Alive Day

 Alive Day

October 27 is my Alive Day, 54 years after death came alongside me, took several of my buddies, but didn’t claim me. Oh, it tried. It tried hard, even sending me floating above my corporeal self on the battlefield, having me meet with my mother, dead some nine years earlier, as she gave me directions to go back, and to live a good life. Alive Day is not a formal event, not so much celebrated as experienced, mostly by wounded veterans, but also by anyone who has had a brush with infinity. While not formal, it is a very real thing, the date one might have died or been killed, but wasn’t. I write about it, spend this day in reflection, as part of my own ongoing healing process, as my never-ending effort to be content when my actual transition occurs. I support veterans, by submitting to the Veterans Voices Writing Project, donating to the Wounded Warrior Project, being a life member of Disabled American Veterans,  and I urge veterans to make special note of their own Alive Day. 

Most, if they are like me, spent every day after their most important war - the one which happened to them - trying to forget what they saw, what they did. I learned, after years of denial, that it is healthier, more transformative, to remember. This is a very personal day, not one for speeches, for toasts, for “thank you for your service” comments. It is a day for self-thanks, for contemplation, a chance to listen to the whispers of gratitude and appreciation. This is a day to allow the memories to be heard, and shared if the sharing might contribute to the Good. This is how one heals and goes forward, in honor of fallen comrades, in appreciation for opportunities to be of service, living gratefully in the life one was given.

Exactly 54 years ago, some young corpsman risked his life and saved mine at Con Thien, at 0230, October 27, 1967. I wish I knew his name, could thank him in person, but I have never forgotten him, pulling me to safety and morphine until Puff and the medivac chopper arrived to carry me off, many hours later. I would so like him to know that I lived a good life, made a difference to many in need, and aim to be a true and steadfast friend.

Daniel George, 3/3/3, Third Battalion, Third Regiment, Third Marine Division Alumnus

If Only

 It’s Sunday somewhere else,

someplace where 

love and good and light,

are real in life,

just as real as toil and strife,

where “effortless effort”

is written in invisible ink

on nonexistent name tags,

where there’s music and prayer and meditation,

a break from madness, a soulful vacation.

I have no name for the effect,

but I do know what I might expect,

if I could but rise to attend,

my body to heal, my heart to mend.

Others would speak, I would listen,

and an unseen current

might course through me,

perhaps a tear might glisten.

Maybe it could be, possibly I’d see

that change is challenging

but hope is tangible,

and grace is possible.

If only.

RJC

 She shares her music on the road,

meets famous people so I’m told.

She sings at home for locals too,

for average folks like me and you.

She’s made of kindness, soulful love,

and she’s humble, a little bashful (well, sort of).

Friend, daughter, sister, wife,

she brings joy to everybody’s life.

In a world full of too much hateful

she gives us reasons to be grateful,

stoking our better intended fires

as she writes and plays and sings, 

she constantly inspires.

So on this fine October day,

we are happy that she came our way,

expressing ourselves enough to say

we hope she has a grand birthday.

House of Wax (1953)

 To be read aloud…

I was only nine but it was a time before much tv, so we went to movies to relax, but that was before I saw that scary one, that House of Wax. Vincent Price was a professor, but if I’m now to be a true confessor, I admit it was more Charles Bronson frightening me as Igor. My shakes didn’t stop, not even when Frank Lovejoy entered as a cop, and the shivers stayed the same with Dabs Greer as Sgt. Shane, while my heart felt that jerk when Roy Roberts came on as Matthew Burke. You’d think Carolyn Jones as Cathy Gray would alleviate that day, but no way, I say. I can’t lie, nor pretend, I didn’t make it to the end, as out of the theater I ran, still remember it as an old man, and try as a might, there was no sleep for me that night.

Moderation

There is but one thing

that calls me to excess,

which leads my heart to sing,

easily above the rest,

and that thing is gratitude.

Grateful for my life, my wife,

my friends, the time to make amends,

the reading that I’ve done,

the Spirit with which I’m one.

Thankful for each day,

grateful I still may

pursue the Middle Way. 

Traveling on

 Across the Sea

There was a time,

when our legs still worked

and our feet did not hurt

and we were too young

to fear exotic places,

never considered illnesses.

There was a time,

when drachmas were still used,

before the euro ruse,

and we’d hop on a ferry to

somewhere, some island

we did not know,

just a place to go,

trusting, without a doubt,

it would all work out.

We even floated on the Nile,

northward, from Aswan

to Luxor, the only way to

see the Johnny Carson ruins,

the temple of Karnak.

It was an earlier time 

with only two smallish cruisers,

one going north, the other south,

five days with stops along the way,

with local transportation,

one day a carriage, 

another a bus,

once a walking tour,

then even a felucca.

That was a time

before the crazies

started shooting people, with

real-life Uzi’s,

real-life bullets,

real-life hate.

My sweetie was mugged three times,

we still went, 

the big cities,

Barcelona, Paris, London, the rest,

all called us and we answered,

driving, walking, snapping,

truly blessed.

Yes, there really was that time.

Now, I can’t imagine travel,

it’s harder to see,

and there’s a lot more than an ocean

between other countries and me.

I understand my father now,

after they

opened him up,

closed him up,

why he said no when

I offered 

a trip to the Old Country before

it was too late.

He knew that time had passed.