The Distilled Essence of Daphne: May 30, 2011

Monday, May 30, 2011

What Fought For

What Fought For

Soldier, consider why you fight,

Why you march into the endless night

That could fall on you even if you live?

Soldier, what to you seems right

With war within your sight

That calls you your life and all to give?

The price paid is not just from you,

Those left behind and love you, too,

Pay your sacrificial price.

Is it for glory or what you think true?

Is it to protect that defends what you do…

And alone…will it suffice?

Unbelieved? Or Feared?

Unbelieved? Or Feared?

From each war healthy men and women

Return newly ill:

Sickness unknown,

Unbelieved

By VA, doctors,

Government.

Thousands after each war told

It’s all in your head;

IT does not exist:

What you said happened

Did not happen—

And that’s an order!

No, we would not drop Agent Orange,

Napalm, or any other weapon

On our men.

No, we would not bomb a known

Biological warfare storage center or lab

Upwind of our people.

No, we would not use our soldiers

Or our civilians

In large scale experiments on the sly.

And, no,

We will not believe you

When we are caught in our lie.

We will deny…

And try to discredit you.

You Never Existed

You Never Existed

Highly trained, dangerous pet Seal.

Go where you are sent.

Do what we bid you do

As our ears, eyes, and hands.

But, of you, we never knew

And if trouble does pursue you,

We will try to help you…

But if caught or killed,

We will act shocked—

He’s not one of us.

Do not learn from history

That we will not clear your name—

History lies; we lie…

But you go anyway.

We need what you can do.

And, remember,

Go or don’t go…

We will destroy you—

But we will be grateful.

Should you do all

And live…

Heavy awards

In silence we will give.

So, do well.

Swim, Steel Fish

Swim, Steel Fish

For Joe Wiseman, a Cousin

Deep the steel fish swims

Sometimes in waters hostile

Where other steel fish also swim…

Deep, surface, afloat.

Any wrong move,

The Deep herself unmerciful…

At bottom too long,

Or rising too fast,

Or swimming not silent enough—

Fish gone.

Close quarters,

Some go mad—it’s too close,

Too tight;

To others,

A steel second skin

That bites.

Nothing prepares for that first dive…

The pops, creaking sighs

As the Deep presses into

Claim her fish…

And will continue to squeeze

And rock her baby

As Deep and exploding other fish

Meet…

Swim, steel fish,

Swim silently, deeply and fast…

May you not be hooked

Behind that hostile line

For no one will find you there.

Ground Observer Ward Leader

Ground Observer Ward Leader

For Grandpa Leroy Bridges

Atop Cronacher Hill amidst the trees,

An observatory lookout…

He led the volunteers there to see

Which aircraft were about.

Wanting to help the war effort

But disability did forbid it,

He the home front to comfort;

Disappointed to join? He hid it.

Hitler threatened to take the Brits

And then to us he’d come.

The ground observer must keep his wits

And keep the vigil not numb.

If Brits fall and Hitler come

To us, we’d be third

To be hit with a mighty sum

Of bombings dropped from steel bird.

‘Though some laugh now

Thinking bombs imaginary, unreal…

But little realize Hitler…how

A world to rule—first kill.

Oops!

Oops!

A hot-headed Marine answered the phone

And shouted in vulgar obscenities.

On the other end, now angry too,

“Do you know who you are talking to?”

“No.”

A general.

“Sir, do you know who you are talking to?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

Click.

And the Marine made a rapid retreat.

Russian

For Mr. Neville, Ironton Junior High Science

Teacher and Friend

What a radical thing to do during war—

Teach kids Russian and plant a thought:

Maybe things aren’t just what they seem to be

Nor truth as sure as you’ve been taught.

The Fly Overs

The Fly Overs

For Edna Boggs, My Fourth Grade Teacher,

And Mike Justice, An Uncle

She would teach us patriotism,

Also to open our ears and our eyes…

Although atom bombs could be dropping,

Just look to the skies…

We heard that first supersonic boom

As the fighters flew over, protecting our town…

Though still in formation as they flew the round,

One tipped his wings just like a clown.

A Hippy or Two

A Hippy or Two

Our area had protestors of the Nam war.

We even had a hippy or two.

A riot at Marshall got pretty hot—

I think they marched just over a block

And broke a furniture store window…

Well, some chairs can be pretty offensive!

The Agony Here Too

The Agony Here Too

My young heart screamed “NO!”

Everyone was so angry;

Everyone was in shock…

Things were spinning out of control…

Or so it seemed.

Lies are a part of war,

But youth said no—

As youth often will…

Four shots.

Students dead in Kent.

Racial riots

Burning in Columbus.

Nowhere felt safe.

My heart wept for I could not understand then

What I still don’t understand now—

Hate the war; Hate the lies;

But why hate our girls and our guys?

A Matter of Policy

A Matter of Policy

On matters of whether we’re going to war

America thinks like Capone—

You get so much more with a smile and a gun

Than ever with smile alone.

Mmm Hmmm…Good Thinking

Mmm Hmmm…Good Thinking

For Mark Swede

He joined the army to avoid joining band.

He said there was one thing that he couldn’t stand:

“The band I left, to the army I went,

For there I know less time would be spent

Doing what makes me think my feet are to parch…

I joined the army ‘cause I hated to march.”

The Third Target

The Third Target

After Washington, D.C. and New York City,

We would be the third to destroy…

From Huntington To Portsmouth,

The Ohio River passes…

The busiest stretch of river in the world

And all that it encompasses—

Oil refinery, coal, and coke,

Chemicals, nuclear, railroader folk,

Pig iron and steel, some technology too…

The Ohio Valley holds a powerful brew.

“Macam Tiae Lembu!”

(Malay for “Sounds Like a Cow Shitting!”)

For My Husband Avalon Ajang Ledong—

Royal Malaysian Army, Sarawak Rangers

Army training can be a chore;

In boot camp, abuse is piled on more.

You can train both days and nights

And don’t you worry about your rights…

For you have none.

Drill sergeant will bark if you are wrong.

Sometimes he’ll make you bark along.

You’ll not be left to be long idled.

You’ll find to what you’re entitled…

If you live long.

Marching here, marching there;

You’ll go marching everywhere.

You’ll go marching in the rain.

You’ll be marching while insane.

You’ll go marching up a hill.

Oh, you’ll like the marching drill.

When marching sergeant says you stop,

Don’t you let your feet ker-plop.

Just one POP he wants to hear

Or he’ll shout straight in your ear…

“Macam tiae lembu!”

Dog Tags

Dog Tags

Name, Address, and Phone Number,

And the letters J, P, or C…

Stainless steel necklace as daily wear

To show your identity.

“This is a test, Class…”

The air raid siren would scream,

And under the desk we’d go…

Faces away from the window.

Remember the signs of the air raid shelters

And remember to take iodine...

Radioactivity got into our milk…

Must protect your thyroid from decline!

We never questioned that our desks

Would protect us from nuclear blasts,

That iodized salt fought radiation sickness…

Or those dog tags would be there after we weren’t.

Decoration Day

Decoration Day

The week before Decoration Day

To each veteran’s plot we’d go

To mow and clean up,

To plant flags to fly,

And sow some seeds to grow.

To be there.

To remember.

To honor.

The ancestors would somehow know.

So to each cemetery we’d go—

Woodland, The Bradshaw Cemetery,

Some on hilltops behind farmhouses,

Some in the woods or along

John’s Creek, Elkin’s Creek, and more…

Some easy access,

Some quite a climb.

Did the spirits see us there?

Were they comforted that the dead were not forgotten?

That their sacrifices were honored?

Then we’d go home.

Fly the flag.

Fix a family feast to be eaten after

The Parade…

The traditions are the same now

Even though they changed the name.

Memorial or Decoration…

The ancestors somehow would know.

The Shriners

The Shriners

Especially for Harry Thomas and Elwood Riggs, Friends and Mentors

The Shriners are coming to town,

And they have many a clown.

They’ll tease you just right,

Give you Turkish Delight,

And some will be wearing a gown.

The scimitar is flashing, that’s true…

Snake charmers and harem girls too,

Will wiggle and jiggle

And prance ‘til you giggle…

And still Al Hasa’s not through.

A hillbilly family and car

That seems like it couldn’t go far

Will soot up your air

Or shoot you right there

And drink whiskey not got from a bar.

Then little scooters and bikes

Dare devilling around—Oh Yikes!

A calliope plays;

The front wheeled car will raise;

Oh this is what the crowd likes.

They march to honor the dead

With fezzes upon their head…

Silly marches and true

To show me and you

That you can honor with fun if it’s led.

The Army-Navy Duck

The Army-Navy Duck

For Gordon Sanborn, Our Neighbor and Friend

Usually dressed as Daniel Boone,

He’d march in The Parade.

Then that year of the Duck…

Some Ironton history he made…

Oh how we squealed

When the Duck came to town

We literally danced with glee.

Layered dirt pealed

From huge Duck of renown…

Oh, she was a sight to see.

Take the Hit

Take the Hit

For Mr. Long, Town Hero,

Uncle Bill Fortune, My Cousin Jimmy Delong

A soldier alone,

Sees the enemy,

Heading for camp…

A grenade…

One body a shield—

To be killed

Or perhaps worse

Maimed for life?

Either that

Or the whole camp

Killed.

Take the hit…

For the save.

Singing for Her Brother

Singing for Her Brother

For My Cousins Joyce and Dusty Massie

My cousin Joyce was up on that stage singing,

So beautiful and so strong—

My secret heroine through school…

Turning pale, lips quivering…

But her head held high

As she sang the song

For the Green Berets.

Dusty was over there,

That place where many went,

Few seemed to return…

That place that protestors scorned

And politicians lied for…

Oh may our kin not die for!

Love Scribbles for Uncle Jim

Love Scribbles for Uncle Jim

For Uncle James Edgar Bradshaw

“Please write the scribbles, Mommy.”

Very young but proud,

Uncle Jim was on a big battleship

In a place called Viet Nam.

Mom would write him letters

So he could hear from home,

And I wanted to write too

‘Though I knew not how.

But,

I could copy whatever Mommy scribbled.

I would dictate;

She would print;

Then I would copy each mark painstakingly

In my little girl hand…

My brother Eric would draw letters too

And little Victor in diapers still

Would stab a paper now and then…

Uncle Jim must know we love him,

Or he might die.

I remember the family eating in Huntington

Before he left.

I remember Grandma crying

When she thought she was alone.

Grandpa grew more silent…

“Please write the scribbles, Mommy.”

Uncle Jim must know I love him,

Or he might die.

The Gnawing Need

The Gnawing Need

Most of the time the flag could be waved,

The positive, polite phrases spotted,

Dogma adhered to…

Marching rank in file…

But in those quiet times,

Alone,

Questions would challenge…

Taunt and trouble

The well-fixed smiles

And assurances.

Damn!

Why couldn’t everything be sure?

Why must everything have more sides than one?

Deny the doubts, the fears,

The “other” facts…

But does it help the sleep at night?

No.

Damn again!!

Some people can drown the churning

In drink, drugs or other poison…

But why must it be

Anguish

To think

And to feel?

To need to know.

The Day of Infamy

The Day of Infamy

“Yesterday, December seventh nineteen and forty-one…”

As they lay sleeping to the perils overhead,

American fought its demons

Over which way our hearts were led.

Then the bombers came a-crashing

Into our battleships and planes…

Our Hawaiian Pearl Harbor

Now had death upon the mains.

It is war. It is war.

The giant could sleep no more.

We’re under attack.

No turning back.

It is war. It is war.

Many times we’ve been the aggressor.

Sometimes we’ve been unaware,

But to see us fight our fiercest,

Attack us in our lair.

The whole country was frenzied up.

Nothing would be spared…

Payback’s a bitch, you best watch out,

Truman’s Little Boy would in time be aired…

It is war. It is war.

The giant would sleep no more.

With fiercest attack,

No holding back…

It is war. It is war.