Members
Texas
I'm Smiley, aka Sam, I'm 22 y/o I'm am outgoing person I love camping, singing, hanging with friends, ghost hunting, adventuring, writing, and hiking. If …
Poems
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Silent City
Terry O'Leary
Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowds neath unchained clouds: the Silent City braved
against a sudden flashing flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which stripped its stony structures, blown with neutron bursts that laved.
Its barren streets, although effete, resound of yesterday
with chit-chat words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes,
which limn its frail forgotten tales, in weird unworldly runes
with symbols strung like halos hung in lifeless, limp festoons.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, throughout the doomed domain
reflecting white, wee wisps of light in ebon beads of bane
which cast a crooked smile across a faceless windowpane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
whelm ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, though no one’s left to fete.
Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep beyond the mushroom clouds.
No ghosts of ones with jagged tongues will sing a silent psalm
nor haunt pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.
The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
for churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.
No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.
A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, all alone amongst the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.
Stray footsteps swarm through church no more (apostates that profane)
though echoes in the nave still din and chalice cups retain
an altar wine that tastes of brine decaying in the rain.
Coiled candle sticks, with twisted wicks, no longer 'lume the cracks -
their dying flames revealed the shame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
when deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.
Six steeple towers, steel though now drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.
The chapel chimes? Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillon, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.
No saints will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor bless pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm.
Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
inhale gray gusts of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.
Green trees gone dark in palace parks (where kids once paused to play),
watch lifeless things on phantom swings (like statues made of clay)
guard marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.
And castle clocks, unwound, defrock with speechless spinning spokes,
unfurling blight of reigning Night by sweeping off her cloaks,
and flaunting dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.
The sun-bleached bones of those who'd flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who’d hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).
The wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams have ceased to terrify
though terrors wrought by conscience fraught now stalk and lurk nearby
within the shrouds of curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky.
And fog no longer seeps beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears in sheets of shallow gray.
The City’s still, like hollowed quill with ravished feathered vane,
baptized in floods of spattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.
No umbras hum with jagged tongues nor sing a silent psalm
nor lade pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.
EPILOGUE
Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play
while celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
against a sudden flashing flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which stripped its stony structures, blown with neutron bursts that laved.
Its barren streets, although effete, resound of yesterday
with chit-chat words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes,
which limn its frail forgotten tales, in weird unworldly runes
with symbols strung like halos hung in lifeless, limp festoons.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, throughout the doomed domain
reflecting white, wee wisps of light in ebon beads of bane
which cast a crooked smile across a faceless windowpane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
whelm ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, though no one’s left to fete.
Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep beyond the mushroom clouds.
No ghosts of ones with jagged tongues will sing a silent psalm
nor haunt pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.
The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
for churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.
No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.
A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, all alone amongst the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.
Stray footsteps swarm through church no more (apostates that profane)
though echoes in the nave still din and chalice cups retain
an altar wine that tastes of brine decaying in the rain.
Coiled candle sticks, with twisted wicks, no longer 'lume the cracks -
their dying flames revealed the shame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
when deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.
Six steeple towers, steel though now drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.
The chapel chimes? Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillon, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.
No saints will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor bless pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm.
Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
inhale gray gusts of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.
Green trees gone dark in palace parks (where kids once paused to play),
watch lifeless things on phantom swings (like statues made of clay)
guard marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.
And castle clocks, unwound, defrock with speechless spinning spokes,
unfurling blight of reigning Night by sweeping off her cloaks,
and flaunting dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.
The sun-bleached bones of those who'd flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who’d hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).
The wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams have ceased to terrify
though terrors wrought by conscience fraught now stalk and lurk nearby
within the shrouds of curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky.
And fog no longer seeps beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears in sheets of shallow gray.
The City’s still, like hollowed quill with ravished feathered vane,
baptized in floods of spattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.
No umbras hum with jagged tongues nor sing a silent psalm
nor lade pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.
EPILOGUE
Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play
while celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
Ayad Gharbawi
Dec 2009
WOMAN BUTCHERED
Ayad Gharbawi
Child that gathered knowledge
Knowledge frightening to human nature
Girl-child was awakened
Herself she awakened
Saw the glow of eyes buttery
Glow of hatred molten
Glow of **** howling
Child, pretended innocence pretty
Child smiled all along the paths unknown
Yet, her body recognized colours unimaginable in their serenity sublime
Figures in her sleep strange, yet beautiful
Songs of sweet sleep, yet alerting in their soothing abilities
Little girl, who are you?
Why won’t you let us
Define you?
Little girl
Honourable lady woman
Did you grow up at all?
Or did you just die in your infancy?
As so many before you have
Did you come
To feel and understand
Your sensitive dimensions?
We would have made sure that you would be mature
If you were submissive enough for us!
Child girl, laughs uneasily and seriously
Child girl, sees lofty, exalted visions possessive
Visions of history’s episodes are expressed pointedly in your compulsive embraces
The foolish martyred are reading holy sermons for their self remembrance
Soldier unknown unmasking his face mangled to the surprised horror and utter disgust
Of his family, friends and other serious clowns
Singing an anthem of Fate’s real truth and nature and essence
Heroine unnumbered, chained to deformity
And becoming a mirror of what they did chain you to
Child girl scarred and petrified by disturbed scenes committed lovingly and lavishly by Man
Child girl curls, yet anticipates
Listen! The foot-steps frighten you once more
The shrieking manic clown has arrived again, red eyed and even more
Laughing dreary, spitting words jumbled and aloud
Figure of shame stands in front of you
Intents pre-arranged by his late father
Little girl!
Are you a woman yet?
Hearing swirls of delirious, sickening
Madness, uncontrollable panic and deathly angst
Hearing painter’s brush strokes that scream their gasps of breathlessness out
Loudly and chaotically
Hears the anguish of colours’ contrasts and contradict each other to the point of
Serious suicide
Little child! Sees the begging deaf pleading for choirs heavenly to sing seriously
Sees the miserable, emaciated crumbles crumbling,
Yet foolishly searching for a non-existent tenderness in darkness painted by drunken Satans
With the foulest, blackest oil colours in their leprous fingers
They try to paint you; define you
Analyze you; dissect you
Categorize you; classify you
Little girl; woman; ******?
Alone and sincerely and deceptively guided by complicated, intertwining hatreds
That severely despised the existence of each other’s truths and falsities
Feeling sovereignty abused by casual, bored
Unconcerned sub-humans in powerful positions on earth
Pierced in pain
My sweet girl, you are now
Pierced in deathly, unforgiving
Pains and hatreds never forgotten
Sweet Humanity
Sweet Man
Sweet human beings
How sweet you all truly are!
Ayad Gharbawi
Child that gathered knowledge
Knowledge frightening to human nature
Girl-child was awakened
Herself she awakened
Saw the glow of eyes buttery
Glow of hatred molten
Glow of **** howling
Child, pretended innocence pretty
Child smiled all along the paths unknown
Yet, her body recognized colours unimaginable in their serenity sublime
Figures in her sleep strange, yet beautiful
Songs of sweet sleep, yet alerting in their soothing abilities
Little girl, who are you?
Why won’t you let us
Define you?
Little girl
Honourable lady woman
Did you grow up at all?
Or did you just die in your infancy?
As so many before you have
Did you come
To feel and understand
Your sensitive dimensions?
We would have made sure that you would be mature
If you were submissive enough for us!
Child girl, laughs uneasily and seriously
Child girl, sees lofty, exalted visions possessive
Visions of history’s episodes are expressed pointedly in your compulsive embraces
The foolish martyred are reading holy sermons for their self remembrance
Soldier unknown unmasking his face mangled to the surprised horror and utter disgust
Of his family, friends and other serious clowns
Singing an anthem of Fate’s real truth and nature and essence
Heroine unnumbered, chained to deformity
And becoming a mirror of what they did chain you to
Child girl scarred and petrified by disturbed scenes committed lovingly and lavishly by Man
Child girl curls, yet anticipates
Listen! The foot-steps frighten you once more
The shrieking manic clown has arrived again, red eyed and even more
Laughing dreary, spitting words jumbled and aloud
Figure of shame stands in front of you
Intents pre-arranged by his late father
Little girl!
Are you a woman yet?
Hearing swirls of delirious, sickening
Madness, uncontrollable panic and deathly angst
Hearing painter’s brush strokes that scream their gasps of breathlessness out
Loudly and chaotically
Hears the anguish of colours’ contrasts and contradict each other to the point of
Serious suicide
Little child! Sees the begging deaf pleading for choirs heavenly to sing seriously
Sees the miserable, emaciated crumbles crumbling,
Yet foolishly searching for a non-existent tenderness in darkness painted by drunken Satans
With the foulest, blackest oil colours in their leprous fingers
They try to paint you; define you
Analyze you; dissect you
Categorize you; classify you
Little girl; woman; ******?
Alone and sincerely and deceptively guided by complicated, intertwining hatreds
That severely despised the existence of each other’s truths and falsities
Feeling sovereignty abused by casual, bored
Unconcerned sub-humans in powerful positions on earth
Pierced in pain
My sweet girl, you are now
Pierced in deathly, unforgiving
Pains and hatreds never forgotten
Sweet Humanity
Sweet Man
Sweet human beings
How sweet you all truly are!
James Bradley McCallum
Nov 2013
Staff Sgt. Joseph D'Augustine
a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blessed
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest
April 4, 2012
1.
in a far off province of
God forsaken Helmand,
our dear son Joey
met his untimely end
an explosive crack
a most terrible sound
felled a beloved Jersey son
to the cold cruel ground
working the live wires
of a well placed IED
a deathly burst killed him
it was awful to see
Staff Sgt. Joseph D’Augustine
in solemn duty fell
fellow brothers in arms
will forever reverently tell
of courage and character
of a dear fallen friend
and how the valiant warrior
met with death at his end
for he was always faithful
to his beloved corps
comrades couldn't ask
a valiant marine for more
2.
details of his death
are not the real story
selflessness and bravery
are but part of his glory
is it brash to
question why he fell?
in a useless bitter war
an embroiled senseless hell
a generation mustered
to fight in the war on terror
serving four tours of duty
in a lost decade of errors
two tours in Afghanistan and Iraq
could a nation ask a man for more?
for he was always faithful to the call
upholding pledges he hath sworn
3.
the burden of war
to a few confined
it rarely crosses
an American’s mind
incessant war machine
drones on apace
the horror of conflict
so cleverly displaced
with afternoon baseball
and super bowl parties
big disco paychecks
and other selfish priorities
pay hollow tribute
to dear weary troops
when valor is mentioned
we gather in groups
we’ll raise the flag
sing stirring anthems
than its back to the party
pay it no more attention
self styled patriots
wave handfuls of flags
but ask them to contribute
the zeal soon lags
its left to the few
to shoulder burdens of many
fairness is lost
its a democratic calamity
four tours in a decade
an inhumane task
burdens require sharing
its only fair to ask
Joey was always faithful
to the task at hand
willing to step forward
to serve his homeland
4.
in the wake of 9/11
a nation deeply shaken
young patriots stirred
liberty’s call not forsaken
a call to serve answered
to quell the rise of terror
a clear clarion alarm
marks the nature of the era
Joey boldly came forward
to train and learn
the art of warriors
his bright patriotism burned
deployed to Afghanistan
to capture Osama
routing the Taliban
without much problem
but a pacified Afghan
not enough for Bush
he invaded Iraq
another military push
we rolled into Baghdad
adorned with victors garlands
Saddam’s statue toppled
our troops were honored
deposing a dictators
soon turned to occupation
a ****** mission transformed
to build the Iraqi and Afghan nations
once honored liberators
now a conquering force
bestriding broken nations
on a civil war course
military industrialists
stood to profit most
sweet protracted conflict
record earnings to boast
lives bartered for lucre
a region held hostage
the conflict deepened
hostilities hardened
America dipped into
a great recession
the war machine
bled money and
kept on ticking
scooping up contracts
rewarding investors
the dividends of war
heaven sent treasure
continuation of hostilities
preys on a nation's youth
as casualties mount
ill portents forsoothed
a fraction of citizens
bare heartaches of war
gulping measures of despair
to guard a nations door
a nation always faithful
to the holy pursuit of profit
a highest citizens calling
put money into your pocket
5.
our beloved Jersey son
gave a full measure of devotion
in dress blues they shipped him
back across the ocean
on the Dover tarmac
they received his remains
for a last ride northward
to his hometown terrain
repatriated body
bereft of soul saluted
solemn escort knelt
hearts trembled, tears muted
a hearse for a gallant man
flanked by state troop cruisers
to escort the funeral train
assure an honored movement
one last trip up
old thunder road
the storied highway
Joey often trod
the last detail legged up 17
reverent firefighters saluted
from overpasses
to honor the woeful scene
as the motorcade passed
the Garden State Malls
frenzied consumers
failed to notice at all
busy window shoppers
didn't to turn an eye
as Joey rolled home
to the sweet by and by
vets interred at the
Old Paramus Church
gently stirred in their graves
reasons for war they search
Channel 12 Chopper
circled its eye in the sky
televised the sad parade
captured many teary eyes
the early spring blooms
colorful petals displayed
maples and forsythias
a royal carpet laid
spring remains always faithful
as the new season turns
offer sunshine and glory
as our sinking hearts burn
6.
motorcycle escort
northbound lane clear
rolling homeward
Waldwick was near
leaves exploding
green shoots budding
****** white maple blooms
natures accolades stunning
the oaks yet bare
just waking from slumber
winters death passing
a sad day put asunder
the motorcade passed
Joey’s home on Prospect Ave
few envision lifes endings
this woefully sad
red chevy pickup idles
in hoop crowned driveway
never to drain jumpers again
departed children can’t play
the eye in the sky
framed neighbors in mourning
welcoming back a fallen hero
unsettled emotions dawning
neighbors waved Old Glory
from painted stoops and curbs
unsure how this tragedy
visits this blessed suburb
green grass of home
always flush with spirit
tears welled in the eyes
most difficult to bear it
last cruise of the town
sad neighbors stand witness
paying final due respects
and ponder from a distance
what purpose is served
by this man’s passing?
the dead cannot speak
rationale is for the living
the terrible herse
death circles our town
moves through our day
hope of spring drowned
murderer of sunshine
killer of young flowers
budding trees breaking
our hearts an ashen pallor
we remember the beauty
of Joey’s stout face
as it looked on your finest day
exuding pure honor and grace
old vets gather
donning caps and pins
boasting semper fi jackets
jutting tear dripping chins
shaking hands, giving hugs
bearing tattered banners
the hearse ambles onward
we head home in solemn manner
good folks are always faithful
where beloved ones grew
the death of our children
we sadly cannot undo
7.
the bells of St. Lukes
called out from the sky
platoons of limping vets
marched in with pride
pomp and circumstance
requisite dress blues
family, friends, townsfolk
overflowed the pews
doleful bells resound
tolling a mournful reckon
the cost of war mounts
a family’s loss beckons
the casualties of war
falls upon a nation's youth
a seasons page not turned
a flowing wound not soothed
the wistful cornet calling
floats on the fluted air
the bereaved ***** gently sounds
a congregations somber despair
an unsettling dirge
the parish grows uneasy
nationalist bravado wanes
in the forlorn sanctuary
both church and flag
draped in colors of war
mock stain glass windows
communicants adore
is it a betrayal of the flag
to offer enemies
psalms of reconciliation?
where does true loyalty lay
with God or a warring nation?
afterall this is a sanctuary
where peace and harmony reigns
are we not called to beat swords
into ploughshares as the highest
calling of our Lord?
we are always faithful
to the pathways to war
when the practice of peace
is what we should adore
8.
coughing and whispers
incessant low murmur
a baby cries out
we sit and remember
the crucifers process
in solemnity to greet
subtle ***** notes salute
a coffin draped in Old Glory sheets
the beloved child welcomed
to his eternal repose
priests splash holy water
within the sacred dome
an amazing grace revealed
lifted by marine pallbearers
dearly departed body presented
gently placed at the altar
a grief struck sister
lovingly eulogizes
recalls tonka trucks,
GI Joe’s and cool transformers
a punch in the nose
an approaching wedding
beckoning Eastertide
vacation plans left begging
my second grade class sent
Christmas cookies and cards
to dear Joey and warrior friends
he said it warmed stark winter hearts
he was raised in this church
taught trust and reconciliation
the comfort of the Lords peace
may it surely go with him
for he was always faithful
to sisters, family and faith
his resurrection service
imbues sacredness
to this space
9.
sharp in dress blues
Eddie T USMC Gunny
big 50 caliber smile
offers his eulogy
Bada Bing Jersey Humvee
we called him Joey Calzones
good mood, loved sausages
he tickled the funny bone
always willing to sacrifice
loved the Patriots Tom Brady
a women dominated household
gave him a way with the ladies
his calling explosive ordinances
he said he was livin the dream
March 6th last time we met
knocking frost off cold ones
man whatta scream
a gallant marine,
beloved brother,
a sure friend
he was always faithful
I’m deeply wounded
by his untimely end
10.
the gospel read
the homily offered
Ecclesiastes wisdom
a time for everything
proffered
God never turns
an eye from the beloved
though seasons change
we are not forsaken
never unloved
as loss arrives
surely grief grows
turn away not
wisdom knows
in resignation
love lay dead
diligent intention
banishes dread
our rekindled hope
we rend and sow
our beloved Joey
knew this was so
our favorite son’s
example taught us
now rises on eagle’s wings
to claim his divine justice
Jesus faithfully tramped
the path to an awful death
Joey too fought the good fight
a warrior now gratefully at rest
The Lord holds him close
to the ***** of sure love
a cantors beatific voice incants
Joey’s spirit that forever enchants
The Lord is always faithful
to the bereaved and beloved
no one ever forsaken
all unconditionally loved
11.
the Holy Eucharistic cup
affirms everlasting giving
tasted to nourish evermore
a libation for the living
singing the Beatitudes
praising peace makers
mercy filled voice and song
pallbearers lift Joey’s coffin
off to seek his final peace
an earthly occupation ended
he’ll suffer worldly hate no more
down the aisle his coffin wended
the family closely followed
a mother haltingly sobbing
faithful marines came forth
to steady her wobbling
there is no sudden waking
from this terrible dream
the pungent incense rose
to the chapels sacred beams
the stained glass murals depict
the passion of Jesus’s story
illuming a consuming sorrow
in all its grace filled glory
the ***** of death slinks on again
we search for consolation
the recompense of honor blest
leaves a hollow heart wanting
no answers offered to quell the dark
of these terrible life’s moments
only the desperate need to hold onto
beleaguered treasure that sustains us
for we are always faithful
to the things we know
always faithful to the
things we refuse to let go
12.
the color guard and funeral detail
assembled in front of St. Luke’s
the cemetery right next door
the procession a short troop
the living will stumble through
the darkness of separation
seeking elusive answers
of poignant uncertainty;
all gave some, Joey gave all
nothing more required for his
journey through eternity
Joey will always be with us
his stories forever retold
as long as the machinery of
great nations engage
the gears of wasteful war
Joey’s spirit lives
in a peoples desire
for freedom, only if
our hope of peace
is greater than the
need for conflict
Joey’s lifes work
is sure to bear fruit
if those remaining
fight the good fight
by taking up the
task to protect and
expand the values
of liberty we
hold most dear
like our good
friend Jesus
Joey wears a crown
bejeweled with
a ring of thorns
hoisted on a
terrible cross
the sweet
incense of you
meets our nose
we inhale your
earthly presence
beholding beautifully
adorned crucifix,
a reminder of
unjust persecution
and a perfect
resurrection
yet this wretched
coffin remains
pledging allegiance
we rationalize our
stories, articulating
our small parts
in heroic sagas,
reciting myths of
ourselves, recording
the grim history of
a young marine
surrounded by
a smart color guard,
feasting on todays
eucharist, this
days sweet taste
of the daily bread
of human sorrow
The priest finishes
his graveside
commendation
of Joey D
Taps conclude
a wind rises
crows take flight
winging over
a stand of budding
Sugar Maples
exploding in white
blooms, reveling
in the glorious
sunshine of this
magnificent day
St. Luke’s stairway to
God Country and Home
smiling portrait of you
forever young
we surround your grave
to bless the earth
you've returned home
to your place of birth
our flowing pride
and salty tears bless
the anointed ground
that you loved best
a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blest
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest
for he was always faithful
to the blessed land
forever at peace
in the soils sure hands
Charles Ives
The Unanswered Question
Oakland
11/10/13
jbm
a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blessed
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest
April 4, 2012
1.
in a far off province of
God forsaken Helmand,
our dear son Joey
met his untimely end
an explosive crack
a most terrible sound
felled a beloved Jersey son
to the cold cruel ground
working the live wires
of a well placed IED
a deathly burst killed him
it was awful to see
Staff Sgt. Joseph D’Augustine
in solemn duty fell
fellow brothers in arms
will forever reverently tell
of courage and character
of a dear fallen friend
and how the valiant warrior
met with death at his end
for he was always faithful
to his beloved corps
comrades couldn't ask
a valiant marine for more
2.
details of his death
are not the real story
selflessness and bravery
are but part of his glory
is it brash to
question why he fell?
in a useless bitter war
an embroiled senseless hell
a generation mustered
to fight in the war on terror
serving four tours of duty
in a lost decade of errors
two tours in Afghanistan and Iraq
could a nation ask a man for more?
for he was always faithful to the call
upholding pledges he hath sworn
3.
the burden of war
to a few confined
it rarely crosses
an American’s mind
incessant war machine
drones on apace
the horror of conflict
so cleverly displaced
with afternoon baseball
and super bowl parties
big disco paychecks
and other selfish priorities
pay hollow tribute
to dear weary troops
when valor is mentioned
we gather in groups
we’ll raise the flag
sing stirring anthems
than its back to the party
pay it no more attention
self styled patriots
wave handfuls of flags
but ask them to contribute
the zeal soon lags
its left to the few
to shoulder burdens of many
fairness is lost
its a democratic calamity
four tours in a decade
an inhumane task
burdens require sharing
its only fair to ask
Joey was always faithful
to the task at hand
willing to step forward
to serve his homeland
4.
in the wake of 9/11
a nation deeply shaken
young patriots stirred
liberty’s call not forsaken
a call to serve answered
to quell the rise of terror
a clear clarion alarm
marks the nature of the era
Joey boldly came forward
to train and learn
the art of warriors
his bright patriotism burned
deployed to Afghanistan
to capture Osama
routing the Taliban
without much problem
but a pacified Afghan
not enough for Bush
he invaded Iraq
another military push
we rolled into Baghdad
adorned with victors garlands
Saddam’s statue toppled
our troops were honored
deposing a dictators
soon turned to occupation
a ****** mission transformed
to build the Iraqi and Afghan nations
once honored liberators
now a conquering force
bestriding broken nations
on a civil war course
military industrialists
stood to profit most
sweet protracted conflict
record earnings to boast
lives bartered for lucre
a region held hostage
the conflict deepened
hostilities hardened
America dipped into
a great recession
the war machine
bled money and
kept on ticking
scooping up contracts
rewarding investors
the dividends of war
heaven sent treasure
continuation of hostilities
preys on a nation's youth
as casualties mount
ill portents forsoothed
a fraction of citizens
bare heartaches of war
gulping measures of despair
to guard a nations door
a nation always faithful
to the holy pursuit of profit
a highest citizens calling
put money into your pocket
5.
our beloved Jersey son
gave a full measure of devotion
in dress blues they shipped him
back across the ocean
on the Dover tarmac
they received his remains
for a last ride northward
to his hometown terrain
repatriated body
bereft of soul saluted
solemn escort knelt
hearts trembled, tears muted
a hearse for a gallant man
flanked by state troop cruisers
to escort the funeral train
assure an honored movement
one last trip up
old thunder road
the storied highway
Joey often trod
the last detail legged up 17
reverent firefighters saluted
from overpasses
to honor the woeful scene
as the motorcade passed
the Garden State Malls
frenzied consumers
failed to notice at all
busy window shoppers
didn't to turn an eye
as Joey rolled home
to the sweet by and by
vets interred at the
Old Paramus Church
gently stirred in their graves
reasons for war they search
Channel 12 Chopper
circled its eye in the sky
televised the sad parade
captured many teary eyes
the early spring blooms
colorful petals displayed
maples and forsythias
a royal carpet laid
spring remains always faithful
as the new season turns
offer sunshine and glory
as our sinking hearts burn
6.
motorcycle escort
northbound lane clear
rolling homeward
Waldwick was near
leaves exploding
green shoots budding
****** white maple blooms
natures accolades stunning
the oaks yet bare
just waking from slumber
winters death passing
a sad day put asunder
the motorcade passed
Joey’s home on Prospect Ave
few envision lifes endings
this woefully sad
red chevy pickup idles
in hoop crowned driveway
never to drain jumpers again
departed children can’t play
the eye in the sky
framed neighbors in mourning
welcoming back a fallen hero
unsettled emotions dawning
neighbors waved Old Glory
from painted stoops and curbs
unsure how this tragedy
visits this blessed suburb
green grass of home
always flush with spirit
tears welled in the eyes
most difficult to bear it
last cruise of the town
sad neighbors stand witness
paying final due respects
and ponder from a distance
what purpose is served
by this man’s passing?
the dead cannot speak
rationale is for the living
the terrible herse
death circles our town
moves through our day
hope of spring drowned
murderer of sunshine
killer of young flowers
budding trees breaking
our hearts an ashen pallor
we remember the beauty
of Joey’s stout face
as it looked on your finest day
exuding pure honor and grace
old vets gather
donning caps and pins
boasting semper fi jackets
jutting tear dripping chins
shaking hands, giving hugs
bearing tattered banners
the hearse ambles onward
we head home in solemn manner
good folks are always faithful
where beloved ones grew
the death of our children
we sadly cannot undo
7.
the bells of St. Lukes
called out from the sky
platoons of limping vets
marched in with pride
pomp and circumstance
requisite dress blues
family, friends, townsfolk
overflowed the pews
doleful bells resound
tolling a mournful reckon
the cost of war mounts
a family’s loss beckons
the casualties of war
falls upon a nation's youth
a seasons page not turned
a flowing wound not soothed
the wistful cornet calling
floats on the fluted air
the bereaved ***** gently sounds
a congregations somber despair
an unsettling dirge
the parish grows uneasy
nationalist bravado wanes
in the forlorn sanctuary
both church and flag
draped in colors of war
mock stain glass windows
communicants adore
is it a betrayal of the flag
to offer enemies
psalms of reconciliation?
where does true loyalty lay
with God or a warring nation?
afterall this is a sanctuary
where peace and harmony reigns
are we not called to beat swords
into ploughshares as the highest
calling of our Lord?
we are always faithful
to the pathways to war
when the practice of peace
is what we should adore
8.
coughing and whispers
incessant low murmur
a baby cries out
we sit and remember
the crucifers process
in solemnity to greet
subtle ***** notes salute
a coffin draped in Old Glory sheets
the beloved child welcomed
to his eternal repose
priests splash holy water
within the sacred dome
an amazing grace revealed
lifted by marine pallbearers
dearly departed body presented
gently placed at the altar
a grief struck sister
lovingly eulogizes
recalls tonka trucks,
GI Joe’s and cool transformers
a punch in the nose
an approaching wedding
beckoning Eastertide
vacation plans left begging
my second grade class sent
Christmas cookies and cards
to dear Joey and warrior friends
he said it warmed stark winter hearts
he was raised in this church
taught trust and reconciliation
the comfort of the Lords peace
may it surely go with him
for he was always faithful
to sisters, family and faith
his resurrection service
imbues sacredness
to this space
9.
sharp in dress blues
Eddie T USMC Gunny
big 50 caliber smile
offers his eulogy
Bada Bing Jersey Humvee
we called him Joey Calzones
good mood, loved sausages
he tickled the funny bone
always willing to sacrifice
loved the Patriots Tom Brady
a women dominated household
gave him a way with the ladies
his calling explosive ordinances
he said he was livin the dream
March 6th last time we met
knocking frost off cold ones
man whatta scream
a gallant marine,
beloved brother,
a sure friend
he was always faithful
I’m deeply wounded
by his untimely end
10.
the gospel read
the homily offered
Ecclesiastes wisdom
a time for everything
proffered
God never turns
an eye from the beloved
though seasons change
we are not forsaken
never unloved
as loss arrives
surely grief grows
turn away not
wisdom knows
in resignation
love lay dead
diligent intention
banishes dread
our rekindled hope
we rend and sow
our beloved Joey
knew this was so
our favorite son’s
example taught us
now rises on eagle’s wings
to claim his divine justice
Jesus faithfully tramped
the path to an awful death
Joey too fought the good fight
a warrior now gratefully at rest
The Lord holds him close
to the ***** of sure love
a cantors beatific voice incants
Joey’s spirit that forever enchants
The Lord is always faithful
to the bereaved and beloved
no one ever forsaken
all unconditionally loved
11.
the Holy Eucharistic cup
affirms everlasting giving
tasted to nourish evermore
a libation for the living
singing the Beatitudes
praising peace makers
mercy filled voice and song
pallbearers lift Joey’s coffin
off to seek his final peace
an earthly occupation ended
he’ll suffer worldly hate no more
down the aisle his coffin wended
the family closely followed
a mother haltingly sobbing
faithful marines came forth
to steady her wobbling
there is no sudden waking
from this terrible dream
the pungent incense rose
to the chapels sacred beams
the stained glass murals depict
the passion of Jesus’s story
illuming a consuming sorrow
in all its grace filled glory
the ***** of death slinks on again
we search for consolation
the recompense of honor blest
leaves a hollow heart wanting
no answers offered to quell the dark
of these terrible life’s moments
only the desperate need to hold onto
beleaguered treasure that sustains us
for we are always faithful
to the things we know
always faithful to the
things we refuse to let go
12.
the color guard and funeral detail
assembled in front of St. Luke’s
the cemetery right next door
the procession a short troop
the living will stumble through
the darkness of separation
seeking elusive answers
of poignant uncertainty;
all gave some, Joey gave all
nothing more required for his
journey through eternity
Joey will always be with us
his stories forever retold
as long as the machinery of
great nations engage
the gears of wasteful war
Joey’s spirit lives
in a peoples desire
for freedom, only if
our hope of peace
is greater than the
need for conflict
Joey’s lifes work
is sure to bear fruit
if those remaining
fight the good fight
by taking up the
task to protect and
expand the values
of liberty we
hold most dear
like our good
friend Jesus
Joey wears a crown
bejeweled with
a ring of thorns
hoisted on a
terrible cross
the sweet
incense of you
meets our nose
we inhale your
earthly presence
beholding beautifully
adorned crucifix,
a reminder of
unjust persecution
and a perfect
resurrection
yet this wretched
coffin remains
pledging allegiance
we rationalize our
stories, articulating
our small parts
in heroic sagas,
reciting myths of
ourselves, recording
the grim history of
a young marine
surrounded by
a smart color guard,
feasting on todays
eucharist, this
days sweet taste
of the daily bread
of human sorrow
The priest finishes
his graveside
commendation
of Joey D
Taps conclude
a wind rises
crows take flight
winging over
a stand of budding
Sugar Maples
exploding in white
blooms, reveling
in the glorious
sunshine of this
magnificent day
St. Luke’s stairway to
God Country and Home
smiling portrait of you
forever young
we surround your grave
to bless the earth
you've returned home
to your place of birth
our flowing pride
and salty tears bless
the anointed ground
that you loved best
a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blest
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest
for he was always faithful
to the blessed land
forever at peace
in the soils sure hands
Charles Ives
The Unanswered Question
Oakland
11/10/13
jbm