When the day is done for the infantry,
they bow their heads and take a knee,
they clasp their hands and start to pray,
that they may live another day,
should a challenge for them ever arise,
they would proudly meet it with open eyes,
soldiers fight with the honor and pride,
moving any and all fear to the side,
a soldier's family and freedom is his core,
for wanting to ever fight a war.

so I passed by this gentleman today at the park & through his broken English came to find out he is from Germany, East Berlin to be exact...his name is Hans. I asked him how he came to Michigan & he began telling me his story, you could see him travel back in time right before your very eyes. He and his wife, Hannah, kept watch over the guards near a section of the wall that was near some summer cottages. At night the 'women' from town would 'entertain' the officers in the foliage, so they put whatever they could fit in their baby stroller, draped as much clothing on themselves as they could manage, & by the grace of God one night the baby did not cry & they were able to run to freedom to West Berlin. He went on to describe how he came first to Canada & then upon hearing of the higher wages in Detroit, came to live in Sterling Heights. It's funny when I asked him & a lady from Poland the day before where they were from, they both said "well from here" despite their obvious accents...home is indeed Michigan for them both now...& for Hans, he's never returned to East Berlin.


*when you see an older person, take the time...I assure you, you will never leave disappointed.

Dead soldiers can’t march.
They can’t hear your lies.
They can’t hear their buddies
Or their agonizing cries.
The politicians lie so smoothly
Some dreams are so lifelike
And the lies are said so truthfully
That some life seems dreamlike.

Dead soldiers are not the ones,
The ones out looking for war.
They, above everyone else,
Know exactly what war is for.
Congress keep swords sharpened
Year after hypocritical year.
Don’t let it happen again
Don’t let it happen here.

Dead soldiers can’t hear you
When you pray to the crowd.
They can’t hear the platitudes
No matter how florid and loud.
They are beyond your excuses
And they never really mattered.
People in power are safe far away
From where all the blood is splattered.

Dead soldiers can’t hug their kids
Or kiss their wives in the morning.
No more time exists for them
It ended with little warning.
They did what they were told to do
With no mutinous thought in their head.
They were obedient and loyal
And now they are quietly dead.

Congress keep swords sharpened
Year after hypocritical year.
Don’t let it happen again
Don’t let it happen here.

Today we'll die,
Today we'll fall,
Remember us lie,
On the earthen floor.

The climbing heat of the cruellest summer
Transcended pool and wood
Feeding upon
The huddling men.

Their bodies saturated with sweat,
Foreheads brown, the fighting done,
They talked together of both home and future
In the manner of men casually strolling
Through a park or meeting
After work, drinking tea or beer.

One pointed to a wound
That swelled slowly
Popping a cigarette in his mouth
With quietly accomplished bravado.
He was a shrewd hand at dying.
He understood the drama well.

The weather grasped the defeated
Unearthing their cries.

The field was marked with blood
Flies rushing about in exhilaration at
The sudden banquet.
Last gasps, inaudible farewells, came through the silence.
A vociferous diatribe of artillery
Resonated like an enfeebled ghost
Vanishing into cloud and mist.

The field was abandoned to carrion and dogs.
There were too many to bury.
Sunset fell upon them like a worn bandage
Torn off a seeping wound,
The light distinguishing the horror in a flash.


‘A fine time we had of it,’ the old soldier said
As they bore their burdens to the next
Hurried engagement
Where the dead seemed to outnumber the grass on which they lay.

I cannot touch the sand
The unease of the coarse grain
Pressing my foot down, terror rises

I'm a killer
1, 2, 3, 4
5, 6, 7, 8
Body count

Three hours of sleep
All that my demons allow me

I walked with nightmares
I sacrificed... for them
I sacrificed... for them
I sacrificed... for them

Fighting under banners
Flying high for freedom
I became the prisoner

War is art, painted in blood.
Live the life I cannot
Hear the fireworks
Touch the sand
I sacrificed these for you.

Explosions and gunfire wherever you walk,
not knowing your fate as the hands whirl around the clock.
Blood running like a river through the streets of rubble,
body parts scattered around - each one of them has crumbled.

They've declared a war again like many times before,
not caring about the civilians; battle commences more and more.
History is repeating itself time and time again,
it seems as if they cannot from bloodlust abstain.

This is about the innocent lives that'll be inevitably lost,
their precious and innocent souls are the greatest cost.
Their last memories will be that of brutality and threat,
and watching their family die randomly one by one; like a game of Russian Roulette.

Masses of skeletons and piles of bones
will litter the lanes as common as stones,
and their names will always remain unknown,
and as they perish they will do so despondent and alone.

And as they marched home,
Hollow from the victory of war
Only those who returned were welcomed,
Despite desperate eyes searching
For one more face
And reluctant ears intent
On not hearing another name on that list,
That long, long list.