The Marble There Said Nothing

-- My 2013 Memorial Day Tribute


© 2013 Linda McKinney All Rights Reserved


The marble there said nothing we hadn’t seen before,
Words like “Died in Battle”, “Son of”, “Mi Amor”.
In sunrise, it shines softly, glows upon the hill,
In darkness, it reflects sorrow: so silent and so still.

In rows and rows of marble, we see the price they paid,
For freedom’s greatest harvest: liberty has stayed.
But is the price of freedom, worth all they gave to us?
Or do we stop the struggle, give in and others trust?

Lives that could’ve been saved, their futures lived in full,
Their loved ones must have wondered, “What if…”, “Is it possible?”
Would those who cannot answer give the nod to what
The price of freedom took from them, without a pause or thought?

And there beneath that marble, upon which names endure,
Would those who paid the total price, now be so sure?
Of their sacrificial service as when they signed up?
Or of their country’s value to give their own life’s cup?

To drink from the fount, of n’er ending grief,
For wife, husband, child, parent, and delay the turning leaf?
Or would their answer stand the test of time’s unfailing tock,
Resounding through the ages, and eternity’s ne’r failing clock?

For marble’s future gloaming, for freedom’s future fight,
Their answer lives upon the rock that shines in fading light.
John, Gary, Emanuel… Harry, Favre’, Sam*:
Answered question with stout heart’s resounding, “Here I am!

Moon glows upon the marble that lists the names of all
Who answered with their lives the bell of freedom’s call.
In Vietnam, WWI or Two, or Afghanistan, Iraq,
Liberty tugged their heartstrings; refused they to turn back.

Memorial Day upon us, I want to thank you again
For giving of all you had for America to win.
The marble there said nothing we hadn’t seen before,
Words like “Died in Battle”, “Son of”, “Mi Amor”.


*Sam = Samantha

A Christmas Tribute to Our Troops

Christmas Tree Boots

© 2011 Linda McKinney All Rights Reserved


Filled with dirt,
Frozen through,
It started there,
In WW two.
Tradition: it starts somewhere.

A friend had died,
Though not alone,
And given up
His boots to Jones.
Christmas: it started there.

Rhoades took the boots
And dug the dirt,
And carried it
Wrapped in his shirt.
Stacking: starting with Jones’.

And from there
It all began,
Tradition passed
From Man to Man.
Trees: from shoes one owns.

In the circle,
Toes pointing out,
Recall the names
That it’s about.
Filling: support to give.

Ten to eight,
Eight to six,
Six to four,
Soon it’s fixed.
Single: from one who lives.

A soldier’s boot
Now stands tall
For Christmas-time
Has come to all.
Tree: dirt-filled soldiers’ boots.

In frozen snow,
Or sandy desert,
It helps to ease
A soldier’s hurt
Normalcy: our own roots.

When next you see
A soldier brave
Remember thank them,
Salute their grave.
Freedom: won day by day.

Even on Christmas
They gave their all,
Served our country,
Answered the call.
Sacrifice: the price they pay.

Imagine now
The soldiers’ boots,
Stacked up tall,
First owners mute.
Blood: red and green contrast.