By Thomas Glasco
My white tennis shoes shoosh the green grass
Along a single row of rugged cedar
With a rough bark that appears bleached
A beauty that time cannot influence
Thick foliage provides a canopy of privacy
From which a falcon’s wing beats coif the air,
A secretive hunter thins rodents with curved talons.
I enter the cemetery and face towering pines
Watching over the peaceful lie of loved ones.
My eyes are drawn to a metal military marker.
Henry Tempel, the name pounds my chest.
He carries the last kiss of his love into war,
Into the burning sand that chaffs his skin
And lashes his face with forceful fiery wind.
Hate encamps round about him
Hate that touts premeditated murder
Hate that is rewarded and held in high esteem.
A spokesman for the regime exclaims
Through crooked teeth,
“We love death more than America loves life.”
The mongrels kill their women and children
And crow about the honor it gives them.
Sergeant Tempel gives his legs and life to
Keep these demons from our shores.
I stand over his grave; his life comes into me.
I speak his words, think his thoughts,
Hold his wife and children,
Taste the tears of mourning.
He accepts the cross, outstretched arms
Give the victory to the Lord.