|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Rhea Noel MacDonald |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Kid Sitting here on bended knee, helmet on a gun, boots lying in front of me, of a kid so young.
I cry these tears to honor him, I know God hears my plea. Why did He have to take him? He could have taken me.
He was so young, and I so old, if 22 can be called age; He was a boy, new to war, and now he's turned his page.
His eyes were green, as meadows grass, his smile broad and wide. This war is hard and oh so crass, with me he did abide.
I took him in, showed him the ropes, gave him strength and pride. I saw so deep within him; hope, that he would survive.
It came from nowhere, from the sand, the shell that did him in. It missed me by just a hand, it shouldn't have been him.
I heard it's scream, and did yell, but he couldn't hear. We brought him to this bloody hell, we showed him true, hard fear.
He tried to move, his body locked, and alI could do was scream. It hit him hard, tore him up, all just like a dream.
So now I sit here, on bended knee, tears as a river flow, for one young man whose life was knew, Whom I must now let go.
Rhea Noel MacDonald 17 June 2003
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Awarded this day, 19 June 2003. I was once again honored for all three of these poems by Vietnam Veterans World Wide for Poetry Excellence. I cried when I received this award this morning, as it was totally unexpected!! I simply wrote what I felt the souls of those around me at the VA were telling me to write. I am honored to know the veterans that I do, for THEY are my true inspiration. It is for them, that I write about combat, for I have never seen combat. Thank you so much to David R Alexander, Cal Klaiber, and Thurman Woodfork, you are all amazing men!!! |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The following poem is quite morbid, but the pain of being an amputee for many of our soldiers coming home to their young wives has never truly been expressed. When I wrote these poems, I was sitting in the VA waiting for my doctor. It was to me, as if, the souls of those around me were screaming to have their stories told and these poems are the result.
Shame on You
Look at me What do you see? Am I whole or part? I'm not quite the man I was When this war got it's start.
Wounded, a leg now gone, part of my arm is too. Do you see the man inside to whom you said, "I DO"?
Or do you see, just part of me, the a part that can no longer hold, you to me and me to you, as in times of old?
I can still feel, I cry so much, for who I used to be. I look into your eyes of tears, you no longer, see Me.
I need your love, not pity now, to make me truly whole. So I can give to you the man, that the Service stole.
We didn't ask to be hit that day, a bomb from out of the sky, It surprised us all, and of that day, I am lucky to be alive.
I lost so many men to hate, now I must lose you. For you hate for what they did to me, has driven It's wedge, too.
You don't touch me like you used to, a newlywed with love. Instead it's a touch of anger, in Our Lord, above.
It burns me to feel you hand, upon my skin, knowing that you hate that I, can never walk again. Or touch you like I used to, or dance and play around. So take that hate for this unwhole man, and put me in the ground.
Rhea Noel MacDonald 17 June 2003 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Holy Ones
Sky so black stars gleaming bright at home in the States this would be a "night"
But here, damn here, it's only hell for me I can't see anything of my enemy
How close are they? Where can they be? I smell them and their fear
They're sneaking up crack goes a branch, can they hear me breathe, here in this trench?
A sudden pause my breath now still another branch I unleash my Hell
The roaring guns the screams, the cries, of the souls lost on this night.
I feel the warmth, blood all around, of Charlie, me, my men on the ground.
Mixed with the dirt the stench does rise, into the night God hears my cries.
As morning comes, so do the men, carry me out, send me home again.
What happened now to those guys, who fought so bravely, by my side?
Mothers' tears, A Fathers' pain, I must see them, When I'm home again.
They need to know about their sons, who fought so honorably, The Holy ones.
Rhea Noel MacDonald 17 June 2003 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The graphics on this site were designed by Dreamwork Designs. They are a pair of unique Artists and have allowed me to use these sets. Please do not take the graphics from my site, as they are not the full set. Click on the logo to the left to visit their site, Thank you, Rhea Noel |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Used with permission Marty Bell. Please click on the logo to the right to go to his amazing site and view his work. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|