We were there when that price you paid
that all men in their soul are afraid
will be more than they can bear
without some friend there.
You and I, we met so oddly.
In a green world on a field hardly
like any that we had seen before, except
in dreams of our childhood, where horrors crept.
Yet, our lives are entwined in a sacred kinship,
less, yet more, than mere friendship.
Alive today we still see the pain
of you, in violence slain.
With ineptly hidden fear,
we saw our death always near.
We saw precious life so very preplexed.
And all among us could but ask, "Who is next."
What is duty if not more than the task?
As love is more than just what is asked.
The price of duty is a hard price to pay,
and the cost of love is duty's last play.
What are friends, if not more than friendship?
As family is other than just simple kinship.
The price of friends are your deepest fears,
and friendship's costs are your family's tears.
What is life if not more than living?
As a gift is more than just the giving.
The price of life in the end is death,
when the gift's cost is the givers last breath.
What is death if not less than dying?
As your tears are less than the sum of crying.
The final price of death is forever in time,
the cost of memory - tears in the remembers mind.
A friend of mine asked me what that all meant and I had to confess that I didn't have a clue. It just wrote itself, less than five minutes from start to finish.
On a far, distant, and foreign shore
I met men that mean so much more
to me as the years go (and not so slow
as they did in youth's first glow).
But that fleeting, uncaring young day,
when life was hardly more to me than play,
has gone now, replaced by speeding days
and certain knowledge, we are all only clay.
Ah, but then, in foolish youth, we were so blest
of time as to not see the clear truth of the test
that would rend forever the fabric of our breast,
leaving those who once breathed with us to rest.
How could we, for whom the world turned,
possibly see that for us too the sun only burned
its given time, then laughing, our dreams it spurned
and swung uncaring to the the things it alone yearned.
In that far, distant, familiar, yet strange shore
we met, we lived, we spent time we'd adore
to see anew. But no, its time's passing chore
to demand of you everything - and more.
Time takes its toll, and most of you aren't as young as I like to pretend that I am. Read and contemplate the future.
Here I sit, my 'roids a screamin'
thinking of days and a dreamin'
of sitting on the porcelain throne
with a smile and not a groan.
"Oh, wretched rectum thoust do burn,
around thee my world doest turn."
Where are those hollowed days of glory
when all I thought of were girls quite whory?
Today my thoughts, when they wander
below the belt only grow fonder
on blessed days when brown & round
brings a smile and not a frown.
"Plenty of water," the doctor proclaims
smiling as one who's butt never flames.
"Fruits and veggies, that's the fashion,
fighting fire with all natural rations."
"Oh, unblessed buttocks, source of woe,
I curse thee as fires's ring does grow."
Once we were friend's in life's troubles
now, cursed traitor, with you I struggle.
Brown and puckered, it's a mindless beast
controlling my destiny, my every feast.
In my youth the world before me lay
now it's my ass that has the last say.
19 In '65
Did you say your flag is tattered?
I really don't know why.
Did they ever turn their back on you,
lost honor, faith, and pride.
I tell you that your flag still flies
tattered though it may be.
For those who walked through anguished lies
are waiting to be freed.
Nineteen is not the same today,
the spirit has not moved them.
Life is better, so they say,
while wallowing in self-amusement.
Volunteering was the way of life
for John and Bill and Mike.
Staying alive was all it was,
from battle to each fight.
You should have seen them on the move
strong, sleek with cautious pride.
Lest they become Zeke's victims, too,
sans arms and legs and eyes.
They say that life is large and lonb,
with zero guarantees.
It doesn't seem that fair, nor right,
when one can't feel the breeze.
From day to day it hurts so much
to merely take a breath.
With anguish that surviving buids,
anticipation of one's death.
Likfe has been quite good to me.
I'm really very flattered
to be of those who walked the walk,
and wore our flag, though tattered.