Private Grunt and The Unfortunate Events of War
Canto I: Prelude.
In the desert where sand filled light was dim,
There slept a sounding grunt who’s life was grim,
The stars blazoning a whispering wind,
As roaring calls were heard from armored kin.
As rounds earthquaked the rich metal sleet ground,
A Sergeant rushed in to find Grunt confound,
“Private, Private what the hell are you doing!?”
“I’m sleep I’m sleep!” Said Grunt his face blueing.
Grunt rushed forth, with a steel viper in hand,
To slay the beasts who crashed his slumbered plans,
It’s bite was quick a truth known to scare all;
A flash of light that dashed hopes of the fall.
“To the Fifty!” Sergeant said with a charm,
As brass rained down with gusto and alarm,
“Roger!” said Grunt, young face covered in mud,
But his weight was too much and he crashed with a thud!
He crawled and crawled till the Humvee was in sight,
His heart was quickened of fury and fight,
The moon hissed full with a glorious kiss,
As Grunt thought of all the family he missed.
But no, there was no crying in battle!
He hoisted himself; the turret rattled,
Into the gunners hatch he went full geared,
The fog of war masked all that he feared.
He raised his hand to caress the cool bolt,
The gun sighed a relief, sprung with a jolt!
The dust was thick, there was nothing he could see,
Only the muzzles of his comrades flashed with glee.
Boom boom, boom boom the night filled with a theme:
Of truth, and lost; of chaos and of steam,
Grunt eyes filled with the soft grains from a land,
That bury the dreams of green fledging men.
The .50 jammed! this must be some black art,
But the hue of the barrel did much of it’s part,
Dust quickened to a blinding slick ordeal
A whirlwind of chance, but none of this was real…
It all was a dream a cruel one at that,
You see Grunt was captured by men who hated him back,
Tried and true the fate of war has its due,
And time has its rhyme of the choices we brew.
Canto I: Exile.
Grunt sat up, sweat trickling in earnest,
Discerning his gaze upon the clay bricked furnace,
A tattered mat cushioned his taunt and sinew,
Brief reprieve from the onslaught that continued.
2 months in ruin he laid bemused,
As fall peeked in and summer amused,
A tiny window was the only light,
To wait for his brothers for rescue at night.
“Ameriki! Ameriki!”, was shouted with tease,
There stood Ufair the handler grinning with ease,
A bearded man well fed with hair full and drab;
Twinkling eyes that seduced all that they grabbed.
Grunt’s once clean face now littered with dust, And
An once shaven head clattered with distrust,
His eyes drew upon Ufair most of his day,
An inconvenience that highlighted his fate.
To the annoyance of Grunt, Ufair laughed a lot,
A sneer that could be felt through out his cot,
At daybreak the same dance was performed:
The rhythm of rough hands signaling the morn.
“Oh how are we today Ameriki? ,
Have you slept well and a bit less bleakly?”
Ufair said with a cheer, eyes without a sneer,
A trait foreign from the hearts of his peers.
Grunt sighed, turned, and tossed to his side,
To meet the gaze of his foe, there he lied.
“What do you want?” Grunt said with annoyance,
He had grown tired of Ufair’s flamboyance.
“Why are you mad?” Ufair said with a pain,
“Because sand is up my ass”, Grunt complained,
“You are an odd man, Ameriki” Ufair retorted,
A deep hearty laugh came low and he snorted.
“Your breakfast will be cold if you don’t eat quick”,
“The last time you brought me food it made me sick”,
“Ah no Ameriki you must be mistaken,
I’m the best chef in this land” his voice unshaken.
“Don’t be so sad Ameriki” Ufair proclaimed,
“God gave us this day, let’s not put it to shame.”
“I don’t care about your God”, Grunt wiped his lips,
As he freed his mane from the taut like grip.
“Your God has forsaken me to this room,
Filled with sand fleas and stifling sour fumes,
Excuse me if I’m not in higher graces,
To respect the musings of foreign faces.
“This barren room will eventually be my tomb,
And my head will be a trophy in this bitter gloom,
So when you lay and pray to your God tonight,
Let him know that he has won this fight.”
Ufair sighed and sat in quiet contemplation,
To study the words of this young American’s frustration,
As Grunt nibbled on his beard like a famished bird,
Ufair released his breathe with these chosen words:
“Ameriki, I am not a man to know these great things,
I don’t no why man’s pride consumes them like kings,
Or why Allah has given you this fate today,
But find comfort and not let your soul decay.
This war was started before you were born,
It will continue long after we are gone,
I’ve seen that moon come and go,
And man has not changed I ought to know.
My village to has been taken by hand,
From these men with long beards and devious plans,
Their hearts are black and perverse with hate,
We all must confront the choices in our fate.
But I’m an old man and protest too much,
I have seen this war turn rivers to blood,
My own brother met his end as a man,
When he took up arms to protect this land.
You’re not the only one to feel this sting,
Of war and lost, and how fate swings,
Tomorrow is too far to predict its date,
Ameriki, please eat before it gets too late.”
2 thoughts on “Epic of Grunt: Exile”
Someone on the Treehouse asked if you have a blog. I saw that your name was in red so I clicked over. I have spent several hours reading your poems. I must say your words are eloquent, soul-touching. I feel that I should say I am sorry. I think you would know why.
I see a yearning for higher, unshackled of a pain uncommon to most men yet also victory. I am drawn in, I shall continue to feel what is put to words. God bless you and Thank you.
Thank you so much for those words! I try to convey the reality of servicing apart from what we see in common society. Your comments motivates me to keep writing and sharing this reality. Thank you so much again.