Revised on August 3, 2008

This poem is dedicated to all of the women and men who were, are currently, or will be deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan. It is dedicated to two soldiers, in particular, who shall remain anonymous-they know who they are.

I don't really have an actual position on if and when troops should be withdrawn from Iraq and Afghanistan. Why? Because I haven't been there. Ask the generals, but moreover--ask the soldiers! I just wish the politicians would stop lying and pandering for votes with the lives of women and men in uniform. And don't forget the ones no longer in uniform--not just the ones buried in flag draped coffins--but the ones who are trying to rejoin society. Ask them, too, what is the best thing to do about troop withdrawal and all those things. I don't have the answers but neither does Presidents and Presidential candidates.

I had turned off my computer, turned off the lights, and turned on the security system. I was sitting on the edge of the bed arranging my pillows, when the words to this poem just came pouring out of me. I could have written many more verses. I may eventually because I'd like to pay special tribute to the women who are serving in Iraq and Afghanistan.
I am blessed beyond measure to live in a country where I can express views such as these without fear of reprisals or imprisonment or torture or death. All of this because ordinary men and women gave up a portion of their lives to serve--and in some cases--gave their lives.

Since this was an impulsive, emotional piece for me, I've yet to edit or revise. I know it needs work, but feel free to offer suggestions in that regard as well.
__________
Original Version:
I'll keep gazing at your calamity,
As you vomit up your insanity.
As you continue to mesmerize,
With your misguided patriotic lies.

I notice the numbers as they climb,
One--two--three,
I think about the abbreviated lives,
And the incomplete families.

You make promises and you take them away,
Leave just enough hope
To make them fight one more day.
Tomorrow--next month--you'll bring the boys home,
While one more little child cries all alone.

His mommy or daddy "over there" do their part,
Making some money with a breaking heart.
They come home a bit more cynical
About patriotism and prayers,
After spending more time than they bargained for there.

December, then April, the job will be done,
But just enough to get the election won.
They've got dreams, too, when they lie down at night,
Interrupted by sounds of enemies engaged in the fight.

They'll never forget the sand on a hot day,
But their biggest dreams come when they are awake.
That's when they think about all they want to do,
But their future is held hostage by the likes of you.

It's not Vietnam, or the Balkans, or World War Two,
It's a fanatical facade created by you.
You use God and the Bible--stories and myth,
To create heroes out of victims and turn boys into men.

Every man--every woman--every soldier could tell,
Stories filled with irony--some filled with hell.
Usually they don't talk--not because they respect you,
But because none of us could fathom what they have to do.

Those images and sounds will haunt them 'til they're old,
But they're in it together, if the truth be told.
You can't understand the bond among those in uniform,
They've got each other's back whether facing good times or harm.

I'm tired of your lies about oil and race,
Those soldiers and civilians all have a face.
Why not ask a soldier what needs to be done,
Then, Come On, Mr. President, Bring the Troops Home!






s