your voice jolted my heart with joy
your tender kiss left me breathless
how I loved you, My Sweet Boy/Man
together we learned about new love
and took our first sexual baby steps
fearfully, secretly, in the back seat
of that old chevy in a tobacco field
where honeysuckles covered a fence
scenting the darkness with thick lust
and pale mellow moonlight revealed
anatomy we’d never seen in person
or touched with trembling fingertips
how I loved you, how I wept until
it felt as if my heart would explode
standing alone in the February sleet
dozens of strangers moved around me
I could see only your tears avoiding me
behind a frosted window of the bus
on your way to catch a distant plane
to war we didn’t make or understand
a place where you, My Sweet Boy/Man
would soon become an angry killer
robbed of trust and young innocence
the day gentle love took her final bow
no sweet boy/man returned to me
a damaged someone I didn’t know
who would never touch me as before
a bewildered husband who knew only
to be a good soldier staying alive
with danger around each corner
and mistrust replaced “Together”
dark anger raging shouted or silent
it oozed from wounds in your soul
wounding me, killing me every day
no funeral with military honors
for love that died in a rice paddy
no award of a “Purple Heart”
Nam. Parallel with the fight on enemy territory, there was Cu Chi, the tunnels, the Agent Orange, the dead of innocence.
Forty years after, and the damaged soldiers have been told that they shouldn't have been there if they didn't want to be hurt. Grotesque.
But they didn't come just "hurt", they families got that emotional shrapnel too, and no medic came to them, ever.
And yet, we, the survivors, still say Semper Fi.
Sadly all too many of our soldiers do go away as boys and grow to be men and then beyond when their minds fail to be able to deal with what they had to do to survive. Post traumatic stress disorder has been around and recognized by the medical world since WWI but sadly our governments, our politicians, and all those who never lived through what these boy/men have had to do not want to accept it or take responsibility for our countrie's actions.
Fee
Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
Reviewed on September 30, 2009
Makes me think of my Uncle Mack / He survived the Bataan Death March, but could not survive what he came back to.
Ah, LaBelle, you've dissolved me into a puddle of tears with this write - war is hell, for those who serve(d) and for those they leave behind - powerfully penned excellence. Know how I feel as the daughter, sister, niece, cousin of Veterans, USAF Veteran, myself - thank you for penning such a heartwrending tribute to all our soldierboys/girls/men/women and their loved ones.
This book is an autobiographical account of the lessons I learned about life and how I was able to apply them to inspire, motivate and empower others in my own work as a firefighter, as well in my daily life as a husband, a father and a man. When I w
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While I never became a cowboy, considering everything I have done
At the young of age of seven, Jill's mother Eve takes her for regular sessions to a child psychologist for treatment of her anxiety, which only makes her behavior worse. When she reaches her teens, she starts drinking and then smoking marijuana with
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This tears apart, profoundly. I don't want to say more or...
John
Carole~
Forty years after, and the damaged soldiers have been told that they shouldn't have been there if they didn't want to be hurt. Grotesque.
But they didn't come just "hurt", they families got that emotional shrapnel too, and no medic came to them, ever.
And yet, we, the survivors, still say Semper Fi.
Fee
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :( *tears!*
God bless our military men and women, and especially our Veterans from ALL wars!!
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.