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He was a Viet Nam vet sniper (now stayin at turtlefarm).
Mercenary Dreams
I’m thinking Kashmir.
Steep valleys. Hard climbs.
High and cold. Marco Polo
walked around it. But me,
I would:
Stand
between the Muslims and the Hindus.
Merc
myself out for ancient Moroccan gold
left behind by beaten Crusaders.
Camo
up one last time.
Paint
my face for keeps.
Fight
in the name of a different
God for a change.
I could learn:
Cook
buttered rice over smokeless, hot fires
as in the old teachings.
Collect
far range lotus leaves to feed goats,
to keep the milk sweet.
Walk
backwards in Rumi’s
footsteps, to wonder
how the words chose him.
Kneel
seven times a day to pray.
Ak-47, ammo belt in the dirt
next to me. Rain poncho
for a prayer rug.
Then:
Return
blood soaked, dead and filthy
to women trilling,
old ones to wash my body
in my death song chant
Feast
prepared of clay fired, flax bread,
and ram’s head soup.
Leave
the earth with the Gita’s
promise to warriors.
Hopeful
Rumi’s words find me
at the warriors place in hell.
Allow
me then the Divine song of God.
Pray
this is the last time any God’s feet
have bodies laid upon them
for gold.
©rr seitz
27 October ‘09
3ed edit 08 nov 09
Mercenary Dreams
I’m thinking Kashmir.
Steep valleys. Hard climbs.
High and cold. Marco Polo
walked around it. But me,
I would:
Stand
between the Muslims and the Hindus.
Merc
myself out for ancient Moroccan gold
left behind by beaten Crusaders.
Camo
up one last time.
Paint
my face for keeps.
Fight
in the name of a different
God for a change.
I could learn:
Cook
buttered rice over smokeless, hot fires
as in the old teachings.
Collect
far range lotus leaves to feed goats,
to keep the milk sweet.
Walk
backwards in Rumi’s
footsteps, to wonder
how the words chose him.
Kneel
seven times a day to pray.
Ak-47, ammo belt in the dirt
next to me. Rain poncho
for a prayer rug.
Then:
Return
blood soaked, dead and filthy
to women trilling,
old ones to wash my body
in my death song chant
Feast
prepared of clay fired, flax bread,
and ram’s head soup.
Leave
the earth with the Gita’s
promise to warriors.
Hopeful
Rumi’s words find me
at the warriors place in hell.
Allow
me then the Divine song of God.
Pray
this is the last time any God’s feet
have bodies laid upon them
for gold.
©rr seitz
27 October ‘09
3ed edit 08 nov 09
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