"mcnamara" poems
The Slow-Bullet
by rgpage
In the early days of Viet Nam
the American draft was going strong.
Young men in their prime of life,
were forced and herded into world strife.
A generation of America’s best, were
then brought home and laid to rest.
Wall Street smiled, the money flowed
the “fat Cats” called it money owed.
In towns and cities big and small,
families waited, worried, and cried.
Groups appeared, dissention grew.
"Mothers grab your son’s and hide."
There were those who felt their duty strong,
to take the leap toward blood and strife
with McNamara herding them along.
Known to the grunts as “Mac the Knife.”
The madness grew to a global scale
with those that were for and those against.
In bombing, selective targets became the norm
keeping the rest of the world from harm.
With those who didn’t feel their duty strong,
a path to the north they took.
They packed what they could, burned their cards
and paused for one last look.
With this some parents felt relief,
while others felt the disgrace. Of seeing
the grief so many went through after
having their futures erased.
The war took over 58,000 American lives;
men and women both, (before we flew away).
Wall Street got their wages for blood, with
broken lives in pain, many thousands more would pay.
With thousands more that were yet to be lost, after returning home.
Physically and mentally scarred, even those seeming
perfectly whole. Then saying good-by to the ones they loved
in their own special way. They stoically waited for the slow-bullet to come to finally take them away…
Suicide has taken 3 or 4 times the lives than the war took. My heart cries for every last one of them…Robert G. Page, Viet Nam Vet. ‘66-’67.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
Uncle Sam sat down across from me and placed his satchel on the floor.
It was time to pay the piper; that is God’s immutable law.
I tapped my bony finger, impatient to begin.
“That will be fifty eight thousand, Sam, starting with Tonkin.”
From his satchel, that seemed bottomless, Sam produced the cash.
“Start counting!” I demanded, as I drooled over his stash.
He started pilling Franklins up on the table there between us.
Each “C” note meant one hundred dead Due to McNamara’s genius.
Fathers and sons had fallen; young men by the score.
Just think of the girls they never kissed; the children they never saw.
Uncle Sam doled out the bills until his thumbs were sore
When he finished I took out my Scythe and swept them on the floor.
I saw Sam’s look of horror at my eyeless, nose less face.
He had counted out a treasure that he knew he can't replace.
“It was a Pleasure doing business.” Oh, how I despised that man!
Still I was certain that we’d meet often,even after Vietnam.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 8:02 AM UTC
did we know that today
in 2016 we'd be reading the future
about the Great American
soft
depression interlaced
August 16 with Lehman
Goldman
Sach King David
how this time it will be
different but the bubble
starting
in 1995 always burst
even if its only two years
later Elizabeth Montgomery
died we were joining the Academic Mafia
around Circle Drive
Korean BBQ
Blues Caravan and
cruising around East Los
in a Blue Toyota pickup truck
now
there's a parked Prius
because we're too busy
running
numbers a racket
in Cambridge that leaves us
just a bit of fried egg in the morning
with coffee vorleser-ing and documenting
just
as any moral Hannah would do
in 1939 to say hey this is the way
we wanted right boxcars leading
to abattoirs today we do our best
imitation
of a weak McNamara
mea culpa
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
I got that letter this morning it was no surprise to me
All hands on deck.
Boot camp in three weeks. get your ducks lined up. Charlie has a bullet for me.Maybe a bouncing Betty or two.
Camp Lejeune. Jar head central.
Drop yer ***** and grab yer socks ...Gonna get my mind right for the fight.
So. Face down in this Paddy. Buffalo crap. ******** lite.
Locked and loaded.Gonna die today I think.My number's about to play.
Mr Charlie on home turf. Incoming is whistling me a lullaby.
So tell me again why I gotta be here?
Down for the di di. Goin the other way.
V.C. can see me but I cant triangulate.
Little guy in black pajamas. Fighting for their wives kids and mamas.
Need to dig in. gotta move.
Boom.
six O clock news . Mr Cronkite singing the body bag blues.
Old McNamara just upped the ante.
Mothers dont let yer babies grow up to be cowboys.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
We pay homage
To you,
Dear Bob,
Not as misguided,
But as pure evil.
A man brilliant
Enough,
To realize he was
Wrong,
But lie,
While trying to
Understand
Why
His numbers,
Inexplicably,
Did not
Work out,
While boys died.
Not everyone
Can use teenagers
To keep time,
But you did.
Couldn't you tell,
That your data
Were
Junk?
You could command
People to
Collect,
They laughed while
They presented
You crap.
If your models
Could have talked,
They would have
Laughed,
At you.
Reporters,
For whom
Everything is new,
Were sure
That you brought
Systems analysis,
To the
Puzzle Palace.
I guess they missed
World War Two.
You did ensure
It was used,
To build
Many,
Bad,
Weapons.
You get 'A'
For effort,
Professor.
Those dead soldiers' Moms
Applaud you.
They hope to
Meet you in hell,
For another go round.
You somehow thought,
That all of life,
Could be reduced
Numerically.
How bizarre.
In the end,
Your failure
Was not numerical,
But
Philosophical,
Your calibrated responses,
Moved
Not one enemy heart,
As for yours,
You had none.
Those attempting to
Tell you that
You were
Mistaken,
Were helpless,
They might as well,
Have been speaking
Sanskrit to you.
For they spoke in terms of
Morality,
of which
You had none.
When you passed,
No one
mourned,
And
As hard as you
Had tried to buy it,
No one,
Gave you,
Forgiveness.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
hi dudes and dudettes and welcome to Saturn club rings, where we are celebrating
the life of peter macnamara who was a famous aussie tennis player, and my nanna jean allan
whose new earth body is Aydan Calafiore, who was a great singer on the voice, anyhow his last life jean alan was a great
tennis fan and i have jean allan with me now to welcome peter to the afterlife
as we bring him to helping the world in his next life and here is slim dusty to start the welcoming party
slim
hi everyone and welcome to the great tennis player peter macnamara, here is this little piece
oh yeah, i would love to have a beer with peter
his backhand was pretty ace
and now this great player joins us in outta space
he joined up with mcnamee in doubles oh yeah
and in 1982 he was number 3 in the world
in 1980 he made it good in our grand slams
winning aussie open in 1979
and then won wimbledon in 1980 and 1982
and now, i want to see if he could carry his love for tennis or whatever to the kids of today
is he going to a future pro, like he coached a lot of greats
and hoping in his next life, he can inherit his great tennis styles
he is now the greatest, welcome to Saturn as perform this show, WELCOME peter to the great show
and now as yo look over our greats, what are you going to do
celebrate your life dude, here is jean who was your great fan
and now here is jean to read a poem, to say WELCOME
jean’s poem
welcome pete welcome pete
it will be great to see you here
your backhand and your coaching skills
really showed us how to play
i didn’t see the earth as jean this century
but i saw a lot of you
you made me want to sit on my couch watch the tennis and enjoy it yeseree
congratulations to peter, you were the greatest, yes you were
i saw players you beat, and players who you lost too
yes, and you were great
as i sat closing my legs on my couch
i loved to see you play
and i have reincarnated into a very talented kid
i think you will as well
whether you will play tennis, or anything else you see
congratulations mcnamara you were the best i can see
we have a few great future players, and australia hasn’t very many good men
but ash barty is playing well for the women, maybe your spirit can help you through
aussie aussie aussie oi oi oi
i hope you will be happy in your future lives, i know i am
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 1:22 AM UTC
Today is July 4, 2020. There is not much to celebrate. **** Trump leaves us in a Polynicean gloom. Fireworks remind me of wars. I would rather, and therefore will, listen to Rachmaninov's PIANO CONCERTO NO. 2 tonight.
I will celebrate beauty rather than killing. And I will give thought to Antigone as well, for she willingly gave her life for doing what was right. I shall listen to Yuja **** arpeggiate notes. I will again become fixated both by her light-
ning dexterity and the glorious sounds to which she gives birth. Humankind has this dual potential: it can either **** or care. So why, I ask myself, does it always choose the former? On this national holiday especially, why do we now not celebrate Thomas Paine and Walt Whitman and Harriet Tubman and Eugene Debs and Martin Luther King Jr.? We do we not collectively ask forgiveness for all the covert, sinister, malevolent interventions into the affairs of other nations, resulting in unjust overthrows and war crimes aplenty? Fireworks? July 4th? We did defeat the evil of ****** and his unspeakable genocide. Let us be sure to give unending thanks to all those who lost their lives in this moral victory. But Viet Nam? The lives of 58,000 American soldiers lost for the lies of our leaders? And Kissinger and McNamara and the Bushes and Cheney and so many others in our government never held accountable for their war crimes? And yet tonight we have fireworks instead of Nuremberg-like trials. Antigone knew she would die if she buried her brother, Polynices, and yet she went ahead and buried him and died for doing it. And the 4,000,000 blacks who were slaves in 1861 and the 500 indigenous nations that covered for centuries from sea to shining sea what we now call America--did they have anything to celebrate on this day, on this date? Fireworks, that's all.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 10:10 PM UTC
When you think of learning to forgive yourself, think of Robert Strange McNamara
With the blood of a nation orphaned soaking into the creases of his suit, the stains that linger and the ghosts that weep, while the whole world watched his guilt manifest on television screens over dinner,
Think of yourself as the hawk of war, all the battles you fought before you realized you had more to lose than you ever could've imagined
Think of yourself as the navigator and the grand destiny you hoped to steer yourself towards,
Think of all those you had to destroy to get where you are now
Let them keep you up nights,
Let them haunt your dreams,
Learn to live with yourself, however you can
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 3:07 AM UTC
Hope Patton Oswald doesn’t **** himself now………
…….he gots kids!
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC