Writings Of Boondockers Poetic Justice Members
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Site Awards
Lighter Side Of BPJ
Lighter Side #2
Lighter Side #3
LIGHTER SIDE#4
4TH OF JULY 2003
THE KOREAN WAR REMEMBERED /July 27,1953-July27,2003 50 years

This is a place of remembrance

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Again the Drums

Now begins that melancholy time that I was so afraid of seeing; war again looms on the horizon with all the attendant pain and horror it brings. As many gloat in anticipated triumph, their children go toward battle and oblivion with constricted breath and racing hearts. They will selflessly give their all for God and Country. Others mouth boastful defiance as their children turn to face an irresistible, death-bearing torrent of steel and fire with trepidation and hopeless bravado.


On both sides, youth will cease to bloom. It will wither and die in the consuming furnace of Wars fiery breath. Meanwhile avaricious, stonyhearted men wait with grasping hands to reap the bounty provided by the sacrifices of those aborted futures. Somewhere, hopefully, a God notes the actions of these Wicked in His Book of Reckoning.


That, however, provides cold comfort to those who will presently, and for years to come, mourn the empty place at the table, and bear that aching void in their hearts. Custom can neither stem hot tears nor protect minds from the decades of pain that await both the victorious and the defeated.


What monument ever restored a heartbeat, breathed warm life again into flaccid, lacerated lungs, caused a new limb to grow, or returned the light to sightless eyes? So, beat the drum slowly... the blood chilling rasp of the Grim Reapers whetstone against his scythe echoes once more. It has begun anew.

©Thurman P. Woodfork 3/17/2003

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REUTERS/Peter Andrews

Desert Mirage
Mirages being so common in the desert
through the heat, and swirling sand,
I thought I saw a line of tanks in a foreign land
I though I saw the Sons of Uncle Sam
marching off in search of Saddam,
wind whipping banners of Red,White and Blue

Their faces looked so determined,so very true,
making their way to give the Tyrant his due
In the desert night, burns many an oil well,
their flames bespeaking of the fires of Hell
In the streets of Baghdad the sirens do wail,
warning all hearing of those who will prevail

Beyond the mirage............ I see me...
helpless,gazing, with tears on my face... anew...
praying for safe returns when they are through...


©Faye Sizemore 3/21/03

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AP/Laura Rauch

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Drumbeats

What a monstrous sight, this picture of Americas best

casually discarded in an ignominious pile. It burns like a

dagger seared through the chest. What is to be gained by

displaying human beings like trophies from a safari?



I wonder if the sight of these young people, flung aside

like worthless rubbish, has changed the resolve of those

remaining who offered to stand like human shields before the

perpetrators of this hateful abomination? Some shields

have already left in shock after discovering the depth of

the depravity of the regime that they had come to protect.



I can think of no surer way to steel the resolve of their

fellows to avenge the desecration of these compatriots

who fought honorably and perished ignobly. These were

people who had come not out of a desire to conquer another

people, or for personal gain, but because they felt that they

were preserving their own freedoms. Or simply because

they were following orders.



They did not deserve this. One can only hope that those

who are responsible, who slyly pretend to surrender and

then attack from behind a white flag, will discover here

on earth a measure of the hell that awaits them after death.

©Thurman P. Woodfork 23/03/2003

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Standing At Reason...With Head Bowed

We watched them gear up and march away,
carried on transports and planes to the battle dome
Treasure the sight of their wave as they left that day
Some of those brave soldiers won`t be coming home..

Daddies and husbands,brothers and uncles,lovers, friends,
sisters and daughters,mothers and wives,aunts and all,
gone to cleanse Iraq of Saddam and his deadly sins
One, and all, they have gone to answer freedom`s call

We are here waiitng at home and daily we pray
for victory and the great homecoming day
when the battle`s haze clears and it does end
It is sad ,but some, will not be coming home again

'Freedom Is Not Free' is the handbook we read
It takes it toll of those warriors it does need
Treasure the sight of their wave as they left that day
Some will surley die ensuring our freedom does stay

©Faye Sizemore 3/23/03


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Flashback

There he sits as usual, alone with his innermost thoughts;

These days hes content to be alone; no other company is sought.

No wifes homey chatter, no noisy kids clatter, only the blessed quiet

That surrounds him on the outside, but now, in his head, theres a riot.

 

Noisy, whirling chopper blades join chattering, clattering guns,

As he groans and curses the darkness, praying for the morning sun.

Then Spookys flares turn the night to noon, as with a whirring roar,

A red tongue of tracers licks hungrily down, searching the jungle floor.

 

The enemy retreats on silent feet, ghosting away through the trees,

While the choking smoke gradually floats away on the drifting breeze.

But suddenly, he sees that there are no trees, no underbrush, nor any leaves,

Just the rumbling tanks and the Embeddeds soft voice, droning away on TV.

 

So, he suppresses a sigh, blinks rueful eyes, aims the remote control,

And with a firm, gentle press of his finger, retains his hold on his soul.

Thurman P. Woodfork 3/25/2003

 

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A Little Tear Stained Face


Sitting on the front porch steps down close to the gates.

Hands under her little chin as she waits

Little eyes searching up and down the street

A stranger walks up the walk to her house in the summer heat.




Hello little girl what is your name?

Mommy says not to talk to strangers, but Cindy sir is my name.

That is a good idea the stranger agrees.

Mister, have you seen my daddy? Hes overseas.




He wears a uniform almost like yours, hes a member of the corps.

He left a few weeks ago to go to something called a war.

He told me not to worry that he would be back before I knew it.

Well Ive been waiting and looking and he hasnt come home.




The stranger looks down at this innocent child,

A lump in his throat and a tear in his eye all the while

Without answering her he ask if her mother is there

Yes sir, Ill go get her for you, you can wait in the chair.




A thank you and a quick wipe of a tear

In a moment her mother is at the door, face-showing fear

The stranger and her mothers eyes meet, both blurred

Her mother starts to cry before he says a word.




Cindy, says mommy please dont cry

Maam, Im Major Bry

He seems like a nice man mommy.

I have the unpleasant duty to inform you about your husband Tommy.




Cindys mother collapses at the news

And the stranger hastens to her side, but no way to excuse.

Little Cindy doesnt understand things like war and bombs

What had the stranger said to her mom?




The stranger took little Cindy aside and held her tight

Not knowing what to say or how to explain her dads plight.

Struggling to explain, Cindy said she understood

Then she asks the question that he somehow knew she would.




When is my daddy coming home?

No answer fitting, another child left alone

Another family broken by war

A cost that every soldier knows, but the responsibility they gladly bore.




Now let me see the ones that protest our military that protects their rights

Let me hear how the innocent will be hurt over there in the fights

Let me see what they have done to protect Cindy and her mom,

An organized group of the ungrateful, that protest the bomb.


©David R. Alexander

March 24, 2003

All Rights Reserved


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i stand in my prayer circle, my fire is lit

i look into the the blue orange flames

In there i see, a dark weathered face

A face of wrinkles, a face of ageless war

i see eyes that flash with his Spirits fire

i see countless battles and countless deaths

i see the Old One's Who Have Gone Before

i see Grant and Lee and Sherman as well

I see McCellean and Cook and Stonewall to

i see they eyes of Geronmino and Chochise

i see the eyes of Chief Joseph and Gall

i see the eyes of Code Talkers of many Nations

i see Ike and Clark and Patton of the tanks

i see the eyes of those at the Frozen Chosin

i see the eyes of Three Elks as in Laos he falls

i see the fire in the eyes of the GreyEagle in the nights dark

i watch and see the young soldiers of today

i see those same eyes, i see the spirts flash in their eyes

In my fire , i watch as our soldiers at war are now

i see beside them in my fire, i see the shadows

i see the shadows of all who have gone before

i see the spirts as they beside the young soldiers they do walk

i am one with the spirts in my blue orange flame

i see them and i know that they will prevail in this war as well

i see them and i pray that those who walk beside them keep them from harm

my fire is a fire for spirits to walk, my fire is a bridge that they may talk.

my fire is my soul, my fire is my heart ,my fire is for spirits to walk and talk


©Rebecca Walking Sparrow 3/26/03

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