MEMORIAL DAY: MY FATHER WAS A SOLDIER

THIS BLOG WAS POSTED ORIGINALLY ON MYSPACE,
Monday, May 29, 2006
MEMORIAL DAY: DEATH OF A SOLDIER
Current mood: EULOGY
Category: Writing and Poetry

ODE TO A SOLDIER

I.

Father oh Father, I am back again why do you lie so still
Your head is all wrapped and that tube in your mouth is all bloody

The jagged old scar on your forehead beats slowly with your pulse
And why is there a hole in your throat?

Who told me your tale I do not remember, 'twas childhood tales
Of your Bloody War, your bloody time at the Front.

They say you were eighteen and a soldier, made to jump out
Over enemy lines, into enemy fire, from planes high above

Jump down into the fireworks below, to your death
Or be shot by your own officers

Strung out and wide open they say
You and your comrades floated down, swaying helplessly in the night

Strung out, strung up
Target practice for the enemy fire, rat-tat-tat

A silhouette in a shooting gallery
Was your target painted on your chest or head

They say many were dead
Before they hit the muddy ground, the ditch, the wood

Hanging like strange fruit
In old oak trees, over stone walls, barb wire

I bet you would have rather run for your life, run
The gauntlet, legs, lungs pumping, against all odds

Instead of hanging in the air
Suspended, silent, heart still beating in your chest

Dropping endlessly down down into the
Crackling gun fire, grenades and mortar, angry fireworks

Hung up, strung out, suspended in time
Between life and death in strobe beats of light

Dead fruit falling falling bloody rain
Falling from the sky like Kali's bounty

They say you were hit, but still alive
You cut yourself free and started to run

Where do you run to, Father, where do you aim for
in the middle of madness and death

They say you took a bullet in the leg, in the stomach
Before you ever hit the ground

They say when you ran, shrapnel exploded and hit you
And blew up the space occupied by your body

II.

Your helmet, in pieces, inside your brain, they said
They picked out the pieces through that hole they made

They cracked open your forehead
And dug around your brain picking out the bigger pieces

And gave them to your mother wrapped in gauze
Four pieces of metal, two from your helmet, many small ones left inside

She held them in her shaking hands
As she cried, saying thank you - for the souvenir of death

They sewed up the hole in the middle of your forehead
With a skin flap, no bone, soft like a baby's crown.

Pulsating, fragile, criss-crossed by red scars
Over your brain torn to shreds beneath.

They laid you down in the metal military hospital bed
And you were gone from your body, not that I blame you Father

Why would you want to come back to this, to this life
Of broken sight, halting speech, a lifetime of seizures?

Your mother sat with you and prayed the Rosary
Prayed for months on end, eight months in all, over your still body.

They let you lie there, in a coma
Not dead, not alive, but gone from this place.

So she prayed you back and you woke up in the ninth month, like a new babe,
opened your eyes, looked at your mother and knew her still.

She cried and thanked God for the good fortune of her reborn son
returned to her, in one piece or many, no matter

And you could not remember words, but "Mother" you said,
That much I am told you knew, and you looked around

For an "Other Mother" you asked, and she understood you
it was him you wanted, your Father, the one you loved

III.

And you lived again, against all odds, but you woke to a life of pain
As never the same you would be.

And the joy of your mother and father at your return
To despair will turn as life is a living hell

Half blind with shadowy mind wandering God knows where,
your body wracked by Grand Mal when the shards move in your brain.

A thousand pills a day you will take
to walk among the living and not crash to the ground

Each day you awaken anew into this torn body cursing
the shredded brain that serves you badly or not at all

And other than mother's love you will never get any more
Just jeering, laughter, disgust and mean tricks played by strangers.

SO you throw yourself in front of a train
Yet it stops and drags you but makes you live this damned life

Some more. In shame you crawl off the tracks
they take you home, broken teeth, tears of frustration.

You are silent, then decide to try again to make an end
And this time it works and now you are here

Back in that hospital bed. Poisoned by the pills
That were to save you, all of them you took at one.

And down you went, back into the Oblivion
she pulled you back from, your mother, with her tears and begging.

The dying is hard this time, its been already two weeks of pain
and death has not found you yet. The pills are just too slow.

To make an easy end now your mother sits and prays
For death and not for your life, Dear God just take him please.

Once more I'm told you open your eyes and look at her
and she says "You will be OK" and you shake your head. Not this time.

A tear rolls down your face and away you go
For good this time, at last its good bye, Father, good bye.

Let it be known that those whom Death has claimed
You ask for them back at their peril.

12:54 AM
14 Comments
12 Kudos (Give Kudos)
Sunday, May 28, 2006

GOOD MORNING AMERICA - THIS WILL BE DELETED
man. that was pretty intense. war is hell. it affects everyone.
Posted by GOOD MORNING AMERICA - THIS WILL BE DELETED on Monday, May 29, 2006 - 2:13 AM
[Reply to this]

KALIMA
the Dead are at least done with the suffering,
its the war's surviving casualties
and all the soldier's families
that suffer for decades.
Posted by KALIMA on Monday, May 29, 2006 - 2:23 AM
[Reply to this]

~M~...
Very powerful posting for today...Makes you wish that no one had to endur that kind of pain; no person or family. However, it happens....That is why we can't forget what today is all about.
Posted by ~M~... on Monday, May 29, 2006 - 11:24 AM
[Reply to this]

KALIMA
Good to see you Mike, on Memorial Day or any day :)!
Posted by KALIMA on Monday, May 29, 2006 - 11:31 AM
[Reply to this]

Teacher With a 'Tude
You edited - did I leave a comment the first time? I have a toddler with a high fever who doesn't want to be put down and can't sleep, so I'm a little out of it.
Very powerful.
Posted by Teacher With a 'Tude on Monday, May 29, 2006 - 1:10 PM
[Reply to this]

KALIMA
YES I EDITED SEVERAL TIMES... DID YOU LEAVE A COMMENT?
OH I NEVER SAW IT. THANKS FOR COMING BACK AND LEAVING ANOTHER ONE....
even with the sick baby <3 sorry to hear...
for fevers, did you try a tub with a few inches of luke warm water, sponge them gently, till it drops? You can sit with him in the tub if that's what it takes. You also will FEEL when he cools down. Also play "look at that".. just walk around and point out things, it extroverts them.
PEACE BABY xoxxo
Posted by KALIMA on Monday, May 29, 2006 - 1:19 PM
[Reply to this]

Enrique
these images are vivid to u
do u know where they come from?
are they part of ur experience?
moving & thought-provoking
Posted by enrique on Monday, May 29, 2006 - 5:11 PM
[Reply to this]

KALIMA
e~
IT'S FROM WITHIN THE ORAL TRADITION OF MY FAMILY
its in my mind, blood and bones.... it's about my father before I knew him...
and when I knew him.
Posted by KALIMA on Monday, May 29, 2006 - 6:16 PM
[Reply to this]

Michael McCann
As a point of inside information, Karin's father was a German paratrooper (Fallschirmtruppen) who was wounded in 1941 in the drop over Crete. It was a colossal phuque-up; the transport planes were off schedule (late) and most missed the designated drop zone, leaving the parachutists as they descended largely at the mercy of waiting British troops. In a prolonged battle, the Germans seized their objective, a British airfield, but in the process lost nearly 4,000 dead or wounded. The Fallschirmjaeger were the elite of the German Wehrmacht at the time--all volunteers, all hand-picked, the pride of the army. So devastating were their losses here, and so distraught was Hitler, that he subsequently forbade any more parachute drops for the remainder of the war. The Fallschirmjaeger continued to fight well throughout the war, but almost exclusively as infantry, never engaging again in a concentrated drop.
-- Michael McCann (who knows Kalima from the old days)
Posted by Michael McCann on Wednesday, May 31, 2006 - 11:50 AM
[Reply to this]
KALIMA
Fritz The Cat, welcome to my Lair. .....
Thanks for putting this in context. You avid Germanophile, just what I need to give me some cred around here. These people think I'm blowin' all these tales out of my ass...! YOU know what I tell, I lived. Or loved.
BTW my father survived but was a war invalid all his life. The poem addresses his death years later from an overdose of his anti-seizure medication. Glad he stuck around a while, I am here as a result of his having returned after a 9 month coma and resumed life - if that's what you want to call it. The poem is about a real time, a real place, a real person.
Now I can tell his tale .
Karin
Posted by KALIMA on Wednesday, May 31, 2006 - 3:01 PM
[Reply to this]

Injoy
Carolyn Injoy
This left me speechless...a rare thing.
Powerful and heart-wrenching!
Posted by Injoy on Wednesday, May 31, 2006 - 8:53 PM
[Reply to this]

KALIMA
Some tales never get told, I just wanted to put it out, even if it was
at a high cost emotionally to me. I owe him something for his trouble.
Karin
Posted by KALIMA on Wednesday, May 31, 2006 - 9:09 PM
[Reply to this]

Injoy
Carolyn Injoy
Hugs {Kar} I know the cost was high to write this, for I felt the same way about the Tribute to a Southern Gentleman I wrote on the 17th anniversary of my own Father's death. They leave an indelible mold. It is my honor to showcase it in this week's Picks.
Posted by Injoy on Monday, June 05, 2006 - 1:10 PM
[Reply to this]

KALIMA
thank you Joy. It was written at a high price, you know that, many don't. It tore me up. Still does. I loved my father and pitied him all my life. WHERE can I find your poem to your dad? I would feel honored if you shared it with me....
Posted by KALIMA on Monday, June 05, 2006 - 1:22 PM
[Reply to this]


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