The Saddest Sound ~ A Sonnet

The day was cold and the wind spit tiny snowflakes against my uniform and along the frozen ground, my "Dress Blues" nearly blended with the gray-blue, snowy sky. Our team numbered seven Riflemen, a Commander, a Flag Bearer and a Bugler. The Bugler's lips were so cold that his sad sounds would be hard to play today.

We were a proud group, performing our Country's highest tribute. Our White accessories set us apart as a special group of young men. We were the 92nd Strategic Aerospace Command Honor Guard.

The minister finished his un-inspired words and the Commander snapped the guard to attention. The seven rifles fired, three rounds each, each volley sounding like a single "crack".The Commander and I began to fold "the Stars and Stripes" for presentation to the next of kin. We finished, the Commander retreated one step, snapped to attention and saluted the flag.

I turned sharply, clicking my heels together to begin the slow walk. I walked to where the Widow was sitting and executed a "right face", clicking my heels. I held the flag in my arms in front of me with the stars pointed to the young woman with eyes as gray as the day. A small boy, with hair as blonde as his Mother's hair, sat in the young woman's lap.

The widow looked up at me with searching, tear-filled eyes. She coaxed my face with questions that had no answers. I stepped forward, bending slightly at the waist, and uttered the required words: "On behalf of the President of The United States, I present you this flag." I straightened to attention, retreated one step, clicking my heels, and saluted the woman-child with tears washing down her face. The Bugler began playing "Taps". The mournful sound seemed to roll the years of dying-sounds together, as a single chorus. The weight of sadness was heavier than anything I have ever known.

Now and then, when the sky is gray-blue, the sound of "Taps" plays in the chilled air, like a ghost that can never rest.

What is War...what is murder?

"War is the art of killing that has been sanctioned by Society.

Murder is the art of killing that has not been sanctioned by Society."

Copywrite 1990 by Wyatt T. Avery

BULLET FOR ME

I know that the Enemy will try to get me,
but one day while patrolling I rested under a tree.
I surveyed the Terrain for danger, to me.
I tipped my Helmet back, satisfied with my tree.

I put my hands beside me laying upon the ground;
Checked my pockets for a dry smoke to choke down.
I crossed my legs and stared into the Blue.
I wondered about Home when my hands touched something new.

It was a shiny new shell;
a Kalishnikov , by Brand.
I began to inspect it
But was so startled, I ran !

Painted on it's side was
my Serial and my Name !
After some time I ran out of wind.
I pondered it's meaning in my ironic gain.

They say there is a Bullet with everyones name.
I wondered who had my Bullet, in this most lethal game.
If I could just meet him I know he would be
A treasured Comrade who could share my Tree.

I knew , somehow, I was in a race I could run,
And put the Bullet in my pocket, just for fun;
And never again worried about a Man in the Sun.
I had my Bullet, he only had the gun.

Copywright 2002
Mike "33"
Wyatt T. Avery

SURVIVOR

Oh, what have you done my Pretty Young One,
With the life that I gave you by yielding my own ?
"Two Roads diverged in a Yellow Wood" and*
You've only traveled the simple one.

You've had, twice given, for so much more, but for you,
Very literal, " Is there wood enough by the kitchen
door?"
You're Peaks and Your Valleys are trifling, save one.
You discovered a "Classic", just barely run; no longer
wanted by any young Son.

"Leaves of Grass", the "Hogan" surround*
But you're Eagle-eye, a Trophy,had found.
The Cosmetic Tourist, with a fleeting regard,
the strengths of the trip did often discard.

You've spent your time on your treasured find,
With so much to do, but you did not mind.
The "Best of all...worlds" was a "land yacht", that
shines.*
"Through a glass, darkly," on the other side, puddles
of blood, forever shine.*

Naked trees with naked bodies, [Don't touch!].
It's been too long, it doesn't provoke you so much.
Their sparse souls are commuting the River Styx.*
"But it don't mean nothing", you didn't arrange this fix.*

Strong capitulation, all wars will ask
Of young men bound to their Father's task.
And so you roamed in the stench of the Dead,
And the "Thousand Yard Stare"' put a Bullet in your
head.*


1. Robert Frost, "Two Roads Diverged in a Yellow Wood"
2. Walt Whitman, "Leaves of Grass"
3. Hogan, American Indian Reservation "House"
4. "The Best of All Possible Worlds", Unknown
5. "Through a Glass Darkley", St Thomas Aquinas
6. River Styx, See Mythology
7. "Thousand Yard Stare", Expression from Vietnam
generally meaning "Over the Edge"


Copyright 2002
Wyatt T. Avery