A Man Called Chris
There I was,
listening to a live reggae band,
shedding the stress of the world,
and my patterns within it,
gazing upon a drunken man greeted, followed, and respected by men,
After a warm embrace and firm warning to 'take it slow tonight, '
filled with one too many,
too early in the night,
with a sober friend at His side,
told me His story:
His war began at home
fighting for the same civil rights as his 'brethren, '
injustice boiled in His veins,
and bolted through His eyes,
from the beginning,
fighting in the Marines,
living atrocities untold,
stories televised and minimized
through smoky glass.
Now a Captain,
killing more men, women, and children,
civilians and 'terrorist, '
where lies the difference between the two
in a Holy war?
and now chapter four:
'I got the letter today, '
'I don't think I'll make it back, '
'sixty-six and I am done with war,
but the powers that be insist that war is not done with Me.'
He asked why I too, had tears falling from my eyes,
I thanked this Soldier for His service,
He stood before me,
the pride of His kind,
shaking off my praise,
a Man torn and sullied
in wretched despair,
never to be undone,
tortured by the horrors
of the worst side of life,
He feels that He and His victims
A new book
'I didn't have to be there to know,
your soldier's story pours from your eyes,
to all willing to listen,
I give You my love,
You are remembered,
and I wish You well,
You will return through the light.'
Rashida Mack's Other Poems
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