The decay of
imagination
and compassion.

What never
should have
been has become.

When the seed of love
is smothered by the weeds
of desperation and the fires
of Hell scorch in the breast
the withered heart of man
then you will understand.

a simple honest vision birds in flight
across the narrow valley in dim air
while very slowly we prepare for night

in one swift moment we have to indite
magical incantations of despair
a simple honest vision birds in flight

will come upon us in the final light
to draw from every eye a single tear
while very slowly we prepare for night

in manner of old custom law and rite
withstanding all injustice pain and fear
a simple honest vision birds in flight

will transport each of us to some new height
beyond the weight of suffering or care
while very slowly we prepare for night

with understanding of both truth and right
to match the music that will make all clear
a simple honest vision birds in flight
while very slowly we prepare for night

so now all clocks are showing the time's passed
for wearing chains and keeping dark heads bowed
since august morning has come round at last

although the sons of hate may stand aghast
we know our parents wept but were not cowed
so now all clocks are showing the time's passed

and we will leave till now we had held fast
but we can show the world that we are proud
since august morning has come round at last

so long a silence then the thunderblast
of our rejoicing we were good and loud
so now the clocks are showing the time's passed

for humble patient service we will cast
away all ******* tear apart the shroud
since august morning has come round at last

with our free hands we sanctify the past
as for the future we face it unbowed
so now all clocks are showing the time's passed
since august morning has come round at last

there is no wonder where there is no hope
we learn this truth before we learn to speak
defining magic as just one more trope

among the ones with which we have to cope
tools of the just and weapons of the meek
there is no wonder where there is no hope

so we declare but yet the merest dope
believes his circumstances are unique
defining magic as just one more trope

that must be learnt before he climbs the *****
towards the greatest highest noble peak
there is no wonder where there is no hope

those are the words and they are no soft soap
serving to guide us unto what we seek
defining magic as just one more trope

of our old language so that gives us scope
for honest understanding and critique
there is no wonder where there is no hope
defining magic as just one more trope

The pain
just doesn't go away,
seems we have to
deal with Charlie everyday.
So many triggers,
in our heads that make us
wonder if,
we would be better off dead.

We live from
day to day,
some hour to hour,
wondering what to say
to those who just can't
understand the pain
and sorrow that we feel,
as a combat Veteran.

We are a band of brothers
who stepped up, stood up proud,
and went to War
for a Country we loved,
only to return to a Country
full of hate and disrespect.

Vietnam Veterans
continue to take their own lives
daily, some 40 years later
because some are tired
of fighting the War in their heads,
and fighting for help,
from a Gov't
that doesn't seem to care.
We are tired of asking for respect,
because we stood up for your freedom.

We still wait for just
for one sincere "thank you",
or a true "wellcome home",
that we never got,
better late than  never for some,
just a little too late
for me and many others.

Some 58,000
gave their all, most
still in their youth but
old enough to die,
for a War that was just a big lie,
and all they got was
their name on a Wall.

Those of us who survived
still fight the triggers in our heads,
and try to help those brothers
who would rather be dead,
those fellow warriors
with so much pain
that they feel as if
they have nothing to gain.

Self respect takes away
some of that pain,
but we have to heal
from the inside first.

But for now
we heal at the Wall
and touch our brothers
and friends who gave it all,
those who dared to
stand tall
for your  freedom.             Jon York

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.

Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the ****.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

we looked on open water for a week
a warm green sea true eater of the sun
great arm of ocean not river or creek

this was our respite from a world made bleak
by constant duty service on the run
we looked on open water for a week

in hope of healing certain the unique
sense of the name would give us what we'd won
great arm of ocean not river or creek

immensity of peace that we could seek
as fullest respite when each day was done
we looked on open water for a week

with smiling faces that forbade critique
of any statement that would overrun
great arm of ocean not river or creek

where we end moving easily and sleek
towards the sunset knowing it was fun
we looked on open water for a week
great arm of ocean not river or creek

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

by what light!this pains' dismay is taught and frigid
it is the earth upholding my footfalls genial and slow
i tread and mark the soil as turning sunder:the stain
last frail and withered node of light 7fold and thrice
the hills are marching under that calamity of orange
duskish and fowling their curvaceous hide. i'm loose and tight
in folds of grass. and i walk

                                    and i walk

                                                   and i    w
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