REQUIEM FOR WARRIORS

By Raymond P. Gillespie

Oh Lord my God, Oh Lord my God

Direct their way into thy sight.

Their souls are the best of me,

As my honor reflects their light.

They propel me up far beyond

The lessor of the common lot.

Oh Lord my God, Oh Lord my God

Their warrior blood has been let,

And seeped into the earthen crust,

Where no monument will stand erect

To remind those who wonder past,

They’re in the closet of my memory.

Oh Lord my God, Oh Lord my God

Free them of sins we have wrought,

And the horrors of battles we fought.

Your grace purifies their souls.

These warriors I’ve known were but a

Moment from their mother’s breast.

Oh Lord my God, Oh Lord my God

You heard their haunting cries,

On the shore, Out of the swamps;

Echoing on the plain beneath the ridge;

Rising to the apex of the mount,

Their cries then dropped to the valley below.

Oh Lord my God, Oh Lord my God

Direct their way into thy sight,

As their souls are the best of me.

My honor reflects their light.

They propel me up far beyond

The lessor of the common lot.

Lord I fear I’ve cast you out,

And forsaken thee. Will I not be

Allowed to glimpse on Heaven’s

Plateau, where honorable warriors go?

Oh Lord, I ask, search my soul for a

Glimmer of their light? Then judge me.

THE LITTLE GIRL

by Raymond P. Gillespie

Two days of war are recorded here,

Showing death, along with man’s fear.

On Okinawa in the year forty-five,

You’ll meet people both dead and alive.

The fire fight was short and swift,

Taking place in a stream below a cliff.

A little girl took our quick surprise;

As I ordered firing to cease and subside.

A higher ranking Sergeant took no heed

Of my order to leave the little girl be.

His first shot missed going astray:

His second shot tore her intestines away.

My complaint to the Lieutenant in command,

Brought a tort reply and a sharp reprimand.

The platoon moved on, she was in my care;

Her chances were slim no better than fair.

On a path toward a road lying west,

I carried the child be gentle as best,

While very high on a hill to my right,

Someone followed, well out of sight.

Was it enemy? Did compassion restrain

A warrior from putting lead in my brain?

Or were they parents or relatives above

Following in fear, but driven by love.

Big brown eyes caught sight of my tear

As I repeated, "You’re all right dear."

My language she could not understand,

But near the road she touched my hand.

She was taken to a hospital down on the bay.

Two of my friends were killed the next day.

The Lieutenant, he lost his sight,

And that Sergeant, he caught a bullet that night.

THE AWKWARD WEED

By Raymond P. Gillespie

Into night my heart cries now,

For this land begun by plow.

Reverent hands sowed a seed;

It grew into an Awkward Weed.

Nurtured my man, watered by God,

A miracle grew out of the sod.

The nation was strong, its people proud,

No one noticed the gathering cloud.

A menacing vapor sifted down,

Infecting wounds neath Liberty’s Gown.

Outsiders did question our shallow mind,

Because we worshiped might as payment in kind.

Wealth and poverty abounds galore-

Side by side, door by door.

With greed as our God defending right,

Masses huddle to stave off night.

Men of the cloth rant and rave:

Some for profit, some to save.

Prayer is spent honoring self,

As souls gather dust on the shelf.

Presidents lie to ignorant mobs,

Venting death, while mourners’ sob.

Liberty’s flag again drips blood,

Drowning justice in the flood.

Truth is dormant, hidden from sight;

So those in power can shadow light.

One who questions or dissents

Is then cast out to lament.

Freedom is veiled in fear,

Smothered under a fallen tear.

Can’t we see what we have become,

Or understand what we’ve done?

Only flagstaffs born by honest men,

Will erase our moral sins.

We then can sow new seed,

Paying homage to the Awkward Weed.

"Written in October 1967, because of the author’s disgust of the Vietnam War"