Roberta Pollerana

WHEN I SEE

This state of affairs
One hundred and fifty thousand
Take a number
See how many are here
At the Veterans’ Administration

Cynical rage appears
Pulling tighter on the ropes
Again
To lower Old Glory half-mast
Mourning tears of war’s truth
The blood of our youth
Again… and again

White gloved twenty-one guns
The bugler plays from her wheel-chair
Taps

Once a wheat field – golden dreams
Of the sunshine harvest Summer in bloom
Now a land filled with coffins
Buried; Never to be forgotten

Hope and dreams forever removed
Daughters And Sons Beloved
America mourns; limbs lost and torn
Blind

As a ship in a squall
A never ending bitter gall storm
Precious cargo returned to port
Don’t take pictures America
Someone may see our caskets

Trained to survive – lands us in Military court
The draft is already being drawn up
No child left behind
We won’t mention depleted uranium

Have they found a cure for nightmares
Gulf war syndrome birth defects
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Remember ‘Nam’?

Maybe I’ll sign up for another tour
It beats being homeless

Take a number…

Cynical rage appears
When I See

©Copyright June 2005 by Roberta Pollerana