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If you have never,
Lived across the waters,
Strange terrain, from,
Our homeland,
The brotherhood & memories,
You may never understand,
The hell, our veterans, lived,
For us making many stands,
Living, training, fighting,
For the people & our land.

Good friends, by their side,
When ever fireworks started,
Many fell, like flies,
The hardest one's to swallow,
Those who never had A chance,
To say good by.

A Thank You, and Honor,
To All Veterans.

Tom Maxwell copyright 2/25/2019 AD 6:00 PM 1800 HR
Jonathan Moya Nov 2020
On the 11th month,
the 11th day,
at the 11th hour,
Meagan wore her poppy
on the right side
at 11 O’clock,
just like her father,
John McCain
taught her.
Holding her
newborn girl Liberty
close to her—
and taking care
not to disturb
the many small flags
proudly fluttering—
she placed
another exactly
the same way
on his grave
just kissing the
white granite words
A house made of screams and fear .
Hedge in by the high brick walls.
A place whose all loved one disappeared
And darkness masked fear crawl.

Here every room has a story
In which each is a character.
But time and world has taken his glory
And called it a sinister.

This ghost house is similar to many of us
Engulfed by our own darkness.
Stiff but eaten by the rust .
All these make feel starkness

As of this house , THE GHOST HOUSE
To the lost ones who are not yet lost
Dez Apr 2020
Help me I cry
Don’t leave me here to die
But they left me to lie
So goodbye
Tell my country I said hi
It was worth their freedom to die
Thy freedom is why
I did come here and sound the battle cry
Forget me not when you pass by
For my tomb is unmarked under the open sky
And thereby I'll never truly die
For I'll always be a passing memory to testify
Of all the names that were forgotten by and by
Thomas Harvey Mar 2020
I met a man the other day
He was homeless, wore down, and his head full of gray
I asked his story, he responded saying there's no sob here
just a life of brokenness pain and sorrow
He said " Son I've crossed the world n back, killed men for a better tomorrow. But behind all that is where I hid way beneath my flask. My daddy fought in the world war and I in 1967, fought my way to sergeant of platoon Echo Gulf Eleven. I was there the day Kennedy died and yes many of us did indeed cry. War damages us, breaks and tears your soul, it's not till you're back home you realize the real fight is here. Brother's and sisters fighting in the streets, I would rather spend my time here then laying in cozy sheets".
It's been 5 years since that day, since then I gave the man a place to stay, he found his purpose again. Today he inspires change, he speaks to the younger kids stressing the importance of the future. The world is small and crazy one little step and your whole life can be wrecked and one inspired generation left is enough to become the next president.
He does not see or hear her since the war
A massacre an apology cannot erase
His consumption to cannabis stubs
And get-high quick remedies
It's been said the children are not his
what then has he to fight for?
These are the consequences of home wars usually.I just wrote this poem based on experience.What do you think of my poetry guys?
A veteran of The Armed Forces
Traveled in the air and sailed on the sea
They always answered the call
While in a line of duty
With strength and courage
A veteran always stayed true
Always carrying out their mission
While representing the red, white and blue
Jonathan Moya Nov 2019
The stars on the flag started falling off
when Private Walker returned home
to Tennessee after six months of being
in country in Afghanistan.

At Camp Leatherneck on the treadmill
he folded five points to pentagrams,
imagined fireworks nova his welcome back.

The flag rarely flapped in the arid silence
of base camp.  Was MIA everywhere else.

He landed unmet in
Chattanooga on Veterans Day
in time to catch the parade highlights,
which happened two days earlier,
being ignored on the airport monitors  
in the hustle of terminal traffic.

No flags decorated Broad street shops,
no watchers waived the red, white and blue.
Police motorcycles fronted the parade
and patrolled the back in sunglass alert.

Two Vietnam vets shouldering hunting rifles
marched grimly in parade formation followed
by alternating school bands and ROTC cadets.

All two thousand stars dripped down,
faded blue in the rush to show the next ad.
Every which way he looked
the rushing crowd turned his back to him.

He remembered Anousheh, the girl
whose name meant everlasting/immortal.

The child who hugged him,
kissed his forehead when he gave
her a Hershey bar from
his mom’s care package
while patrolling the base perimeter road.

The friend, the daughter, the grandchild
who died in a Taliban wedding bombing,
one week after her seventh birthday,
three days after their embrace.

His heart, his tears, his breath,
his every word was Anousheh.
All was and will be forever Anousheh.

And when he prayed
he prayed like Anousheh,
and on his knees at the airport
he faced her outbound heart
and prayed for a mutilated world.
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