Peace Is A Stone
Peace is a white stone
on Plot 479A.
The song called him drunken.
After living and fighting
and being a part
of the most remembered
flag raising in history,
all that mattered
to the song writer was a sad
lonely death
on the cold dry ground
in Arizona.
Such was the plight
of the brave Pima
from Arizona Land.
It was late in February 1945,
when five members of Easy Company
planted Old Glory
high atop Mount Suribachi,
while battles raged below
The enemy had turned
the landing beaches into
killing fields,
open graves for 7000
American men and boys.
Born on a windy January Day,
of a proud and quiet people
living and loving the land,
farming and trying
to follow the white man's way.
Ira Hayes, was a non-citizen
and immigrant in his native land,
a hard dry dirt patch
his people had occupied
for more than 2,000 years.
Back home, battles over,
a quiet man,
unable to cope with fame,
and dead brother's in arms
left on foreign shores,
he got trapped by the bottle,
the way so many do.
After the lights of
a victory and bond tour dimmed,
he worked picking cotton,
a dubious celebrity
in many a white mans’ jail cell.
He lived barely 32 years
before dying alone
late one winter's night.
The hard dry dirt
in the land he had fought for
became his funeral bed.
The song called him drunken.
Such was the plight
of the brave Pima
from Arizona Land.
The spirits cried
as they carried him home.
Now his piece
of the white man's world
is the stone on Plot 479A.
Diyin God Baahózhó Nihimá Bikéyah Nízhoníye
One Man Remembers
A wave of men charged the beach, brave souls who make their stand. Some died choking on dirty water in their quest to reach the land. A thousand strong, American men and boys charged along, headlong into the path of deadly gunfire; hundreds fell but some carried on. Up the beach and in droves, on and on they came to land to the top of the bloody cliffs and all along the sandy strand. They had to liberate the island, volcanic rock no one would claim to be worthy of the blood shed, all in the image of freedom's name. Six men made it to the top and then raised the flag and secured it there, amid cheers from those men below whose pride it was theirs to share. Old Glory, our proud flag flew popping in the Pacific breeze, planted high above the sea; an image of freedom to you and me. Some died in the fights that followed and some lived to return to home, honored as heroes, most of them would rather have been left alone. Slowly life and age intrude in lives that knew the horror and the pain of leaving friends behind in death and never seeing them again. Only one of those young warriors remains alive on this Memorial Day. He stands tall and pays silent tribute to memories no one can take away. Young men and boys even now charge into battle, courage unwavering, strong. They die alone in the dust somewhere, still the quest for freedom goes on.
POW/MIA Day
The empty bleachers still stand
beside the lonely, barren flag pole.
Yesterday was POW MIA day.
Slowly they counted the roll.
The bent man spent four years
in a prison which took its toll.
Slowly they counted the roll,
yesterday was POW MIA day.
We recall a man who disappeared
just outside the city of Seoul
Yesterday was POW MIA day.
Slowly they counted the roll.
Some returned and some did not,
but for all their many scars stay.
Slowly they counted the roll,
yesterday was POW MIA day.
Poppies In The Breeze
In a field far away,
a gentle wind,
makes the poppy sway.
Brilliant red flowers.
Crosses white.
Sky blue.
All is silent.
The war is over.
Rest in peace.
To Flanders Field,
in Ypres they came,
In 1915 to fight.
They are gone.
Poppies remain,
blowing in the breeze.
Let us remember,
the blood stained ground
of that terrible time.
Wear your poppy
upon your lapel.
Pray for those lost.
In a field far away
a gentle wind
makes the poppy sway.
Rain On My Parade
Upon the horizon nary a flicker of sun's rays as eastward the car and I made our ways. Absent were the red tail hawk and eagle in flight. In fact only roadside geese and ducks met my sight. Sometimes the drops poured in a thick sheet, sometimes just a small, fine mist so neat, but always the skies continued to bring rain, though I wailed and prayed against nature in vain. I wore a pair of old corduroys and a dress shirt, fearful of getting my uniform covered in mud or dirt, in case something unfortunate should befall me, or errant aiming birds select me for their debris. I was on my way to give a speech in Anamoose, about men lost, who's warrior souls drift loose, but should they be allowed by God to live again, would once again stand for America and defend. The little Veteran's Hall was packed with people, more benefiting a sermon in a church with steeple. The crowd hung on my words and applauded too, stopping to thank me when my speech was through. I stayed for hot pot luck dinner and tasty dessert; I have learned breaking bread can never hurt. When the meal was over we said our goodbyes, and I once more cast my eye upon leaden skies. Now a tale of this magnitude should end with sun, alas all the way back home through miles, I saw none, but clouds and rain don't always make a day bad. It is all in our heads when the weather makes us sad.
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