Thursday, August 4, 2011

A poem by Wallace E. High about War!

I copied this text by Wallace E. High after reading it in the June 24, 2011 Street Roots, which I hadn't read until Aug. 3, 2011. I don't necessarily, am not starved for information that I have to read something right now, after purchase or getting a hold of such as free press. I like to let things rest before diving in sometimes.This week the Veterans for Peace and the Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans Against War are having their National Conference in Portland.

This poem by Mr. Wallace E. High brings home to me the devastation of war. It makes me want to gather body parts in a bag, take them to those who would wage war, yet not be among those who were losing their lives and go to their palaces with their fine furnishings and place the bag of body parts, bleeding and discolored with death upon their tables of plenty. I have not lived through war in this lifetime, but that is not to say I don't have memories of carnage. My memories weigh heavy in the depths of my being. I wonder if those that promote war, read the accounts of war by those whom they have sent to it, who have returned, changed forever?

" I Am War" by

Wallace E. High

"I am war,
I am a living, breathing, beast,
Mercy I know it not,
My fuel is diesel and blood,
Bleak detritus of forceful men
Who once knew honor,
Who once knew love,
But power stole their souls.

I am war,
Unleashed bequeathed upon the earth
Where no segment lies untouched,
Carried by the winds of hastening
To escape the horror that stirs them,
That makes the cyclone a child's toy,
A mere puff from a lad's lips
Blowing at the dandelion's laces.

I am war,
I am a ravenous beyond sating,
Starving for destruction,
There is no justice here within
For there is not heart n this;
This is the madness of men,
Cruel beyond imagining,
Relentless in pursuit of death.

I am war,
I am brilliant in my scheming,
My intelligence soars soars seeking,
Leaping like a springbok
For meaner ways to erase
Memories of faces smiling,
Baby's tiny fingers grasping,
Laughing at daddy's nose.

I am war,
I am the master of waste
Making mothers pale and cry
For dying children torn from the breasts;
My breath comes of napalm blasts,
Clouds of sinister, seeping gases
That stifle feeble efforts at life
And turn good deeds to mockery

I am war,

I am a strident voice ringing
In cloistered halls where
Old men gather to vent their ire
With the lives of stalwart sons
And daughters directed to the fray
Beguiled and betrayed to stand
Before the maws of howitzers roaring.

I am war,
I am misery beyond reckoning,
The greedy grider hastening
The return to the earth of dust
Made of moldering bones
Strewn by deadly claymores leaping,
Blasting upward from concealment,
Scattered by jackals of the desert sands.

I am war,
I am relentless in my pursuits,
Making no distinction in the dying,
Man, woman, child or beast,
What care I where shrapnel flies'
Suffice to say I am here,
My history written in blood, darkly,
Learn form this, my child, and fight no

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