The monuments in Washington all seemed false in the cool morning mist. They were big and white and extravagant, yet the tourists cheapened them somehow as they gawked, took photos, an scurried to the next place on their list of things to see. Their attention seemed to focus on what things were rather than why they were. The scene was a poor sample of Americana. Even Honest Abe seemed to frown from his throne. Of all the walls of stone only on seemed real.

This wall's long black marbles slices into the ground. On it are engraved fifty-eight thousand American names from an undeclared war that no one wants to remember in the jungles of a country half a globe away. There are no ornate scrolls or stenciled directions, no fancy faded pieces of parchment, no self-serving sentiments, just names.

There's also a statue some distance away. Three bronze soldiers stare into the wall, waiting for word of their fellow soldiers or perhaps mourning their loss. The soldier's don't talk; they simply stare. They were all just boys, most only six years than I was then: nineteen.

Under the statue-soldier's gaze, and elderly man lagged behind a tour group at the wall. He caressed it and knelt to leave a single rose at the base. He sobbed. He had difficulty standing up. A nearby park attendant helped him up and asked, "One of yours, sir?" The man shook his head and replied, "Not one of them. All of them."

Posted by: Confederate Yankee at 08:50 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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Memorial Day
As we stand here looking
At the flags upon these graves
Know these flags represent
A few of the true American brave

They fought for their Country
As man has through all of time
Except that these soldiers lying here
Fought for your country and mine

As we all are gathered here
To pay them our respect
Let's pass this word to others
It's what they would expect

I'm sure that they would do it
If it were me or you
To show we did not die in vein
But for the red, white and blue.

Let's pass on to our children
And to those who never knew
What these soldiers died for
It's the least we can do

Let's not forget their families
Great pain they had to bear
Losing a son, father or husband
They need to know we still care

No matter which war was fought
On the day that they died
I stand here looking at these flags
Filled with American pride.

So as the bugler plays out Taps
With its sweet and eerie sound
Pray for these soldiers lying here
In this sacred, hallowed ground.

Take home with you a sense of pride
You were here Memorial Day.
Celebrating the way Americans should
On this solemnest of days.

Michelle R. Christman
USMC 1987 - 1991
Desert Storm Veteran

Update: Bumped to top

Posted by: Confederate Yankee at 12:15 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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