War and Dreams
I am a Dying Soldier in Vietnam
A machine gun rat-a-tat-tatted a deadly staccato somewhere in the distance, echoing dimly in my ears as I watching the flash of a rising flare glow like some absurdly large firefly. The screams of the damned and doomed where almost ghostly now, as my hearing wavered in and out, as their pleas and cries wove together with the sounds of explosions and guns and machinery in a macabre tapestry behind my eyes, coring deep into my brain even as I retreated to the last place I knew was safe, to the comfort of my dreams that not even a whisper of war had ever tainted. You know, I tried all I could to get out of the draft, but I just wasn’t strong enough; and who could argue with those drill sergeants, with their manic shouting, fanatic shrieking, and barked orders?
If I ever get home, maybe I’ll stop daydreaming so much, and actually do something. Ha, my friends would laugh to see that; sweet little Jimmy, going on to become to big-shot peace activist? That scrawny little ginger, always reading those fairy books and trying to write his own on his notes?
No, I see now; I am just a tool. I am truly going to die, my only death hymn the moaning around me, the chorus of Hell. Just a pawn to be cast aside by men that would never dream of stepping onto the battlefield.
I focused back on alternate reality. One say soon, I shall be with my love, my sweet love that died a far nobler death than this, injured so brutally just to save a few orphans and left to die in the mud with her sisters in arms.
Oh, my poor family; whatever will they do when they hear about this? When that thrice-cursed black car with its damned gold star on the side pull up in front of their house, instead of the neighbors? I can only pray that they can look past the death of their youngest son, that Mama can take comfort in my sisters and Papa can look ahead to the brighter future that may never come.
I opened my eyes again, spots now bursting against my eyes as my head spun wildly. My vision blurred over even further as tears poured out, as I cried for all those who died, even that soldier not five feet laying in the sweet grass of the meadow that just blew my leg off, as I cried for the girlfriend I’ll never marry and the children she tried to save, and everyone else who got caught up in this bloody mess that hasn’t even been named a War, just a stupid Conflict, as if that makes it so much better.
I was a child again, chasing lizards and rabbits in the fields, through the forests with my buddies talking about nothing and everything, in my bedroom with my twin sister reading Tolkien as she finger-painted horsies and stars, dodging my chores and enjoying the warmth and love and brightness of summer before winter falls and the world goes cold with horror and false hope.
I dreamed my old dreams, of Dryads and Hobbits, Fauns and Elves, while the paper flowers swirled around me and the inky sky flew by, bright dreams in the distance winking out of sight as my visions blackened over.
I am just another poor wandering soul taken away by another War, a wanderer following his poor lover into the dark like he promised he would that cold night in the dingy hospital as he held her hand and she slipped away with only a tear of complaint.
And just before my vision left completely, a dim flowering of light spread across the sky from the East…
Orthannen im vi ól
Coll e dû
Or hiriath naur
Na rovail mae sui
Man prestant i ardhon?
Cerithar aen illiad dim úthenin?
If I ever get home, maybe I’ll stop daydreaming so much, and actually do something. Ha, my friends would laugh to see that; sweet little Jimmy, going on to become to big-shot peace activist? That scrawny little ginger, always reading those fairy books and trying to write his own on his notes?
No, I see now; I am just a tool. I am truly going to die, my only death hymn the moaning around me, the chorus of Hell. Just a pawn to be cast aside by men that would never dream of stepping onto the battlefield.
I focused back on alternate reality. One say soon, I shall be with my love, my sweet love that died a far nobler death than this, injured so brutally just to save a few orphans and left to die in the mud with her sisters in arms.
Oh, my poor family; whatever will they do when they hear about this? When that thrice-cursed black car with its damned gold star on the side pull up in front of their house, instead of the neighbors? I can only pray that they can look past the death of their youngest son, that Mama can take comfort in my sisters and Papa can look ahead to the brighter future that may never come.
I opened my eyes again, spots now bursting against my eyes as my head spun wildly. My vision blurred over even further as tears poured out, as I cried for all those who died, even that soldier not five feet laying in the sweet grass of the meadow that just blew my leg off, as I cried for the girlfriend I’ll never marry and the children she tried to save, and everyone else who got caught up in this bloody mess that hasn’t even been named a War, just a stupid Conflict, as if that makes it so much better.
I was a child again, chasing lizards and rabbits in the fields, through the forests with my buddies talking about nothing and everything, in my bedroom with my twin sister reading Tolkien as she finger-painted horsies and stars, dodging my chores and enjoying the warmth and love and brightness of summer before winter falls and the world goes cold with horror and false hope.
I dreamed my old dreams, of Dryads and Hobbits, Fauns and Elves, while the paper flowers swirled around me and the inky sky flew by, bright dreams in the distance winking out of sight as my visions blackened over.
I am just another poor wandering soul taken away by another War, a wanderer following his poor lover into the dark like he promised he would that cold night in the dingy hospital as he held her hand and she slipped away with only a tear of complaint.
And just before my vision left completely, a dim flowering of light spread across the sky from the East…
Orthannen im vi ól
Coll e dû
Or hiriath naur
Na rovail mae sui
Man prestant i ardhon?
Cerithar aen illiad dim úthenin?
♠ ♠ ♠
I was looking through my old poems today (which are crap, no matter how you look at it) and found one for a history project. We had to write an 'I Am' poem for someone that had something to do with Vietnam, and I wrote one about a soldier who loves to dream, that would never have chosen this if he had had the choice. The song at the end is 'The Eagles' from the Return of the King, written in Sindarin. Translation goes something like:'In a dream I was lifted up
Borne from the darkness
Above the rivers of fire
On wings as soft as the wind
What's happened to the World?
Is everything sad going to come untrue?'
Ah, if only, if only everything sad could come untrue, Sam...