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Indefensible

In East Nuristan
The FOB named
For the fallen
Is a bad omen
For the rising.

Men slid down
The mountain.
With the snow,
Beads dripping
Icy blood into
The glacial waters
Of the Bashgal.

The river fed
The valley below.
Men fed bullets
Into magazines,
Into weapons,
Into wounds.

As the dead
Were the fed
Into Apaches.
To Bagram,
To Germany,
To Walter Reed.

No Chinooks;
Only single
Blade space.
No banks,
Only buddy
Transfusions.
Out and In.

Surging trade,
Cash, Blood,
Adrenaline,
Democracy.
Nothing lasts.
Not the funds,
Not the shura,
And not peace.

As they tried
To defend the
Indefensible.
From a fishbowl
Between two
Dying worlds.

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Sixth of June- They Came on!

The Sixth of June- D-Day, Overlord.
Words spoken in reverent whispers between old soldiers,
The forces of Liberty
Set forth on the old continent,
To make the world safe for democracy
For the second time in a quarter century.

As the parachutes billowed in the early hours,
And the overloaded gliders slammed into the ground,
As the bombers laid out rolling thunder,
And the fighters strafed the shore,
As the thunder from destroyers, cruisers, and battleships,
Fell as barrages against the shore,
The landing craft came in,
Wave upon wave, upon wave.

From the pillboxes and prepared positions
Lead and death flowed down in fiery rivulets.
Through the dying and the dead,
The men came on.
In sputtered starts and stops with grim, determination.
They came on.
Despite the carnage and the chaos,
They came on.
First to the water’s edge then the bloody, battered beach;
Next the seawall, the cliffs, and then breakout.
They came on.
Through village, hedgerow, and town,
They came on.
Though the fight was not finished,
There was still much to come
Through Cherbourg, St. Lo, Caen, Falaise, Argentan, Paris,
They Came on.
Until the Reich was broken
By the hammer and the sickle and the bulldog and the eagle.
Still they came on.

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Of Forges and Fates

National Cathedral

War is the crucible of humanity

Where heat and pressure burn away the dross

Transforming society.

 

The experience might forge a new society

As a rare and valuable alloy

Useful in its blending of elements;

Or,

It might just as easily,

Leave a brittle weakened state,

With poor metal in its spine,

Ready to shatter under the pressure,

Fragmenting in to shards of itself.

 

The nation that welds its various components,

Into one blade upon the forge,

Under the hammer beats of history,

Through in the fire of tribulation,

Tempered with a quench

Of Humanity and Humility,

Shall always win the day.

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Recovery

National Cathedral

I’m in recovery.
I sat down to write a poem about the injuries I’ve sustained,
Both the physical and the mental,
How they slow me down and hamper me,
From being what I once was.
But halfway through I wrote it anew,
For the aches and pains I carry,
Are the marks of a life well-lived.
I wanted to give my scars special meaning,
But I’m not sure that much is true.
My limp and my aches are constant reminders,
Of the miles I’ve covered,
And the victories and losses,
But mostly they are ghostlike memories,
Now etched forever into my being.

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Cadence

Gate to Seoul

I understand the rhythm of my life,
How to call it on the left foot,
And keep everyone moving forward,
Together, in formation;
How to arraign actions in time and space,
Achieving strategic ends.
But I often miss that my closest companions,
Hear a cadence of their own,
Different beats based on their own motivations,
Seeking their own outcomes,
Solving the tactical problems of the day with no concern for strategy.
While I am calling a march cadence, they are moving double-time.
Sometimes we march, sometimes we dance,
Never in step, always together.