Sandwishes & Shellshocked
Dreams die the hardest for the young.
Tiny boy child sitting calmly
playing in the sand
forming smooth walled castles with his clever little hands imaginary worlds of Kings and Queens down by the sea dwelling in a happy place of peace and harmony turrets tall with perfect towers gleaming in the sun moats and drawbridge made of driftwood quietly are hung windows with a tiny finger drilled out not to deep a magic place that he created... his own castle's keep suddenly the cry of "Dolphin!" fills the summer air people leap up to their feet and point, and shout, and stare little boy child seeks the fin that marks the mystery of one of the most gentle of God's creature's from the sea while his head is turned away a huge foot starts its descent smashing down the dreams he made from all that time he spent Just a careless passerby who looks to see what's going on flip-flop bombs laid waste unto this sculpture, then it's gone little boy child turns back to finish work he'd left undone seeing that it is destroyed his tears gleam in the sun he walks away and leaves a piece of his soul on the beach that soon is washed away by waves whose liquid fingers reach to draw the world around them back into the salty brine and grind it into tiny crystal's sparkling with sunshine Iraqi child sits by a hut and calmly works the sands weaving patterns fit for blankets textured by his hands dreaming of the market days when real work he can sell make some money....buy escape from this his desert hell suddenly folks all cry out "Bombers!!" as they point and shout
the Iraqi child looks all round to see what it's about only eight he doesn't know the heavens hold much more t hen Allah's love from pretty clouds there also can come war a giant finned creature is launched and starts on its descent his Momma screams a block away but knows all hope is spent people scatter like roach packs startled by the light and only one boy child remains.... to face the newest blight just twenty feet away it impacts with a shattering roar and dreams of blankets pretty patterns turn to bloody gore Sand-wishes spattered with raw flesh fresh blood and one small hand that later when it's opened holds a heart shaped ball of sand the waves of grief like liquid fingers from many eyes are spilled but they can never wash away the vision of him killed some careless acts by grown adults result in young boy's cries while other acts of carelessness go wrong and young boys die sand wishes turned to tragic ends.... it happens every day too many innocent are lost.. young children swept away when wishes turn to sand they slip through fingers and are lost and when it hurts the children it extracts too high a cost.
Tiny bloated baby floating
in a rice paddy
amidst exploded pieces
of her mommy and her daddy
simple peasants picking rice
young infant sits near by
crawls to be near Momma and
emits a lonely cry
her tiny errant foot nudges on
hard metal where it lies
then she triggers off a claymore mine
what was meant for the V.C. 1000 balls of shrapnel poke holes in eternity entranceways to exits for their souls that now are free killed in our attempt to build them a democracy in a land of simple lives that only wished to be let be multiply this by the men who died in agony their names chiseled on tall black walls
in Washington D.C. and just as many later chose to end their lives in grief or died from agent orange with cancer...begging for relief tiny little strip of land that always lived with war men who bled and died wondering what they were fighting for take a hill and give it back then take that hill again come back home and face the masses calling them heathen piles of bones of men held captive... never coming home for a fee they will return each soldier bone by bone tiny ribbons dot the chests of those who made it through bars of color that attest to all they tried to do soil rich with peasant blood mingled with Americans craters from the bombs we dropped all overgrown again jungle claiming back it's turf it smothers war's debris planes and copters vanish with thier men eternally bones of peasants fertilize the new rice paddies grown soon the land bears little trace of all that once was known new babies squat near the rice fields giggling as they play Mamasan's still keep a sharp eye on them every day they've heard the tales of cobra's that can fly and pound the land with one hundred rounds per inch while decimating every man birds now chirp and life continues like it always had wars they come and go.... but when it peaceful life's not bad other places they fall targets to the war machine while bleached bones still left in Vietnam turn slowly back to green sharp salutes to all who fell bitter tears for tiny tots and whole families whose last days
ended with loud rifle shots nature heals what we as men cannot hope to repair and God cradles the souls of all that died too early there the saddest part is 30 years have passed since babies burned yet we are still planning new wars with lessons never learned with thousands of young men still missing from our battles past they're bent on sending new ones off to fight and breathe their last while we all stand quite helpless as this evil die is cast.
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III