Which of my World War II comrades do I include
in my Memorial Tablet this year?
Bill Kelley, who died just weeks ago?
He was always ready to discuss philosophy, theology, politics.
John Kelly, who played beautiful jazz
and offered keyboard magic to support my songs?
Wheatley, Hemmingway, Cullinane, or other flyers
in our squadron who have left us?
Roland “Johnny” Johnson who shared a tent with me on Eniwetok?
He perished in a fog-bound crash into an island mountain.
Cecil Hensel? My roommate who joined us late and left early.
I helped the chaplain bury him on an island near Okinawa.
My own brother, Bill a.k.a. Ace, winner of Navy Cross
decorated by me as Top Hero of our ancient war?
Somewhere – Flanders, Arlington, Omaha Beach
where endless rows of white markers stand at attention --
hand salutes, gun salutes, sounds of “Taps”.
Today’s flyers in formation zoom over to honor the dead.
Meanwhile, amid happy picnics, beach fun, barbecues,
most seem only vaguely aware of this holiday’s hallowed meaning.
Can we actually celebrate the day with dry eyes
when war casualties still come nightly mediated by gory TV clips,
exposing traumatized brains, prosthetic-limbed amputees?
Screen countdowns of the dead, still smiling proudly in uniform.
Name, age (too young to die) rank, home town, state.
Viewed in silence, thank God. God? Still available on call. Toll-free!
In wartime every day is Memorial Day.
If every day, then no day is more special, distinctive, sacred.
Don’t we receive the Mayday! Mayday! signals?
Let’s skip the concerts with crescendos of triumphalism.
Give us more moments of silence. We have burdens to share.
Many of us may just sigh and say “War? That’s life!”
Oh no, not life. It’s all about death.
O Lord, have mercy.
