the little men

About a month ago I wrote of a Soldier I've gotten to know here Down Range (he lives at a place I can only get to once a month, if we're lucky), SPC C. He's an amazing young man with a wisdom beyond his years. I've told him that if I could grow up to be half the Soldier he is, I'd be doing pretty well.

Though I don't get to see him very often, we correspond via email quite regularly. He's recently sent me a poem he wrote (after I cajoled him into doing so). I wish he'd write more, and more often! SPC C has given me permission to share his poem with you, Gentle Readers.

the little men

You think, sometimes that you can deal with this.
Sometimes it almost makes sense, the rules, the tongue lashings,
the little men.

Those days when I think about it, how angry I get,
How cold my heart is, how much I need to
break
and
hurt and
Kill and
KILL
the little men.

Maybe we're all like that. Maybe we hide behind our
Trucks, our
guns, our
armor,
our deadly skill;
but we're all just
the little men.

But it's hard to be one of
the little men
when you know better, when you see better, when you can reach further,
when you shoot straighter and feel better,
and moreso:

when you think about
the little men
Hiding in crowds,
Strapping bombs to retarded kids,
Throwing grenades from floorboard-less cars
because the windows are visible,
and everyone hates them.

All rights reserved. 2008

(Should you wish to reproduce this poem, I ask that you contact me first, so I can put you in touch with SPC C and you can give proper credit to the author.)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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