Saturday, February 4, 2012

Time To Let It Go

                   

They come in the middle of the night, dreams from times long past,
filled with the ferocity and violence that men share in times of war. Your
transported back to a time you must remember, but try so desperately
hard to forget. Your brain says it's time to let it go, but your dreams don't
listen to your brain. And some nights, from the dark recesses of your mind
it replays the events from so long ago, like a video you have no 
control of, it plays back in the hours of your deepest sleep. It's not just
seeing the images, it's the sounds and smells of war, its reliving it all
over again. It seems that know one leaves the battlefield unscathed,
all leave a piece of themselves there, and in turn, a piece of there,
comes here.   

Bruce Knipp

Monday, January 30, 2012

THE VETERAN

                                           THE VETERAN

At a National Cemetery somewhere in the Western U.S. when the light of day
is just breaking out from the darkness of night, highlighting the tops of  grave markers through the mist of the cool morning air. A lone figure is making his way through the head stones, suddenly he stops, bends down and picks up a small fallen American Flag, pushes it back into the ground steps back and does a slow hand salute, then continues on his way.
He's wearing an old military field jacket, a backpack filled with all his processions, a pair of camouflaged trousers that have seen better days,
an old worn out hat that says Vietnam Veteran, his hair is uncombed, uncut  and unkept, and so to his salt and pepper beard.
As he walks between the head stones he reaches in his pocket and comes out
with a tattered piece of paper, written on it is, Plot D Row 16 Grave 11.
Now at grave 11 he takes a deep breath, then takes a knee, runs his fingers
over his friends name as his eyes fill with tears. He takes off his pack
reaches deep inside and comes out with a purple felt box, inside a purple
heart medal and ribbon and a note, "I will never forget" and places it at
the base of the head stone. Three month ago he did the samething at the
Wall in D.C. under the panel where his friends name appears.
It's taken him three months to get here, by any means he could, mostly by‏
foot. In reality this journey started decades ago, in the jungles of
Vietnam. And at least a decade for him to finally fall pray to the demons
that now haunt is soul. Nightmares, flashbacks, anger, and hypervigilance   are his constant companions, and the only friend he has left is alcohol.
Now he says a small prayer for his friend and himself, stands up snaps to attention and gives a slow hand salute. Picks up his pack and with tears
streaming down his face, he heads out of the cemetery where he will either
get the long overdo help, or blend in with the nearly 200.000 homeless veterans roaming America.

Bruce Knipp