Their youth shaken,
salt over sands:
futures, minds,
limbs, and eyes,
poured down into
thankless hands.
Laurels – days as hollow as
a tin cup dragged
down spit shined streets
where whorish moans echo through,
every corner’s meet and greet.
Sons of Priam from the street
wave drunken flags
at grim parades
yet never will they join with arms
or slap their backs on hiring day.
A future healer on the ward
grits his teeth and scuffs his shoe
for having to suffer though
another dirty old vet.
I love you—-didn’t say I understood you!!
An interesting poem-when were you in, and is this still a wound for you? I ask because I still have my scars over 30 years later.
Dear Craig,
Thank you for the feedback. I was in during Desert Storm and for several years after. I can’t say that I’m all that scarred but what disappoints me is seeing the troops today coming back from several tours oversees and having to fight for health care and listening to people spout on about how much they appreciate their service but would never dream of lending them a hand in any meaningful way. So you have kids that have left most of themselves overseas with nothing to show for it but the pride of having served their country and having to compete with peers without such baggage. That’s what I was trying to convey with the poem, to quote Eliot “it is just a piece of rhythmical grumbling.”
Thank you for taking the time to read it.
Kris
Very well done.