-In Memory Of A Veteran Named Joe, This Veterans Day-
“The soldier, above all other people,
Always prays for peace,
For he must suffer and bear,
The deepest wounds and scars of war.”
Douglas MacArthur
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Of all the hours in each day,
He hated dusk the most
He knew it would soon bring the darkness
He knew it would soon bring the voices
And the horrifying smells
And, the night sweats
He would toss and turn
And listen
And smell
And sweat
All night long
Whether spring, summer, winter, or fall
His bed was always soaked and stained
And foul smelling
By the next morning
And each new morning
Found him too damned tired
Too damned rattled
And just too damned sad
His wife constantly hounded him
To seek some medical assistance
He’d tried that many times before
But he had never gotten any relief
One day, he finally gave in to her
He visited the hospital once more
Of course, the doctors told him
That there was nothing wrong
A month later, he quit his job
He was just too exhausted
To be able to work any more
He applied for veterans benefits
Of course, they turned him down
They said that nothing was wrong
They told him that he was just lazy
Eventually, he left his home
And his extremely loving wife
And his three precious children
And, he started riding the rails
He now liked riding the old freight trains
Because no one ever hassled him there
In those dark, dusty, wooden box cars
On those long, lonely, cross country treks
He still had the night sweats
But so did many other hobos
And street bums
And alley drifters
He met along his travels
Whenever he stopped back in town
He always came to see me
Just to check on things
And to chat for awhile
I would always take him to a local diner
And buy him a sandwich and a cup of coffee
And very sadly tell him, that nothing had changed
That they had still not approved his veteran’s claim
He would always politely thank me
And tell me that he would be staying
At the old flop house down the street
For a few days before moving on again
Ten long years after he became a hobo
I finally had some good news for him
They had finally approved his benefits
Maybe now, hopefully very soon,
His night sweats could finally end
I found him that day in his room
At that decrepit old run down hotel
He was hanging from a wooden rafter
On the dirty, paint-chipped, old ceiling
By his filthy, sweat-soaked, hotel sheets
He had left a note and an old picture on the bed:
The note simply said, ‘I just can’t sweat no more.’
I gave the picture to his grieving family at his funeral
It was a picture of him and his two buddies
They were standing in the scorching heat
In a jungle, half way around the world
I’m sure the voices he always heard at night
Were those of his two long gone, best friends
I’m sure the smells he always smelled at night
Were the horrendous smells of that bloody jungle
He also left me something:
Whenever I picture him
Hanging there so all alone
In that filthy flop house room
From that rotting wooden rafter
On that dirty paint-chipped ceiling
I get the night sweats, too.
©Veterans Day 2012, Mr. Ed
On any given night in our vast nation,
In the nation they so valiantly served,
There are 200,000 homeless veterans,
Sleeping in alleys, in cardboard boxes;
And it is estimated that 300,000 vets today,
Suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Yet, so many of our so called ‘leaders’ in Congress,
Say they want to cut their entitlement programs, too;
And of course, most of them, have never been soldiers.
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Anna
It is as though you wrote it for my late husband
who died from cancer brought on by agent orange..
he served proudly for 29 years...
Bless you and this man Mr. Ed
Love and Light
Lily
A soldier whose heroism is turned to black ink running.
Raise this man's voice and honor his life as it should
have been from the beginning.
Lady Mary Ann
Rebecca
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Deborah
back to Character..for it is The Devil
who is the Chief of Command when this
kind of sadness hurts one and all...
Lady Vivian
Ron
The most vile thing of all is the lies from the govt' just to save money. Money is more important to those that prey on the blood of those who are in such mental angst. They send them out as gun fodder, pay, play lip service whilst cutting back on remuneration and not giving the necessary help, as lives are ruined by the thoughtless sign of a pen.
I seem to remember this poem. It does make one think, who is the real enemy!?
m,
Nam Soldier's widow, Nam soldier's wife, one screamed every nite for 10 years prior to his death, the other continues to whisper at nite, of course neither neither was/has been found to suffer PTS
Cheers,
Dan
budd