Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                           The 7th of June, 1944 and 1970

My father beached at Normandy on the second day
(He was okay with having missed the first)
From there through France to Belgium in the mud
For a ****** Christmas in the icy Bulge

Munich, Buchenwald, Dachau, Zwickau
For me DaNang, Saigon, Ben Luc, Moc Hoa
I met a child in a Japanese army cap
But he wouldn’t sell it. We all have history

I wish I had that Japanese army cap
And that we knew what any of this means

They wear their bodies inside-out, some are ashes but few are dust. Vacant orbits, oblivious to the incoming tide and the percussive artillery from the heavily fortified positions on Rue de la Mort, view the world with equanimity. Their bloodied stillness at odds with the surrounding tumult.

It’s at times like these - pinned down behind a burnt-out vehicle, the sand skipping around me with the phut-phut-phut of spent rounds - that I envy them their final freedom. Not that all deaths are as elegant and instantaneous as a well aimed bullet to the head.

It is a fleeting thought, hardly even that, a whispering somewhere in the background of my consciousness, like listening to a low-tuned wireless. And with victory as with defeat - with the ear-ringing silence - the whisperings become louder and more persistent.

Right, left; up, down; stop, wait; walk, run; sink, swim; live, die. Some pray to survive, other’s yearn for the sweetspot, the one shot ****. Regardless, there is no doubt that we who remain will fight on for weeks, for years, for decades and continue to live the uncertainty of the living - sweating bullets until kingdom ****** come.

before that,
we sat pinned
and winded
on steel hands
and plated masks
near the crimson
jade pools
by the killing fields
of bordeaux

we did not look
we could not look
our eyes blinded
and seared
by the charred remains
and shallow graves
the battered birch
and caliginous path

drifters and vagabonds
and kings of kings
held witness
to the pounding
and overkill
the blades
cauldrons
and burning sweet-grass
all brought forth by healers

rammers, sages
and holy front men
glance behind
(watching them sort
through the rubble
and *****)
the blood flow
spilling its warmth
throughout the
festering scene

they pulled the stops out
on this one ~
those sweated woodlands
and churned meadows
now framed
by a burned
and broken cross

autumn like winds
begin to chill
(casting spells over ground cover)
night lights flicker
beyond
the fallen trees

Flowers share their golden bloom
I know everything'll be okay
And they'll get rid of all my gloom

I sing songs inside of my tomb
"You have to stay in there," they say
Flowers share their golden bloom

I already know about my certain doom
The skies turn a brilliant gray
And they'll get rid of all my gloom

I can't sleep in this bedroom
I think thoughtfully about today
Flowers share their golden bloom

Soldiers share a final legume
Bombs fly in a beautiful array
And they'll get rid of all my gloom

Blood splatters, a red abloom
This would be further known as D-Day
Flowers share their golden bloom
And they'll get rid of all my gloom

I'm not crazy.
I'm just broken and hazy on whats truth, and whats lies.
Unspoken the feeling of bright colored eyes.
I changed with the times, I beat out these rhymes.
I don't commit crimes but I want to beat down heaven and bring it to earth, or bring hope to birth but not hope in a pope but hope in this curse of humanity.

I want to travel and unravel whats been made.
I want to bring home d-day and call a parade or maybe throw a grenade.
I just want to **** my mind or just unwind or maybe even... find myself?

I really want to find something worth finding.
Something worth more than wealth.

I don't have all the answers.
I just have my truth, that I can't hit undo no matter what I now choose and we all do what we do and if we don't at least try then we're royally *******.

So here is what I think.

Maybe the answer to "42" is "why not?".
Maybe the answer to "we lost" is "we fought!".
Maybe "lazy" people are just... broken.
Maybe politicians and lawmakers are outspoken!

Maybe, being "crazy" is just really knowing more than what we should like, we could be "on that level" but fear in the devil throwing a fit makes us commit to social norms and belief in reform.

I will not give into the eye of the storm. I will be reborn and rise like a phoenix up through the ashes and then destroy the classes and will not be undone.

I will light up the sky filled with a thousand glowing eyes to brighten the sun. I may die but all will say at least this dog did have his one.

Maybe I am crazy.
Maybe I'm not.
Maybe I lost this battle but I'll tell you what, I fought and I'll fight till the night and day gives me the right to say that I've won.

Never had it been of the application of force between
interludes of terrible waiting that getting on with hostilities
was more calming than the imagination of the horrors
that lay ahead

The initial wave knew the sacrifice would be written about
until the heavens decided that history was full enough of
our failures, shaking loose its detachment from the fate of
its hapless creation

They were led by men who could be counted on to exhort
them with words as to their duty; to be told of the good
hunting to come, but to men who had no fantasies of their
own, words only fabricate a hero

There was no marksmanship or survival skill that could
shield a man fated to crush the spirit inside the prayers
uttered by his mother; there was no training that could
prepare him for life or judgment day

And yet those whom absolution abandoned to their own
devices had fallen in love with their conquerors only to
weep bitterly as the beachcombers liberated them from
their supposed occupation

It made them wonder of the desperation that was
stronger than hope; about how a woman could fall in
love with the eyes of the enemy; and how the enemy
could have a heart for love

But his witness of human nature amidst the horrors
of despots would remain in abeyance until the fears of a
common man had met courage in the moment he realized
how mankind could never love him as does a God

He wondered if he would be different; would he be death
unable to laugh or understand a broken nail; would he be
able to believe in men; would he be able to love someone
when he knew his heart was left behind?

My great grandfather stood on the sixth of June
Nineteen forty four hoping to return home soon.
A non-wavering ball at the pit of his belly
Told him constantly that he was not ready.

He feared for his life, his safety, his wife;
Being stood at home holding a bread knife,
Making sandwiches with that same non wavering ball
Hidden tidily away for the safety of them all.

His children knew he was on a boat
Being so brave that they could gloat
About how their dad was marching around,
Saving innocent people n that stolen ground.

But what they didn't know quite then
Was how his life very well may soon end.
Fighting with hundreds of thousands of worries soldiers
On five thousand ships not nearly as strong as boulders.

For the day he fought with many men
Against not all Axis; only ten
Thousand but still quite a few
Because he knew so much justice was overdue.

People back back at home saw only weeks before
Large green vehicles passing by their door.
The children wondered and parents knew why,
But not as much as the soldiers about to pass by.

The soldiers said "Don't fear for me,
I'll be back home so soon you wont miss me!"
My great grandfather said the exact same thing
To his wife, his kids, although not willing.

Of the three thousand that died on that day alone,
My great grandfather was lucky to be one
Of my family to come home life intact.
I am just grateful that God had his back.

For all of those that did die on that day
The memory of their bravery will never go away.
we will always cherish the thought of their fearlessness,
Their courage, determination and dauntlessness.