The Distilled Essence of Daphne: memorial

Showing posts with label memorial. Show all posts

Saturday, June 4, 2011

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.

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.

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.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Ironton’s Memorial Day Parade

Ironton’s Memorial Day Parade

To remember to honor and to celebrate,

To decorate the graves of those who fought…

Ironton parades through most of the middle of town—

Bands, floats, horses, clowns…

But most of all, people—

People of all types and ages.

Used to be said, if you were able,

You marched.

Whole classes of school children marched.

Men alongside the streets took off their hats,

And everyone put a hand to heart.

I remember the hours of preparation:

With chicken wire and tissue on trucks,

The band practices and marches,

Or, even Brownies getting scout cheers and songs right…

To ride in a squad car, a fire truck or an Army-Navy Duck…

Just to be in The Parade.

Now people come from everywhere to see our parade,

Our Parade…longest lasting…and proud.

May the graves be decorated,

The flag flown free;

May the flowers thrown on the River

Say thank you for liberty…

And may Ironton ever be able

To march for memory.

Those Orange Poppies

Those Orange Poppies

I remember the old men standing in front of Kresges

Selling small paper poppies…

Small orange flowers on a wire

That we hooked onto ourselves with pride—

‘Though some hooked them on to show they’d paid their buck,

But me, with a mix bittersweet, mostly sad—

Were always the skies gray those days,

Threatening rain?

Or, was it my heart would burst

Seeing those men whose smiles…

Smiles that never quite hid

Deeply wounded,

Woefully sad eyes?

She Never Married

She Never Married

For Vivian Taylor, A Friend and Landlady

(*loosely based on her story)

“Sweet lover, be safe as you fly from this place

To your missions in the Pacific.

I will await your return for then do we wed

After Guam, Midway, and ‘Unspecific.’”

Many letters she wrote, many pictures she sent,

Care packages when she was able…

While meanwhile she worked as a nurse and an aide

Though times were very unstable.

Sometimes he would write when he had the time

For combat, of time, was commanding.

Assuring him forever she would be true

Even though he was not so demanding.

This gave them both hope and a measure of joy

In the face of great fearful unknowing

Of where he would be, or if he would be

A part of a blood crop then sowing.

A year thereabout after he flew

Away from his love at the airport,

Two soldiers in blue came to her home

With the most regrettable report.

She took it quite well until they were gone

Then she collapsed on the sunroom divan,

Crying, “Sweet lover, be safe as you fly from this place

Until I join you in your mission in heaven.”

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.

Monday, May 30, 2011

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.

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.