Rashida Mack

Rookie (August 8th)

A Man Called Chris


There I was,
on vacation,
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,
Chapter two:


fighting in the Marines,
living atrocities untold,
stories televised and minimized
through smoky glass.
Chapter three:


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, '
lips trembling,
'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,
and strength,
told Him,
He stood before me,
the pride of His kind,
shaking off my praise,
a Man torn and sullied
in wretched despair,
over misdeeds,
never to be undone,
tortured by the horrors
of the worst side of life,
He feels that He and His victims
are one.

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.'


Submitted: Thursday, April 16, 2009
Edited: Saturday, July 11, 2009


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