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This Is A Place Of Remembrance

The Vietnam Years It's the year two thousand three And it still hasn't left me This nightmare called South Vietnam Thirty-five years And three million tears Still smelling the stench of napalm Four hundred and twenty months Keep hitting all at once One hell of a weight to carry Three hundred eighty two days Doing it Uncle Sam's way Got thousands of my brothers buried Twenty-four hours a day Livin' in a drug induced haze Another war called PTSD There must be a better way I'd rather just fade away But there's loved ones depending on me Got a band of Brothers We depend on each other Recognizable by the look in our eyes We all look the same We all shoulder the blame We spent time under the Vietnam sky All the monsoon rains Can't wash away the pain As we stare at that black granite Wall And if in weakness we stumble Because our knees start to crumble There are Brothers to help you stand tall I've found time knows no limits Seconds turn to minutes While months turn into years Soon it will be time to sky up Drink from the blessed silver cup And leave behind the Vietnam fears Leave behind the Vietnam years Leave behind the Vietnam years Leave behind the Vietnam years Boon ©July 27, 2003 Richard Preston

Wars are so different...
yet somehow the same
by Gary Jacobson © 2003

Different wars from beginning of time
Still voice the same common combat rhyme
Borne in raucous fever across different horizons
Boasting of different grisly weapons
Across a score of years
Reminiscent of history's cares
Every one designed to dissipate humanity
Perpetuate the insanity.

Read the rest of the poem, http://pzzzz.tripod.com/differentwars.html

My Father Never Told Me A Lie

When I was young and following my father around

He pointed out the things I should know in the world that abound

My father never told me a lie.

As I grew and started to school

He often reminded me about the golden rule

My father never told me a lie.

Through the teenage years and when I thought I knew it all

My father was strict but loving, as I would often fall

My father never told me a lie.

Then when my time to enter the military

His advice was straight to the point and never arbitrary

My father never told me a lie.

Then came the time for me to go to war

My dad being a combat veteran told me many things of the blood and gore

My father never told me a lie.

When once in the field myself and would often forget

But once things got bad I could always look back to the ole vet

My father never told me a lie.

Upon my return to the country of my birth

My father met me and I saw what the fight was worth

My father never told me a lie.

As he grew older and more sick by the day

His advice was slow in coming but pointed out there was always time to pray

My father never told me a lie.

Now that I have grow older and my time maybe coming nigh

I remember the things he told me and sometimes I even sigh

My father never told me a lie.

My father told me the day before his death

Have no sorrow my son for God will give me breath

My father never told me a lie.

Now I can gaze at the sky and wonder how he is, happy or glum

Does he look down upon us and he pleased with the outcome? He must be happy because

My father never told me a lie.

©David R. Alexander
July 27, 2003

All Rights Reserved

What Was It Like In The War Daddy?

Hot, thirsty, dirty and scared

Those that were not scared were impaired

What is this place I have been sent?

Hell? No just Vietnam.

Mile after mile of endless patrols

Searching for an enemy that we hope we dont find their holes.

No shelter, no fresh water and Cs if we can get them.

Hell? No just Vietnam.

Jungle, wait-a-minute briars, bugs each playing a roll

Each taking their toll,

Leeches as big as a long pencil and jet black

Hell? No just Vietnam

Wet feet, unknown rashes, death traps

Red ants the size of roaches perhaps

Snakes, sure name one they are probably here

Hell? No just Vietnam.

Tired aching back, filth everywhere, why are we taking this path?

Three weeks sense I had anything called a bath

Water from a polluted stream and quinine tables added

Hell? No just Vietnam.

No rest, no sleep, no end in sight

Charlie hitting us when he is most unexpected, maybe tonight.

Another brother down and more miles to go

Hell? No just Vietnam.

Wounded, bleeding and dieing in this mud

Not enough dry bandage to stop the blood

Slowly bleeding to death

Hell? No Vietnam.

Trying to get out of this jungle darkness

Maybe a chopper to carry us to a better medical access

Not a chance from in here

Hell? No Vietnam.

Carrying out the wounded and the dead

No one to be left behind, carry them with us instead

Only we find no help in site

Hell? No Vietnam.

Think Ill just lie down and sleep

Not for long just a few minutes let me creep

Cant do that, Charlie is all around

Hell? No Vietnam.

So it goes day after day and not a sound

We are just grunts on the ground

Will we ever find rest and peace?

Hell no this is Vietnam.

©David R. Alexander

July 27, 2003

All Rights Reserved

Some Men Died

Time
is nothing but distance
from here,
to the end of our lives.

In Vietnam,
time ended
screaming,
moaning,
and staring into my eyes.

Time!

Wounded and dying...!

Morphine time.

Young faces
desperate to live,
..gasping for breath
as they died.

....And so we killed,
and killed our way home.

Killing,
as death remained in our eyes.

Now,
we grow old,

.....sleeping between today
and memory.

...and the mirror of morning remains
at war,
..alone,
and always.

Our eyes remain at war.

We grow old....
there.

Caliber
©Jul 29 03

Death Of A Soldier

Night time
and silence.

A telephone ringing.

Driving
across Georgia...
and moments alone.

Eyes of a a Brother.... dying......
a Brother!

...a Black child dying of so long
ago!

Not Alone..Bro
Not!........alone.

Highway is raining
tears
....and not alone.

I
Am the one who is lost.

rain drivin and comin home.....!

I see the rain
upon my windshield
as tears
in my eyes.

Rain for my Brothers.

I shall always drive home
....alone.

Caliber
©Jul 03LJKlaiber

Wish You Were Here!

Steam rising from the rice patty

. Steam rising from the blood left there.

. Does anyone care?

Half of the unit either dead or wounded

. Choppers coming in for them

. Heck sometimes I wish it were me.

Charlie hit and run, hit again

. Messy thing they do

. Cruel maybe, but to only us.

Writing letters to widows and mothers back home

. What the Hell do I say?

. Climb up on the ledge and jump, easy way out.

Orders from those above

. They could care less, they dont have to go

. I take that back, the pain of command is a real pain also.

Kill or be killed?

. I didnt learn this in High School

I wonder if Mr. Phelps thinks of me sometimes.

High School?

.. That must have been a hundred years ago

. Safety of the class room, I didnt even have a clue.

Time to go

No more time to think about this crap

. Damn, another night patrol?

Hey you at home

Having a great time

Wish you were here.

©David R. Alexander

July 29, 2003

All Rights Reserved

Compassion

As I read your words tonight...
the feelings come so alive...
My friend...it is a losing fight...
Tears that will not stop... begin to flow
...Pain and grief in my heart
...does start to grow
even though ...of it ... I had no part...
...a sinking hopeless feeling... deep inside...
Are these your fears and grief... come to bide
In my mind... I hear your hopeless sighs...
in the mirror... I see... your tears... running... from my eyes

©Faye Sizemore 7/29/03

Uncounted Casualty

Many say that only truth is sought
They say that the stories must be told
Stories of Soldiers brave and bold
They say they must be told or be all for naught

Soldiers who fought and held their dying brother
Soldiers who had to tell the expectant mother

No more will he come home to you, no more
Your child will never know the face of my brother
Your child will never hear his voice
Your child will know only the love of you ,her darling mother

His child born in the crisp fall air of his desert home
His child never to know what it would be like to see him home
His child to know only that he died in a far away land
Died for something called Freedom and just doing his job

His child to be raised by a man, his blood brother
His child to know only love and trust and adoration
His child raised by a man with horrible memories
His child an orphan because he could not protect her mother

His child raised to know honor, to love freedom
His child raised to honor those who have fought and died
His child told of the horrors of war, of the terrible pain
His child told of how he died, of his last fight

Their child raised know the disgust most felt for her Daddies
Their child hearing them called Baby Killers and Murderers
Their child knowing that he was visited nightly
Their child knowing that no one cared, no one wanted to know

The child now grown writes words of her fathers
The child now grown, vows that their Grand-daughters will know
The child now no longer able to trust as once she did.
The child now questions all around her, asks why?

The child asks No one cared before, why do they care now
The child asks No one trusted them, why should i now trust you

The child is an uncounted casualty of a long ago war.

©Becky
July 29, 2003

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