tag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406War PoetryWar PoetryWar Poetry2016-10-07T01:00:00Ztag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:623798ext_226735Curtis D. Bennett, 'The Wake Up'2016-10-07T01:00:00Z2016-10-07T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>The Wake Up</b><br /><br />As the endless war in Afghanistan drags on and on,<br />Slowly emerging are tales of war atrocities by Americans,<br />By men in combat whose job is to kill other human beings,<br />And when they do, they tend to celebrate being alive,<br />Celebrate the enemy they have just killed as now dead.<br />The Indians of America would take “scalps,”<br />In Vietnam, ears of the dead were cut off,<br />Stored in plastic bags, like curled, dried, brown potato chips.<br />Reminder souvenirs of America’s triumph; of our “winning!”<br /><br />In Afghanistan other photos emerged of American snipers<br />Pissing on the bodies of the dead enemy of Al Qaeda,<br />Others posing with enemy dead beneath German SS flags,<br />The latest photos show Americans holding up body-parts<br />Of dead the newly dead Afghanistan suicide bombers,<br />Who were trying to kill them and dying in their effort.<br />And who can forget the American Sergeant Robert Bales<br />On his 4th tour of combat, despite suffering head wounds,<br />Who mercilessly went out in the middle of the night,<br />To gun down 17 Afghanistan women and children,<br />In the dead of night...as they slept....<br /><br />Afghanistan is a guerrilla war; a civil war; and a religious war,<br />To Americans, Afghans are “towel-heads,”<br />Any one of them could easily be a suicide bomber, a “martyr,”<br />Whose lives are meaningless; inconsequential; of no value,<br />So indiscriminate killing of the “enemy,” becomes the norm,<br />An acceptable reaction to perceived dangers; a survival tool.<br /><br />As long as American troops are forced into multiple tours, <br />Multiple atrocities will continue...unabated,<br />For they are also put into “survival” mode, which has no rules;<br />Which has no boundaries; no “codes of conduct.”<br />For Afghanistan is an “unconventional war,”<br />Things like the “Geneva Convention,” are merely concepts<br />Of another time and another place and of another era.<br />Which are given lip service by the Military Leaders,<br />But on the ground, these go out the window; are disregarded.<br />Just as in most wars, today are wars that Generals,<br />Ranking Officers and Commanders in Chief, Never Fight In!<br />Those who fight return from war weary, worn out, empty, <br />Tired, and drained from an endless year of being on the edge. <br />This takes its toll, as every minute of every day one is guarded;<br />Suspicious, tense, walking a very fine line, a balancing act,<br />Knowing you can easily die at any time, at any place,<br />And never, even, see it coming!<br /><br />One comes back from war fearful of the night, of dark,<br />For the dark represents the “unknown,” the unseen,<br />As “unknowns” are dangerous; unknowns will kill you.<br />One is on the precipice; cautious, suspicious of everything,<br />Bringing home the costly survival skills they learned<br />In combat, skills, skills, which kept them alive.<br />Yet, sudden noises startle; one steers away from crowds,<br />Doesn’t want anyone too close or near them,<br />For they trust nobody; are very leery of strangers,<br />They have learned the hard way, “Not to believe Nothin!’’<br /><br />One is never quite the same after a year at war...<br />One returns from war...isolated and totally alone.<br />In war, one loses their innocence, their beliefs,<br />The National myths and traditions, which sent them to war,<br />Have proved false and misleading, for war has no glory,<br />The people they were sent to help are trying to kill them, <br />And do, as suddenly friends and buddies die indiscriminately;<br />They are there one moment, the next, they are chunks of meat<br />Bloody and scattered across the earth in pieces...forever dead!<br />It is an event no one can train for; no one can prepare for,<br />As deep inside you realize it is luck; it may just as well been you<br />Who got caught, chewed up and spit out dead...forever dead,<br /><br />You would have been the one who died for what, and why?<br />And therein is the problem, the crisis, the predicament.<br />Something nobody seems to understand or can comprehend<br />As to why there are such problems for returning veterans,<br />Why they have changed their mindset; have become strangers,<br />Are so hard and difficult to deal with, have changed drastically,<br />Are no longer who they used to be; whom they will never be! <br />Can never again be the person they were...it is impossible.<br />For those who initially go to war have been conditioned; <br />Carefully taught and embedded in their imagination,<br />Regarding the patriotic glory of war, the flags waving,<br />Marching bands, national anthems, patriotic ceremonies,<br />Celebrations with fireworks and football game "fly-overs" <br />Ingrained in the culture as a vital part of your great country,<br />You were “Fighting for Freedom; for Democracy; for Liberty!”<br />In a noble cause to protect the homeland; your patriotic duty!<br /><br />All the things our songs sing about...are forever gone.<br />They are reduced down to a dead, bloody friend,<br />Lying so still, so motionless, sprawled awkwardly,<br />On the foreign soil in a land so far away from his home,<br />Who’s sightless eyes stare unblinking into its own eternity.<br />Whose sad death was not heroic; not patriotic, not glorious<br />Rather a brutal snapshot of the horrors of war and dying<br />And your predominant feeling is strangely one of gladness,<br />A feeling of sick, jumbled, overwhelming relief<br />It was he, not you, who was killed and lying alone in the gore.<br />And for that, you will forever deal with the guilt of being alive!<br /><br />All who go to war return back home changed,<br />Come back different; will never be the same.<br />For they cannot be the same, nor will they ever return,<br />To those wistful perfect days of youth and imagination;<br />Those dreamy days in an ideal world which never was,<br />Except in one’s desperate imagination and fanciful dreams.<br />Dreams, which kept one going, to get through one more day,<br />Which helped them make it through, just one more night!<br /><br />One cannot change the past; one can only acknowledge it,<br />Then move on and try to leave it behind, it cannot be changed,<br />It cannot be different; be ignored nor disregarded,<br />It can only be somehow put into perspective,<br />And one day, it will be accepted as having happened,<br />Knowing that it changed you, but you survived war;<br />You finally “Wake Up” from the worst hell in the world,<br />And slowly return once more back to the living, to safety,<br />To a new world, which is yours to do with <br />As you may, and... as you choose!<br /><br /><i>By Curtis D Bennett</i><br /><br /><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_invasion_of_Afghanistan"><u><b>First U.S.-led attack on Afghanistan, October 7, 2001</b></u></a><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=623798" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:616876ext_226735Curtis D Bennett, 'Black and White'2016-09-17T01:00:00Z2016-09-17T01:00:00Zpublic8Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>Black and White</b><br /><br />Prior to Vietnam, Wars were in black and white footage,<br />The Civil War was recorded in black and white photos<br />The 1st World War, in grainy, jerky movies of armies,<br />The 2nd World War introduced some color in the footage,<br />And even included photos of the dead bodies<br />Washing ashore after an invasion from the sea,<br />All of this before television became the media of choice,<br />Bring America the Vietnam War in living color.<br />Complete with all the blood and gore of war;<br />Accompanied by the sound track of dying, frightened boys,<br />Waiting for that helicopter, which never came.<br /><br />Prior to Vietnam, the Government censored wars,<br />For good reason, for wars were brutal, bloody, and vile,<br />And dead Americans cannot be sanitized nor sainted,<br />Their are no words to justify the destruction and death<br />Of the young boys whose bodies are so desecrated,<br />Torn up and broken into bloody pieces of human meat,<br />Ground up and callously spit out in the madness of war.<br /><br />Night after night after night on the network news,<br />Just in time for dinner, came the reports from Vietnam,<br />From frightened correspondents in the jungle battlefield, <br />Surrounded by the American limp, lifeless bodies,<br />Being loaded into helicopters like sacks of garbage,<br />Stacked on each other so as to conserve space and room,<br />There are no dignified deaths in war...<br />There is no way to eliminate the blood and death,<br />No say to deny the killing and bloodshed,<br />No way to justify...the horrendous human cost.<br /><br />Yet, there is something that seems to fascinate us,<br />Draws viewers to the screen night after night to the news,<br />In the comfort and safety of their own homes, they watch<br />The efforts of America to wage war across the sea,<br />In a faraway land; for a vague, ignoble, forgotten cause,<br />A war, which over the years, has finally lost its reality,<br />And now, rings hollow...like a broken bell.<br /><br /><i>By Curtis D Bennett</i><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=616876" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:610501ext_226735Curtis D. Bennett, 'Iraq Legacy'2016-08-31T01:00:00Z2016-08-31T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>Iraq Legacy</b><br /><br />One day we will look back and realize, <br />Our kids all died…. for nothing.<br />One day, America will be forced to abandon Iraq. <br />The American people will have enough <br />Of war, personal sacrifice and waste of treasury. <br />American voters will make the choice, <br />Not Congress, not the President, not the military, <br />But the people paying the taxes and sacrificing their children. <br />Our military will be forced to pack it up and move out <br />Leaving behind the hot, dusty, blood stained soil <br />Where forgotten kids were butchered and maimed,<br />Were brutally murdered on behalf of America<br />Children sent there by spineless, cowardly politicians<br />Condoned by feckless, incompetent Military Leaders<br />Who knew better, but said nothing to protect their jobs.<br />These kids selflessly gave the ultimate sacrifice of their life <br />In the name of a misguided, confused, fearful country <br />Whose President claimed to the American people <br />He sent these kids to die in that savage land<br />With the blessing and approval of God. <br />At that point our war with Iraq <br />Becomes the ultimate blasphemy.<br /><br /><i>By Curtis D. Bennett</i><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=610501" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:603509ext_226735Curtis D Bennett, 'Testimony'2016-08-14T01:00:00Z2016-08-14T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>Testimony</b><br /><br />I went to Vietnam for a year.<br />It probably could have been <br />Better spent elsewhere,<br />But I went anyhow,<br />Not that I chose to, or wanted to,<br />Not that I volunteered to go kill people.<br />Rather, I got a mandatory Draft Notice,<br />So I was sent into the Military, <br />To do what Militaries do...fight wars.<br /><br />I had never been to war,<br />Neither had most Americans who went<br />As it had been a long time passing,<br />Since the Korean debacle of the 50’s,<br />Where almost 34,000 Americans died,<br />In this three year “Police Action,” by the United Nations.<br />And it was a shock; a disappointment,<br />Not at all like the movies portray wars, no parades...bands,<br />There was no glory, no grandeur, no triumphs, no Victories!<br /><br />Yet, at times, war can be spectacular,<br />Sometimes, in the aftermath of a battle,<br />It is the composition of the battlefield,<br />Resembling a sprawling canvas of terrible beauty,<br />Where nothing stirs; nothing moves in the silence;<br />Where gray smoke drifts and rises aimlessly<br />From blackened, broken, smouldering craters.<br />Where the dead sprawl awkwardly where they died,<br />In the exact moment of their brutal death!<br /><br />Broken bodies and limb pieces, frozen for all time,<br />In grotesque caricatures configurations,<br />Their mouths slack and open, faces crawling with carrion flies,<br />Eyes half open, half closed, all dulled and distant,<br />As if they were staring, unfocused, into eternity.<br />Their war ended their life, their futures,<br />Brutally cut short, cut down in the prime<br />Of their young life, which is now forever gone.<br />There would be no wife to love; no children to raise,<br />No grandchildren to spoil at Christmas,<br />No legacy of the gene pool, no decedents,<br />All lost eternally and forever frozen in time.<br /><br />Life as they once knew was gone; so totally over,<br />For each and every one of these young boys.<br />Quickly understood what war really was, <br />An endless, long year of young men like himself<br />Killing “enemy,” brutally, callously as ordered <br />Those who were fighting in and for their own country,<br />While we were strangers killing them in their own back yard…<br />This, makes a huge difference.<br /><br />I did not set war policy, nor determine strategy,<br />I was told what to do and doing it as best I could,<br />In the most honorable way (if that is possible.)<br />I make no apologies for my behavior,<br />For fulfilling my duty, and following orders,<br />For being of “service,” to my country.<br />I quickly learned this war was very limited,<br />Bogged down in restrictions, with no clear cut direction,<br /><br /><span class="cut-wrapper"><span style="display: none;" id="span-cuttag___1" class="cuttag"></span><b class="cut-open">( </b><b class="cut-text"><a href="https://war-poetry.dreamwidth.org/603509.html#cutid1">I quickly understood I was there to survive</a></b><b class="cut-close"> )</b></span><div style="display: none;" id="div-cuttag___1" aria-live="assertive"></div><br /><br /><i>By Curtis D Bennett</i><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=603509" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:582734ext_226735Curtis D. Bennett, 'Harbingers'2016-06-06T01:00:00Z2016-06-06T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>Harbingers <br /><i>(From Normandy)</i></b><br /><br />Frail, old men with weathered hands stand, <br />Alone, lost on the wide sandy beaches, <br />Each turning back his rusty mind clock <br />Piercing the veil of memories <br />When they were young, anxious and terrified, <br />Boy-soldiers in battle fighting for their lives, <br />Experiencing the gamut of fear and death <br />Watching friends die horribly, <br />Scarring their young minds forever.<br /><br />Blue beaches murmur waves <br />Splashing old, rusted war remnants. <br />A sea bird flaps wet beaches <br />Where the sea swells and crashes gently on wet sand, <br />Retreating back erasing all footprints. <br />The men stare the distance, <br />At blurred memories through tears. <br />Trickling down their cheeks dripping softly, <br />To merge with the sea like before.<br /><br />They came to say good-bye to their friends, <br />To a confused past which has no answers. <br />The graveyard crosses watch in stony silence, <br />Stoically from tree shadows on soft meadows, <br />In eternal military formation fronted by small, flags, <br />Wind-shivering in the hush of silence. <br />Marching the stillness in quiet precision <br />Protecting the young soldiers buried there, <br />Frozen in time and death <br />The old veterans stand awkward, unsure with the dead. <br />Experiencing those familiar, dreaded, sick feelings <br />Of remorse, regret, blame, and fault for what happened <br />To their generation who gave so much for their country. <br />They have gathered one final time <br />To share history, blame and guilt for all eternity <br />Banding together as one, they embrace the moment, <br />Experiencing once more, this terrible place of <br />memories.<br /><br />And the same salt sea air, still blows up from the beach <br />Once inhaled in panic by all the young fighting men <br />Mired in the beach mud conducting the senseless slaughter of children, <br />Trapped forever in the obscenity and vulgarity of war, <br />The pain returns for a moment, overwhelming them, <br />It hangs suspended, as real as yesterday, then drifts away and mellows away. <br />Now time, history, and denial blessedly blur the horror and inhumanity <br />Of what they did; of what was done to them.<br /><br />The War President from America <br />Mounts the podiums to prattle the virtues of war, <br />Attempting to rewrite history, to deny war's reality, <br />He exploits the moment for selfish means, <br />To justify his war as a noble cause, ignoring its brutality, <br />Thoughtlessly attempting to validate, substantiate, and authenticate,<br /><br />War's vicious crimes against civilization <br />Turning the senseless slaughter of innocents <br />Into a righteous cause, to be proud of and condone.. <br />Turning war into a sound-bite of empty words <br />Of praise, blessing, glory, and accomplishment. <br />Something to be proud of, to revel in, <br />To relish with sacred, biblical rhetoric <br />From a shallow, self-centered political opportunist. <br />Whose meanings and oratory become quickly lost, <br />His words floating away with the wind, out of relevance, out of touch <br />Out of context, drifting, beyond the restive crowds. <br />To fall useless and disappear, in the cold, impassionate mud. <br />Falling deaf on the ears of the dead warriors <br />The ultimate, wasted sacrifice, from another generation<br /><br />It is at this moment, the old veterans <br />Eyes mist up, overflow, and tears flow shamelessly<br /><br />As they at last comprehend all their sacrifice, all their pain, <br />All their sorrow, all their suffering, all the death, <br />Did not change or alter a thing, was not a lesson learned <br />Nor an experience not to be repeated.. <br />Realizing their friend's painful, brutal, ultimate sacrifice <br />Was only a necessary evil of Mankind's political process <br />Which has never changed, and never will, <br />For each generation brings anew to the world <br />Its own self-styled madness of universal death, tragedy and suffering, <br />In wars to be fought by the young, bright-eyed children of the world <br />Unknowingly raised as sacrificial lambs of slaughter, <br />To be killed and gone forever, for nothing. <br />That is why, all Veterans cry.<br /><br />In this hallowed place of the dead <br />The lonely graves of war's youthful victims <br />Who died for a thought, <br />an idea, for a cause <br />Promulgated by selfish, insane men in power <br />These war graves and cemeteries are Harbingers <br />Of the eternal, mindless death cycle of war. <br />Young men killed by politicians' words and mindless acts, <br />Their promise and existence forever ended too soon. <br />Now, forever sleep beneath the green muffled grass <br />Sharing the earth with the youth and victims of past wars, <br />Too numerous to count, too numbing to contemplate, <br />The dead, as powerless and impotent as the now living <br />To change or alter, or detour the inexorable course of madmen, <br />They patiently wait for the next generation to join them.<br /><br /><i>By Curtis D. Bennett</i><br /><br /><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Normandy_landings"><u><b>D-Day: Normandy Beach landings, June 6, 1944</b></u></a><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=582734" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:567891ext_226735Curtis D Bennett, 'Keeping the Distance'2016-04-13T01:00:00Z2016-04-13T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>Keeping the Distance</b><br /><br />Beneath this earth young warriors sleep<br />Forever more, forever more,<br />And for what myth was it they died, <br />Who sent them here forever?<br />To bury them, so far away <br />From farm and village, hearth and soil?<br />We dare not ask of why or how, <br />We dare not think too hard of them!<br />We need not question of ourselves, <br />Of how we let them go so far, <br />So we may keep our distance safe <br />Can paint their pictures in our mind<br />Of how they sacrificed their lives;<br />Of how they died so willingly,<br />On land that did not give them birth, <br /><br />Noblesse Oblige, they sleep the earth.<br />We know they did not wail or scream, <br />Nor cry nor piss their pants in fear!,<br />They did not spill their crimson guts <br />Through gaping wounds of steel-sliced flesh,<br />Or stare in numbness at their blood <br />That pulsed and squirted, stained the soil.<br /><br />We know they did not weep for mother, <br />Nor curse their fate nor bawl in pain, <br />Or seek to find their missing limbs, <br />While dragging stumps through fiery ground,<br />Or smelled their own flesh, burning stench!<br />Nor whimpered soft through blood blind eyes, <br />As whistling breath through gaping throats<br />Shot out their life in scarlet spurts.<br /><br />We do not wish them here at home <br />To find eternal, lasting sleep,<br />No, better stay in foreign lands, <br />Where they sacrificed their life, <br />No, t’is better they remain unseen,<br />To keep their distance and our dream<br />To keep them heroes, sight unseen,<br /><br />For sure, they died as noble men, <br />Not terror-stricken sons and boys, <br />For if this myth were proved untrue,<br />How could we ever face ourselves? <br />How could we ever…be so cruel?<br /><br /><i>By Curtis D Bennett</i><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=567891" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:559862ext_226735Curtis D Bennett, 'History of War'2016-03-12T01:00:00Z2016-03-12T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>History of War</b><br /><br />America emerged as a country of the world,<br />By fighting the British for Independence,<br />Refusing to be one of her colonies,<br />And emerged triumphant in 1776,<br />A new nation in a new world,<br />Since then, we have been fighting wars,<br />With everyone; every place and everywhere.<br />Around the globe, near East, Far East, Russia,<br />Europe, Asia, Africa, South America, Latin America,<br />A total of 66 conflicts in these 236 years,<br />Which has killed or wounded 2.6 million Americans...<br />Do you know the name... of one of them?<br /><br /><i>By Curtis D Bennett</i><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=559862" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:554205ext_226735Curtis D. Bennett, 'The Becoming of a Man'2016-02-19T01:00:00Z2016-02-19T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>The Becoming of a Man</b><br /><br />Those returning from war are changed,<br />They are different; they are not the same.<br />Anyone who has been to war, knows this as fact,<br />Those who haven’t, can’t know.<br />But it is irrelevant, not meaningful,<br />To pick sides and fight about war experience,<br />To defend and justify your life experience.<br /><br />Those veterans returning from war<br />Do not want to go to another one,<br />Do not want their children to fight one.<br />Do not want their country ever involved in war again!<br />Surely, there has to be other options!<br />My God, what happened to man’s ability to think?<br />To explore alternatives, to consider other alternatives?<br />War, should never be the first option,<br />Rather, should be considered only as the last resort.<br /><br />Veterans who have been to war,<br />Seldom take up hunting as a sport,<br />For they have hunted humans,<br />And been hunted, neither is fun,<br />Neither is productive or sane.<br />Killing is something no one should do again,<br />Once they have done it once.<br />Might is not right, all people are human, <br />This is learned by personal insight, experience,<br />That anyone can be killed in a war, <br />And once dead, they are all the same.<br />None of them is ever coming back.<br />It is said, “Experience keeps a dear school,<br />But a fool will learn in no other.”<br /><br />Veterans have all been to a life school,<br />And all have learned a crucial life lesson,<br />And having once been to war,<br />There is no need to go to another,<br />For nothing was proved by the first. <br />Veterans know how to be alone,<br />And how to survive being alone,<br />They have confidence in themselves,<br />They can handle alone; handle isolation,<br />And are their own, best company, <br />Based on the experience of being on your own,<br />On depending on yourself…to survive. <br /><br />Most veterans think politicians are a waste,<br />Are not to be believed, trusted, or counted on,<br />For they will say anything to get elected,<br />And once members of Congress, forget the people<br />Who put them there, until it is time to run again,<br />Then the circus and its clowns will start their new show.<br />When you meet a combat veteran, <br />You are meeting a survivor, <br />Who has passed all the tests of manhood,<br />Has proven his mettle, his honor, his humanity,<br />He will forever be the warrior, the man,<br />For the veteran has nothing left to prove, <br />To anyone, anytime, anywhere…ever. <br /><br /><i>By Curtis D. Bennett</i><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=554205" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:540482ext_226735Curtis D Bennett, 'Remember Me'2015-12-29T01:00:00Z2015-12-29T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>Remember Me</b><br /><br />I was once the pride of this country,<br />The healthy, the young, the strong and brave,<br />Then I quickly became the acceptable casualty<br />In my country’s undeclared war<br />In the name of national interest,<br />A country where I was too young to vote!<br /><br />I went because I was still too young<br />To know any better, though others<br />Cleverly refused or ran away to hide.<br />I never once dreamed my own government<br />Would ever lie to its own people,<br />But I was mistaken and they did for years.<br /><br />I fought their war in a hell for one year,<br />Then came home and found another hell,<br />Awaiting from the very people and country<br />Who determined I go in the first place<br />Then their war, suddenly became mine,<br />And I was the convenient scapegoat!<br /><br />Today, I am the broken bodies and minds<br />Shunted off, out of sight, behind heavy doors<br />Of VA hospitals and mental wards to die.<br />I am in wheel chairs and braces, in hospital beds;<br />I walk the streets; I wander the railroad tracks,<br />I sleep beneath the stars.<br /><br /><i>By Curtis D Bennett</i><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=540482" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:529088ext_226735Curtis D Bennett, 'To a College Class'2015-11-16T01:00:00Z2015-11-16T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>To a College Class</b><br /><br />I come today to speak to you<br />About the past and of the future.<br />To talk to you of war and of peace.<br />Once I was like you,<br />Sitting in a classroom<br />Pondering unanswerable questions<br />With youthful confidence and strength,<br />My belief based on innocence,<br />My trust based on inexperience,<br />And truth was to seek out.<br /><br />My generation has come and gone<br />To be replaced by yours.<br />Once a child of the 60’s<br />I now stand here a man of the 80’s,<br />Yet I can still remember<br />What it was like to be young,<br />How it felt to know tomorrow<br />Would always be a better day.<br />And all the older adults, the old farts<br />Were to be simply tolerated,<br />Friendly, but harmless,<br />They were just...there.<br /><br />I was a part of the war in Vietnam,<br />I went as an eager curious young man<br />And came back home, jaded and weary,<br />For I learned more that one year<br />Than most will ever learn in a lifetime.<br />I saw reality, and it was ugly,<br />I experienced truth, and it was bitter;<br />In my tour, all life’s fairy-tales<br />Exploded in that myth-shattering year<br />And I have never been quite the same.<br /><br />Today, the war in Vietnam <br />Is condensed into a few chapters<br />To be lightly discussed <br />In the History and Political Science books.<br />They recount the battles fought; <br />Of victories won, of campaigns lost,<br />Of dollars spent and divisive politics,<br />Of avoidable mistakes and misjudgements<br />Of indecisive, groping, failing White Houses;<br />Of angry, massive demonstrations and riots in the streets.<br /><br />The world of Academia sometimes turns sterile,<br />And sometimes conveniently leaves out the human element;<br />Forgets and omits the personal tragedy;<br />Overlooks pain, suffering, and death;<br />Does not acknowledge the human condition.<br />They simply reduce the Vietnam War, and other wars,<br />Into just another short, inconsequential chapter of America;<br />A sordid, bitter, embarrassing experience best forgotten.<br /><br />Some books even attempt to rewrite history,<br />Turning Vietnam into a noble, righteous cause.<br />History shows it was not the politicians who fought that war,<br />It was not the Congressmen’s children who died in the mud,<br />Nor the sons of the rich and wealthy subjected to misery;<br />Nor was it the World War Two veterans or the war hawks<br />Who were sent across a vast ocean to a heretofore unknown country<br />Where they would kill; where they would be killed<br />For a reason no one today can recall exactly why....<br /><br />It was the common, ordinary children of America;<br />The kid next door, down the block, around the corner,<br />The ones you went to school with, went to church with.<br />They were the ones who fought and died in Vietnam.<br />It was the nineteen-year-old frightened, scared kid<br />Whose blood soaked into the red mud.<br />He was the acceptable casualty,<br />The expendable youth, the body count.<br />He, this country could afford to lose. <br /><br />These children had hopes and dreams.<br />They did not want to die in a faraway land!<br />They had futures, possibilities, all taken away.<br />They had their youth and health.<br />While others evaded, avoided, or fled,<br />These were drafted and sent to war.<br />While the privileged sons of the rich, <br />The elite, those of the higher class, got degrees,<br />Got married, got into business, got deferments,<br />Joined the National Guard or Reserves,<br />While their unfortunate poorer “brothers”<br />Fought and bled and died horribly, far away.<br /><br />There is another story of Vietnam<br />Which you can read; experience personally<br />In your quest for truth and reality.<br />You will see it in the VA hospitals,<br />You will feel it in military cemeteries,<br />You will read it on Washington’s Black Wall.<br />And in these places is where you will find<br />The sombre, tragic, sober realities of war.<br />While the survivors of that terrible experience<br />Returned home, searching to regain their lost humanity.<br /><br />For in war men lose their souls!<br />For what they do against their fellow man<br />Has no definition, no rhyme, no reason!<br />Where the death of friends and trusted comrades<br />Ultimately has no meaning, no context it can be put into, <br />No manner it can be understood and rationalized,<br />No reason that can ever explain why them and not you?<br />And these survivors of war returned home searching<br />For those answers, and for what they had lost in war.<br /><br />But this loss, this emptiness, this frustration, this searching,<br />Finds no answers, no solutions, no understanding,<br />No justification, no meaning, no sense.<br />The Vietnam veteran returned home, homeless,<br />Rejected, outcast, despised, ostracized<br />By his own country, by the very people he used to know,<br />As he now, personally carries the blame for his war,<br />As the atrocities and horrors congruent of every war,<br />Were forever misplaced directly on his young weary shoulders. <br />He was now held personally responsible,<br />For the war he was forced to fight; <br />A war in which he had no choice,<br />He was just another “number,” sent to war by his country<br />Where he was considered too young and immature to vote!<br /><br />Today you, another generation of Americans<br />Are sitting in these same college classrooms<br />Asking the same, unanswerable questions.<br />Probing for secrets of knowledge, for learning.<br />Today another White House and Congress<br />Without regard for the Vietnam experience,<br />With no appreciation of the lessons of war<br />Would send your generation to their little war.<br />Where once again young men will fight and die<br />For a politician’s equal, ignoble, unjustified, war,<br />Orchestrated and based on lies and falsehoods,<br />That they cannot explain, cannot justify.<br />Instead, rely on a political sensitive General over there,<br />Whose answer is always, “Six more months.”<br /><br />I am here today as one of many Vietnam veterans<br />Who has experienced combat, <br />Who has killed for his country,<br />Who has seen his countrymen killed.<br />I am a survivor and learned too much<br />About war, government, human nature and life.<br />I will answer your questions as honestly<br />As I possibly can; just bear with me, <br />As I continue, the search… for my soul!<br /><br /><i>By Curtis D Bennett</i><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=529088" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:427677ext_226735Curtis D. Bennett, 'Christmas Truce (1914-2006)'2014-12-23T01:00:00Z2014-12-23T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>Christmas Truce (1914-2006)</b><br /> <br />In Flanders Fields the poppies blow<br />Between the crosses row on row<br />That mark their place; and in the sky<br />The larks, still sweetly singing, fly<br />Are heard without the guns below.<br /> <br />Here are the dead from years ago,<br />Where in crude trenches filled with snow,<br />They kept the watch o’er no-man’s land,<br />Their country called, they took its stand,<br />Here they will fight; here they will die.<br />In Flanders fields.<br /> <br />On Christmas Eve through frozen sky,<br />Across the void where dead men lie,<br />Men’s voices sang the holy hymn,<br />Of peace on earth, good will to men.<br />And Christmas magic filled the night<br /> <br />And in that fading, winter light,<br />Men lay down arms and stopped the fight.<br />They rose from trenches deep in mud<br />And walked the fields of dead and blood,<br />To greet the other, man to man.<br /> <br />As men, not soldiers, offered hands<br />To others born in foreign lands,<br />Where for the first time they could see,<br />The young men called the enemy.<br />They gather close to share a smoke.<br /> <br />They talk, they laugh, they share a joke.<br />As human beings, common folk<br />Their truce held all that Christmas day,<br />They buried dead men where they lay.<br />Too soon, that day drifts in to night,<br /> <br />They part in evening’s dusky light,<br />Return to trenches for the fight,<br />Too soon, the fragile truce will end,<br />Too soon, they’ll kill a newfound friend,<br />For winds of war blow cold and rage<br />In Flander’s fields.<br /><br />Their war is now a dusty page,<br />From ancient times, another age,<br />And through these many years they sleep,<br />With no more promises to keep.<br />Though poppies grow and larks still sing<br />In Flanders fields.<br /> <br /><i>By Curtis D. Bennett</i><br /><br /><a href="http://www.history.com/topics/world-war-i/christmas-truce-of-1914"><u>The Christmas Truce of 1914</u></a><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=427677" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:353913ext_226735Curtis D. Bennett, 'A Tale of Two Villages'2014-06-10T01:00:00Z2014-06-10T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>A Tale of Two Villages</b><br /><br /><i><b>1) Oradour-sur-Glane (1944)</b></i><br /><br />It could have been any town, anytime, or anywhere,<br />Any simple, ancient town of a thousand years <br />Quietly basking the grass banks of a timeless river.<br />Its old narrow streets paved with enduring cobblestones<br />As narrow tram tracks, meandered the main road <br />Laughing school children playing with barking dogs,<br />Old men dozing on wooden benches beside the road,<br />In the town of Oradour-sur-Glane in France,<br />On that peaceful, early June summer morning,<br />They day the soldiers came to town.<br /><br /><span class="cut-wrapper"><span style="display: none;" id="span-cuttag___1" class="cuttag"></span><b class="cut-open">( </b><b class="cut-text"><a href="https://war-poetry.dreamwidth.org/353913.html#cutid1">The Germans arrived around noon...</a></b><b class="cut-close"> )</b></span><div style="display: none;" id="div-cuttag___1" aria-live="assertive"></div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.oradour.info/"><u>Oradour-sur-Glane, June 10 1944</u></a><br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Lai_Massacre"><u>My Lai, March 16 1968</u></a><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=353913" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:353081ext_226735Curtis D. Bennett, 'Harbingers'2014-06-07T01:00:00Z2014-06-07T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><b>Harbingers</b> <br /><i>(From Normandy)</i><br /><br />Frail, old men with weathered hands stand, <br />Alone, lost on the wide sandy beaches, <br />Each turning back his rusty mind clock <br />Piercing the veil of memories <br />When they were young, anxious and terrified, <br />Boy-soldiers in battle fighting for their lives, <br />Experiencing the gamut of fear and death <br />Watching friends die horribly, <br />Scarring their young minds forever.<br /><br />Blue beaches murmur waves <br />Splashing old, rusted war remnants. <br />A sea bird flaps wet beaches <br />Where the sea swells and crashes gently on wet sand, <br />Retreating back erasing all footprints. <br />The men stare the distance, <br />At blurred memories through tears. <br />Trickling down their cheeks dripping softly, <br />To merge with the sea like before.<br /><br />They came to say good-bye to their friends, <br />To a confused past which has no answers. <br />The graveyard crosses watch in stony silence, <br />Stoically from tree shadows on soft meadows, <br />In eternal military formation fronted by small, flags, <br />Wind-shivering in the hush of silence. <br />Marching the stillness in quiet precision <br />Protecting the young soldiers buried there, <br />Frozen in time and death <br />The old veterans stand awkward, unsure with the dead. <br />Experiencing those familiar, dreaded, sick feelings <br />Of remorse, regret, blame, and fault for what happened <br />To their generation who gave so much for their country. <br />They have gathered one final time <br />To share history, blame and guilt for all eternity <br />Banding together as one, they embrace the moment, <br />Experiencing once more, this terrible place of <br />memories.<br /><br />And the same salt sea air, still blows up from the beach <br />Once inhaled in panic by all the young fighting men <br />Mired in the beach mud conducting the senseless slaughter of children, <br />Trapped forever in the obscenity and vulgarity of war, <br />The pain returns for a moment, overwhelming them, <br />It hangs suspended, as real as yesterday, then drifts away and mellows away. <br />Now time, history, and denial blessedly blur the horror and inhumanity <br />Of what they did; of what was done to them.<br /><br />The War President from America <br />Mounts the podiums to prattle the virtues of war, <br />Attempting to rewrite history, to deny war's reality, <br />He exploits the moment for selfish means, <br />To justify his war as a noble cause, ignoring its brutality, <br />Thoughtlessly attempting to validate, substantiate, and authenticate,<br /><br />War's vicious crimes against civilization <br />Turning the senseless slaughter of innocents <br />Into a righteous cause, to be proud of and condone.. <br />Turning war into a sound-bite of empty words <br />Of praise, blessing, glory, and accomplishment. <br />Something to be proud of, to revel in, <br />To relish with sacred, biblical rhetoric <br />From a shallow, self-centered political opportunist. <br />Whose meanings and oratory become quickly lost, <br />His words floating away with the wind, out of relevance, out of touch <br />Out of context, drifting, beyond the restive crowds. <br />To fall useless and disappear, in the cold, impassionate mud. <br />Falling deaf on the ears of the dead warriors <br />The ultimate, wasted sacrifice, from another generation<br /><br />It is at this moment, the old veterans <br />Eyes mist up, overflow, and tears flow shamelessly<br /><br />As they at last comprehend all their sacrifice, all their pain, <br />All their sorrow, all their suffering, all the death, <br />Did not change or alter a thing, was not a lesson learned <br />Nor an experience not to be repeated.. <br />Realizing their friend's painful, brutal, ultimate sacrifice <br />Was only a necessary evil of Mankind's political process <br />Which has never changed, and never will, <br />For each generation brings anew to the world <br />Its own self-styled madness of universal death, tragedy and suffering, <br />In wars to be fought by the young, bright-eyed children of the world <br />Unknowingly raised as sacrificial lambs of slaughter, <br />To be killed and gone forever, for nothing. <br />That is why, all Veterans cry.<br /><br />In this hallowed place of the dead <br />The lonely graves of war's youthful victims <br />Who died for a thought, <br />an idea, for a cause <br />Promulgated by selfish, insane men in power <br />These war graves and cemeteries are Harbingers <br />Of the eternal, mindless death cycle of war. <br />Young men killed by politicians' words and mindless acts, <br />Their promise and existence forever ended too soon. <br />Now, forever sleep beneath the green muffled grass <br />Sharing the earth with the youth and victims of past wars, <br />Too numerous to count, too numbing to contemplate, <br />The dead, as powerless and impotent as the now living <br />To change or alter, or detour the inexorable course of madmen, <br />They patiently wait for the next generation to join them.<br /><br /><i>By Curtis D. Bennett</i><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=353081" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:297534ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'The Sting'2013-11-02T01:00:00Z2013-11-02T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>The Sting</b><br /><br />Once again the morning crept as silent stood<br />The clearing. Slowly breaks the new born day<br />Of fuzz light in shafts of gray<br />Now split the trees of black. A jungle bird<br />Gives voice to song that few have heard<br />Save those who watch from thickened wood.<br /><br />They see the gently rising knoll<br />Where in the center, tightly bound,<br />The white-man lay tied to the ground<br />With heavy ropes to thickened stakes.<br />How soft the whimper that he makes<br />As pain and agony take control.<br /><br />The sweat is drained from thirsty pores,<br />His shattered clothes in tatters lie.<br />The bullet holes have crusted dry<br />In rusty scabs. While all around<br />The buzzing flies have swarmed on down<br />To feast upon the cracking sores.<br /><br />There is the coolness of the shade<br />The squatting figures have no care<br />Or passion for the dying man. They are there<br />For bigger prey, he is but the bait.<br />There is no hurry, they can wait<br />For the rescue to be made.<br /><br />And soon the tiny plane flies by<br />To circle 'round the open site.<br />What thing has happened in the night<br />That leaves a man tied in the grass?<br />What evil things might come to pass?<br />Perhaps its best to pass him by.<br /><br />He makes a run, a token pass,<br />Then from the torn and broken ground<br />The dying man has heard the sound,<br />So near but still so far. He struggles to arise<br />His movements catch the pilot's eyes<br />….The fateful die has now been cast!<br /><br />The FAC plane wheels beyond the hill<br />To radio back his frantic quest<br />For help. From the east and from the west,<br />The iron birds gather circling high,<br />Not caring if the bullets fly,<br />Hungrily they wait the chance to kill.<br /><br />And down they swoop in screaming runs,<br />Now napalm spews its splashing breath,<br />And rockets "whoosh" from pods of death,<br />As cracking bombs flash brilliant light<br />And scything iron. The day is night<br />As rolling black clouds hide the sun.<br /><br />And then, the stinging silence reigns once more.<br />The blackened trees and broken ground<br />Tremble, swaying to the sound<br />Of eerie silence. Slowly coming into view<br />The rescue chopper and its crew<br />Head down towards the meadow floor.<br /><br />The rotor blades whack out their beat,<br />The skids slide inches from the trees,<br />Whose branches bend like flattened seas<br />Before the wind. Then like a falling stone,<br />The chopper hammers to the zone<br />Then fares and hovers in the heat.<br /> <br />The man below flails wild his head<br />And strains against the biding ties.<br />The bobbing helo fills the skies,<br />Blacking out his sun. From its door<br />The crew chief leaps from engines' roar<br />To cut him from his cruel bed.<br /><br />Crouching low he makes his run<br />And slashes free the rope that ties<br />Too late! He sees the screaming eyes<br />And hears the trigger's muffled snap!<br />The blinding flash of booby-trap<br />Engulfs the two as one.<br /><br />The Huey staggers with the stroke,<br />Binds and crumples with the heat<br />And slams to earth. The burning meat<br />Is mingled with the scorching fire.<br />A crackling, tumbling funeral pyre<br />Mounting with the greasy smoke.<br /><br />Then sudden stillness softly sighs…<br />The crackling fire dwindles down<br />To blend with ashes on the ground.<br />The rolling smoke has lost its surge,<br />And now is but a distant dirge<br />That wanders trackless skies.<br /><br />In time, the metal turns to rust,<br />As do the distant memories<br />In empty homes across the seas.<br />No monuments, no graveyard stones<br />Mark the weary warrior's bones<br />That sleep together in the dust.<br /><br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=297534" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:254249ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'Firefight'2013-05-21T00:00:00Z2013-05-21T00:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>Firefight</b><br /><br />It is out there, another dimension of unreality around a bend,<br />Wavering, out of focus, ghost dancing the hairs of your neck, it silently laughs<br />Through the heat you feel its familiar coldness and putrid, foul stench in your gut<br />As the stillness screams in silence, and time slows down in curiosity.<br /><br />Reflex sends you sinking down to earth in the tall sharp grasses and soft clay,<br />You feel the heat of mother earth as you embrace her with your body of dust<br />To hold her close, as if somehow she might shield you from harm, keep you safe,<br />That she might remember where you came from, and where you would one day return.<br /><br />Frozen in time, the fear sweat starts a trickling path from your forehead down,<br />Meandering around the brow, it slants in and salts the eye, and is joined by tears,<br />To amble down the cheek, over to the flaring nostril, that drips snot into the river.<br />Down past the mouth to be joined by the drool that drips into beard stubble.<br /><br />Battle senses warn they are watching, that they can see through the grass,<br />They know where you are, and are getting ready to kill you: you hate them for that,<br />But you cannot see back, you only see earth, but you can feel now the angry eyes<br />Waving over the fields like a wand brushing back the heavy grasses where you hid.<br /><br />The moment freezes into eternity and now time has stood perfectly still and watches,<br />Tension cuts air like an iron cloud paralyzing all with its dangerous shadow.<br />Cautiously you raise your head and stare through the tall, waving grass<br />That is so still, you can hear it growing through the mounting tension.<br /><br />The wait is unbearable, you dear not move, you hardly breathe, your guts twist,<br />And you have an overwhelming urge to bolt and runaway, and also to pee…<br />You let it run down your leg into the dirt. You hold, you hold, you do not move,<br />You do not scratch; you cannot, because you too are frozen in the moment.<br /><br />A single, sharp shot! A pause…a pause…. Then the world explodes!<br />An abrupt hard fusillade of fire hammers the silence as the big guns start.<br />Slashing wickedly, recklessly, mindlessly, fireballs gallop and rip across the ground<br />Chasing each other fast into the tree line, groping the bush for human flesh!<br /><br />Like fog, the cordite smoke hovers the ground in bitter smog and biting haze,<br />A soft blue whitish gray streaked by tracers from both ways that move so fast!<br />In the distance comes the grumble of artillery and really big rounds<br />That comes sighing in on descending tin whistles and overhead groans. <br /><br />Erupting to life in miniature lightning rapidly dancing sparking and darting, ,<br />Obliterating the tree line just to the front, hedging trees, plowing ground<br />Sending huge clouds of smoke and debris tumbling skywards in small pieces<br />That flutter and twist and spin about then sail into the distance.<br /><br />Then with no warning they slash down from the sky, small specks that grow,<br />Flashing downhill in silent, streaming flight, looming larger, ever faster<br />Then roar overhead and detach tumbling, glinting canisters<br />That float and waggle like silver fish, then spin plummeting to earth.<br /><br />The fire splashes oranges and reds and blacks and purples in waves<br />Of heat and fiercely burning kerosene ignited by blazing phosphorous <br />Whose curling fire tongues slap and lick the earth and puke it up to the sky<br />In a steep, spinning smoke cloud that rushes and blocks the sun.<br /><br />And then it stops, as a tardy piece of jagged iron belatedly from the trees,<br />Whirls overhead like a berserk knife fiercely spinning out of control,<br />Burying itself in the smoking dirt. Now silence rings and echoes ears,<br />Through the smoke roils a shaft of sunlight, so strangely out of place.<br /><br />Now the only sounds are the crackling fires that burn and smoke the earth.<br />The fields are covered with litter, refuse, debris, broken parts of things and men.<br />There is a sweet smell of human flesh burned, the smell like fireworks all around,<br />Chaos, disarray, disorder and confusion, and a sense of giddy survivorship rule.<br /><br />It is over, another battlefield in a war that will be all but forgotten in a week.<br />So why did men die hear, were political goals achieved, what was it about?<br />Was it necessary, was it a waste?<br /><br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=254249" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:240393ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'Profanity'2013-03-28T00:00:00Z2013-03-28T00:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>Profanity</b><br /><br />When hungry bullets<br />Chew into soft airplane bodies<br />Sending dials and gauges<br />Spinning in whirling circles…<br /><br />When the little red warning lights<br />Scream in alarm, "blink-red", "blink-red", "blink-red"!<br />It is then you discover<br />The beauty of profanity!<br />And the need to know all the words!<br />But in no particular order.<br /><br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=240393" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:235905ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'The Patrol'2013-03-10T01:00:00Z2013-03-10T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>The Patrol</b><br /><br />How hushed the jungle's stillness sleeps<br />As slow the point man softly creeps<br />In stealthy walk and careful eyes<br />He searches for that dread surprise<br />That lurks and waits his tired patrol.<br />Now up the gently climbing knoll,<br />A flash of Khaki! Winks the gloom,<br />That halts the toiling, lone platoon <br />In weary tracks.<br /><br /> The first fire team<br />Melts down into the speckled green<br />Of high ground to the right,<br />The remaining men fan out of sight<br />To wait. <br /><br /> Now faintly sounds a drumming,<br />Sandaled feet on soft ground running<br />Down the broken trail. The little men<br />Burst the stillness of the glen.<br />The fire-team crouched upon hill's crest<br />Take the lead man in the chest<br />With raking blinking, fire that moves<br />On up the line in fluted grooves<br />Of flashing, smashing death.<br /><br /> The sound<br />Of small arms fill the air, a round<br />Cracks overhead, another flashes by<br />To take the Sergeant in the eyes.<br />A flat, wet "smack" is soundly heard,<br />The man whacked dead without a word.<br />The raging bullets snarl and streak,<br />The chorused sounds of falling meat<br />And screams of dying pain.<br /> <br />A cordite haze<br />Thickens with the killing craze<br />And jungle heat. A strangled cry<br />A muffled curse, the bullets fly<br />And tear through fragile flesh and bone,<br />A gurgling sob, a wrenching moan,<br />A screaming howl of rage and wrath,<br />A frenzied man bolts up the bath<br />Blind-firing, sweeping bursts of lead,<br />Then takes a round right through the head.<br />Then…all is silent…all is still..<br />Save for the thrashing down the hill<br />Of frantic running men. <br /><br /> How soft,<br />How sweet the quiet lay, a bubbling cough<br />Of wounded enemy crawling off<br />Is halted by a single shot.<br />The hurt and dying get first air,<br />The dead are dragged into the shade<br />And covered up. So still….they lay<br />Whilst comrades tensely laugh and joke,<br />Shaking hands group to share a smoke,<br />And wait, desperate for the choppers drone<br />To pick them up, and take them home.<br /><br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=235905" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:225469ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'One Fine Day'2013-01-28T01:00:00Z2013-01-28T01:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>One Fine Day</b><br /><br />As far as the eye could see<br />The cloud cover stretched the horizon,<br />Broken only by tops of tallest mountains,<br />A soft, gauze mantle protecting the earth,<br />As to the east, the day star sun<br />Glowered the horizon in yellow fierceness<br />Promising to soon burn the thin mantle off<br />And bake the tropical forests below.<br /><br />We loitered, skimming the cool, white sky sea,<br />The shadows of our aircraft ringed in rainbows<br />Hanging in silence the stillness of the morning <br />The radios crackled quietly in the background,<br />From unseen frantic men in crises below,<br />Running from an enemy closing in to kill them,v<br />As helicopters swarming the clouds below<br />Urgently coordinated the rescue.<br /><br />The first Huey labored up and broke the clouds,<br />Trailing wispy tendrils of cloud-moisture<br />Off the ends of frantically whipping white-tipped blades,<br />Rotors fingers hungrily clawing the thick morning air.<br />An umbilical rope stretching down dragging behind, <br />Attached to six desperate men clinging to the cord,<br />Like fish anchored to a line, they trailed the clouds.<br /><br />Slowly the Huey gained altitude climbing towards the sun,<br />Then another and another rose from the clouds,<br />Each trailing men holding on for life, <br />Green khaki knots they stretched the wind.<br />We lazily turned parallel to escort the Hueys<br />Back to the nearest landing zone<br />Where they would take aboard the men<br />They had rescued from certain death.<br /> <br />As we turned in orbit behind the choppers,<br />One of the green blobs lost hold on his lifeline,<br />Plummeted, arching towards his death.<br />In helpless, grim fascination, we watched him go<br />Plunging down through the quiet morning sun.<br />At the last moment, he spread his arms out wide,<br />Like Jesus on a cross, he swan dived and seemed to float,<br />For a brief moment skimming the clouds<br />Then disappeared.<br /><br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=225469" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:203067ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'America'2012-11-03T00:00:00Z2012-11-03T00:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>America</b> <br /><br />"MY COUNTRY 'TIS OF THEE…"<br /><br />Here I sit in shit and mud<br />And wipe the dried and caking blood<br />From my dead friends face. The littered zone<br />Is full of young men going home<br />In dirty ponchos. Their lives so fast undone<br />As from their lips, forever dumb<br />They scream in silent shock and fear<br />In frozen agony. Quietly, they lie so near<br />In sleeping rank and file. Who might know<br />What thought flashed at the jolting blow<br />That ripped the jagged hole? What sound<br />Escaped them as they pitched to ground<br />To bubble out their scarlet life? What tears,<br />Welled up to grasp those unsaid fears<br />Had at last come true! No tears now,<br />Just swarming flies fill their vacant, sightless eyes. <br /><br />"SWEET LAND OF LIBERTY…"<br /><br />Who's turned into a common whore!<br />She sends her children off to war,<br />Then turns her back! Corrupted by<br />Her Politicians pimpish lie,<br />His selfish greed, his quest for power<br />Inventing conflicts for the dollar<br />Creating lies to justify<br />Sending young boys off to die.<br />That brings a tarnished bitter shame<br />To what once was the shining name<br />Of "Liberty". How besmirched! How profane!<br />Her people's backs are bent in pain<br />And tragedy. Their birthright sold<br />The elected to the rich, the old,<br />The power men, select, elite,<br />Who drag this country to their feet.<br />Big business marries pentagon,<br />Mindless whore and bitches son<br />Whose raging coupling rampant runs.<br /><br />"OF THEE I SING……"<br /><br />But sung with broken voice and heart<br />To Glory which was once a part<br />Of pride, not shame. This country<br />Rich and rising from the sea<br />Designed for man's integrity<br />Blessed by Freedom's pure sweet thought,<br />By countless lives, so costly bought,<br />So dear the deadly price<br />Of sweat, blood, toil and sacrifice<br />Of common men who shared the dream,<br />Their clear, fresh message brightly beamed<br />To shine world turmoil and its dark…<br />Now, 'tis but a battered, weary spark<br />Deflowered, debauched, depraved, debased,<br />A blight upon the might race<br />Of men who kept this country strong.<br />Their hopes, their dreams, their ringing song<br />Lie stilled, forevermore.<br /><br />"LAND WHERE MY FATHERS DIED…"<br /><br />So quiet they sleep the countryside<br />Where in the name of country's pride<br />They fought they fell, they bled, they died<br />In patriotic genocide. Every man once was a son<br />Who as a boy would laugh, would run,<br />Would warm his mother's loving heart, would play<br />His little childhood games, at night would lay<br />In sleepy bed awaiting mother's tender kiss<br />Goodnight. Such innocence, such joyous bliss.<br />Too soon, the lad became the man,<br />His country called he took its stand<br />And fell. For what? And why?<br />Was it right that he should die?<br />So young, so unfilled, such tragic waste,<br />His youth and promise lived in haste.<br />Now lost, destroyed, forever gone.<br />Forever boys they slumber on<br />Beneath hushed white crosses stark and still<br />Whose mute ranks march pastured hill<br />And keep their lasting peace.<br /><br /> "LAND OF THE PILGRIM'S PRIDE…"<br /><br />Across the land the unrest spread<br />As pictures of the young men dead<br />Fill the nightly news. Now more and more<br />Reach eighteen and leave for war,<br />Brother following brother. Slow, rising hate<br />Makes people march and demonstrate,<br />Rioting in the streets of shame<br />Where high aloft the burning flame<br />Of once, sacred flag now fills the air<br />With shouts of people in despair!<br />At last, the great lie stands exposed,<br />THERE IS NO GAME OF DOMINOES!<br />Yet, fickle Washington fast denies<br />They ever fabricated lies<br />And battle the surging angry forces<br />With riot guns and trampling horses,<br />Shooting students in the chest<br />Whose only crime, was to protest!<br />A right they were taught, WAS GUARANTEED!<br />Now fast the spreading cancer seed<br />Blossoms ugly. Divided camps hard-split the land<br />Where Freedom's justice used to stand<br />It lies in shambles with the dream.<br />As the next generation is caught in between,<br />Bewildered, confused, filled with helpless rage!<br />Bastard children of their age!<br /><br />"FROM EVERY MOUNTAINSIDE…"<br /><br />The piercing wail of distant train<br />Echoes faint through misty rain.<br />The silent family waits alone.<br />Their son at last is coming home.<br />Too young to really understand,<br />The small child clutches Mother's hand<br />And tells her, "Ma-ma, please, don't cry!"<br />Mom dabs her swollen reddened eyes<br />And tries to smile, but more tears come<br />And course her tight drawn cheeks. Now from<br />The pale gray west the train appears<br />And brings a flood of wrenching tears<br />From the Father who stands alone…apart.<br />No known words can mend his broken heart<br />Or fill his loss, those grinding aches<br />Of anguish, the crushing agony that breaks<br />And kills the spirit of a man.<br />Now darkness gathers on the land<br />As slow the puffing, hissing train<br />Creeps to its stop. The driving rain<br />Softens in the gloom. A rasping slide<br />Of box-car doors, and there inside<br />The shadowed coffin rests alone<br />As Johnny at last, comes marching home<br />To sleep his endless dream.<br /><br />"LET FREEDOM RING…."<br /><br />This mindless war drags on and on,<br />Too slow the nights, too fast the dawns,<br />Too cold the rains, too hot the day,<br />Across wet fields, cruel bullets play. <br />Through angry skies swift warplanes shriek,<br />Through steaming jungles tired men creep,<br />Patrol…now probe…now full contact!<br />Air-Strikes! Artillery Strikes! Medivac!<br />A year of wounded, screaming men,<br />The haunting gape of a dead man's grin <br />With that startled look of half-surprise<br />Eternally mirrored in lifeless eyes.<br />A booby-traps "snap" and sudden roar!<br />Instant death and bloody gore!<br />The slap and whine of bullets singing…<br />…the haunting sounds of "Freedom Ringing"… <br /><br /> UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD<br /><br />The small bird chirped quietly,<br />From his barren branch.<br />He shuffled his feathers<br />And chirped again,<br />Proclaiming and establishing<br />His territorial rights.<br /><br />Not a breeze<br />Stirred the empty clearing.<br />Like ghostly sentinels,<br />The battle-splintered trees<br />Stand their lonely vigil<br />On the silent outskirts. <br /><br />The men lay still<br />In the rich, red mud<br />In awkward configurations.<br />It was difficult to tell<br />Which one belonged?<br />To which nation?<br /><br />Their stiff arms<br />Seemed to stretch out<br />Reaching for each other.<br />It was almost, as if<br />Universal brotherhood<br />Had at last… been realized.<br /><br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=203067" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:201971ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'Good Morning'2012-10-29T00:00:00Z2012-10-29T00:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>Good Morning</b><br /><br />They shuffled down in noiseless file,<br />Gaunt apparitions whose hollow eyes<br />Stare blankly out from sunken sockets,<br />Whose swollen tongues crack scaled lips,<br />Scab sores ooze pus and swarming flies,<br />Through dirty, soiled flak jackets.<br /><br />Assholes flame dysentery, brown fluid trickles<br />The crotchless trousers where jungle rot<br />Reddens, chafes and burns with each step.<br />Ripped jungle boots ring-bleached salt-sweat<br />Through rotting socks encasing fungus feet<br />They endlessly plod, gray ghosts of dawn.<br /><br />Silently they pass, eternal warriors<br />Towards their unknown, to their death and hell.<br />Whispering shadows blending with the foggy light<br />In the ancient ritual of men marching to battle,<br />Quietly they slide away merging in the bush,<br />Disappearing into the mist of time.<br /><br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=201971" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:200290ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'On The Hump'2012-10-23T00:00:00Z2012-10-23T00:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>On The Hump</b><br /><br />The men slowly move<br />With the least exertion.<br />Adjusting the heavy packs,<br />They slip through the brush<br />The easiest way they can<br />Conserving all the energy possible.<br /><br />Weary young legs<br />That last year ran footballs,<br />Jumped basketballs,<br />And dashed cinder tracks<br />Before the cheering crowds<br />Now strain with each step,<br />Every muscle aching in protest.<br /><br />Straps chafe raw shoulders,<br />Boots carry the lead mud<br />As heat sucks<br />The sweat from bodies<br />Until there is no more,<br />Only white-salt-stain-rings<br />Remain to glaze the dirty green shirts.<br /><br />The exhausted men<br />Cannot contemplate<br />Political ideologies<br />Or questions of morality<br />Nor do they give a shit<br />About freedom and democracy,<br />Communism or any other crap!<br /><br />They can only think<br />One step at a time,<br />One second of the time,<br />That is all.<br />Timeless drudgery, endless pressure,<br />Confusion, misery and apprehension<br />The feel and smell of war.<br /><br />If he gets through today,<br />He is one step closer to "wake-up"<br />If he doesn't, who gives a damn?<br />It does not matter,<br />Why worry, why care"<br />Nobody else does,<br />And on they plod.<br /><br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=200290" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:195643ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'Young Men'2012-10-05T00:00:00Z2012-10-05T00:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>Young Men</b><br /><br />In quiet dignity they trudge<br />With only the slurping sounds<br />Of jungle boots sucking mud<br />As they carry their burden<br />Of expendable youth at war.<br />There is a poise about them,<br />A quality not found in peers,<br />A bearing common only<br />To young men in combat.<br /><br />There is a stoic resignation,<br />A façade of wary acceptance,<br />A weariness in their movements<br />As they slowly walk the war.<br />Struggling with all its elements,<br />And inside, struggling with themselves,<br />For just below the surface,<br />They keep the well-known secret,<br />The haunting cowardice common to all.<br /><br />Twenty-four hours a day they walk the line,<br /><br />Living up to the reputation,<br />Assuming the swagger, the hard line,<br />Their casual indifference to death<br />That masks that deep seeded fear of dying,<br />The overwhelming urge to break and run,<br />The paralyzing instinct to freeze or hide!<br />Praying silently in secret<br />That whatever happens they won't look bad.<br /><br />And that is why they are at war,<br />Where they would rather be<br />Then face the shame of not going,<br />Of being accused of not having "it",<br />To uphold that fragile concept of honor,<br />With their reputations on the line.<br />And they proudly carry their reputations,<br />For that is all that remains of their dignity,<br />Even if it means they must die for it.<br /><br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=195643" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:193705ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'Mortars'2012-09-27T00:00:00Z2012-09-27T00:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>Mortars</b><br /><br />The Scout on point has raised his hand<br />And flashed the signal to his band<br />ENEMY IN SIGHT GET DOWN!<br />But in the distance, sickening sounds,<br />The deadened "thunk" of mortar rounds<br />Leaving hollow tubes.<br /><br />The men melt to the ground,<br />Scrambling, crabbing leaving the trail<br />High, thin-screamed, louder, whistling wail<br />Of incoming!<br /> The men cower, cringing low<br />They clench their necks, await the blow<br />That erupts with such a smashing "crack",<br />That rings the ears and slams the back<br />That bleeds the nose, that aches the head,<br />That takes the breath, and kills them dead.<br /><br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=193705" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:189949ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'Mission Accomplished'2012-09-12T00:00:00Z2012-09-12T00:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>Mission Accomplished</b><br /><br />The Navy aircraft eases down across the ship’s fantail,<br />And slams on the deck, engines screaming,<br />Its hook catches the number two wire <br />Jerking it quickly to a pitching stop.<br />The wire drops away and it taxis to the bridge.<br />Emerging behind the pilot and crew <br />From the old gray Viking aircraft,<br />He steps out from the shadows<br />Into the warm, afternoon California sun<br />Sparkling gently from a cloudless, blue sky,<br />Shining the calm Pacific Ocean off San Diego.<br /><br />The man is on a mission of great importance,<br />He advances purposefully, marching<br />Down the polished, steel deck <br />Of the anchored carrier, Abraham Lincoln.<br />His new boots are spit-shined and polished,<br />The new nomex flight suit is highly starched,<br />His torso harness gleams; stiff with crispness,<br />The metal buckles shining brightly, <br />With the complex webbings perfectly aligned.<br />His new, Mae West life jacket has original tags. <br />The sleek, nylon G-suit, cinched a little too tightly.<br />On purpose, to demonstrate one’s manhood.<br /><br />Like a bow-legged gunfighter, he strides meaningfully<br />Across the glinting deck cradling his new, white helmet<br />He casually salutes left then right at the crew,<br />He turns his head; he nods indifferently to the crowd, ,<br />Then stops, raises his right hand, smiles coldly,<br />And turns in a full circle waving like a queen <br />To be lustily cheered by baseball capped Officers<br />And orderly, rank and file mobs of sailors.<br />Like Caesar returning triumphant from the Punic Wars,<br />President Bush basks in the adulation <br />As he benevolently waves, smiles and nods<br />Then points at the huge sign over the bridge <br />Declaring "Mission Accomplished."<br /><br />Twenty minutes later the "Commander in Chief"’<br />Reappears from the steel, grey island,<br />Carefully dressed in his dark, blue "power" suit,<br />(with an American flag pinned on the lapel)<br />He stands straight and tall on the platform,<br />Almost Presidential in both bearing and stature <br />Before the TV cameras and clusters of microphones.<br />He leans forward in his most serious demeanor<br />To declare: "Combat Operations in Iraq have ceased."<br />He steps back; smirks a smile at his minions, <br />At the swelling thunderous applause and cheers,<br />Of the captive military audience on the deck<br />Lustily cheering the American "War" President,<br />Their Commander in Chief, whom they all must trust,<br />With their very lives and future.<br />He has finally proclaimed those special words, <br />Words they have longed to hear,<br />Because now, they believe the war is finally over.<br />Because now they can all go back home to their loved ones.<br /><br />Half a world away the sun has long set,<br />In the deep, cold, Indian Ocean night,<br />The shadow carrier glows faint running lights<br />Rising, falling as it pitches, and plows, <br />Smashing heavily through rough seas.<br />A bone chilling wind howls down from the north,<br />Wailing as it whips the dark, slippery deck.<br />Lurching from the shadowed, steel island door<br />A bundled Navy pilot emerges,<br />Hunching down low against bone-chilling cold, <br />Leaning against buffeting winds. <br /><br />Zippered flight boots are scuffed, well worn,<br />The weathered, crusty flight suit grimy and damp, <br />Stained in salt-sweat rings and earthy smells.<br />Under his armpit, a holstered automatic snuggles.<br />Tarnished, metal buckles of G-suit and restraining straps <br />Jingle and chime, clanking the night.<br />Adorned in faded patches of squadron heraldry,<br />The old, green flight jacket is zippered high,<br />The flight bag, with helmet, kneepad, and maps,<br />Dangles loosely in gray-green gloved hand<br />Approaching the looming ghost airplane.<br />There, the plane captain watches, <br />As he makes a cursory inspection<br />Around the aircraft left to right,<br />The small flashlight piercing the mist,<br />Glancing along under long, silver wings <br />Dripping in armed bombs and war weaponry.<br />He climbs the ladder, straps in, <br />Drops the canopy locking it tight,<br />A quick signal to the plane captain,<br />The "Huffer" blows heavy air to the turbines,<br />The pilot casually lights off his engines.<br />Which grumble, spin up, and roar to life.<br /><br />He taxis to the catapult for a "night cat shot," <br />A procedure, in retrospect only, is a Naval Aviator’s favorite,<br />That can only be experienced, not described to mortals. <br />The plane is hooked to the steel catapult bridle <br />As shadowed sailors dimly lit in pale deck lights.<br />Check connections and give hand signals. <br />Seconds later he salutes, locks the throttles forward,<br />Engines scream to one hundred percent.<br />He lights the primeval heavy afterburners<br />And launches in a slam of heavy "g’ forces,<br />Roaring over the pitching bow into the night.<br /><br />Gear and flaps up, ease the stick back, <br />To disappear in the deep black clouds,<br />To shortly emerge from the mottled, cumulus<br />That covers the distant land below in darkness.<br />As high above, stretches the vastness of space <br />Unfolding so deep and so far beyond the mind, <br />Beyond the limits of mortal man’s imagination.<br />It watches with patient, immortal eyes,<br />This troublesome neglected corner of the galaxy. <br />While to the west, a waning, half-moon shines low.<br />Silver-highlighting the cobblestone mantled clouds<br />Washing them softly with pale shades of greys.<br /><br />The dim cockpit lights glow greens and reds, <br />Radios hum soft static in the background,<br />The aircraft turns to heading, adds power, and climbs north, <br />A frequency switch to a distant controlling agency.<br />Checking in crossing the beach, "feet dry" <br />Automatically readying armament switches.<br /><br />The moonlight slowly crawls the silver wings,<br />Its soft, luminous light blushes the aircraft.<br />Sailing miles above the sea of clouds.<br />Throttles ease back to cruise the night.<br />Sweeping radar paints the darkness ahead,<br />Where ancient, mountainous lands marches the scope<br />There, lurking, hostile enemy terrain awaits,<br />Appearing so still and peaceful in the night,<br />Where death, destruction, and danger <br />Patiently wait with watchful eyes<br />For the approaching aircraft’s attempt,<br />...To accomplish the mission.<br /><br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=189949" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> commentstag:dreamwidth.org,2016-12-27:2643406:184644ext_226735Curt Bennett, 'Night'2012-08-23T00:00:00Z2012-08-23T00:00:00Zpublic0Posted by: <span lj:user='duathir.livejournal.com' style='white-space: nowrap;' class='ljuser'><a href='https://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?userid=246344&t=I'><img src='https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png' alt='[identity profile] ' width='16' height='16' style='vertical-align: text-bottom; border: 0; padding-right: 1px;' /></a><a href='http://duathir.livejournal.com/' rel='nofollow'><b>duathir.livejournal.com</b></a></span><br /><br /><p><b>Night</b><br /><br />Asian moon<br />Swims fathomless deep.<br />Star-rivers course<br />Boundless banks<br />Of Stygian stream.<br /><br />Pin-prick flares<br />Man-made suns,<br />Spawn brilliant<br />Glow, sigh, and slowly die<br />In the black.<br /><br />Red embers,<br />Green glows, trace silent<br />Warplane's <br />Distant flight.<br /><br />Death sparkles <br />Brilliant diamond<br />Artillery flashes<br />Dancing, darting,<br />To distant drums.<br /> <br /><i>by Curt Bennett</i></p><br /><br /><img src="https://www.dreamwidth.org/tools/commentcount?user=war_poetry&ditemid=184644" width="30" height="12" alt="comment count unavailable" style="vertical-align: middle;"/> comments