In The Minefield
God, are you sending someone to me, or sending me to someone? Let it be said in the clear this time. Because I don't think I can judge, You see, what the risk really is, and because of the pain, I'm afraid that I won't make it thru this again. I will stand here and wait, and if You tell me how, I will do it, but God, I need clarity now. Both left and right to me look the same, so please answer me, God, and please God, Make it plain !
Copyright © 1996 James M. Hopkins
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Older Soldiers
We live in worlds that don't exist; helments of bronze and leather, hand forged knives, and arrows black feathered. Prepared for catastrophes pending; poised for crises impossible now, or perhaps ever. Imaginary heroes, swords sharpened singing keen do not matter anymore.
Copyright © 1996 James M. Hopkins
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Scene
Shadows of men stroll across grass. Extinguish cigarettes. Pause at doors. Move inside. Looking up - a blue white sky; Marshmallow clouds leading down to lazy street traffic behind trees. Below - black shoes, scuffed grey at the toes, on concrete over soil...and deep, over a ball of molten metal, at the earth's core. A shadow man strolls across grass, Extinguishes a cigarette. Pauses at a door. Disappears... Something moves thru grass, before something moving indistinguishable behind trees. Marshmallow clouds roast in a blue white sky over a core of molten nickel-iron. Copyright © 1995 James M. Hopkins
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Coming To Terms
Comes a time, somewhere along, before the edge if you're lucky, the view back over the shoulder settles and shrinks; still there but - different. What went on before won't work. Dismembering itself, it rearranges and shifts to form a smoother memory. An almost audible sigh; turmoil and clamor sink to a background hum that, while not pleasant, is at least harmoniously true. One deep breath - and it's time to move on - into a changed world. Copyright © 1996 James M. Hopkins
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Gothic Machine
The beauty of hardware - obedience. The perfect soldier - made of steel; bolt, trigger, magazine, delivering on demand, in return for a little oil. Fireworks delight children, grow large, larger - dissect flesh in foriegn lands. A steel wedge splits a sturdy oak - grows longer, slimmer, sings thru air - severs heads. Flax, hammered to linen - a Sunday tablecloth, or a fluttering battle flag. Dominion over Life, Dominion over Death, in return for a little oil. Copyright © 1996 James M. Hopkins
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Back From Ambush
Returning, we hear the larks as we trudge home. The sun breaks morning, the sky breaks blue, and the wildflowers, wet with dew will wash the blood from our boots, before breakfast. Copyright © 1996 James M. Hopkins
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MIA
Some disappeared in a field of mud, Others by shellfire - a mist of blood, Some fell to earth on a trail of smoke, But some are still lost and yet our hope Lives on; and by our lives, We will not forget the look in their eyes, Nor the Holy glimmer of last Good-Byes... Copyright © 1995 James M. Hopkins
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Memorials
Black, tapered Vee. Sign of Peace and Victory, fallen sideways together, into the ground. The names of the Known Dead. The names of the Presumed Dead. Colossal bronze GI's, straining, lifting, a gigantic flag into the wind. Cenotaphs in stone, polished names, dates; to last a lifetime. Survivors eyes. Twenty year olds with 50 year old faces. Aging men now with ancient eyes, staring at a nothing-horizon. Listening for helicopters. Minds that hold memory. Memories that hold blood... blood that surges thru monuments. Blood that holds the dead alive, day to day. Memory that surges, and pushes, lifts and strains, against a wind that lasts a lifetime. Copyright © 1996 James M. Hopkins
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