"wartime" poems
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines
Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand
and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon
in big pink petals of bloom;
A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (
be gentle, though whispering wind)
Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign
fears,
as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
Consume the years between Here and Now;
Watching from blank perch, among
the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
Sing the branches of experience, to wake
in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
of waking,
ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—
Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;
Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
Welcome to the dawn of a new age
Open up the book turn the page
Let's excel to highest degree
Recognize evolution of humanity
Back on track showing I don't lack
Doing what I do to make you react
Let's take a trip through my mind
Poetry prophecy perfectly combine
Who has the answer?
Let's ask the question
Seems no one is paying attention
To "Money" which is created by man
It separates people
Are you starting to understand
It's a trap set by death it wont stop
Till you breathe your last breath
Hmm that's right...
Not even death is free
Money is the maker of poverty
Overpopulation, segregation a messed up nation
Leads to mass annihilation
Wartime the battles rage on
Is it about hatred?
Or some politician's song?
Time and space
The final frontiers
Bombs explode people run in fear
Annihilation of a species unknown
Aliens from space invade our home
Pledge allegiance to a flag
Whichever may wave whatever they have
Science is it fiction or fact?
Sometimes it's hard to believe all that
Who's gonna do it?
Who has the answer?
Prophets fall but not from cancer
GOD.. Labeled "Almighty One"
Spoke to us on earth through his son
Whether you agree or disagree
Intentions were to save humanity
Who'll stand up?
Who'll be the one?
To bring about change without firing a gun?
Each generation builds off the legacy of the last
Ignorance of history doom us to repeat our past..
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
I'm not a writer trying to share a story,
I'm a survivor telling you a true story.
I'm not just a poet having fun and living,
I saw bad things when I was younger.
That was when things were harder.
when women and old people were helpless and young people were hopeless.
It was that time when good parents were powerless to protect their underage girls from **** and molestation at the hands of drugged-up child soldiers with bloodshot eyes.
I did something other boys were too scared to do,
I turned into a man
and took survival into my hands.
It was that time when men and women used the same place to bathe and go to the loo.
I saw many many hungry people
eating palm cabbage and wild grasses
malnourished children and dying people.
I saw hands chopped off with cutlasses.
I saw thousands of families separated
and fathers killed or incarcerated.
I saw silly young men pick up arms
and chopped off people's limbs
like hideous things were their aims.
I saw really bad things
and cried to God for wings
like an angel to fly away
because I saw no other way.
I saw people running to God
and getting murdered in his church.
I don't know, but he didn't say a word
It's like He just sat down and watch?
I saw bad things
I planned my escape from poverty,
from a war-torn country.
It was that time when your parents, who come from the same generation as I, were looking up to their mom's for breast milk.
It was that time when no one wore silk,
it was a time of fear,it was wartime.
It was that time when bullets determined eating time and bedtime.
It was that time when pretty boys had nothing in their wallets.
It was that time when PYJ ate dinner
and played gospel on his guitar like he was our savior and not a sinner.
© IvanBrooksPoetry
12/9/2018
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
In this, my last hour of rhyme,
with stains uncontainèd by shaking hands
Spreading like red soldiers running wartime
untempered by generals shouting commands
Then laughing like drunkards, drowning in wine
that rich purple spills out from its barrels
Then lying on bartops, eyes shine porcine
and unheard soft voices hiss curses and carols.
O, woe be on me if I speak out of time;
out-tumbling come innards, spewed from a mouth
Which whispered sad prayers in corners of grime:
hints of spring-season on trips to the south;
Watch them out-tumble, watch horri-divine
like the death of the tragic, acted but true
Yet laughing old minstrels declare it quite fine:
and friends ensure royal-men breathe not from the blue.
Hours fly past on wings of the Sun
who turns misted eyes from child-fight below
And lives lives of many, but cares not for none
not least merchant servants, throttled in the snow.
I fade and I fade: a blossom once watered
and love of the stage is clogging my throat
It changes my words: I fight it, I fought it
and hot-wet floods up with drowning and choke.
This minute, these words: I defy death.
And cold, outward slipping: my slow final breath.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
someone asked why i was never happy
for any notable period of time.
"i need the darkness to appreciate the light."
someone asked why i was never in the neighborhood
anymore.
"i never feel content in one place for more than a day."
someone asked why i was always alone.
"i've been looking for Her."
someone asked if i believed in war.
"i am bored."
someone asked if i struggled with pride.
"i'm on social networking sites."
someone asked if i felt a heavy sense of regret.
"i've gotten over the feeling."
someone asked if i was ready to die.
"no, my head is still full of all the whys."
Aug 3, 2010
Aug 3, 2010 at 8:37 AM UTC
Slapdash into the ****** pan
Is thrown the longed-for son of man.
Between the gossiping cups of tea
God attains mortality.
In the cathedral calm and cold
Kneel the erroneous-memoried old.
But in the womb's cathedral calm
The walls collapse in a birth psalm.
The blood sings from the soiled hand
The apprentice cleans at the washstand.
Undismayed by omission,
For everything, everything is won.
The proof blazes in impudence
Above the miopics of science,
Swaggering in love inviolate,
Over the uninitiate.
And over all the angels dart
Like squadrons in a war apart.
Dropping parachutes of bliss
On everything that is.
3.7k
When the incendiaries lit the sky
A face smiled its divine calligraphy:
It was Helen crowned with Troy's debris.
Her unmatchable mouth in the roof
Of blood moved in speech like the home of love,
Hanging its moon of reproof:
'My kiss blots history out.
My landslide legend has forgotten
A thousand thousand bones rotting;
'Under the guilty sea
The ships lie; but accuracy
Has been seduced by me.'
Her smile sailed indiscriminately
Among the squadrons of death majestically
And was reflected on the sea.
'The armless Venus carried Pompei's tears
Better than the raided years
Or the cold dances of chameleon stars.'
Then faded. But the rain
Like lovers' seeds that fall in vain,
Warned me of my sin.
3.6k
I hold my cards
close to my chest
on this night that is
oh so close.
No fan
to blow
air into my face,
not that it would
matter anyway.
The air
would just
remind me
that it is hot
this summer night.
I am drinking beers
while the fruit flies
are sharing with me.
No sense
in picking them
out of the cup..
more will arrive.
The woman
who lives upstairs,
how can she ride her bike,
on such a summer night.
I hear her,
it's the sound
of rowing,
a creak-creak-creak.
88 Willow,
the building with eight dwellings.
Through the open window
I hear a dog barking,
maybe two, three blocks away.
This building that I live in,
where the walls
are so thin
you know that
they have ears.
Have ears to hear.
Creak-creak-creak..
the woman is rowing,
her rowing machine rows
out into a great big sea
of imagination,
where there
is every kind
of sea creature
that you can conjure
up in your mind.
And her
boyfriend, a fine
painter and sculpture.
He wants to do the
cover of my next book..
And I think, like that's ever going to happen.
My good friend
was over tonight,
he told me a story about
how he proposed
to his 'maritime' woman.
She cried and she cried
after she saw the ring,
not because it was so small,
but because she was
beside herself
in joyful delight.
I envy what it is they have,
but what they have
requires work, hard work.
They have one tried and true
partnership.
We talked about
reaching out to extended family,
as well as brothers and sisters in blood.
Me, of my own,
my father is turning eighty.
Eight decades and I know him not.
He fought
in the Korean War
and I've yet to ask him
about it.
Not once in my life time
has he even smelled
the wartime memories
that I am sure waft up
on occasion.
Now back to 88 Willow.
There is a drunkard
living in a basement apartment.
His legs are going
from wet brain.
He only calls me when
he is drunk.
He has two drinks and
he starts fumbling worse
than a line backer
intercepting
a foreword lateral pass.
I don't want to move,
though I know I have to,
to keep on keeping on,
I've got to move,
I have to move.
© 2013
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
***you are leathered with residue
decaying the rust off your skin
with our initials crawling into
alabaster sheets that all I have really
felt while staring out at the streets
we're people fading by egotistical
lack of self confidence
even though I admit using
seducing strategies
possibly disgusted by my own
emotions
that I am placing ******
thrills on my own configuration
because it's humid and blatant
unkowling breathing ruthless sentiments
of our holy communion
I am splitting into a holy sin
drenched in blissful wartime rations
of water or passion
your cotton skin and these sheets
bold statements between white teeth
it’s all a fading mystery
you said I’m something childlike
your hands are stained cherry
and even if they were around my neck
I’d whisper your name like a vesper
simply waiting
for the day to come where it all fades
because you refuse to be a
young god
no matter how it seems to be
to me in all of my naivety***
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
I feel at one with sweethearts
Through the years,
With the wartime lovers
Who went overseas,
All the shattered hearts,
All the rivers of tears,
I feel them all.
Verses of love,
Lovers who must part,
Portraits of love
Worn so very close to the heart,
All the lovers lost,
Loves that never even start,
I feel them all.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
A smile is knowing
The dark crease of a well-arched spine
The dewy white lotus petals
The sad title of concubine
The blue glass so plainly beautiful
With its cold smooth sides
A blown vase that sits precious
Atop a dead deer's stretched hide
The hallowed slope of a portruding illiac
And the decadent crust of a sweet fruit pie
On a black vinyl stage floor
In a room filled with echoing cries
The reverberance loud and hollow
With ears ringing opened wide
The bends of her young tendons
In her ropey pale limbs
They flex and harshly twitch
How a scared and hooked fish swims
The cyclic orbits of planets and lifetimes
A ballerina's pirouette spins
Now the tarlatan and muslin gets torn to shreds
And the blinding stage lights quickly dim
The wet heat of a hungry tongue
Slaps upon her sweating skin
The audience simply does nothing
Just like the tall plant stalks of the green motel
Or the muddy vines in swamps in Rwanda
Or white wallpaper in the locked rooms of certain hells
The diseases that squirm in tainted waters
Of Liberia's ***** wells
The missing limbs of wartime amputees
Reflected in the golden glint of spent brass shells
Amidst the screams of
NO
STOP
NO
It yells the words
GO
GOD
GO
Through the grinning lips of the manifest destiny
And the arms of Khmer Rouge's killings
Its legs are formed from the many faces of lynch mobs
Its hands are hewn of American prison facilities and county jails
It's dripping deadly doses of fentanyl in local ****** shipments
And ****** dancers
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
On the train to Haifa
I think about my father
in wartime Palestine,
a different time, a different name
but the same place.
His memories of oranges and beaches
and warm, Mediterranean swimming
are the times he chose to rescue
from the six years when the world
was drowning in its own blood.
The weather is blue and grey
but the sun shines
like my father’s medals
on his blue-grey air force uniform
that entranced me as a child.
As the helicopter gunships prowl over Mount Carmel,
speeding north to Lebanon,
I wonder what times I will choose to rescue
from a land built out of longing,
but paid for in blood.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
There's a war raging between what I want and what I'm strong enough to handle.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
wring your mismatched hands together they don't belong to you but they're still yours
you watch old reels, the war replaying on a silver screen
relearning a past you still don't remember (your hair used to be short, but you like it better long)
your smile is crooked when you look at him
you don't know if it's fondness or hatred (or something in the middle,the point between rage and bone-breaking love)
he'll never understand how easy it is to make men into machines
but the blueprints for your breathing patterns are hidden away in ones and zeroes in the back of your mind
your tongue and teeth are stained with your old body, ten thousand lifetimes ago you still feel your arm sometimes
ghost aches haunting your every step
when you close your eyes you see an ashtray, blood filling your eyesockets like saltwater
you've forgotten about that night (1942, the war playing in the background as you looked at him, soft around the edges) stars falling from his palms into your chest
you're an ampersand, your fingers interlocked with his
when you ask him what it was like
(you aren't sure what you mean, but he is) he says, soft around the edges,okay
and it's enough
war isn't pretty, it's a tragedy and so are you but it's enough for now
press your fingers into the sway of his back
cough russian winter into his lungs
and try to forget about it
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
Verse One
Rockstar wages
And a chevy impala attitude,
Pornstar secrets,
With a red light point of view,
But something has me going,
So controlling,
I need to get out of my head,
Can't stop hoping,
Overdosing
On the thought of living high instead,
And I said
Chorus
Don't be scared to rest those shot glass shattered eyes,
Give ******* kisses to the boys and the girls who lied,
Don't tell me you're sober
Until it is over,
The tears won't dry on their own.
Verse Two
Las Vegas Luck
And I'll always be rolling the dice,
Wartime loss,
As I fight to surrender my life,
But something keeps me going,
Overflowing,
With temptation to let go,
Keep on coping,
Roller coasting
Falling too fast and never want to go slow,
And I said
Chorus
Don't be scared to rest those shot glass shattered eyes,
Give ******* kisses to the boys and the girls who lied,
Don't tell me you're sober
Until it is over,
The tears won't dry on their own.
Bridge
Another shot,
Another chance,
To sort out life
And finish this dance,
If I can't be happy,
At least carry on
'Til the end of the song.
I picked up the pieces from my shot glass shattered eyes,
Gave out ******* kisses to the boys and the girls who lied,
I'm an unholy mess,
But I will try to impress
The devil when he comes to take away my soul,
And I'll say
Chorus
Share the shot glass glances with the World outside,
Save the ******* kisses for the ride to Hell tonight
This song isn't over
Even if you are sober,
The tears won't be wasted on you
The tears won't be wasted on you.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
Driving down a small country road.
The year is 1946,
Brand new truck,
fresh off the line.
A warmth embraces my hand,
My fingers intertwine with hers.
A spiderweb of emotions and flesh.
Golden engagement ring rubs against my knuckle.
The newscaster on the radio telling us about another day without a glimpse of humidity.
She turns the radio down to where the muffled voices are barely audible.
"I love you." She says, observing me from the passenger's seat.
I look ahead at the road still.
"I love you, too." It took me a second to think about her French accent.
Desiree, her name.
Flew over to America after Paris was bombed by the Germans.
I was the only person who took her for who she really is,
Wonderful.
Bombshells are strewn about,
Thames Riverside, England, 1943.
My leather war boots are poorly placed on top of a landmine.
Hospital beds are more comforting than a mothers hug.
"Sargent Jack, you're going home." The nurse says.
Off I went, that night I was sent back to Missouri.
I bought myself a new truck.
A 1946 ford.
Fresh off the line.
A warmth embraces my hand.
I look down,
Memories are slipping between my fingertips like blood from an open wound,
the wound being my mind,
not my head,
my mind.
Thoughts strewn about like bombshells.
Disorganized,
Written off,
Buried and left on the battlefield,
the corpse of my sanity awaits for nothing.
I'll never make it back.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
**When doves faltered
and babies cried,
hence blood was shed
in the name of the Father,
as every mother's breast
was purged of her child
grown to a man, only to die
defending his brother's religion,
and no human was spared
the wrath of wartime communion
in contradictions of holy water's delusions**
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Here we are, now, who are we this time?
The sentiments are still the same, aren't
they always? We listen to the radio top
20 and we sing along, brazen like the
best of them. Today I'll be Achilles and
you can be Odysseus. No, not Patroclus,
this isn't like that and neither are we,
there's no room for speculation on what
we could be because that was last time,
last time I sat on your white bed and
you pinned my wrists down, I was ten
and you were twenty and god told you
to **** me and it ate you alive, when I
left you to go to the countryside, pregnant
with someone else's baby, was I ever your
baby? Maybe a few other, separate, parallel
lifetimes ago. If I'm Achilles then you have
to tell me when to go to war, you'll know
that I'll fight you every step of the way and
no, we don't love each other, but this is the
role you play this time and you'll do it for
me, won't you? Yes, and the next life, I'll be
a nice jazz tune that you turn on the radio
to and find yourself crying and aren't sure
why. we're still connected, even metal covered
in copper covered in your skin and sweat.
The next I can taste it, because you'll be the
****** drip as soon as it kicks in, but you have
to be the one that gets me dead at twenty-five,
so make sure you wait for my signal, my white
flag, like before when you watched me in the
garden, like before when you dragged me off
the dead body of my wartime lover, or when
we met in the rain in the romance novel yet
to be written and kissed and kissed and kissed
and, kissed. you are my friend. we will never
be separate. you are the love of all my lifetimes,
even the ones where we will never touch or
laugh or look each other in the eye, and even
especially then, because I'll still feel your atoms
and my atoms, the only home that can ever have
a name: the touch of something familiar. Siken
was right, I won't be waiting forever, there are
a hundred other me's to match you's and if this
ends all bright-white nuclear i'll still be standing
with the skin melted all off, poised and ready to
receive the next generation, and that's what i
thought of when you asked me if we were ever
sky giants, if we ever met before this moment,
and you thought because i was silent that i didn't
feel the same but baby, i do, and here is all of it,
our mythology, don't you feel it? the constant
reaching of me to you? the small hands covering
every inch of our mouths even when we don't
touch? Next time, I'll be a small hand and you'll
be a small hand, maybe then we can love properly.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
My roommate is leaving for the weekend
You and I have Fridays off
The beach is always open
But my apartment will be empty
Whatever shall we do
With this
Magnetism
We stepped past the point of no return
And still turned back
That was the last time I saw you
Whatever shall we do
With this
Ferocity
You kiss the same way I do
I'm scared and energized by your touch
What if you love the same way I do?
We'll never leave this place
Not until it looks like wartime ruins
Whatever shall we do
With this
Animal passion
Whatever shall we do
If we are both attackers
And neither of us victims
Whatever shall we do
With this place to ourselves
And nothing to interrupt us
Whatever shall we do
If both our palms are sweaty
At the thought of being alone
I mean
We can do
Whatever
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
~
*Weather balloon for a hat
propeller on his back
morning is observably alive
leaving it to atmospheric pressure
he consumes today's newspaper
with the enthusiasm of a bowl
of Corn Flakes
this Heath Robinson contraption
of getting to work first
over enemy lines
is all the rage in his satirical
state of mind
that is until the absurd derailment
of wartime employment
and so he returns home with tubes
and catheters attached to his body
and feeling like one
of the unwieldy machines
he had so often created
full of atmospheric pressure
and apparently thinking it
an undignified fate
he pulls out the tubes
and quietly dies
of his own invention*
~
Sep 15, 2022
Sep 15, 2022 at 1:28 PM UTC
Looking down into the valley from the mountain high
I can finally breathe again
I smell the fresh air and it smells like springtime again
I no longer fear for my soul,
No longer feeling the chill of imminent danger again
As I stand there looking at the forest below
I see the life I left behind me
I see the trees, the vines that tried to bind me
I see the leaves of the forest which hid me from the son, tried to blind me
I stand proud on top my mountain
I think about the snakes, the wolves that hissed and howled, told me that I'd never leave
That tried to take my joy every time I started to believe
The trees spoke, they said,
run run as fast you can, can you get out alive
will you fall or will you stand.
I burst through the last trees and I started to climb
No end in sight but to get away from my past it was time
The climb was nothing short of sublime
But anytime you begin to climb, physically and mentally prepare for it's wartime
All your old demons will call you, like your primetime on a hotline
See your past will not make it easy for you to be free....
But I get to the top, and what do I see,
all my old demons at the bottom, looking up at me
I turn around to embrace my new destiny amazed by what I saw
A whole new forest....waiting for me.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
My heart tightens in my chest
Like squeezing out the last bit of toothpaste.
My stomach coils into knots
Like a wet towel being wrung out of ***** water.
My brain bounces around in my head
Like the little ball in a pin ball machine.
Around and around it goes.
Where it stops nobody knows.
Which is precisely my fear.
The fear of the unknown.
Or worse.
The fear that my future is headed towards my imminent failure.
One minute I’m fine.
But then a sudden upset.
I’m not fine.
I’m on the verge of a panic attack.
My palms start to sweat
Like a glass of sweet tea in the Carolina sun.
My hands shake
Like the leaves on the trees during a storm.
My arm hair rises
Like a white flag in wartime.
I cannot control this feeling.
This feeling controls me.
I surrender to you,
my anxiety.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
"Ooh-rah", my darling semper fi,
I wish there was more behind this facade, this lie,
This stigma that falls around loving a marine,
Its not just dress blues and m-sixteens,
There's letters, lonely nights, and solitary hearts,
There's learning to awkwardly ****** your own parts,
There's the creeping feeling of insanity growing inside,
The rules and loyalties you must constantly abide,
All the while the front pages will place irrational fears,
That you will loose his soul to these wartime years,
Whether it be explosive passing or emotional withdrawal,
To lose him, your one true love, is the hardest type of fall,
But he'll keep his spirits up and you'll tell him to keep his head down,
And you will be patiently waiting for the moment he comes back around,
And as for myself,
I have not yet fallen and I will stay strong,
Even when my fears constantly prolong,
This tired journey I promised to embark,
Blindfolded, in love with my mind in the dark,
But my heart belongs to my marine; it will always be his,
Until he comes home and long then after, I will be Semper Fidelis.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
it goes like this-
he pulls himself into himself, ribs
collapsing inward in an attempt to become smaller. smoke and mirrors and a jump from a high-rise
he never quite pulled it off, though
he says "brand new, baby
never been used"
holds my hand and tells me a lovesong that ends with:
"and the dust settled."
gripping at my fingers so the bones crack
it sounds more like a confession than a story
and he's never been able to stay still so
he doesnt,
fidgeting away and back, a restless tide
salt licking at his cheeks, and he tastes like a dream
like the ruined rotted boards of a shipwreck
and he smells like smoke all the ******* time. i wanna
romanticize him,
wanna breathe in his lungs and blow out a piece of art,
i wanna dress him up in angel wings
and ask him how close to the sun he can go without melting. split me open
wartime in monochromia, could do this for hours
if i didnt know that it would wreck me. he cant stop
********* open the holes in his jeans, says
he just wants to have control over something. says,
"this is what it feels like to be on fire"
and i believe him.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
An old mans regatta, ancient ships bound for the park , reflect on wartime America in 1944 ! Cheerful for the most part , lips quivering occasionally ! Patriotic . Reflective . Your the same young man regardless of rebellious ways , I was the captain of my ship as well in 1938 ! Four years later , fighting for my life on Guadalcanal in a bayonet charge against a bold , determined enemy force ! The internet and the current culture , the world appears smaller , actually divided from within courtesy of religious faction , fascism and greed , now more than ever ! You may find yourself in my shoes in sixty odd years , convincing young people such as yourself of the fine line between war and peace ! Countries forever on battle footings , leaders pose with smiles while they plot against one another , mutual assured destruction they only thing keeping them from firing the missiles ! Each day more dangerous than the last , soldiers without uniforms , indiscriminate killing of civilians , **** of historical monuments , it's all quite familiar within this war torn mind !
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC