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| Topic: And So Do The Bombs.... | |
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All are excellent writes keep up the good work 
Ty Sweetheart!! 
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HE CRIED He cried when he tried to walk but could not; he felt his legs.... only phantom pain. He cried as he tried to write, only a reminder his hand had been blown away by roadside bomb. "I live in this chair daring to give voice to the injustice of war, where I was chewed and spit out when no longer of use." "For whom did I kill? For what did I fight? I now sit alone as I ponder war's plight." ~© JDS 04/20/2009~ .... the DIVIDENDS of war huh sweetie ... 
Yes, baby, the dividends of war 
Ty for commenting
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Edited by
AngelLight
on
Tue 04/21/09 08:14 AM
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ONCE UPON A TIME
(7th Write For This Thread) Once upon a time there was a boy who grew up playing with war toys. "Bang, bang, you're dead!," not knowing this was prepping his head. Slingshots, guns and war videos filled his time, filled his mind. "All just games placed in my hands. Is this what it means to be a man?" "Media shows I could swing from a plane, while cool music plays, patriotic courage conveyed." He joins the army and moves through boot camp, sending home letters with snap shots of friends. One last letter makes it home... you pick it up, weeping alone... "Your boy did not make it; he was shot to death, but he was brave until his very last breath. We're sorry to give you this very bad news.... but do you have another child we could use?" ~© JDS 04/20/2009~ |
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I popped in last night and read your Soul last night,,,,
You fill me,,
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I popped in last night and read your Soul last night,,,, You fill me,,
((((D ))))
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ONCE UPON A TIME (7th Write For This Thread) Once upon a time there was a boy who grew up playing with war toys. "Bang, bang, you're dead!," not knowing this was prepping his head. Slingshots, guns and war videos filled his time, filled his mind. "All just games placed in my hands. Is this what it means to be a man?" "Media shows I could swing from a plane, while cool music plays, patriotic courage conveyed." He joins the army and moves through boot camp, sending home letters with snap shots of friends. One last letter makes it home... you pick it up, weeping alone... "Your boy did not make it; he was shot to death, but he was brave until his very last breath. We're sorry to give you this very bad news.... but do you have another child we could use?" ~© JDS 04/20/2009~ .... consequences of domesticity and improper socialization ... |
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ONCE UPON A TIME (7th Write For This Thread) Once upon a time there was a boy who grew up playing with war toys. "Bang, bang, you're dead!," not knowing this was prepping his head. Slingshots, guns and war videos filled his time, filled his mind. "All just games placed in my hands. Is this what it means to be a man?" "Media shows I could swing from a plane, while cool music plays, patriotic courage conveyed." He joins the army and moves through boot camp, sending home letters with snap shots of friends. One last letter makes it home... you pick it up, weeping alone... "Your boy did not make it; he was shot to death, but he was brave until his very last breath. We're sorry to give you this very bad news.... but do you have another child we could use?" ~© JDS 04/20/2009~ .... consequences of domesticity and improper socialization ... Ty for reading Prime ... |
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PLEASE....
(8th Write For This Thread) Brother, father, sister, friend... this is the last time I'll see you again... I know you don't know this, but I know it's true. I can feel your Spirit bidding saddened adieu. Standing at the station before the bus pulls away, I put my arms around you holding all feeling at bay... yes, I already know this war will betray. Please my beloved, my spiritual connection... return to this world for Love's resurrection. ~© JDS 04/21/2009~ |
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“THE MATRIX”
(9th Write For This Thread) The system kills at will, spilling over on those not part of the establishment the enactments the entrapment of the party line. So, where do we find the line we need to cross in order to shed truth on lies, on what's denied, on hiding places made to leave no trace of what's gone wrong? Live truth or pretend? You were not of the system then, but are you now? Have you joined the crowd? Do you remain proud of who you are as a Sacred being, as one who sees the reality of what you truly need to succeed in your life and your dreams? Let go of false guilt, and focus on your ability to transform yourself from within and without. You are in the system, but only of the system if you let yourself go by playing some game that perpetuates shame. Most certainly, we do what we must, but do not get lost inside "The Matrix." What will you swallow? Only you can choose your Truth to follow. ~© JDS 04/23/2009~ |
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Just read your last several adds...your voice of passion shines through with a most poignant view. What an important collection you have created and exposed to many.
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Just read your last several adds...your voice of passion shines through with a most poignant view. What an important collection you have created and exposed to many.
Ty so very much for reading the added writes (((P)))....
 Great new pic!...hey, what can I say but fashion first!  
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Just read your last several adds...your voice of passion shines through with a most poignant view. What an important collection you have created and exposed to many.
Ty so very much for reading the added writes (((P)))....
Great new pic!...hey, what can I say but fashion first!
I think my hair is getting almost as long as yours  That top is at least 7 years old, does that mean it's back in style again.
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Just read your last several adds...your voice of passion shines through with a most poignant view. What an important collection you have created and exposed to many.
Ty so very much for reading the added writes (((P)))....
Great new pic!...hey, what can I say but fashion first!
I think my hair is getting almost as long as yours That top is at least 7 years old, does that mean it's back in style again.
Could be, could be. My grandma used to say "keep things long enough and everything eventually comes back"....but, to be safe, consult your hair dresser. Grandma's aren't always right 
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The 10th Write for this thread is
EXTREMELY INTENSE, yet a reality. It is called "Friendly Fire." I will not post it here because I will not risk traumatizing anyone who may have been caught up in this circumstance, or anyone who knows of someone who has. If you have never had the experience and don't know someone who has, and want to read the write, just e-mail me and I will share it. Just know, it isn't pretty. But then again, nothing about war is
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Edited by
AngelLight
on
Sun 04/26/09 05:31 PM
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(11th Write For
This Thread) POST TRAUMATIC SON My son came home today, in a manner of speaking, but he clearly wasn't the same child I knew. No sunshine filled his light blue eyes. No magic touched his desperate smile. He had no desire to be held since his descent into hell. I touched his face, and then his hair. He looked right through me as if I wasn't there. He just sat, without saying a word, and when I spoke it was as if he hadn't heard. My son came home, but not today. Perhaps tomorrow he'll be able to say what he saw, what he endured, what he suffered along his tour. My beloved son can't speak or express; another statistic of Post Traumatic Stress. ~© JDS 04/26/2009~ |
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Edited by
AngelLight
on
Mon 04/27/09 03:15 PM
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(12th Write For
This Thread) THE PASSION Here I stand, a shell of a man, not knowing where I'm going. It's all a blur, and inside I am stirred to my very core. Before this war, I used to know my Truth and who I was. Or so, I thought. I don't recognize myself anymore, nor do my loved ones and friends. They don't know what to say or how to comfort me. I am lost and adrift, somehow seeking redemption, anything to retrieve my sanity, my felt sense of humanity. I look to the sky and ask why? How did I get here, and where is my solace and the gentle kiss that exists with compassion? We all have our "passion." Perhaps this is mine. ~© JDS 04/27/2009~ |
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pklr0UD9eSo
This year we've been celebrating the hundredth anniversary of the Civil War and the fiftieth anniversary of the beginning of World War I and the twentieth anniversary of the end of World War II so all in all it's been a good year for the war buffs and a number of LPs and television specials have come out capitalizing on all this "nostalgia" with particular emphasis on the songs of the various wars. I feel that if any songs are going to come out of World War III we'd better start writing them now. I have one here. You might call it a bit of pre-nostalgia. This is the song that some of the boys sang as they went bravely of to World War III. So long, Mom, I'm off to drop the bomb, So don't wait up for me. But while you swelter Down there in your shelter, You can see me On your TV. While we're attacking frontally, Watch Brinkally and Huntally, Describing contrapuntally The cities we have lost. No need for you to miss a minute Of the agonizing holocaust. (Yeah!) Little Johnny Jones he was a U.S. pilot, And no shrinking vi'let was he. He was mighty proud when World War Three was declared, He wasn't scared, No siree! And this is what he said on His way to Armageddon: So long, Mom, I'm off to drop the bomb, So don't wait up for me. But though I may roam, I'll come back to my home, Although it may be A pile of debris. Remember, Mommy, I'm off to get a commie, So send me a salami, And try to smile somehow. I'll look for you when the war is over, An hour and a half from now! |
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(11th Write For This Thread) POST TRAUMATIC SON My son came home today, in a manner of speaking, but he clearly wasn't the same child I knew. No sunshine filled his light blue eyes. No magic touched his desperate smile. He had no desire to be held since his descent into hell. I touched his face, and then his hair. He looked right through me as if I wasn't there. He just sat, without saying a word, and when I spoke it was as if he hadn't heard. My son came home, but not today. Perhaps tomorrow he'll be able to say what he saw, what he endured, what he suffered along his tour. My beloved son can't speak or express; another statistic of Post Traumatic Stress. ~© JDS 04/26/2009~ My heart breaks for this man. |
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pklr0UD9eSo This year we've been celebrating the hundredth anniversary of the Civil War and the fiftieth anniversary of the beginning of World War I and the twentieth anniversary of the end of World War II so all in all it's been a good year for the war buffs and a number of LPs and television specials have come out capitalizing on all this "nostalgia" with particular emphasis on the songs of the various wars. I feel that if any songs are going to come out of World War III we'd better start writing them now. I have one here. You might call it a bit of pre-nostalgia. This is the song that some of the boys sang as they went bravely of to World War III. So long, Mom, I'm off to drop the bomb, So don't wait up for me. But while you swelter Down there in your shelter, You can see me On your TV. While we're attacking frontally, Watch Brinkally and Huntally, Describing contrapuntally The cities we have lost. No need for you to miss a minute Of the agonizing holocaust. (Yeah!) Little Johnny Jones he was a U.S. pilot, And no shrinking vi'let was he. He was mighty proud when World War Three was declared, He wasn't scared, No siree! And this is what he said on His way to Armageddon: So long, Mom, I'm off to drop the bomb, So don't wait up for me. But though I may roam, I'll come back to my home, Although it may be A pile of debris. Remember, Mommy, I'm off to get a commie, So send me a salami, And try to smile somehow. I'll look for you when the war is over, An hour and a half from now! Thanks for the post s1ow....the video/lyrics are quite telling, indeed! |
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(11th Write For This Thread) POST TRAUMATIC SON My son came home today, in a manner of speaking, but he clearly wasn't the same child I knew. No sunshine filled his light blue eyes. No magic touched his desperate smile. He had no desire to be held since his descent into hell. I touched his face, and then his hair. He looked right through me as if I wasn't there. He just sat, without saying a word, and when I spoke it was as if he hadn't heard. My son came home, but not today. Perhaps tomorrow he'll be able to say what he saw, what he endured, what he suffered along his tour. My beloved son can't speak or express; another statistic of Post Traumatic Stress. ~© JDS 04/26/2009~ My heart breaks for this man. Hi Meg...yes, I hear you. Mine too
Ty for reading and being present to his story. |
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