i strain to understand
but love all the more
the hill where the soldiers are buried
within earshot of the steel rails,
the trail to market across the broad
fields of winneshiek’s prairie,
his daily walk now the dusty roads i drive.

tell me stories about a hero's death,
rewarded sleep deep in sacred ground,
and how dying is the easiest of things
for even the faint of heart can be heroric
and i will be as stubborn as a cartridge pouch.

i fail to understand,
calling to mind
past bad predictions of better futures,
cursing and excusing war
and the ancient virtue of how to die.
nobody makes songs of mangled limbs
and expect the young to answer
for that they must sing of glorious sacrifice
to stir the patriot as god's own will.

across the tops of austere military headstone
i look to the north toward the valley of bekaaniba,
as a black sparrow hawk test the thermals
nothing escaping its sharp eye,
nothing that crawls or walks or makes war.

while below in bright afternoon light and easy breeze
surrendering to the smell of earth, farm,
freshly mown grass and hyssop,
i stand to pay homage
and wonder.

i strain to understand
but love them all the more.

I stand beside these rank, grassed, mounded piles of soil
'Neath which the mouldering dead lie in repose.
Their mode of death reflects, I guess, the toil
We made of living then, which is fair enough.
Though what was it do you suppose
They thought about and lived life for?
That question might be too tough
For any one person's answer; too severe.
And Heaven only knows
The forgotten wisdom
That lies now buried here.

A Reflection:
Beside that track in jungle green
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.),
Sweat-soaked, *****, and unseen
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
These young men who crouch, so still
They poise to pounce, to make their ****,
In doing so they do your will. Just
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.

Platoon, or Company, Section strong
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.),
Led by those who do no wrong
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
Trained by the same consummate skill,
Focused thus to do your will,
But - yours to pay is the butchers' bill; if you
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.

And when they stop, too old to serve
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
Ensure they get what they deserve
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
For at that time, they must not find
That you and yours have changed your mind.
If might you then feel less than kind, don't
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.

Doctors see more blood
in sterile rooms
than soldiers do
on broken land.