Two Christmas Poems for Veterans

.
A Veteran’s Christmas Wish

Each year when Christmas comes around again,
I pause on Christmas Eve to take a dram
Of whisky, and I think of absent friends,
And Christmas in a place called Vietnam.

I think of boys who never had the chance
To see their kids on Christmas Eve at play,
Their lives were spent that freedom might advance,
From Valley Forge right up through yesterday.

They fell at Belleau Wood and Normandy,
At Gettysburg, at Iwo and at Hue,
They gave their lives to keep our people free,
And never saw another Christmas Day.

So take a moment from your festive joys,
To think of soldiers who were young and true,
And say a prayer on Christmas Eve for boys
Who gave up all their Christmases for you.

Copyright © 2000
Robert A. Hall
Former SSgt, USMC

Spell check notes: Scotch whisky has no “e.”
Hue (Vietnam) is pronounced “way.”

The Christmas Gift

There is a gift that comes
From those out on the lines,
It is not wrapped in bows,
But, oh, how bright it shines.

There is a Christmas gift,
A pearl beyond all price,
From those who ask for naught,
But make the sacrifice.

They risk their blood and bone
On endless weary tours,
For that is all that keeps
The evil from our shores.

You worship as you will,
You freely have your say,
And all that is a gift
From sentries far away.

There is a gift that comes
From troops who guard the line,
That lets us live in peace
And joy at Christmastime.

We say “Support the troops,”
But hardly pause to think
What honor really means,
Or how near looms the brink.

There is a Christmas gift
From those who hold the line,
And you and I, my friend,
Get nothing more sublime.

(c)Robert A. Hall 2007
Former SSgt, USMC

Memorial Day

The troubled world can offer no award
To you who sleep beneath the chiseled stone.
You died because we handed you the sword,
And we are free because you sleep alone.

The tides of history well may change the cause,
And time may blunt the sharpness of the debt,
For sacrifice, a nation under laws
Is gathered here today, lest we forget.

--Robert A. Hall

I composed this poem while marching in the Fitchburg, MA Memorial Day Parade in 1975, then used it in my speech at the upper common.

The Wall

He traces names, maneuvering the chair
against the slope. The panels stretch out black
and still. Each year he vows he’ll not be back,
but every bitter April finds him there.
The first few names of friends are low. But four
are cut up high, and he would need a leg
to stand and trace them. So he has to beg
for help from strangers innocent of war.

Some years ago he pushed his wheels to where
the leader lived. He’d stared across the lawn
beyond the bars—the tourists had all gone—
then cursed and spat upon the ground. A pair
of guards had turned away without a nod.
—You’d think that it would break the heart of God.

—© Robert A. Hall, 1998

Hunting pheasant

The South Dakota sun sat low, diffused,

and hung the sky in shrouds of brooding gray.

The wind sliced through my parka’s shell, my shirt,

my skin and pierced, it felt, my marrow. More

than that, it covered all the other sounds

with a howling sort of silence. The crops were in

-- we walked the barren fields for pheasant cocks –

and from toe of boots to line of sky, the rose

was bare. With stomping boots and raucous talk

we tried to scare the birds from furrow holds

behind cut stalks until forgotten prairie homes

appeared and made us stop.

....................................................I walked as if

among the graves of kin, with lighter step

and whispered words. The last to live here are now

long dead, but it’s not for them I show respect.

It’s more the loss of dreams they loved and way

of life they shared. It’s more the closeness to the earth,

the knowing your own hands to be enough.

A couple stood upon this piece of land

and said, “This is our home: It’s here we’ll have

our babies; here is where they’ll bury us.

This is our place on the turning sacred wheel.”

A flock took wing and flew to hide behind

the barn, but my eyes were fixed on the house’s eyes,

a wall of darkened panes staring back.

Upstairs, a tattered curtain is hanging still.

I knew the room was small – I guessed a child’s,

with flowered walls, a ceiling slope, perhaps

a toy remaining once the pox had gone.

As if a dream, I saw small hands

push back the drape, and a hopeful face

peer out. The porch roof sagged in slow decay,

but in its shade I saw them, Ma and Pa,

to share the evening breeze, so cool against

the day amid the summer’s fields. A dog,

a mongrel dog, with shaggy, matted coat,

rolls in the dirt out front to shake his fleas,

then sits up straight, its nose into the wind

to catch the scent of game. They pay the hound

no heed: their thoughts are for each other.

Together they work, together they love, and there

together they stay. They ask for nothing more.

This home has much to say, in a sort of song.

I wondered: Do the men who plow these fields

take pause to hear? I turned and stomped away.

I’ve long since left those hollow eyes,

but still they follow me. They always will.

A corner holds two rods

The men, the boys, don't come here anymore.

The women come to visit her and dim

the memory of he who went before,

but men and boys no longer mention him.

The house is growing empty places, grim

and chilling gaps where his things once gave

a quiet, dusty voice to secret hymns

that marked his modest path from womb to grave.

The men and boys don't join me here now; they've

forgotten how it was for them when he

inspired them, taught them, loved them. But I crave

the scent, the feel of traces left to me.

....A corner holds two rods -- not much is here --

....and when I turn the reels I feel him near.

Lament for my Uncle

Bomber falling down

Bomber falling down
From the Belgian sky,
Uncle never known
Whirling down to die.

Battle of the Bulge,
Did not have to go,
Volunteered to fly,
Dead in Christmas snow.

German fighters came,
Wind from out the East,
Ours could not keep up—
Against a dying beast.

Tail gunner that day,
December, forty-four,
Not his usual job,
But that’s the way of war.

Tens of thousands fell,
Men who won’t return,
Gave to us our world,
Thank you, Uncle Vern.

--Robert A. Hall

Short forms

One of my favorite forms is the Quatrain, pearls in four lines, and I have a small collection of those I consider the best. Here’s my contribution to the style:

It matters not if rich or poor,
This life is quickly through,
So give to friends a little more
Than they can give to you.
--Robert A. Hall

There was an American poet—alas, the name escapes my old brain, but readers may recall—who invented an English form of the Haiku. Instead of being based on syllables, which is very suited to the structure of Japanese, they are based on iambic beats, with one, two, three, four and one beats in the five-lines of the poem. I used to write more of these. One of my constructions is:

The still
Beyond the door
Was more than I could bear
So quietly, I grasped the knob
And turned.
--Robert A. Hall