Friday, 28 November 2008
 

Having some trouble getting in the mood this year?
Contributed by Bill Faith

The Sands Of Christmas

I had no Christmas spirit when I breathed a weary sigh,
and looked across the table where the bills were piled too high.
The laundry wasn’t finished and the car I had to fix,
My stocks were down another point, the Dolphins lost by six.

And so with only minutes till my son got home from school
I gave up on the drudgery and grabbed a wooden stool.
The burdens that I carried were about all I could take,
and so I flipped the TV on to catch a little break.

I came upon a desert scene in shades of tan and rust,
No snowflakes hung upon the wind, just clouds of swirling dust.
And where the reindeer should have stood before a laden sleigh,
eight hummers ran a column right behind an M1A.

A group of boys walked past the tank, not one was past his teens,
Their eyes were hard as polished flint, their faces drawn and lean.
They walked the street in armor with their rifles shouldered tight,
their dearest wish for Christmas, just to have a silent night.

Other soldiers gathered, hunkered down against the wind,
To share a scrap of mail and dreams of going home again.
There wasn’t much at all to put their lonely hearts at ease,
They had no Christmas turkey, just a pack of MREs.

They didn’t have a garland or a stocking I could see,
They didn’t need an ornament-- they lacked a Christmas Tree.
They didn’t have a present even though it was tradition,
the only boxes I could see were labeled “ammunition.”

I felt a little tug and found my son now by my side,
He asked me what it was I feared, and why it was I cried.
I swept him up into my arms and held him oh so near
and kissed him on the forehead as I whispered in his ear.

There’s nothing wrong my little son, for safe we sleep tonight,
our heroes stand on foreign land to give us all the right,
to worry on the things in life that mean nothing at all,
instead of wondering if we will be the next to fall.

He looked at me as children do and said its always right,
to thank the ones who help us and perhaps that we should write.
And so we pushed aside the bills and sat to draft a note,
to thank the many far from home, and this is what we wrote,

God bless you all and keep you safe, and speed your way back home.
Remember that we love you so, and that you’re not alone.
The gift you give you share with all, a present every day,
You give the gift of liberty and that we can’t repay.

©Copyright December 2003 by Michael Marks
Used with the author's permission.

Contributed by Bill Faith on November 28, 2008 at 11:56 PM in Christmas, Michael Marks | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Sunday, 11 November 2007
 

Michael Marks: The Things I Carry
Contributed by Bill Faith

One of my favorite poets emails:

Bill,

With Veteran's Day just ahead I sat down to write a slightly different type of poem that was inspired after meeting a retired serviceman who had served for over 20 years and grappled, in very stoic reserve, with lingering PTSD issues. It is not the usual "stuff of poems" but a rather vivid scene came to mind and I wrote "The Things I Carry" -- since you have been so kindly interested in some of my earlier poems, I thought you might like to read it.  As always, they are written with the deepest respect and thanks for those who defend freedom.

The Things I Carry

The old train lumbered up the track amid a hoofbeat clatter,
its cloudy windows streaked by rain that fell in gentle patter.
With duffle heavy on my back I trudged along the aisle
Until I saw an empty seat next to a welcome smile.

A stifled groan curled in my chest beneath the weight I bore;
I shrugged the duffle off my back, it thudded on the floor.
“That pack looks awfully heavy friend” he said with narrowed stare,
“You got a load of cinderblocks or something tucked in there?”

My gaze fell to the weathered bag, its corners taped and patched,
the olive drab a faded grey, one canvas strap mismatched.
I forced a smile that in my heart was anything but merry
and through my gritted teeth replied “Its just the things I carry.”

Perhaps it was the lonely night, the thunder and the rain,
a sense of kindred friendship that I couldn’t quite explain,
but with a snap of rusted clip the duffle opened wide
and reaching in I showed him all the things I had inside.

A heavy armored vest was first, its kevlar torn and frayed
the gaping hole stained dark with blood was caused by a grenade.
“My best friend’s life” I whispered, fearing that my voice would crack;
“He gave it up to save me in the desert of Iraq.”

“We grew up just like brothers ever since the age of nine,
fishing up on Grady’s Pond or flyin kites on twine,
our first car was a Mustang, man we made that baby slide.
He always calls me ‘slick,’ I mean... he did until he died.”

A brick of granite followed, dark and grey as stormy sky,
engraved upon its polished face, a date in mid-July.
“I wasn’t home the day I lost my dad,” I muttered low,
remembering that awful day so many years ago.

“Our unit drew a line that month in deep Afghanistan
protecting little schoolgirls from a bloody Taliban.”
My somber gaze fell to the floor and fixed on muddy shoes.
“Dad was gone two weeks before I even got the news.”

The silence hung a moment broken only by the rain,
the beating of my heart over the rumble of the train,
before I heard him ask about the thing I left inside,
a mason jar that wads of dirty laundry failed to hide.

“Don’t open that,” I said too fast, my voice now tinged with fear.
“There’s things in there that, trust me, you don’t ever wanna hear.”
I thought about the demons bottled up inside that jar;
some things are better left alone... left just the way they are.

“I’ve seen a lot of people die, and let me tell you friend,
the sounds, the smells...” I bowed my head, “sometimes they never end.”
I don’t know why the lid slips off, it mostly does at night;
and it can take me hours just to get it back on tight.”

The man then spoke in earnest tones that tugged my memory,
“It seems a lot of weight to haul, but why I cannot see.
What makes a fellah like yourself lug such a load of pain?”
A furrow crossed my tired brow, I struggled to explain.

I spoke to him of duty, of the things a man just did,
of old regrets that in the darkness of the heart lay hid;
the ghosts of fallen friends you just can’t bring yourself to bury,
the bridges crossed and moments lost are just the things I carry.

Instead of being saddened now he seemed a bit amused,
“I admire your resolve bub, but you’ve got it all confused;
The memories you’re s’posed to keep aren’t those that weigh a ton,”
and handing me three items said “I’ll trade you one for one.”

The photo showed two lanky guys in t-shirts and blue jeans,
both leaning on a Mustang like a pair of Steve McQueens.
The memories came flooding back of racing ‘round our home
in an overpowered yellow wedge of spoilers and chrome.

The letter was a short one folded carefully in thirds,
my dad had never been a man of very many words;
In careful print it said his greatest pride since life began
was watching me grow up to be a soldier and a man.

Through misty eyes I looked the last upon the ocean shell,
if it had a hidden meaning I’d be damned if I could tell.
“You know the trick,” he softly said, “just hold it to your ear,
and listen to the things in life you’ve earned the right to hear.”

I heard the sounds of my home town where screams were shouts of cheer,
as kids ran up and down the field without the need to fear;
the ring of freedom’s many voices blended in the air,
the sound of open singing and the sound of open prayer.

I turned to find an empty seat,  just air and little more
than dust that slowly settled down upon the wooden floor.
Yet on that evanescence hung a voice I knew at last
a whisper from my memory, an echo from my past:

“Remember slick, the way to honor  those of us now gone;
is searching for the best ahead in each and every dawn.
Hold on to the good times, not the moments dark and scary,
I’m telling you to let ‘em go...  they aren’t yours to carry.”


Michael Marks   ©2007

Awesome, Michael. Thank you as always.

Enjoy more of Michael's writing at IWVPA.

Contributed by Bill Faith on November 11, 2007 at 12:20 AM in Michael Marks, Poetry, The American Warrior | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Friday, 24 November 2006
 

A Soldier's Christmas
Contributed by Bill Faith

[Update: I prepared this post well over a week ago and told TypePad to post it automatically this morning with no further help from me. It's strictly fortuitous coincidence that doing so resulted in a post containing a link to the IWVPA site landing directly above Tony's first Old War Dogs post. I just happen to link to his site quite a bit, and have been for a couple of years now.]

I guess when Russ Vaughn and the girl I took to my Junior Prom send me the same poem maybe that means I really oughta post it. Email from Russ in early November:

Bill, I know this has been around a while but it's still a damned good poem. Wish I'd written it. ...

Some clarification is in order here. The email I received from Russ, and the one from the old girlfriend, ended with these paragraphs:

Please, would you do me the kind favor of sending this to as many people as you can? Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our U.S. service men and women for our being able to celebrate these festivities.  Let's try in this small way to pay a tiny bit of what we owe.

Make people stop and think of our heroes, living and dead, who sacrificed themselves for us.

LCDR Jeff Giles, SC, USN
30th Naval Construction Regiment
OIC, Logistics Cell One
Al Taqqadum, Iraq.

It should be noted here that LCDR Giles did not write "A Soldier's Christmas," nor does he claim to. It was written by Mr. Michael Marks, several of whose works are collected here, including including some others you'll recognize and at least one of which I've posted in the past.

Thank you, LCDR Giles, for your service to our nation and for helping get the word out about a great piece of poetry.

Here, in it's entirety, is my post from about a year ago (I have email from Michael containing permission to post the whole thing):

This is a re-post from last year; it's still excellent. Thank you Subsunk for reminding me about it (Do read his related post.)

A SOLDIER'S CHRISTMAS

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
my daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree, I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep
in perfect contentment, or so it would seem.
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t too near,
But I opened my eye when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn’t quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.

My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
and I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.

“What are you doing?” I asked without fear
“Come in this moment, it’s freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!”

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts,
to the window that danced with a warm fire’s light
then he sighed and he said “Its really all right,
I’m out here by choice. I’m here every night”

“Its my duty to stand at the front of the line,
that separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stand here like my fathers before me.

My Gramps died at ‘Pearl on a day in December,”
then he sighed, “That’s a Christmas ‘Gram always remembers.”
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ‘Nam
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I’ve not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he’s sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red white and blue… an American flag.

“I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home,
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat,
I can carry the weight of killing another
or lay down my life with my sisters and brothers
who stand at the front against any and all,
to insure for all time that this flag will not fall.”

“So go back inside,” he said, “harbor no fright
Your family is waiting and I’ll be all right.”
“But isn’t there something I can do, at the least,
“Give you money,” I asked, “or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you’ve done,
For being away from your wife and your son.”

Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
“Just tell us you love us, and never forget
To fight for our rights back at home while we’re gone.
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.

For when we come home, either standing or dead,
to know you remember we fought and we bled
is payment enough, and with that we will trust.
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.”

©Copyright December 07, 2000 by Michael Marks

   

Author’s Notes:

A Soldier's Christmas was the first in this series of patriotic writings, drafted on Pearl Harbor Day 2000 when in the wake of the 2000 Presidential Election our nation saw the right of US Armed Forces personnel openly questioned and debated. I felt it unconscionable that at the onset of the Christmas season, those serving to defend our nation would hear anything but our love and support. It is our challenge to stand for their rights at home while they stand for our lives and safety overseas. This poem went out and quickly spread around the world in emails, letters, magazines. I received letters from Marines in Bosnia, soldiers in Okinawa, from a submariner who xeroxed a copy for everyone on his sub. Moms wrote, dads, brothers and sisters. I have saved and cherish every letter and set out to continue writing throughout the year.

I was thinking about our servicemen overseas this Holiday Season and wrote the following in hope of bringing a small bit of Christmas cheer to active duty and veterans alike ... just a humble thanks and "God Bless." Please feel free to pass it along or post it as you see fit. Thank you.

Happy Holidays,
Michael Marks

Sources: here and here.

Contributed by Bill Faith on November 24, 2006 at 06:00 AM in Bill Faith, Christmas, Michael Marks, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack