USMC Photo
THE PERSON WHO USED TO BE
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What a shame no one will ever again see
That singular person who used to be:
The one who loved, laughed, and vied...
Before he shunned the world and died.
There was a time he inspired with a word;
That strong voice will never again be heard, Though he has not yet ceased to speak,
His words are now unfocused and bleak.
His potential but a memory, shunning pity,
He wanders alone the streets of the city
Or languishes away in a dreary psychic cell,
Reliving memories of his own private hell.
What happened to cause such a change?
What was the trauma that so derange
All that was wonderful in this precious life,
Filled it instead with heartache and strife?
Recurring nightmares of shadowed jungle paths,
Gravid with the imminence of sudden blood baths, The
cry of his friend, who voiced his last sound
As, calling, he spun, lifeless, to the ground.
There was no refuge; even when 'safe' in the rear,
He knew he must go back into the fear,
To rage, death, and terror that would not abate
Until he reached that longed-for date:
The shimmering DEROS - the day he was free
To return to the person he could no longer be,
To battle strange ailments, disillusion, and sighs,
Until, still living, he turns away... and dies.
© September 25, 2003 by Thurman P. Woodfork |
There was an old Grunt that hung around the bank. He always wore an old Marine overcoat and I used to give him money for beer; not as a hand out, but because he was a brother and deserved it. I bought him a sleeping bag that I'm sure got traded for booze and made sure he had Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. On the Marine Corps' Birthday, we went to lunch and all the suited-up people would clear out from around us. I've been thinking about him all week since he died and was going to ask Woody to write a poem in his behalf, but when I read the other two the words came out in about five minutes. Khe Sanh ruined his life, and I don't think he ever asked for any help. When reading the obits, I found out he was six years younger then I am and I always thought he was an old, old man. I brought him in the bank on the eve of Y2K and we had potted meat, saltines and sparkling apple cider to celebrate New Years. Ray |
The old man basks in a sunset of gold
His coat so dirty, threadbare and ragged
Eyes dim and dark but so very old
He feels the pain, sharp and jagged
Exploding so quickly from deep in his chest
A sign of peace that God has shown
To let him start his eternal long rest
The darkness of despair is forever gone
And life’s lonely end has finally come
But for these aged men, so tired, and so old
Just like the sunsets, it’s a blessing in gold
His new coat is clean, with three stripes of red
His eyes are now clear, clever, and bold
Just what happened to turn him away?
From the joy of living, the joy of life
Say, why did he leave and wonder astray?
Was it memories of war, sharp as a knife?
Or a family he loved that went their own way
He’ll have his long rest now out of the fray
Only to wake with a conscious so clear
And the voices of old friends he's longing to hear
© 9/25/2003 Ray Holcomb/AKA DaDirtyRat
Ray Holcomb, himself, is now reunited with old friends,
and I'm sure his conscious is very clear. -- TPW
Webmaster: Thurman P. Woodfork
