Semper Fi Christmas

Semper Fi Christmas

By John A. Wilson

I

Was

There

When we

Fought at

Beleau Woods

I helped take

The deadly peak

Of Suribachi Hill

I held you close to

Try and keep you warm

At the Chosin Reservoir

I covered your back in the

Jungles and rice paddies as

You did your very best in Nam

I flew high cover for you above

The blazing oilfields of the gulf

Wherever you may have been, Marine

Beside you I have stood as companion

And protector, your Lord, Savior and God.

And I will

Forevermore

Momma

Momma

By John A. Wilson

For forty years now

The grass has grown

Over the man that she still loves

Her body’s now frail

Her hair snowy white

But a twinkle still shines in her eyes

Her life has been hard

Her journey so long

To see all of her children grown

With her love she raised

The six of us

Three girls, three boys and a dream

For we are her gift

To all of the world

In hope that we will succeed

To leave the world

A better place

Than it was before we came

We six are the gift

She gave to the world

And the world was her gift to us

First part of Chapter 1: Kreya of the Adenians

Kreya of the Adenians

Chapter 1

O

n a small, rocky ledge on the side of a steep mountain stood a solitary figure.  While not toweringly so, he was fairly tall with long fair hair twisted into long braids at the side and tied with rawhide strips.  His face was striking with dark, piercing eyes, prominent cheekbones and a thick moustache. A brushy beard a couple of shades darker than his hair rounded out the handsome face. The wide shoulders sloped downward a bit due to thick pectoral muscles. His powerful arms were bare except for rawhide bands tied above each bicep muscle.  The muscular chest and abdomen were covered by a deerskin vest. His buckskin pants were tucked into the top of moccasins that came almost to his knees.  From the belt around his narrow waist hung a knife with an expertly knapped flint blade attached to a handle of deer horn, and stuck into the belt was this warrior’s most prized possession.  A bronze-headed hatchet on a handle as long as the distance from his bent elbow to the tip of his fingers was as much a mark of his status in the community as it was a formidable weapon and indispensable tool. 

          This was Kreya.  He had journeyed for three days to reach this high promontory in what his people called the Southern Mountains.  From here on this little rocky perch Kreya could see the whole lush green valley that separated the Southern Mountains from the Northern Mountains.  While the Southern Mountains were substantial, they were neither as high nor as massive as the Northern Mountains.  The Northern Mountains marked the northern border of the people who lived in this land.  In the language of the people, it was called Adenia, which meant simply “our land.”  The people who lived here called themselves the Adenians, or “people of the land.” The Adenian people knew of only three trails through the Northern Mountains and it was seldom that any of the people ventured through them.  As far as the Adenians were concerned the people that lived on the other side of those mountains could stay where they were and the Adenians would stay in this, their land. 

          Kreya had come to this spot for a reason.  He had carried in his pack enough food for the journey here and back.  He planned to be here on this little shelf of rock for at least three days, but while here, he would not eat at all and would drink only sparingly from the bison bladder that held his water.  This little ledge had been used for more generations than the tribal elders could remember whenever an Adenian needed to commune with the spirits of the ancestors. 

The ledge was about three paces wide and two good steps from the mouth of the little cave at the back of the ledge would send you over the edge of the high cliff that dropped almost vertically several hundred feet. Standing at the edge of the cliff, Kreya could see almost all of the valley below that would take a man five days to walk across.  Somewhere off to his right, Kreya knew, was the summer camp of the Adenians.  At the back of the ledge was a small cave.  Actually, it barely could hold claim to such a lofty title.  It was an indentation into the rock no more than the length of a man’s body deep and just twice that wide.  While Kreya could almost stand straight up at the mouth of the cave, at the back it was not as high as a kneeling man. 

After taking a few minutes to enjoy the panoramic view from the cliff’s edge and to take a few deep breaths of the clean mountain air, Kreya bent to the work that he knew he must do to prepare for the ordeal that he was about to engage in.  Kreya untied the leather thongs that held his pack together and unrolled the bearskin that served as the bag and would also be his sleeping fur.  Kreya took from the unrolled pack the small amount of food it contained and stowed it as far back in the cave as he could then laid the bearskin near the rear of the cave.  Also contained in the bearskin were two wolf hides and a two leather bags.  In one bag were the tools that Kreya would need to start a fire along with a few things he may need here in his little camp.  The other contained ground-up fragrant herbs.  When burned in Kreya’s campfire the herbs would give off a very pleasant-smelling smoke that would help Kreya to get in touch with the ancestors.

While the journey up to this isolated place was difficult and the ordeal that he was about to face would be hard, Kreya’s heart was light.  The reason that he had made this journey and would fast here for three days was because his wife had recently given birth to a son.  Kreya was here to contact the ancestors whom the Adenians worshiped to seek their approval of his son and to be given a name for the child.  While Kreya gathered enough firewood to keep a small fire burning for three days he was happy for this was his first child and he was proud that it was a rather robust little boy.  Still, there was a small nagging worry in the back of Kreya’s mind.The ancestors did not always approve of a son or the warrior to whom it was born.  Some warriors were not able to contact the ancestors because that man was lacking in some way that the ancestors disapproved.  Sometimes the ancestors did appear to the warrior but did not give a name for the child.  This meant that the child would not survive its first winter.  So Kreya worried about his son, but felt confident that the ancestors would approve of him.

Kreya piled the firewood at the side of the ledge and then laid the two wolf hides one on top of the other near the pile and prepared a place in front of the wolf hides for a fire.  Kreya would sleep on the great bearskin in the back of the tent tonight and then when the sun rose tomorrow Kreya would sit on the wolf hides, build a small fire at the edge of the cliff and sit there for three days.  The pile of firewood was near enough at hand that he would not have to get up to add to his fire.  He would sleep a few hours each night in the cave but not until the moon which would be full tomorrow night, had reached its high point in the sky.  If the ancestors approved, he would have his vision on the third night as the moon was high, then on the fourth day Kreya would be able to eat to revive himself and then start the journey back to the summer camp.  As the sun began to set Kreya ate a bit of dried venison, drank some of his water and lay down for his last good night’s sleep for the next three days.

A Few Regrettable Words

A Few Regrettable Words

By John A. Wilson

From time to time, we all do things that we later regret, sometimes for years to come. The things that we regret may not have been done with any intent of malice toward the person that we hurt. Sometimes our most regrettable acts stem from something as simple as a few words spoken without thinking, and once said, our thoughtless words can haunt us for years. For many years now I have borne the burden of a few words spoken thoughtlessly.

In 1973, the war in Vietnam was finally drawing to a close. Richard Nixon had finally taken the necessary steps to end "Johnson’s Dirty Little War." Our troops were pulling out, slowly turning a losing battle over to the people who lived there. I was a young enlisted Marine, as gung-ho as they come. Like many young men I had an overly romanticized view of war, and no sense of my own mortality. I was anxious to get myself into the war before it was over. To me, the war represented a chance for glory. If I could just get over there before it was too late, I could come home a hero, admired by children and sought after by countless beautiful women. I knew nothing about the reality, the true horror of armed conflict. I was about to get a crash course.

The one thing that suddenly brings the reality of mortal combat crashing down on you is to find out that you are about to get sent into the heart of it. I will never forget the feeling I got when I first learned that I was going to Khe Sahn, it felt like my guts had suddenly turned to jelly. For those of you that have forgotten, Khe Sahn is the place where U.S. Marines were held under siege by the Viet Cong for several months. The communists predicted that Khe Sahn would end up just like Dien Bien Phu did back in the 50's, with the base overrun and the garrison wiped out. They forgot to take into account that there is a difference between U.S. Marines and French Paratroopers. The Marines held. Of course this was 1973, the siege had been broken long ago, but that name, Khe Sahn, still sent a shaft of fear through any Marine that heard it. I handled my fear in the finest tradition of Marine enlisted men; I talked loud and tough. An eighteen-year-old Marine Lance Corporal is not supposed to show fear.

Living conditions at Khe Sahn were, to say the least, austere. We lived in bunkers that we called "hootches." A hootch is a hole dug in the ground about 4 feet deep, around the hole, sandbags are stacked about 2 feet high, then a roof is built by laying timbers across the hole and covered with plywood, more sandbags are then stacked on top of the plywood until the timbers can hold no more weight. You never feel comfortable with the number of sandbags on your bunker. If you put enough of them on to make the bunker really shellproof, then the roof will collapse. You don’t want that to happen if you happen to be inside. A narrow trench angling down to the dirt floor provided access into the hootch. The dirt floor was covered with wooden pallets to help keep your feet out of the mud. Some of the hootches had plywood thrown over the palletts to keep the legs of your cot from falling into the cracks between the boards. This was a luxury enjoyed by officers and those crafty enough to steal a few sheets of plywood. There were, of course, no windows in the hootch. The hootches were built to protect you during a mortar attack. A window would have defeated the purpose.

Shower facilities were a little primitive and were placed a minimum of 100 yards from the nearest hootch. They claim that this was for sanitary reasons, but I think it was just another way to mess with the enlisted men. You look pretty ridiculous hot-footing it out to the shower tent wearing a towel around your waist, shower shoes on your feet and a helmet on your head. The point of this is that not everyone took a shower every day. Now, the bunkers being built below ground level did help some toward enduring the heat and humidity of Southeast Asia, but with 8 to 10 unwashed bodies living in that unventilated, cramped space, the air could be a little hard to take. Sometimes to escape the fetid air in the hooch I would crawl up on top of it and sleep. The temperature at night was almost bearable, sometimes.

There were only six of us in our little unit. We were Detachment, 3rd FSR, which means that were a small detachment from our parent unit, 3rd Force Service Regiment. 3rd FSR was a maintenance unit stationed on Okinawa. We were mainly engineers and mechanics whose job was to keep the equipment of the 3rd Marine Division operating properly. When we were detached from our parent unit, we were supposed to go to Camp Fuji, Japan. Since we were such a small unit, we were ordered to board ship with an infantry unit that was headed to Camp Fuji for cold weather training. Halfway to Japan some genius decided that we needed a few more grunts in Khe Sahn to help cover the pull-out. I think that they forgot that we were on board. That’s how Det. 3rd FSR got sent to Viet Nam by mistake. We all didn’t make it back, one of us never even made it ashore. But that’s another story.

It’s been a lot of years ago and, sadly, I’ve forgotten some of the names, but I’ll never forget the faces. Sergeant Granger was NCO of the detail, he was a bit odd, but he was all we had. There was PFC Williams, short, ebony skin, built like a tank, a welder by Military Occupational Specialty (MOS), I don’t remember ever seeing him when he wasn’t smiling. Kelly was a big Pennsylvania Irish, a good man to have at your back in a brawl, believe me-I know. Eddie Franks, from Chicago, one of the best friends I had during my years in the Marine Corps. He was the one who didn’t make it ashore alive. Then there was Pvt. Blaire. I never did learn his first name, we just called him Blaire, that seemed to be enough. Blaire was a truck driver, you couldn’t help but like him, but he was a little dense even by Marine standards. He didn’t have a lot to say most of the time, and you had to keep what conversation you had with him pretty simple, but he was a good man. He worked hard at anything you asked him to do. He was convinced that I was some kind of a genius because he overheard me explaining a rather complicated electronics problem to Franks while we were still on board ship, and he took everything I said literally. I guess he thought that I was not capable of being wrong. That fact slipped my mind once; I’ve regretted it ever since.

The Marines tend to use terms that were outdated a century ago, for instance, the "Smoking Lamp." There is no longer a lamp that tells us when it is permissible to smoke or not. The word is simply passed, "The smoking lamp is lit," meaning smoking is permitted or, "The smoking lamp is out," meaning that it is not. Everyone knew that, after dark, "the smoking lamp was out" outside of the bunkers. The glowing end of a lit cigarette can be seen for several hundred yards in the dark. That’s a pretty good target for a V.C. sniper.

One night I was lying on top of my bunker when I became aware of the fact that someone was climbing up there with me. Even in the dark I knew who it was just by the way he moved and the silhouette that he made. It was Pvt. Blaire.

"What’s up, Wilson?" he asked

"Not much," I answered, "just relaxing."

Blaire stretched out on the sandbags beside me. "Been pretty quiet tonight?" he asked.

"Haven’t heard a thing all night."

Blaire was quiet for a while.

"Do you think there’s any of them out there tonight?" he asked. Blaire always seemed to be bothered by the fact that someone might be watching him. Especially since that someone probably had a gun pointed at him.

"You never know," I told him. "Why don’t you stand up and light a smoke to find out."

"Alright." Blaire said as he scrambled to his feet.

I had forgotten that he took everything I said literally. Too late I realized what he was doing. A match flared, illuminating Blaire’s face. I tried to reach up and grab him to pull him down, but I was too late. The unmistakable sound of a 7.62mm round splitting the air cracked above my head. Blaire collapsed on top of me. I pulled him to me. The round had caught him dead center in the chest.

Blaire whispered to me, "Yeah, they’re out there."

Then the light seemed to go out of Blaire’s eyes. I wanted to scream, to shoot back, anything. But there was nothing I could do for Blaire. My thoughtless words had cost Blaire his life.

Dream, Dreamer, Dream

Dream, Dreamer, Dream
By John A. Wilson

Dream, dreamer, dream
Imagine what you can do
Dream, dreamer, dream
For dreamers there are too few

Dream, dreamer, dream
A new dream every day
Dream, dreamer, dream
Dream bigger than words can say

You cannot do a thing
That first you cannot dream
So to be your very best
Dream, dreamer, dream

The Execution

The Execution
By John A. Wilson

I kneel upon the platform
And lay my head upon the block
Today my life is over
With the crowing of the cock

Just a few more moments left
To make my peace with God
Tonight and nights forevermore
I'll molder `neath the sod

I bare my neck now to the axe
And prepare to be laid low
And for the last time in this life
I hear the rooster crow

The Price of Greatness

The Price of Greatness
By John A. Wilson

Set your sights on that distant star
That shines so brightly in your sky
Work toward it with all your might
For you can never dream too high

But dreaming isn't sufficient
If it's greatness you desire
Greatness takes hard work and sweat
And in your heart a raging fire.

For greatness, a toll it will extract
That must be paid each day
And the higher the greatness you achieve
The greater the price you must pay

The Bell

The Bell
By John A. Wilson


The bell, the bell,
I don't think I can answer the bell.
I've taken punches left and right
And I don't think I can answer the bell.

The bell, the bell,
I don't think I can answer the bell.
I need to get up, get back in the fight,
But I don't think I can answer the bell.

The bell, the bell,
I don't think I can answer the bell
My trainer stands ready to throw in the towel
In case I can't answer the bell.

The bell, the bell
I don't think I can answer the bell.
A lot of people are counting on me
I have to answer the bell.

My ears are ringing my vision blurred
Oh Lord, I must answer the bell
My knees are shaking my arms are weak
But I stand to answer the bell.

This fight may be lost
I may not have a chance
But by God,
I answered that bell.

Freedom

Freedom
By John A. Wilson

To worship my God in the way that I chose
To publicly speak my mind as I will
To print whatever I feel is the news
And earn my keep according to my skill

To travel when and wherever I may
To be judged by a jury of my peers
To vote as I wish on Election Day
To choose the music that falls on my ears.

These freedoms are but a few that we know
In this country that I call home
Where our freedom has been allowed to grow
And people are free to settle or roam

But freedom is such an uneasy thing
And the price oft-times is war's ugly sting

Primal Fear

Primal Fear
John A. Wilson

My heart beats a tattoo inside my chest
My breath becomes short, respiration rapid
Sweat pours from my forehead
My mind becomes foggy
All rational thought stops
I want to run
But there is nothing to run from
An no where to run to
And the hardest part is
Trying to figure out what I'm afraid of

Hell

Hell
By John A. Wilson

I once could imagine the depths of hell
With all of its horror, torment and pain
For all of the souls who therein do dwell
Forever condemned to the devil's reign

But now of myself I am not so sure
As I sit here and try to contemplate
Just what those denizens there must endure
Once they have gone through that terrible gate

I thought I knew what real suffering was
But now I see how little I did know
I deceived myself as everyone does
Whenever we think that hell is just so

For hell is beyond imagination
Regardless the depth of contemplation

Everyday Heroes

Everyday Heroes
By John A. Wilson

Today like every day you put on that uniform
You can not know what today may bring
But ready you stand to take on come what may
The health and safety of our country depends on you
And you accept the responsibility even at your own peril
It matters not what uniform you wear
Be it military, police, fire or paramedic
Whether or not you ever hear a shot fired in anger
Rest assured, a hero you are.

Word Art

Word Art
By John A. Wilson

With lined paper for a canvas
And a pencil for a brush
Letters are my tubes of paint
My palate is my mind

Like a painter mixing colors
To create the perfect hue
I combine the letters together
To turn the perfect phrase.

My pen chisels away the unnecessary
To find the truth beneath
As a sculptor wears the marble away
To reveal the sculpture within

I use my words as building blocks
To build joy, suspense or romance
As an architect uses mortar and brick
To erect a magnificent edifice

Art is not confined to marble and paint
Or buildings and structures strong
Art exists in the mind's own eye
With none more beautiful than words

Complexity

Complexity
By John A. Wilson



Here sit I with pen in hand
Trying to explain what I don't understand
I don't know why I feel this way
Or why on my heart such burdens lay
I don't know what has brought me down
Or why on my face you see such a frown
The doctor says these pills will help
My friends say try this tropical kelp
But truth be known, no one understands
They say my happiness is in my hands
But the human mind is a complex thing
And from the brain strange things can spring
In my mind lies a living hell
And a raging storm I can never quell
So don't waste time trying to figure out
This thing that you know nothing about
Don't think that you can take away
The pain that I live with everyday
All you can do is love and care
And say for me a little prayer

The Sea

The Sea
By John A. Wilson

Storms will rise and gale force winds will blow
Waves will crash that can wash you overboard
Care must be used to best the windy foe
Though skill and nerve and trusting in the Lord.

Days there will be when there's no wind at all
Boredom sets in and your eye may wander
`Till another ship may hold you in thrall
Beware of the intrigue that you ponder.

Most days your sails will be filled with fair winds
The sea that you sail will be smooth and sweet
And with everyday problems you'll contend
With gentle hands on the tiller and sheet.

With love you can handle any weather
As you navigate life's seas together.

Our Guardian Heroes

Our Guardian Heroes
By John A. Wilson

I'll admit they aren't perfect
But can you say that you are?
They drive around all day
In a very conspicuous way.

You think all they ever do
Is hassle the likes of you
You never stop to consider that it is
Because of some of the things you do.

It's true our streets aren't safe
There seems to be crime everywhere
But can you imagine what it would be
If they were not even there.

You are free to go about your life
And do what you wish to do
Confident that you are protected
By the heroes in khaki and blue.

Dirty Old Man

I've never written a limerick before, but this one just came to me this morning.

Dirty Old Man
by John A. Wilson

There once was a dirty old man
Who thought he had a wonderful plan
He had a quick fling
With a pretty young thing
And wound up five years in the can.

Journey Through the Heart

Journey through the heart
By John A. Wilson

Freedom won at the point of a sword
Is expressed by the point of my pen
The joys and sorrows of all my days
I express just the way they have been

From the joy of a bounding puppy
To the pain caused by Cupid's sharp dart
I pour it all fourth onto paper
And every work is straight from my heart

My Faded Rose

My Faded Rose
By John A. Wilson


The petals of the rose are wilted now
The heavy hand of time has left its mark
The once-proud head begins to stoop and bow
The bright red petals are now turning dark.

The bright green leaves are now drawn and curling
The thorns once so sharp, have now lost their edge
The beauty lost, the flag now furling
Their undying love no one stands to pledge.

I could have kept the rose just like it was
Pressed `tween the leaves of some forgotten book
Freeze it in time like a botanist does
Its soul would be dead but not its new look

But my love's still strong for the fading rose
With all her aches and pains and aging woes.

Thank You, My Friend

Thank you, my friend
By John A. Wilson

A simple little gesture
Probably meant little to you
But it meant the world to me
Such a wonderful thing to do.

Today my spirits were really low
My ego had taken a blow
But you made me feel much better
With just a simple hello.

You could have walked on by
And not taken the time to speak
You made the choice to spend some time
When I was feeling down and weak.

I won't forget that little kindness
That you paid in your sweet way
And I vow to show my appreciation
With a similar gesture each day.

My Arduous Journey

My Arduous Journey
By John A. Wilson


Blindfolded I walk a treacherous path,
Through the dark swamplands of life.
The dangers that lurk there daily I face
Armed neither with spear nor gun, club or knife.

All manner of dangerous beast lurk here
In the shadows and the trees and pools.
Ready to pounce on the unwary ones
Who think they are protected by fancy jewels.

But the beasts, the snakes and the biting flies
Are never the things that concern me most
For always am I on my constant guard
Against the danger of the beastly host.

Those things I can see and defend against
In my trek across this dangerous land
My greatest fear is the thing I can't see
Like the deep sucking pools of the sand.

The ground that I tread seems solid and firm
Where the danger lies I can never know
My next step may bring disaster to me
As again I'm caught in the undertow

There's no reason why I sink into the sand
And nothing there is that can make me stop
I only can struggle and claw my way
If not to get out at least stay on top

It frightens you when I begin to sink
You care for me so you worry and fret
You want to find a way to help me out
Throw me a rope or be my safety net

I'm sorry but it doesn't work that way
This is something that I must do alone
Try to understand, this is not your fault
You're not the reason that I cry and moan.

You ask why I walk this dangerous path
Why not leave this treacherous place for good
I don't know how to make you understand
If there were any way I could, I would

It wasn't my choice this path that I take
The place where I am was thrust upon me
I must deal with it the best way I can
Fighting depression and insanity.

Seasons

Seasons
By John A. Wilson

Tripping through the lillies,
Sprawling in the grass,
Falling backward into fall leaves
Sliding on winter ice
Diving for a line drive
Doing a belly flop in the pool.

God, I'm clumsy

The Nature of God

The Nature of God
By John A. Wilson


You come to me and ask
What is the nature of God?
That's an answer I can't give

Many have tried in many ways
To explain that which you ask
No one ever will.

Some say the nature of God is a circle
Whose center is everywhere
And whose circumference is nowhere.

I have heard God described as a tree
Every living being is a leaf
And its roots are infinity

Some describe God as a superior being
Yes God is superior
But a being ? No!

You ask why the nature of God
Cannot be described ?
It is because of words

Every language that man speaks
Uses words to describe
The things of this world

Words that describe the things
Of this world can never describe
A thing that is not.

God is not of this world
So the nature of God
Cannot be described

So the nature of God
Can never truly be told
It must be felt

So if you want to know
The nature of God
Look only into yourself

Clear your mind and open your heart
Look deeply into your heart
And there God will be found.

Pain

Pain???
By John A. Wilson


Pain? Don't talk to me about pain
You don't know what pain is.
Pain is holding your best friend's head in your lap
As his blood flows out and slowly stops.
Pain is just waving at a friend rather than take the time
To speak to him and pass a few minutes of the day
And find out the next day that your friend is dead.
Pain is watching a friend's body waste away
While cancer takes it's deadly toll.
Pain is sitting and trying to decide
Whether that bottle of pills or that shotgun
Is the way you want to step out of this life.
But real pain is when that decision is on your mind
And there is no one, no one at all, to talk to about it.


Lake last Saturday night.

Persevere

Persevere
By John A. Wilson



My tears are as cold as the thick black ice
That weighs down the limbs of the trees.
My existence as pointless as the bright yellow stripes
On the tails of the worker bees.

But even though I suffer great pain
I know that I must go on.
If I can just hold on for one more day
Soon the pain will be all gone.

Nothing in life remains the same
On that you can depend.
The fragile pine tree snaps in the wind
But the mighty oak will bend.

Just ride out this storm I tell myself
It will all be over soon.
Then the clouds will pass, the sky will clear,
And I'll gaze at the stars and moon.

Lonely

Lonely
By John A. Wilson

The world goes on just outside
A giant windowpane
All I can do is sit here
And watch it go by.

I'm always an outsider
Though not by my choice.
The harder I try to be a part of it all
The more I feel left out.

Even those that speak to me
Every single day.
I'm just someone they know
Not someone to spend time with.

I'm not asking for much
Just to be included now and then
Let me be a part of things
I'm a lot more fun than you think.

My Pledge to You

My Pledge to You
By John A. Wilson

When you need someone to talk to,
I'll listen.
When you need a shoulder to cry on,
I'll hold you.
When you need a second opinion,
I'll give you mine.
When you need to be alone with your own thoughts,
I won't intrude.
When you feel like being playful,
I'll join you in your game.
When you need to vent some steam,
I'll be your pressure valve.
When you just need someone beside you,
I'll be there.
When the world is all against you,
I'll be on your side.
When the deck is stacked against you,
I'll back your bet.
No matter what your problem, situation or mood,
I'll be your friend.

The Wasted Search

The Wasted Search
By John A. Wilson

For more years than I remember
I searched to find myself.
Too busy in the search to see
That I was right here all along.

I sought the company of many
To be accepted into the crowd.
Never knowing that what I really sought
Was just to be alone.

I struggled hard to build my wealth
To have the things I need,
Too blind to see that what I really need
Cannot be sold or bought.

I sought the noise of laughter
Of those who seemed carefree,
And through the din I strained my ears
To try to hear the silence.

The Little Patch of Sky

The Little Patch of Sky
By John A. Wilson


I see a little patch of clear blue sky
And just the tops of half a dozen trees
I hear the droning hum of honeybees
And see an occasional butterfly

I stare out that window and softly sigh,
Minds can't be controlled they do as they please.
My mind travels out over distant seas
My spirit is free although here I lie

I lie here in this fetid little cell
And stare at that hole up there on the wall
I'm too tired to struggle, too hoarse to yell
My body shackled to a chain and ball
A prisoner for life in this earthly hell
Until my day in Execution Hall

I Answered the Call

I Answered the Call


By John A. Wilson



I answered the call when you needed me.
For my country, I gladly took a stand.
I took my rifle and I crossed the sea,
To fight for freedom in that distant land.

The blood of my comrades flowed at my feet,
And with each of my friends, part of me died.
I sweated each day in the jungle heat
And every night I hid my face and cried.

I cried for the loss of so many friends,
I cried for the loss of my innocence.
For youth is borne away on smoky winds
All in the name of national defense.

A few good men did what we had to do.
I cry today for those forgotten few.

Time

Time
By John A. Wilson

Gone are the playful shouts and
The raucous din of two active little boys.
No longer do we hear the running of little feet
Through the house despite my warnings not to.

Gone is the wide-eyed wonder
As the world around them is discovered anew.
Never again will there be hours of make-believe
And heroic adventures in lands as far away as the imagination.

Gone forever are the two dirty little faces
That looked to me with innocent trust
Gone are the little boys that made my world
Such a wonderful place to live.

For time, that slowly creeping thief
Has taken from me my two little boys
But mercifully time left two fine young men
Standing in the hall where the little boys once played.

Why Do We Dream?

Why Do We Dream?
By John A. Wilson


Why do we dream of soft winds
And moonlight in the trees,
Of branches reaching to the sky
Stripped of all their leaves.

Of Cassiopeia and Orion
High in the November sky
Of running feet, of bloodcurdling screams
As a Phantom rushes by.

Why do we dream of dust and smoke
And the moans that the wounded make?
Why do we dream of a night firefight
And the lives that we had to take?

Darkness

Darkness
By John A. Wilson

The darkness closes around me.
It holds me like a lover's embrace.
Darkness so thick I can almost feel it against my skin.
I don't fear the darkness
I welcome it.
It feels warm and comfortable to me, not cold.
Here in the darkness away from prying eyes
I can finally be myself.
Just me, no pretensions, no reputation to keep up,
Just me.
And no one can see my tears quietly fall.

The Plea

The Plea
By John A. Wilson


I hear your voice cry out
"Won't someone help me, please?
I cannot do this all alone
Please help me, please,"

Your eyes turn toward me,
Your plea is echoed there.
Others turn and look away.
They just don't seem to care.

What you ask is risky,
To help you could be my end.
Can't someone else do this?
On them can your life depend?

Your plea resonates through my soul
As you face the merciless horde.
I square my shoulders, step to your side,
Heft my shield and draw my sword.

My Watch

My Watch
By John A. Wilson


I stand my watch on the tower,
Not for fortune or for fame.
I'm here to do my duty,
Not add glory to my name.

I've stood my ground when others fled
Or ran and hid from the call.
But I add my sword to the others,
The defenders of this wall.

I'm only one of many
Who stand guard every day,
To guard you and protect you
As you travel on your way.

Through war and peace I'll be here
In case there is a need.
Even if it means that I must die,
For my country I will bleed.

So rest ye well America
Worry not at all.
You are safe as long as I am here,
Standing on this wall.

A Field of Yellow Daisies

A Field of Yellow Daisies
By John A. Wilson


Hand in hand, we walked along,
In a field of yellow daisies.
The cares of the world we did not feel,
In a field of yellow daisies.

I spoke of my undying love,
In a field of yellow daisies.
And asked her please to be my bride,
In a field of yellow daisies.

The church and all our families gathered
In a field of yellow daisies.
I took her there to be my wife
In a field of yellow daisies.

A cottage we built, warm and stout
In a field of yellow daisies.
We loved our lives together there
In a field of yellow daisies.

Then cold winds blew and tore apart
Our field of yellow daisies.
A fever took her and she fell ill
In a field of yellow daisies.

She died in the spring and I laid her to rest
In a field of yellow daisies
But her soul lives on in every breeze
Across a field of yellow daisies.

Death cannot end the love we had
In a field of yellow daisies.
For I remember her love each time I see
A field of yellow daisies.

My Strongest Need

My Strongest Need
By John A. Wilson

My need for you is strong.
I think of you and my heart races,
My body trembles, and my spirit soars.
I try to fight the craving for you,
But I know the cause is lost.
I must have you again.
I fear that the world will someday know
About my weakness for you.
I know that if I go to you
For one more taste of you,
My guilt will overcome me
And a heavy penance will be paid.
But my resolve weakens and crumbles.
I go to you, I take you and hold you.
The wonderful smell of you fills my senses.
This is insane, why can't I resist you?
I know that any other can have you
If they but pay the price.
But my need for you overwhelms me
And I slowly strip you bare.
My mouth aches for the taste of you.
My tongue gently caresses you
And the flavor of you fills my mouth.
My body relaxes and my eyes close.
The delicious sensation rushes through my body.



Ahhhhhhh, chocolate.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day
By John A. Wilson


I know that to you, it's just another day.
But to me it's a day of memories and pain.
I have given up hope of you ever understanding
And just saying a kind word to me when I need it.

Today you had a good time
With your family and your friends
Cooking out and just being together.
And never once did you think of the reason for the day.

Maybe it's because you didn't hold
The hand of a friend as his life slipped away
All for a cause that you can never explain
Or even understand.

But you are free today
To go about your day as you please.
Enjoy your freedom and your way of life.
But for just a moment, can you pause
And remember those who gave their lives
So you could have that freedom.

Beauty

Beauty
By John A. Wilson


The butterfly floats on delicate wings
With vivid patterns bright and colors pure,
And stately beauty of a thousand kings.
What'ere your melancholy it will cure.

The rose's beauty is like no other,
With dew-kissed petals and soft blushing hue,
The gentleness of a smiling mother,
With fragrance fresh, the fair lady to woo.

Though it seems such a waste of time to me
Countless poets are laboring to try
To tell what is the more lovely to see,
The blushing rose or the bright butterfly,

For your beauty is greater, I propose,
Than a butterfly perched upon a rose.

Tending My Field

Tending My Field
By John A. Wilson

For many years I was jealous,
Of my neighbor's field of corn.
The stalks were tall, the tassels long
With ears so plump and sweet.
Until one day he spoke to me
About my plot of peas,
"I wish that I could grow my peas
As fat and sweet as yours.
But, alas, the soil in my garden
Is not the proper kind."
My field is suited for one thing
His field for something else.
Time spent in envy of each other's gifts
Is woefully, forever lost.
So I no longer try to raise corn
My neighbor doesn't plant peas
He brings me corn, all that I need,
And I give him plenty of peas.
The Lord has given us each a plot
To till and tend our crops
Our job is to find what best grows there
And share our gifts with the world
And not to dwell on other's gifts
Because yours are special too.
So do not envy others
For talents you don't have
Just tend your field as best you can
And be proud of what grows there.

Fifty Eight Thousand Names

Fifty Eight Thousand Names
By John A. Wilson

Fifty-eight thousand names inscribed on the wall
Stare back at me in silent reproach.
They seem to ask,
"Why did you get to live and we had to die?"
Fifty-eight thousand names is all that is left
Of those brave sons and daughters, husbands and wives, sweethearts
and parents
That bravely took a stand
And paid the ultimate price.
Fifty-eight thousand names, their voices forever stilled
That never again heard children laugh
Or watched a crimson sunset,
Or felt the warm embrace of someone they loved.
Fifty-eight thousand names of those that never returned
To be publicly insulted and spat upon
By those who did not understand,
And to be shunned by a society where they no longer seem to fit.
Fifty-eight thousand names, now peacefully at rest,
Spared the years of nightmares, pain and tears.
My bitter answer is clear,
"Maybe you were the lucky ones."