sapper's blog: "just new agine"

so me and my GF just broke up, were better at being friends.. so i let her go or get her back

Twas the night before Christmas.
He lived all alone,
In a one bedroom house made of
Plaster and Stone.

I had come down the Chimney,
With presents to give.
And to see just who In this home
did live.

I looked all about
A strange sight I did see.
No tinsel, No presents,
Not even a tree.
No stocking by the mantle,
Just boots filled with sand.

On the wall hung pictures
Of far distant lands.
With medals and badges,
Awards of all kinds,
A sober thought
Came through my mind.
For this house was different,
It was dark and dreary,
I found the home of a soldier,

Once I could see clearly.
The soldier lay sleeping,
Silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor
In this one bedroom home.

The face was so gentle,
The room in such disorder,
Not how I pictured

Was this the hero
Of whom I'd just read?
Curled up on a Poncho,
The floor for a bed?
I realized the families
That I saw this night,
Owed their lives to these soldiers
Who were willing to fight.

Soon round the world,
The children would play,
And grownup's would celebrate
A bright Christmas Day.
They all enjoyed freedom
each month of the year,
Because of the soldiers,
Like the one lying here.

I couldn't help wonder
How many lay alone,
On a cold Christmas Eve
In a land far from home.
The very thought
Brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees
And started to Cry.

The soldier awakened
And I heard a rough voice,
"Santa don't cry,
This life is my choice."
The solider rolled over
And drifted to sleep,
I couldn't control it,
I continued to weep.

I kept watch for hours,
So silent and still
And we both shivered
From the cold nights chill.
I didn't want to leave
On that cold, dark, night,
This guardian of Honor
So willing to fight.

The solider rolled over,
With a voice soft and pure,
Whispered, "Carry on Santa,
It's Christmas Day, All is secure."
One look at my watch,
And I knew he was right.

"Merry Christmas my friend, And to all a good night."

The following is the request of the soldier who wrote this poem request.

"Please, would you do me the kind favor of sending this to as many people as you can?

Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our U.S. service men and women for being able to celebrate these festivities. Let's try in this small way to pay a tiny bit of what we owe. Make people stop and think of our heroes, living and dead, who sacrificed themselves for us. Please, do your small part to plant this small seed."

A Different Christmas Poem

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know, Then the
sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and m y child.
"What are you doing?" I asked without fear,
"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!"

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..
To the window that danced with a warm fire's light
Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right,
I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."
"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at ' Pearl on a day in December,"
Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers."
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ' Nam ',
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.
I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile.

Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue... an American flag.
I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.
I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall."

"So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."
"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
"Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son."
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
"Just tell us you love us, and never forget.
To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.
Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."

A Soldier's Christmas Story

A soldier nervously finders his weapon and stares into the darkness watching for any sign of the enemy. He is alone this night because yesterday his best friend, who usually shared this position with him, was killed. He misses him, he was a brave man who left a wife and two small children behind. The soldier hopes that he will survive this war and someday be able to tell the little ones how bravely their father had died defending freedom.

He doesn't know exactly what time it is but his instincts tell him that it is approaching midnight on this Christmas Eve. Soon it will be Christmas morning at home and his own family will be getting up to have breakfast and open presents. His breakfast will consist of some cold sparse rations and a sip of water from his canteen. There will be no hot cider or coffee for him and no turkey dinner later in the day.

He hopes his family enjoys the Christmas celebration and understands why he can't be with them. There are people in the world that would destroy the things he is fighting to defend, and he faces them this night. He would rather be home, but this is his choice and his responsibility. He hopes his countrymen appreciate what he is doing, but sometimes he wonders. Then he tells himself that it doesn't matter, he would be here anyway.

The soldier takes a moment to reach out and gently touch the Christmas tree he and his buddy had set up shortly before he died. It's not really a tree at all, just a branch that had been blown off a real tree by an artillery shell. They had dug a hole in the hard ground and set it up. Of course, they had no tinsel or ornaments so they decorated it with empty cartridge shells and hoped that the Lord would understand. It was the only way they had to honor his birth.

By now, you may be wondering what place this is and who this soldier fights for. He is an American soldier and the name of the place doesn't matter. It could be Valley Forge, Northern Virginia, the Ardennes, the Chosin Reservoir, the Mekong Delta, or somewhere near Kabul or Baghdad. For over 200 years, there have been American soldiers far away from home every Christmas watching our backs. Today they are of both genders and many races and religions.

On this Christmas Eve, the soldier quietly hums Silent Night and again wonders if anybody really cares. The he hears a voice from the darkness. It is a soothing and pleasant voice and admonishes him gently for his doubts. "I was born on this night to bring my Father's word to the world." says the voice. "My Father is called by many different names and worshiped by many people in different ways, but you are still his protector. You guard the right to believe and you are not alone. WELL DONE AMERICAN SOLDIER!"

"But ranged as infantry,
        And staring face to face,
I shot at him and he at me,
        And killed him in his place.

        "I shot him dead because – 
        Because he was my foe, 
Just so – my foe of course he was; 
        That's clear enough; although 

        "He thought he'd 'list perhaps, 
        Off-hand like – just as I – 
Was out of work – had sold his traps – 
        No other reason why. 

        "Yes; quaint and curious war is! 
        You shoot a fellow down 
You'd treat if met where any bar is, 
        Or help to half-a-crown."

All wars are planned by older men
In council rooms apart,
Who call for greater armament
And map the battle chart.

But out along the shattered field
Where golden dreams turn gray,
How very young the faces were
Where all the dead men lay.

Portly and solemn in their pride,
The elders cast their vote
For this or that, or something else,
That sounds the martial note.

But where their sightless eyes stare out
Beyond life's vanished toys,
I've noticed nearly all the dead
Were hardly more than boys."

the pain of war cannot exceed
the woe of aftermath

Led Zeppelin, "The Battle of Evermore"

I too love jeans and jazz and Treasure Island
and John Silver's parrot and the balconies of New Orleans.
I love Mark Twain and the Mississippi steamboats and Abraham Lincoln's dogs.
I love the fields of wheat and corn and the smell of Virginia tobacco.
But I am not American.

Is that enough for the Phantom pilot to turn me back to the stone age?
. . .
America:
let's exchange gifts. Take your smuggled cigarettes
and give us potatoes.
Take James Bond's golden pistol
and give us Marilyn Monroe's giggle.
Take the heroin syringe under the tree
and give us vaccines.
Take your blueprints for model penitentiaries
and give us village homes.
Take the books of your missionaries
and give us paper for poems to defame you.
Take what you do not have
and give us what we have.
Take the stripes of your flag
and give us the stars.
Take the Afghani Mujahideen beard
and give us Walt Whitman's beard filled with
butterflies.
Take Saddam Hussein
and give us Abraham Lincoln
or give us no one.

. . .
We are not hostages, America
and your soldiers are not God's soldiers ...
We are the poor ones, ours is the earth of the drowned gods,

the gods of bulls
the gods of fires
the gods of sorrows that intertwine clay and
blood in a song...
We are the poor, ours is the god of the poor
who emerges out of farmers' ribs
hungry
and bright,
and raises heads up high...

America, we are the dead.
Let your soldiers come.
Whoever kills a man, let him resurrect him.
We are the drowned ones, dear lady.
We are the drowned.
Let the water come.

PILE the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work?

        I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
        What place is this?
        Where are we now?

        I am the grass.
        Let me work.