Stand at Eleven
On Eleven Eleven:
When we recall the men
And all of the women
Who fell defending
Family and country.

We mourn
In the silence,
Resolving once again,

To do better.
      To honour the past with peace
And to stand with the makers
And the keepers of peace,
Together living and dying
As brothers and sisters
Of the Prince of Peace,
And as children of God.

19 July 1943

Amid the wreckage of a bomb-blown street
In prayer among the smoke and stench of death
A man in anguish kneels and begs of Heaven
Mercy upon the broken people of God
Amid the wreckage of humanity
The blessings of a saint, like incense, drift
Into the hidden places of each soul  
The healing peace of God amid the ruins
Amid the wreckage of a bomb-blown street
Amid the wreckage of humanity

Lest we forget this Remembrance Day
The sacrifice of those brave men
Their blood spilt on the battlefield
Their lives given to protect us
Their lives extinguished to sand us

Lest we forget our fallen troops
Who lay dying in no mans land
Who's blood gave life to the poppies at Flanders field

Lest we forget our true heroes
Lest we forget our protectors
Lest we forget our guardian angels
All gone to be with God.

Mid Watch, But Without a Watch

Guarding an empty clothesline until four
With Springfield rifle at right shoulder arms
And sometimes something else: left shoulder arms
Because some NCO is sure to pass

And yelp about the proper rifle carry;
Until he does, the solitude is sweet
The San Diego night all damp and still
The recruit thinks and dreams, but dare not speak

While being trained for combat in Viet-Nam
Guarding an empty clothesline in the night

Pupils Fixed and Dilated

He was not permitted to die in peace
The only mercy granted was release
From fear, and mortars falling from the sky
There was no possibility of saying goodbye
And the river water stank, as did the night
His end was as flickering as the light
Pale gaspings, a fluttering pulse, dead sweat
D5W, battle dressings, and yet
The only mercy was in his release
He was not permitted to die in peace

Don't forget me the soldier
I love my country that's true
Here on the world's battlefields
I fought for you I died for you

Don't forget me the sailor
I love my country that's true
Here on the world's oceans
I fought for you I died for you

Don't forget me the pilot
I love my country that's true
Here in the world's heavens
I fought for you I died for you

Don't forget me the mother
I sent my son off to war
He did not come home to me
What is all the fighting for?

We are the politicians
You see us laying our wreaths
We send your loved ones off to war
And too many to their deaths

The War Correspondent

A helicopter skeetered bravely in
And pitched and yawed against the enemy fire
That wasn’t there.  The manliest of men
Descended unto us in flawless attire

His tailored khaki suit was starched and pressed
Its creases as sharp as a Ka-bar knife
Never was a reporter more perfectly dressed
For getting the news while risking his life

The C.O. sped him past our positions
And hustled him into the T.O.C.1
To ensure each noun and preposition
Would be written for the greater good, you see

Much ink and Scotch were undoubtedly spilled
In air-conditioned comfort, no heat or mud;
With scripted heroics his notebook was filled
No need to stain his suit with his precious blood

After an hour he was hustled back
To Saigon for an evening reception
After he wrote of a great attack
And wired New York his immaculate deception

A helicopter skeetered bravely out
And yawed and pitched against a ******’s shot
That wasn’t there.  A great Communist rout?
There’s more than one kind of jungle rot


1Tactical Operations Center - command bunker, often air-conditioned.

I can hear the music all around me,
The thrum of long-boat hulls against the shore,
And drummer boys with stockinged feet resound me,
And heavy hammered horse shoes pound the floor,

And gunners with their twenty-ones astound me,
And diggers crash their picks into the floor,
And cannoneers launch volley fire to pound me,
And bayonets clash like cymbals on the moor,

And fighter pilots boom above to ground me,
And tank commanders rumble to the fore,
Submariners slosh water up to drowned me,
And infantry sing heartily of the corp,

And all around I hear their music roar,
The ghosts of all our heralds gone to war.

Gently touch her, gently care,
For the day may come — swiftly when
That endless cruel knocking
on doors bolted from the inside
Dies down and turns into
gray silence.

She, irksome as it is,
goes round and round in circles
Looking for the missing pair
She wears the other one, anyway,
And sits down in grief.

She says, “I want to go home.
Let me go home.”
“Mama, you are home,” you answer.
Vexation rears its ugly head
And you force each horn,
one at a time, to recede:
To vanish from sight.

Then gaining composure you say:
“Mama, let’s pray.”
God hears, and you are healed. Set free.
Instantly.
Of the agony of bearing about
in your own body
The weight of selfishness
And sin
And sheer ignorance of
what it feels like
To have Time ****** away Memory
From you and those you love.

The stark feebleness of this
bent, white creature
With veined hands and bony feet
Reminds you of your own
Utter helplessness.
Mortality.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

           An American Legion Meeting

O let us sit, our coffee cups to hand
And discharge half-remembered boot camp yarns
As ragged volleys of camaraderie
Blasted through well-defended hearing aids

O let us not raise funds for this or that
Through weekend fish-fries in a parking lot
Or catalogue good deeds inflicted on

Those

For whom our kindness is a border breached

O let us sit, our coffee cups to hand
And remember again the Vam Co Tay