POEMS/ Walking Off the Wars
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Walking Off the Wars
They hike to free their bodies
and their minds, those damaged
veterans home from the grip
of savage wars – Vietnam, Iraq,
Afghanistan, – wars raging on inside
them; they hike to purge themselves
from things they saw and things they did,
trudging through the long tough miles
on the Appalachian Trail from Georgia
up to Maine, following the footsteps
of Earl Shaffer, in 1948 first veteran
to “thru hike” end to end, the trail
“a long green bridge” to peace.
They go to wash away the stains
of battle, their journey a “Warrior Hike,”
rite of passage from Springer Mountain
to Katahdin, months of dirty socks
and worn out boots, wet sleeping bags,
of sudden snow storms, ice and mud,
of heat and bugs, soldiers fighting
a different war, struggling to reclaim
their lives, bombs and bullets left behind.
Gone are the rattle of guns, thunderous
boom of roadside bombs, cries of the wounded,
stench of death and decay. Only bird song,
rare voice of another hiker, blowing winds,
creaking branches, pounding rains, thumping
of their own weary feet break the silence
in those endless hours of slogging on and on,
lost in days of solitude, hoping to be found.
This poem appears in the September 2014 issue of Oberon.
They hike to free their bodies
and their minds, those damaged
veterans home from the grip
of savage wars – Vietnam, Iraq,
Afghanistan, – wars raging on inside
them; they hike to purge themselves
from things they saw and things they did,
trudging through the long tough miles
on the Appalachian Trail from Georgia
up to Maine, following the footsteps
of Earl Shaffer, in 1948 first veteran
to “thru hike” end to end, the trail
“a long green bridge” to peace.
They go to wash away the stains
of battle, their journey a “Warrior Hike,”
rite of passage from Springer Mountain
to Katahdin, months of dirty socks
and worn out boots, wet sleeping bags,
of sudden snow storms, ice and mud,
of heat and bugs, soldiers fighting
a different war, struggling to reclaim
their lives, bombs and bullets left behind.
Gone are the rattle of guns, thunderous
boom of roadside bombs, cries of the wounded,
stench of death and decay. Only bird song,
rare voice of another hiker, blowing winds,
creaking branches, pounding rains, thumping
of their own weary feet break the silence
in those endless hours of slogging on and on,
lost in days of solitude, hoping to be found.
This poem appears in the September 2014 issue of Oberon.
