The Crusades Cycle

The Crusades Cycle

Incendiary planes captive missiles
Revengeful hate's bloody epistles,
Received betrayals, exploitative lies,
Perceived redemption in bitter guise...

The innocent get to pay;
The innocent get to cry;
The innocent, who had no say,
Are the first to get to die.

Holy lands, holy wars,
Fundamentalist ignores
All is sacred--all not part,
A living being--each beating heart.

The innocent get to pay;
The innocent get to cry;
The innocent, who had no say,
Are the first to get to die.

How many Crusades to get on top?
The murderer's game will not stop
Until the world is fully dead--
Then the silence rules instead...

The innocent get to pay;
The innocent get to cry;
The innocent, who had no say,
Are the first to get to die.

The blood cries out
From the grounds where spent...
Now silent shout
To loved ones sent....

The innocent made to pay;
The innocent made to cry;
The innocent, who had no say,
Were the first who got to die.

Copyright 2001, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw. All rights reserved.

Hard Facts Harder Faced

Hard Facts Harder Faced

Who said our soldiers could not be psychos?

Who said we always are saints?

Where is it written we do the right thing

And never show evil or taint?

War is hell, lest we forget it,

And crimes of war even much more…

Can we train a human to kill, not to feel,

Without evil allowed in that door?

Rape is a tool and an agent of war.

So is massacre, torture, mayhem.

Even a good man can snap to a monster

And live only to slay ‘em.

None of us are guiltless, much to our pain,

But we are trapped in this way,

If ever we forget the humanity of victims

From Coshocton to Mai Lai.

© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000.

All rights reserved.

And Still the Channel to Cross

And Still the Channel to Cross

Looking around,

Nerves stretched taut,

The winds and waters churning.

All are pale.

None will return.

Deep terror in us burning.

Normandy,

Damn those cliffs,

A beach changed to bloody swampland…

Though thousands die

To win that beach

From Hell’s elitist command.

© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000.

All rights reserved.

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?

© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000.

All rights reserved.

A Mother Cries for Her Fallen Son

A Mother Cries for Her Fallen Son

For Mrs. Goldcamp, Our Neighbor

Never will the guns be so silent

As the silence after death

Of those fallen to fight “the cause juste.”

Is a common life so shorn

Or youth so plentiful

To be offered up this way

By the wrathful God

Who has known not childbirth

Nor the enfolding of life

Into one’s arms, one’s heart, one’s womb?

In righting wrongs,

Did my son, my own,

Die suffering?

Did he fear the end when it came?

Did he know my love

Would outlast the grave…

Was this just cause worth this blood sacrifice

Offered to the God of war…

That tears my heart always?

Ah, my son, brave man and true,

Willing soldier, mother’s pride,

Well fought against madmen gone berserk

Setting the world on fire again.

Sleep now, my son,

For the guns are now dreadfully silent

But still at ready for

Another mother’s son.

© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000.

All rights reserved.

Hard Facts Harder Faced

Hard Facts Harder Faced

Who said our soldiers could not be psychos?
Who said we always are saints?
Where is it written we do the right thing
And never show evil or taint?

War is hell, lest we forget it,
And crimes of war even much more…
Can we train a human to kill, not to feel,
Without evil allowed in that door?

Rape is a tool and an agent of war.
So is massacre, torture, mayhem.
Even a good man can snap to a monster
And live only to slay ‘em.

None of us are guiltless, much to our pain,
But we are trapped in this way,
If ever we forget the humanity of victims
From Coshocton to Mai Lai.

© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000.
All rights reserved.

The Sand Flea Funeral

The Sand Flea Funeral

Welcome to Parris Island,
Some news skills you will command.
That even the Devil left this place—
Said he needed a cooler space.

So let me tell you what’s the story.
You do what I say, you morning glory.
If I decide to say you stand,
Don’t you dare move a hand.

If a sand flea bites your face,
Soldier, don’t you me disgrace.
If you cannot let him pass—
Slap him, pansy, I’ll have your ass!

For that Sand Flea is a Marine Corps bug—
Kill it, and you’re just a slimy slug.
Full Marine Corps burial you will give.
So, I strongly advise you: Let the bug live.

© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000.
All rights reserved.

Never Forget: War Is Hell

Never Forget: War Is Hell
With that joystick of computerized toys,
You destroy the enemy most foul—
From your safe distance.
But, your unaffectedness cloys…
Deep grumblings, gurgling in the bowel—
Older veterans’ sentence.

What your safe distance doesn’t show,
You think everything’s just fine
Except you might be bored.
The misery you don’t know
Could get you without much sign
Until you have been gored.

© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000.
All rights reserved.

Never Forget: War Is Hell

Never Forget: War Is Hell

With that joystick of computerized toys,
You destroy the enemy most foul—
From your safe distance.
But, your unaffectedness cloys…
Deep grumblings, gurgling in the bowel—
Older veterans’ sentence.

What your safe distance doesn’t show,
You think everything’s just fine
Except you might be bored.
The misery you don’t know
Could get you without much sign
Until you have been gored.
© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000. All rights reserved.

Tears of My Heart Sing to Vieques

Tears of My Heart Sing to Vieques

The depth of anguish,
the stabbing pain of despair,
the bitter root of stolen loves and lives...
broken bodies, broken souls,
... all the promise Spirit had to offer you and yours,
the devastation of your homeland both of people and of earth,
the continued walking through the warplains of the oppressor who continues to hunt you and yours---
and those like you down...
while the mass of people of the oppressor blindly live lives unknowning
and mostly uncaring...
unhearing of your heart's cries and screams...
never knowing a man...
a broken but still standing warrior...
wails and cries out...

....is heard.

I hear....
but I am a simple woman...
one who offers friendship and heart...
spirit gifts...
human gifts...

My sister hears...
one who cares deeply for all peoples..
for the words of our ancestors that the time of changes is now upon us...

Our village here hears....
may we sit beside you...
even if only in heart and spirit...
sit and hear your agonized howls into the night and day...

May I howl with you?
May we all?

Your loss is my loss...is our loss.
Your pain my pain...our pain

How much have we lost through the willful evil and enforced cruelty of a dominator system.
How much we lose as it continues.

But it will not always be so.
Spirit tells us the time of change is upon us.

Please allow me to sit with you...tears falling down...
Please allow my tears somehow to feed your heart...
May my song of sorrow fill your ears...
May my tears seep into your dry and parched wounds...

Tears...down into the bones...
Tears....down in to the bones...
Tears... down into the bones...
Tears...down into the bones...

Bones please live.
Bones please arise again.
Bones please live.
Bones of life again.

May the song of my heart grant you a measure
of hope.
of solace.
of balm.
of peace.

Copyright 2000, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw. All rights reserved.

Woodland’s Parrot Rifles Stand Watch

Woodland’s Parrot Rifles Stand Watch

Is ever war fiercer than when fought against your own?
Is ever hatred deeper than when it’s felt deep in the bone?
Are ever fires much hotter than when flamed against your kin?
Are ever passions keener than when fighting for what has been?

Parrot rifles, mow them down,
Let none survive this wrath.
Keep raiders from riding town to town
On the Morgan path.

Are ever fears more freezing than when bound around with guilt?
Are ever denials more prevalent than when in the system built?
Is ever freedom dearer than when it’s bought with a life?
Has ever American seen more horrors or more strife?

Parrot rifles, now witness
The secret stories well told
Of Campbell’s house upon the side
Of tracks of Underground Railroad.

Do ever hatreds cease to be after the last battle fought?
Or, do they linger, festering on, like some gangr’ous plot?
Do the wrongs ever get put right or the sorrows be dwindling?
Or does the suffering await a match just like a pile of kindling?

Parrot rifles, stand your watch
On Woodland’s overhanging plot.
Let not your stories e’er be silenced
Nor those who fought forgot’.

© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000.
All rights reserved.

My Various Thoughts on "The Kill Team"

The article in Rolling Stone:

The Kill TeamHow U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan murdered innocent civilians and mutilated their corpses – and how their officers failed to stop them. Plus: An exclusive look at the war crime photos censored by the Pentagon
http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/the-kill-team-20110327

My various thoughts on this article and heartbreakingly evil tale:

When the aim of boot camp is to break the spirit of the human recruit, to instill an "obey at all costs automatically" reflex, to despise the "enemy" (including "Suzy Q",) -- in short to become an efficient killing machine, it is no surprise to find the human then loses a sense of morals, develops a ruthlessness & a cold-bloodedness, etc. That is what allows the human to kill other humans and to destroy whole environments without qualm.  Deep down almost all soldiers and combatants know the evil they did willingly or were forced to do when, perhaps, their reasons for joining in the first place were nobler or even out of desperation (economic terrorism comes to mind.) And, PTSD hits hard once the traumas of war hit that inner core of the human. Some will never ever recover. None come out without very deep gaping wounds in their minds, hearts, and spirits.

And yet, humans seem to want to kill each other over so many things-- greedy things, covetous things, jealous things, stupid things... "I am better than you because I can maim, torture, and kill you if you don't do what I say, hand over all I want from you, or just get in my way at the wrong time." Psychopaths may lead and start the wars, and are so cowardly not to fight in them themselves, but the ones who go into combat are most often volunteers, willing to kill, maim, torture, and be killed, maimed, tortured, etc. for ... what? A paycheck? Honor? Glory? Lies. All lies.

And my heart breaks for the soldiers, for their victims, for us all. We are all culpable in this. All of us. Hatred and evil are equal opportunity inhabitants of humans.

And so the soldiers come home with PTSD and the learned skills of destroying life. Many turn to abuse - of others or of self. Many go insane to find some escape from the terror of what the saw and what they did. No one at home recognizes the returning soldier really. How could someone not familiar with all out evil really know that deep abyss the soldier is trying to return from? But, that does not excuse that we all sent the soldier out to do exactly what was done. Nor does it excuse our refusing to take the soldier back and care for those many deep wounds. We sent them out to die period.

I am not anti-military. We need a defense, especially since humans are as we are. But, I am anti-militarism. I am pro-peace and pro-non-violence. We humans must learn a new way of being. We must learn to stop making war and violence. We must learn how to forgive and be compassionate, to show mercy while keeping justice. We must or perish together. We can do it. The question is will we?

29 March 2011, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw