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The Sound of Guns |
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Venerable veterans of war stand stalwart
Who enemies of their country did thwart.
At attention beaming,
Hickory straight and tall,
In teared glance knowing
Knowing they'd answered the call
For love of country gave all.
Now they don't have to hear
The sound of guns drumming
Pounding in their ear
Anymore.
Now standing stiffly,
Rigidly,
Snow capped head
Honoring cruel combat's dead
Rising hoary
Tall above silvery cloud,
Heaven's bright shroud
Memories yield.
To brothers left behind on fields of glory
Planted unceremoniously mid distant battlefield
Stained with "boys next door's" blood gory.
Eyes grow misty with dim understanding,
Hell remembering,
Recalling wars age old story,
Reveling in their crowns of glory
Well-earned pride radiating,
Heart-felt dignity shining,
With honor deeply abide
These soldiers were their country's pride
Who with honor brave,
Risked life, limb, being
Home, family, and freedom to save.
Now they don't have to hear
The sound of guns drumming
Pounding in their ear
Anymore.
Though still remembering battles foul smell,
Mothers' sons thrust into hell
Can still can taste the fears.
Even after these many years
For who could forget
That foul forested pit
Always looking for the bullet
With your name on it.
Where death, everyday,
Every last minute held hauntingly,
Tantalizingly
At bay.
Now they don't have to hear
The sound of guns drumming
Pounding in their ear
Anymore.
The brave warriors have now returned
To the land they loved
The land they spilt their blood for
The land they almost died for
The land of milk and honey
Where their children play in fields green
And sunny
In peace
They desperately hope will never cease.
They've forsaken the killing
A long ago life in hell chilling
Constant fears of death filling
Cruel war does evilly bestow
Where no more winds of war will blow
Now planting peace
Olde warriors with all their being
Hope will grow.
Now they don't have to hear
The sound of guns drumming
Pounding in their ear
Anymore.
They still can't drown from their ear
The protesters raucous jeer
The sounds of silence they hear
From those they protected
Whose support they held so dear.
Still
Old warriors talk of their fate
With brothers, commiserate
Still
Of ghastly horrors, deliberate
Still life ending fate berate
And they still taste the death
haunting them still.
Now they don't have to hear
The sound of guns drumming
Pounding in their ear
Anymore.
Souls
Heart
Dreams
Touched by war's evil face
They were forced to embrace
Touched by them still
Always hearing whistling of bullets shrill
They still taste the fear
On their tongue
In their heart
That never will depart.
Now they don't have to hear
The sound of guns drumming
Pounding in their ear
Anymore.
They've melted down their warrior's sword,
Into plowshares, pruning hooks,
Trying to forget times when raging battles roared
But still in the stress of dreams
They're back there
In hand-to-hand combat
Back there
Seeing faces of friends who died
Back there
Still feeling sweat in their eyes
Back there
When horrid thoughts stray
Back there
And in their hearts they cry.
Tears flowing out of the blue
Well in their eye
And they still don't know why.
And they still hear the sound of guns
In their hearts
In their dreams
In their souls
The sound of drums
Pounding in their ears
Pounding evermore. |
By
Gary Jacobson
Copyright 2002
Listed
November 12, 2010 |
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About
Author...
In 1966-67, Gary Jacobson served with B Co
2nd/7th 1st Air Cavalry in Vietnam as a combat infantryman and is the recipient of the Purple
Heart.
Gary, who resides in Idaho writes stories he
hopes are never forgotten, perhaps compelled by
a Vietnamese legend that says, "All poets are
full of silver threads that rise inside them as
the moon grows large." So Gary says he
writes because "It is that these silver
threads are words poking at me � I must let them
out. I must! I write for my brothers who cannot
bear to talk of what they've seen and to educate
those who haven't the foggiest idea about the
effect that the horrors of war have on
boys-next-door."
Visit Gary Jacobson's site for more information
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