READINGS:

I Have a Rendezvous with Death – Alan Seeger – Dennis I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.

The Soldier – Rupert Brooke – Sydney

If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

In Flanders’ Fields – Lt. Col. John McCrae, M.D. – Joyce

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie, In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

A Wake on the Pier – Thomas Scheff – Dennis

Sundays the tourists, seeking cheer, stroll on our local pier. They pass, in plain view A memorial quite new for our soldiers who died in the war against Iraq this year: Sunday mornings we vets install A cemetery with a thousand crosses, And remove it Sunday nights, Sisyphus-like, a moveable bier. Laid out like a real graveyard, it covers the beach to the right of the pier.

We stand in the sand by the pier, talking with those who come near. Most either don't look, As if in a trance, or give only a sidelong glance.

But some look at the crosses far and near then at the books of the dead Laid out as leaves on our railing, beside the rail of the pier.

They look at me, puzzled. "Which war?" "Iraq." I say. Which war!

Some leave at this point. Most, though, look again at the names of the dead. "What for?"

"To honor our dead." I say, Beside the rail of our pier. They take their first long look, Then their tumblers roll in their lock. I can see in their faces Signs of surprise, grief or shock.

They wake to a thought like a line from T.S. Eliot: "I had not thought death had undone so many."

They knew before they looked that our soldiers were dying in Iraq. But they didn't know they knew. Or more to the point, They didn't feel what they knew. They hadn’t felt that death had undone so many.

Somehow the great size of the mock graveyard Its earthy concreteness, has forced them to feel the pain they didn't want to feel. They had been soldiering on, Avoiding the thought and the pain.

But now they are transformed, Made new by feeling. We are suddenly bonded together Connecting as persons. Many tell me their hopes and fears about someone in the service, How they yearn for them to come back To walk on beaches with piers.

Some ask to come down to walk among the crosses, to add flowers or photos. They want to feel To feel more of their losses.

Some ask if they can help or give money. They give generously. Some cry. All of those who get this far speak from the heart: "Thank you for doing this." "Its good of you, its wonderful." "God bless."

Heart to heart with a stranger, for them an unexpected encounter. Neither their politics nor mine seem to matter. We are united by feeling. I have the sense of a first tiny step On the long road to healing.

I say to myself "How could they not know and feel?"

But then I remember my first time. My fellow vet Bob had asked me to put nametags on the crosses.

I read the names and ages, crawling in the sand Between stations of the crosses, Most are young, I didn't know, didn't know their ages.Didn’t feel our losses. Hadn’t read the pages.

I return to where Bob is writing tags for the young soldiers who died last week. "Do you want to put up more?" "Give me a minute, I didn’t know..."

But I can't finish. I cry instead, convulsed with pain, sobbing, wet with many a tear. Hidden grief has struck deep. I wake from my long sleep. In this moment by the rail of the pier

I had not thought death had undone so many, had not thought, so young, so many.

I have protested this war since it was just an idea, Sure that I knew what I knew and felt what I felt. But I didn’t know.

I am just another tourist, blindsided by long rows of crosses, struck by lightning on the road to Damascus. I learned that I must mourn my losses. At a wake by the pier. We must all mourn our losses, Where ever we are.

Hymn: Eternal Father, Strong to Save (The Navy Hymn)

Eternal Father, strong to save, Whose arm doth bind the restless wave, Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep Its own appointed limits keep; O hear us when we cry to thee For those in peril on the sea.

O Saviour, whose almighty word The winds and waves submissive heard, Who walkedst on the foaming deep, And calm amid its rage didst sleep: O hear us when we cry to theeFor those in peril on the sea.

O sacred Spirit, who didst brood Upon the chaos dark and rude, Who bad'st its angry tumult cease, And gayest light and life and peace. O hear us when we cry to thee For those in peril on the sea.

O Trinity of love and power, Our brethren shield in danger's hour From rock and tempest, fire and foe Protect them whereso'er they go: And ever let there rise to thee Glad hymns of praise from land and sea.

Back – Wilfred Gibson – Joyce

They ask me where I've been, And what I've done and seen. But what can I reply Who know it wasn't I, But someone just like me, Who went across the sea And with my head and hands Killed men in foreign lands... Though I must bear the blame, Because he bore my name.

Prayer in Time of War – Mark Twain – Sydney

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle-be Thou near them! With them, in spirit, we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it-for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen. “

Dulce et Decorum Est – Wilfred Owen – Dennis

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundering like a man in fire or lime.-- Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

Arise – Mother’s Day Proclamation- 1870 – Julia Ward Howe – Joyce

Arise then...women of this day! Arise, all women who have hearts! Whether your baptism be of water or of tears! Say firmly: "We will not have questions answered by irrelevant agencies, Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage, For caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience. We, the women of one country, Will be too tender of those of another country To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."From the voice of a devastated Earth a voice goes up with Our own. It says: "Disarm! Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice." Blood does not wipe our dishonor, Nor violence indicate possession. As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil At the summons of war, Let women now leave all that may be left of home For a great and earnest day of counsel. Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead. Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means Whereby the great human family can live in peace... Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar, But of God - In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask That a general congress of women without limit of nationality, May be appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient And the earliest period consistent with its objects, To promote the alliance of the different nationalities, The amicable settlement of international questions, The great and general interests of peace.

Hymn: The New Patriot

Who is the new patriot? He who lights The torch of war from hill to hill? Or he who kindles on the heights The beacon of a world’s good will?

Who is the patriot? It is he Who knows no boundary, race or creed, Whose nations in human-i-ty, Whose country-men, all souls in need.

The soil that bred the pioneers He loves and guards, yet loves the more That larger land without frontiers, Those wider seas without a shore.

Who is the patriot? Only he Whose business is the general good, Whose keenest sword is sympathy, Whose dearest flag is brotherhood.

The Wounded and the Dead – Chris Woolnough – Dennis

I was just a child, When they sent me to Vietnam, The fateful day I landed there, Reality hit me like a bomb. I saw the remains of a human being, Like a pile of rags in the street, And innocent children blown away, With mines beneath their feet. I still remember the poor soldier, That in the confusion lost his mind, Only then to lose his life, As he was left behind. I saw the wounded and the dead, Trying to identify boys that had no face, I heard comrades cry for their mothers, Don't let me die in this foreign place. With a fear that's all consuming, Looking for a place to hide, I saw men pull down on their helmets, And try curling up inside. When surrounded by the enemy, I called in artillery over my own head, In the morning there was nothing left, As I alone walked through the dead. Fighting for an unknown cause, I still can't understand why, In the jungles of Vietnam, So many soldiers had to die. All those images still haunt me, As if it were yesterday, Remembering all those brave young men, And the price they had to pay. I've seen the wounded and the dead, And though our county's free, I remain a prisoner of war, Being tortured by its memory.

Report to Fox News – Thomas Scheff – Joyce

Sifting through the rubble of war I have been searching for names of the maimed and dead. Not hard work for the US/UK casualties, There are hundreds of names. Their full names are given in many sites.We know who they are, and that they are dead. We can honor them, even if they died in vain. Or worse.

But for Iraqis, I pull up only numbers, Thousands of numbers, with the likely date of death. On my own, I have been unable to find a single name. Without names, they have vanished from this earth, Unknown, unhonored, without a trace.

But with the help of a friend, I have found two names, both children. The first is Ali Ishmail Abbas, a 12 year old, who lived in Zafaraniya A village thirty miles from Baghdad, With his parents, his brother, sisters, and cousins.

On an April night, as the family slept, A US rocket killed both parents, the brother, and some of the cousins, And set fire to the house. Ali and his sisters were wounded.

I would reprint the photo of Ali here, Taken as he lies in the hospital His head, the stumps of his arms, and his lower body Covered in bandages. But his attempt to smile for the photographer Might break your heart, or turn you to stone.

Ali was burned by the fire as he lay unconscious Both arms were amputated to save his life. He has third-degree burns over 60 per cent of his body. Because of the possibility of infection, his chance of survival is only 50-50. He has lost his father, his mother, his brother, some of his cousins, And both of his arms. He also may lose his life.

He told the reporter: “If I had hands, I would shake your hand. They cut them off after the bomb. I want my hands.”

The second name is Fouad Abu Haidar, who lay in another ward Of the same hospital. An 11-year-old, he has lost an arm, half his faceCovered by bandages, and he may lose one eye.

Like Ali, he was maimed by a US missile that struck his home In Iskaniriyah, south of Baghdad at 9 at night. His 14-year old cousin, Karim, died in the attack.

I must speak to them, I must say I know you are only little boys, and you already bear On your small shoulders far too many burdens. Can you bear one more, can you represent the unnamed

Iraqis dead or maimed in our war against you? I am thinking not just of the most recent attack, But also the Gulf War, and the years of sanctions between. And our culpability for arming and inciting Iraq against Iran. Can two names stand for a million or more?

You honorable people at Fox News, I hope you can work this report Into your busy schedule Of reporting a Fourth of July war.

State of the Union – Sam Hamill – Sydney

I have not been to Jerusalem, but Shirley talks about the bombs. I have no god, but have seen the children praying for it to stop. They pray to different gods. The news is all old news again, repeated like a bad habit, cheap tobacco, the social lie.

The children have seen so much death that death means nothing to them now. They wait in line for bread. They wait in line for water. Their eyes are black moons reflecting emptiness. We've seen them a thousand times.

Soon, the President will speak. He will have something to say about bombs and freedom and our way of life. I will turn the tv off. I always do.Because I can't bear to look at the monuments in his eyes.

We Will Rebuild – Rev. Dr. Mitri Raheb – Dennis War does not scare us, but on the contrary. It has brought us closer to one another and assembled us from all over the world: Palestinians, Americans, Germans, Norwegians, Swedes and Israelis.

War does not scare us, because it cannot steal our dream of freedom from us - the dream of independence and salvation. War cannot steal our vision for a better future.

We will rebuild the roads that war destroyed. We will replace Bethlehem 2000 with Bethlehem the Future. We will plant new ones in place of the trees that war uprooted. War cannot disrupt our plans. It may delay our plans for few months, but it will not destroy them. War will not rob us from our vision to live in peace with our neighbors. War does not achieve its goals and for that it does not scare us. We will continue planting and harvesting, building and constructing, teaching and educating, and drawing rainbows in the sky.

Indeed, you author of this psalm, war will not scare us. Rather, it has taught us not to leave our streets an open field to “weddings’ shooters”, and that we must reclaim our streets.

We will not leave our future in the hands of the ignorant, but we will roll our sleeves and assume responsibility for our villages and towns.

Indeed, war taught us that no nation could be built without honesty. There will be no future without justice, the rule of law, system and transparency, accountability and democracy.

War has increased our resolve not to leave the arena to the others. Rather, all of us must become engaged in building a new homeland.

We cannot accept that politics becomes foolishness. We will not accept chaos that will bring us misery. Rather, politics is justice, planning, orderliness, responsibility and all of us are called to be engaged.

For peace is an accumulating process. It is one stone built on top of the other. Renaissance is an accumulative process and we will not allow anyone to disrupt it. Progress is an accumulative process. A nation cannot step one step forward and two steps back. War will not scare us, because we have been burnt by its fire, learnt from it, held on to our dream, took on our responsibilities and deepened our faith. Oh war, where is thy sting? Oh war, where is thy victory?

Responsive Reading: #583 The Young Dead Soldiers — Dennis

The young dead soldiers do not speak. Nevertheless they are heard in the still houses : who has not heard them? They have a silence that speaks for them at night and when the clock counts. They say: We were young. We have died. Remember us. They say: We have done what we could but until it is finished it is not done. They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished no one can know what our lives gave. They say: Our deaths are not ours, they are yours; they will mean what you make them. They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for peace and a new hope or for nothing, we cannot say; if is you who must say this. They say: We leave you our deaths. Give them meaning. We were young, they say. We have died. Remember us.