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 Rememberance

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Next Generation, Your Time

Sing a song of regret

Sing a song of lonesome thoughts

Sing a song of love and hate

Sing a song of memories of long ago events.

 

Picture those gone

Picture those that we loved as brothers

Picture the blood stained ground

Picture the black body bags loaded and carried away.

 

Paint the minds reality of days of stench and filth

Paint with words the hell we went through

Paint misery with ones own blood

Paint a mind numb from remembering the past.

 

Write of the events of war

Write the words that will paint a picture for those that dont know

Write a long list of those that died

Write a poem of what you feel.

 

Take the songs

Take the pictures

Take the writings

Now throw them away.

 

All of them mean absolutely nothing to anyone except you

No one cares

Our time has passed

Move on to the grave, its the next generations time to remember.

©David R. Alexander

October 22, 2003



 

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Another Veterans Day

 

I have seen your laughing faces,

With crinkled, smiling eyes

Changed by war to somber masks

Where now only sorrow lies.

 

What happened to the gung ho kids

Who left home, courage high?

Well, some came back, if alive,

With eyes that just want to cry.

 

But, how is it that you can survive

A wars most vicious wrath,

And, then upon returning home,

Find a serene and peaceful path

 

To follow for the rest of your days

While another comrade-in-arms

Seems to have experienced

Only deep and incurable harm?

 

You saw the same gut-wrenching sights,

Felt the blood ooze, sticky and warm.

Fought through rice paddies and jungles

And across sand dunes and farms.

 

You reacted alike with visceral anguish

To the searing loss of friends,

You lived through the same perilous nights

And days that never seemed to end.

 

You flew the fast-moving, vengeful jets and

Chopper medevacs;

You fired off rockets and dropped Napalm

Or were tireless airborne FACS.

 

You manned the door guns and dropped

the flares that ripped the dark asunder,

You soared above the smoking earth

as it throbbed to your Rolling Thunder.

 

You sat huddled in a darkened room,

Glued to your radar scope,

Knowing that the bright dots you controlled

Were some besieged grunts final hope.

 

You patrolled the base perimeter

Along with your brave canine,

You drove the trucks and cooked the

meals, and detonated mines.

 

You bandaged wounds and operated,

to save thousands of lives;

You wept for the ones who didnt make it

And cared for the ones who survived.

 

You were numbed by all the endless deaths,

The pain, the weariness, and terror.

Yet one has somehow found lasting peace,

While the other leads a life without fervor.

 

It isnt a matter of simple guts,

For having courage does not spare

Anyone from the nightmares and flashbacks

That can, unbidden, suddenly flare.

 

Its something that resides deep within

The essence of what we are,

That allows one soul to heal itself

While another is too deeply scarred.

 

Its something that I contemplate

On the approach of this Veterans Day;

And I wish for us all eternal peace

When we come to the end of our ways.

©10/30/2003 Thurman P. Woodfork

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This is not a war poem but is the result of correspondence between me and a fellow vet (WW2) who is suffering badly from the effects of PTSD. He is 77 years "old" and until retirement at age 75 was a religious minister and lecturer at a large university in America. After retirement, he started writing poetry as a means of recording his life and times but because he was no longer active, either mentally or physically (he had a spinal operation after retirement and is now confined to s wheelchair), our common enemy, PTSD set in - Doug is a veteran of the 509th Composite Bomb Group - the guys who dropped the bombs on Japan.
 
Since the onset of PTSD, Doug finds he is unable to write and he sent me the words that are now part of this poem (the 2 line, second verse in fact)
 
OK - enough rambling - here is the poem inspired by Doug.
 

Night Words

Ah yes - the night when the muses play, and invite words to come out and weigh
in the minds and hearts of all who dare to paint with pen their solemn fare;
To create a living history of the things that they have chanced to see;
A history that will e'r remain - yet their tombs be wet with tomorrow's rain.

(Words are such fragile entities, which have minds of their own and oft refuse to play
in the darkness of the night, and choose to stay in dictionaries during the light of day)

Fragile? Words? Nay I don't believe that we would be able to perceive
just how lonely we would be if we couldn't hear but could only see
the mouthing movement of a friend whose words we couldn't understand;
for a word not heard is a word not said... and of that loss I live in dread.

So write those words, I say to you, and to the paper with pen secure
the ethereal words that would be lost (at an unacceptably high a cost).
From the heart and from the soul tell all the things that must be told
and smile content at the thought of the gift of past your words have bought.
 
©Anthony W. Pahl
November 02, 2003
 

COST

The cost of friendship is dishonour
The cost of friendship is lies
The cost of friendship is helplessness
The price of friendship is truth.

The cost of friendship is selfishness
The cost of friendship is ire
The cost of friendship is nastiness
The value of friendship is life.

These costs for friendship are prices
that friends must be willing to pay
because a friend must always forego
all evils that are in friendships way.

© 08 November 2003 Anthony W. Pahl