Never Forget

A cry for momma

A gasp for breath

A slow deliberate

Unjustifiable death

A spark ingnighting

A black powder keg

Exploding in violence

How many more will be dead?

Before we take a moment

To stop and recognize

That often we believe

Evil malignant lies

Nothing new under the sun

This has happened before

To many different people

Different races; often poor

When the peasants rise

The aristocrats react

Whether with sword or guns

They will always attack

For we are not the rulers

They afford us no respect

Obedience and tribute

Is what they expect

Take a deep breath

Remember those who cannot

Our memories are short

But this cannot be forgot

The Sureshot Rises

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The cold mountain air bit at the faces of two men as they crept silently toward a young, unsuspecting buck nibbling on some roots. Without any sound, they inched their way closer to the animal. Durbar, a young man of fifteen, watched his father, Adar, very carefully, and mimicked his movements; ever striving to be the great woodsman his father was.

The large man stopped suddenly and so did his son. He slowly reached for his giant long bow and gently pulled out an arrow from the quiver on his back. The woodsman quickly inspected the arrow to ensure there was no damage to the fletching, notched it and stood up slowly and carefully. His black cloak concealed him in the dark, dense forest. The hunter drew back the string of his mighty bow until it touched his bearded cheek. Holding absolutely steady, he loosed the arrow. The missile twisted slightly as it sailed through the still air, flying past massive trees until finding the unsuspecting buck. The arrow struck the animal’s side, piercing his heart. Stunned and now struggling to cling to life, the buck tried to stumble away, but did not get far. 

Adar leapt to his feet as the arrow struck its mark. He raced toward the animal and pulled a dagger from his belt. The powerful man jumped upon the terrified buck and dragged his dagger across its throat. The animal collapsed, kicked one last time and then was still. The woodsman rose and stood over his kill, smiling at his son who was admiring his father’s prowess from a distance.

     “Great shot, Father. You hit him right in the heart,” the young man beamed.

“Of course, Son, you don’t want to hit him just anywhere and let him run off. That only makes more work for yourself.”

“I know, Father,” smiled Durbar, having heard that lesson at least a hundred times before.

Sureshot the King

From today’s writing…

Vorfar kicked some dirt and paced to a tree then committed further acts of violence upon it. 

Maklar gritted his teeth then pulled his ax from his back. He gripped it so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his muscles strained under his tunic; filled with rage and frustration. 

In a moment of pure white anger, Maklar began to swing his ax as quickly as a bat flaps its wings in desperation to remain airborne. Maklar hacked at the boards that mended the hole in the wall and the dirt that filled it. In massive swooping motions the blade of his weapon struck his static foe, sending dirt and splinters flying in all directions. 

The axeman, no longer interested in stealth grunted and growled as he swung again and again blasting a growing opening where he expected to easily slip under the wall. 

Vorfar looked about for guards on the walls but none were in sight. He considered trying to reason with Maklar; to scold him for being so reckless, but as he peered into the cloud of dust and noted the beastial noise his companion was making, he knew there was no stopping him. Instead, he scouted the wall for signs of danger. 

“Just hurry!” Vorfar encouraged. 

Maklar heard the words but was lost in the fury. Again and again his ax rained down on the obstruction. Before long the wood that blocked his path surrendered and was left in splintered pieces littered about the Madman’s feet. 

After just a couple furious minutes, Maklar stepped back to observe his work. He breathed deeply, and the air filled with dirt made him cough. Sweat dripped from his brow and he held his ax loosely in one hand as it leaned against his hip; satisfied in its work. 

“Good,” he exhaled. “They were lazy. They didn’t fill the hole. Just covered it.”

Vorfar approached and inspected the hole. With just a little digging it seemed easily passable. 

“Forgive me for my doubt, friend. I was wrong to criticize you. But let us hurry into the city, lest your efforts be discovered shall we?” 

“That was the whole point, after all. After you,” Maklar smiled. 

Vorfar nodded then, after scooping some dirt and removing the bits of remaining wood, crawled on his belly under the wall and into the city. Maklar followed immediately after. 

“Easy, just like I said it would be,” snorted Maklar. 

Vorfar merely clapped him on the back, which created a poof of dirt then turned to find their destination. 

Crying over school work

Cry cry cry child

You’re not getting out

You must stay here and work

Every lesson counts

I don’t care if you hate it

I don’t care if it’s hard

If it really does kill you

I’ll write a sympathy card

For though you’d rather not

And you think it’s dumb

Many things are good for us

That aren’t exactly fun

It’s when we push ourselves

That we can grow the most

Though it may hurt a bit

Achieve it and you’ll boast

So go ahead and cry

Complain all you want

Teaching you perseverance

No better lesson was taught

Memorial Day

Besides writing, I teach High School Social Science. One of the courses I teach is Modern World History, or the history of the world beginning around the time of the industrial revolution. I love the course and I love teaching. The course covers many wars and conflicts including the two world wars. War is destruction.

War has always been a part of human existence. Perhaps it always will be. Few things are more devastating and destructive. It still saddens me to teach: French Revolution, Russian Revolution, Taiping Rebellion, Boxer Rebellion, Sepoy Mutiny, Armenian Genocide, The Great War, World War Two the Holocaust Korea, Vietnam and others. Tens of millions of lives have been destroyed as a function of war and conflicts. The effects didn’t end with just the loss of that person but the damage spread to those who called them family and friend and those in their community. War is destruction. By the way, I joined the Army immediately out of high school. I served five years. I served honorably. I loved my time in service and I performed well. I love my country. I love and respect other countries. I hate war. Even small wars. War is destruction. Herman Goering is a Nazi war criminal tried at Nuremberg. He was asked about war. His answer is possibly the more insightful and honest a man who drove the engines of war ever gave: Goering: Why, of course, the people don’t want war. Why would some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best that he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece? Naturally, the common people don’t want war; neither in Russia, nor in England, nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or a Communist dictatorship. Gilbert: There is one difference. In a democracy, the people have some say in the matter through their elected representatives, and in the United States only Congress can declare wars. Goering: Oh, that is all well and good, but, voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are going attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country. It’s a sad truth. Human institutions cannot be better than those who create them. War is the mirror that exposes how awful we can be. War is destruction. So on this day, a day to remember those who we lost as a result of war, I salute you who were lost and I drink a drink to remember you. Your loss is not in vain as long as those of us still alive remember your sacrifice. I wish you were here with us now to enjoy the bittersweet taste of memory. Cheers to the fallen, may your memory endure forever.