The Sounds of the Guns

     I have been overwhelmed by the sound of silence thus far in this tour.  I know I have only been here a short while, but I am in Baghdad, Iraq less than a mile from Route Irish that was the flashpoint of hundreds upon hundreds of bombs, attacks, and forever changed lives.  It should be named Patriots Path, because it has been washed with the blood of heroes.  Weeks and I have not heard any of the sounds that haunt my dreams, and steal in front of my eyes when I'm present but still far away.  No prayer calls, no mortars, no crackle of gunfire and wail of sirens. No blaring radio, urgently calling for my aid, no purple hearts laid on patriot chest, no smells that evoke instant tears of sorrow.  I'm not complaining nor am I wishing for these things, I am off guard, teetering unsure of which way to lean, towards belief, or towards fear that the lightning is about to strike and wars thunder any moment will breach the errie silence.  Somewhere in the middle is what Im attempting with a modicum of success outwardly.  Inwardly I wait, and feel lost without a purpose, and at the same time guilty for the sensation.  Silence isnt sadness, its always been the preceptor of the chaos.  Yet minutes have crept to hours, hours to days, days to weeks and the chaos only has shape in the echoes of my dreams, familiar nightmares like welcome friends, comforting in their presence.  Unseen Medals for the privilege of serving next to legends in a time quickly being forgotten by hands rushing to turn the page.  Trying to put this strange feeling into words, I wrote a poem to help express my thoughts.

The Sounds of the Guns

     Where are the sounds of the guns?

How have the mighty gone silent?

     Heroes walk as tourists now

taking pictures of ghosts from not so long ago.

     When the sounds of the guns were the music that filled the night

Blackhawks like predators in the darkness swooping, screaming, gone.

     Haunting prayer call piercing silence,

Whistle heralding mortars approach.

     Feel the reverberation before sound deafens

Belated warning prepares for more.

     Echoes now, only echoes of a war that defined yesterday,

wounded today and scarred tomorrow

     with glassy-eyed zombies telling tales to non-believers

of the sounds of the guns whose terror now diminished

     is longed for by those whose hearts and souls were shaped

by their sounding, ever sounding, now silenced.

     How can they keep rhythm anymore?

     How have the mighty gone silent

Now that the streets are filled with dusty silence

     And the guns are gone in all but stories told

By veterans who were made to age too soon

     To wide-eyed Soldiers who seem far too young

Too young, too young to hear the echoes

     Of the sounds of the guns.