger for change...
and even with a pencil, lead aches.
Poetry is a medium that calls up
the ghosts of yesteryear's,
sometimes other spirits are moved,
but it's those silent
masses that haunt me.
My soul is a stone tonight
cast into dark waters of despair
leaving ripples that note its passing.
The world wallows in the mire
of historical hysteria
reliving lessons unlearned.
Tonight the daft debated the draft,
as young flesh swallowed lead
and tasted foreign sands.
My twelve year old sleeps
a game boy on hold,
six years from the
sacrifice of futility.
I can still smell
the stench of jungle and napalm,
when night calls me to my deck
to shake the cobwebs of dreams,
long sealed in a dust covered sea-bag.
Dog tags rattle on the collars
of my welsh Corgis near me,
like the nomenclature on an M-16.
There's a tiny cabin
where refuge waits
in lakeside splendor
for my flesh and blood
still untouched by war.
But the patriot in me cries out
for America to come to its senses,
as a surge of blood
rushes through my ears,
only to puddle on Baghdad sand.
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