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  •  I heard Paul harvey tell a (0+ / 0-)

    story that shocked me.  He was telling about how this soldier of high rank wrote letters to his family on how he cried and ached for the redman and his plight for
    freedom.  He wrote to his wife that
    his heart weeped at night for all the carnage and how he had so much trouble sleeping.  He told her how much he paced his quarters and could not get the images out of his mind of the death and destruction left behind on so much wasteful land.
    The rest of the story after a commercial break was the letters were written by General Custer.
    My jaw dropped.

    •  Kind of a jaw dropper, alright. (1+ / 0-)
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      Funny.  There is a lot of misinformation out there.  I don't doubt you heard that story.  I just have a hard time believing Custer said anything like that, because it is totally inconsistant with everything he did, and most other things he is on record for saying.  But then, he was kind of a nut job.  So maybe...,;:?!.  Stranger things have happened.  

      Paul Harvey has a practived voice, like Ed McMahan.  For a time I was going to a poetry circle where everyone sat in a circle and each person read a poem, usually their own, then the next person read, on and on for two hours.  One guy next to me didn't want to read his, and asked me to do it.  I didn't agree with the ideas his poem put out.  In fact, it was the opposite message of mine I had just read, but I read it anyway, just to practice, and play with my voice, to see if I could make it sound good.  It seemed I did.  Some people in the circle were obviously confused afterwards, because I sounded solid behind both messages, one right after the other.  We all sort of preached to each other.  You know, the poet's dream is being recognized as the new prophet, at least enough to get paid for writing poems anyway.  

      Just because Paul Harvey said that doesn't make it real.  If his sponsor told him to read it, I'm sure he would.

      Here's one of mine, called Incomplete Sacrifice:

      Blood on the altar,
      the Altar of War.
      We are all sacrifices
      meant to bleed on the Altar of War.

      Ah, yes,
      And Country.
      Individual courage, too,
      stretched through the limit of Life
      to lives lost,
      sad horns blowing the same tune
      for sleep as death.

      Many call war worthy,
      so they don't have to say
      war is waste souls.
      Glarmor and glory
      is offered to survivors,
      rather than name anyone
      an incomplete sacrifice.
      Offer accepted,
      Mongers of War continue
      not to get dirty,
      or wet,
      or bloodied,
      or covered with sweat
      from hurrying to wait,
      or from work,
      or from fear and tensions
      of murder coursing through their veins.

      We all die,
      soldiers and civilians,
      for those Mongers,
      for their filled wallets,
      not for freedom,
      not for anyone's freedom.

      Some died,
      and we all cried then,
      for ourselves
      as much as the dead.
      And now, at The Wall,
      we cry for that one,
      and that one,
      and that one --
      that name on The Wall,
      each name on The Wall.

      Each name on The Wall
      is each of us.
      We cried then,
      and we cry now,
      not for someone who was close,
      or a piece of us,
      but for someone who was each of us,
      for "I".

      Even when we laugh and sing
      of God and glory,
      we cry.
      We cry for the blood of "I" spilt,
      spilt on the Altar of God,
      the altar of every God there ever was.
      For every God there ever was
      has had an Altar of War
      for the blood of "I" to drip on,
      to pour on.

      We cry.
      For even as The Wall's list is us,
      is "I",
      so, too, are the Mongers of War,
      who are so clean and privileged,
      so free of gore,
      so easy living,
      so rich in money printed in "I" blood
      on "I" hides,
      with enough profit to give everyone
      a dog tag,
      to make us all think the "we" we are
      is not an "I".

      We cry.
      For "I" dies for a God noone has seen,
      for a God whose name noone knows,
      even for a God who would sacrifice
      his own son,
      and allow his son's blood to
      justify more war.

      Alleluia, I am "I".
      I am thou.
      I am that.
      I am that I am.
      I am that I am that I may be.

      Even though I served and am not proud,
      still I am thankful to be thanked,
      and I welcome being welcomed home.
      I need to be thanked and welcomed home.
      And while I cry because "I" died,
      I wonder why,
      I wonder why God doesn't die,
      why we don't demand that God die
      on the Altar of "I",
      that we might all live in a warless peace,
      loving each other
      to the point of "I".

      Efectus nihil profundus sub pensus est

      by Riddlebaugh on Thu Nov 12, 2009 at 07:28:24 PM PST

      [ Parent ]

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