Poetry

War Crazy

I have always thought myself a free spirit,

a philosopher mendicant,

seeking an alternative,

more substantive lifestyle.

So many others, however, see my unorthodoxy, my spiritual seeking,

as abnormal and a clear indication

of my insanity.

Perhaps I need to pause

and to reevaluate my life.

After all, being insane is not something

one readily admits.

I guess it’s part of being crazy

to cling to a facade of sanity,

to think oneself normal

and everyone else insane.

One thing I am certain of, however,

I haven’t always been crazy.

Wasn’t born crazy.

I think insanity crept up on me,

happened in Vietnam, in the war.

War does that you know, drives people crazy.

Shell shock, battle fatigue,

soldier’s heart, PTSD.

All that killing and dying

can make anyone crazy.

Some survive war quite well, they tell me.

Many even benefit from its virtues.

But war’s effects are not always apparent.

No one escapes war unscathed

in body and in mind.

All war, any war, every war

ain’t no virtue in war.

I think, of those not driven crazy by war,

many were crazy already.

But theirs was an insanity

of a different kind,

a hard kind, an uncaring kind.

I knew people like that,

didn’t like them much.

Thought them fortunate, though

as killing and dying meant nothing.

In fact, in a perverse way, they enjoyed it,

enjoyed the jazz, the excitement, the power.

They became avenging angels,

even god herself,

making decisions of life and death,

but mostly death.

Those crazies hated to see the war end.

For me, the war never ends.

Sometimes things work out

for the best, though,

as my unorthodoxy, my being crazy,

probably saved my life.

You see, sane people can’t live like this,

in a war that never ends.

Not all crazy people can either.

Guess I was lucky.

Sometimes being crazy helps you cope.

Sometimes, I wish I was crazier than I am.

Serious introspection has made clear

the foundations of my unorthodoxy,

the nature of my insanity.

It is a cruel wisdom

allowing, no better, compelling

a clarity of vision.

I have seen the horror of war,

the futility and the waste.

I have endured the hypocrisy

and the arrogance

of the influential and the wealthy,

and have tolerated the ignorance

and narrow mindedness

of the compliant and the easily led.

War’s malevolent benefactors,

who pretend and profess their patriotism

with bumper-sticker bravado,

with word but not deed,

intoxicated by war’s hysteria,

from a safe distance.

Appreciative of our sacrifices they claim

as they applaud the impending slaughter,

sanctioning by word, or action, or non-action

sending other men and women

to be killed, and maimed,

and driven crazy by war.

And when they benefit

from the carnage no longer,

their yellow ribbon patriotism

and shallow concern

fade quickly to apathy and indifference.

The living refuse of war that returns

are heroes no longer,

but outcasts and derelicts,

and burdens on the economy.

The dead, they mythologize with memorials

and speeches of past

and future suffering and loss.

Inspiring and prophetic words

by those who sanction the slaughter

to those who know nothing of sacrifice.

I used to try to explain war

to help them understand

and to know its horror,

naively believing that war was a deficiency,

of information, understanding,

discernment, and vision.

But being crazy has liberated me

allowing me to see that war

is not a deficiency at all,

but an excess of greed, ambition,

intolerance, and lust for power.

And we are its instruments,

the cannon fodder,

expendable commodities

in the ruthless pursuit

of wealth, power, hegemony, and empire.

And now, I accept

and I celebrate my unorthodoxy,

my insanity, as an indictment

of the hypocrites and the arrogant,

of the ignorant and the narrow-minded

for a collective responsibility and guilt

for murder and mayhem,

and crimes against humanity.

And I offer my insanity as a presage

of their future accountability,

to humankind in the courts of history,

and to the god they invoke so often

to sanction and make credible

their sacrilege of war.

The Rose

I remember once, in another lifetime,

noticing a lone rose rising

defiantly from beneath the rubble

outside the destroyed city of Hue.

It had no business being there,

adding color to the drabness of war,

beauty to the ugliness of destruction,

and the hope of life

when life held nothing

but suffering and death.

It was a contradiction

and created confusion

amidst the clarity of killing to survive.

. . . I stepped on it.

There are no flowers in a war zone;

nor color, nor beauty, nor hope.

My God

My god knows neither flag nor country,

supports neither political party nor ideology.

My god knows no distinction

between nations, religions, race, gender, sexual preference, or economic status.

My god is neither vengeful nor jealous.

My god is caring, merciful, and forgiving.

My god is a god of love and of peace.

My god is the way, the rhythm,

the harmony of all that exists.

To know my god is to respect

and to love the diversity

and yet the divinity of all of creation.

March of Folly

Marching in a parade

neither educates nor informs.

Nor does it help us put to rest

the turmoil of a life interrupted by war,

or forget the dying and the killing.

Rather it celebrates and perpetuates

the myth of honor and glory,

and "The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori."

I shall march no more.