Author: RubDMC

this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war

we love and support our troops, just as we love and support the Iraqi people – without exception, or precondition, or judgment

we have no sympathy for the devil

we acknowledge the power to act that is in us

cross-posted at MyLeftWing, BooMan Tribune, and my blog.

image and poem below the fold

A special dedication today to all in Congress who voted to continue unconditional funding for the occupation of Iraq.

A photo of and boots representing Private Sean Silva sit among more than 3,400 pairs of combat boots, one pair for every U.S. soldier killed in the Iraq War, displayed as part of “Eyes Wide Open: An Exhibition on the Human Cost of the Iraq War” in Chicago, May 25, 2007. The traveling exhibition will remain in Chicago until May 28. REUTERS/John Gress (UNITED STATES)

I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die Rag
words and music by Joe McDonald
(with minor lyric changes by RubDMC)

Come on all of you big strong men,
Uncle Sam needs your help again.
He’s got himself in a terrible jam
Way down yonder in Iraqnam
So put down your books and pick up a gun,
We’re gonna have a whole lotta fun.

Chorus
And it’s one, two, three,
What are we fighting for?
Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn,
Next stop is Iraqnam;
And it’s five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain’t no time to wonder why,
Whoopee! we’re all gonna die.

Come on generals, let’s move fast;
Your big chance has come at last.
Gotta go kill `em in their beds —
`Cuz the only good Iraqi is the one that’s dead
You know that peace can only be won
When we’ve blown ’em all to kingdom come.

Chorus

Come on Halliburton, don’t move slow,
Why man, this is war au-go-go.
There’s plenty good money to be made
Supplying the Army with the tools of the trade,
Just hope and pray that if they drop the bomb,
They drop it all on Iraqnam.

Chorus

Come on mothers throughout the land,
Pack your boys off to Iraqnam.
Come on fathers, don’t hesitate,
Send your daughters off before it’s too late.
You can be the first one on your block
To have your kids come home in a box.

Chorus

– – –

FAIR USE NOTICE: This essay contains images and excerpts the use of which have not been pre-authorized. This material is made available for the purpose of analysis and critique, as well as to advance the understanding of political, media, and cultural issues.

The ‘fair use’ of such material is provided for under U.S. Copyright Law. In accordance with U.S. Code Title 17, Section 107, material in this essay (along with attributions to original sources) is viewable for educational and intellectual purposes. Anyone interested in using any copyrighted material from this essay for any reason that goes beyond ‘fair use’ must first obtain permission from the copyright owner.

this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war

we love and support our troops, just as we love and support the Iraqi people – without exception, or precondition, or judgment

we have no sympathy for the devil

we acknowledge the power to act that is in us

cross-posted at MyLeftWing, BooMan Tribune, and my blog.

Memorial Day, 2007

image from iCasualties.org

And they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
And their spears into pruning forks;
Nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
Neither shall they learn war any more.

Isaiah 2:4

.
.
.
.
.

this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war

we love and support our troops, just as we love and support the Iraqi people – without exception, or precondition, or judgment

we have no sympathy for the devil

we acknowledge the power to act that is in us

cross-posted at MyLeftWing, BooMan Tribune, and my blog.

image and poem below the fold

– – –

Crazy
by Gnarls Barkley

I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that place.
Even your emotions had an echo
And so much space

And when you’re out there
Without care,
Yeah, I was out of touch
But it wasn’t because I didn’t know enough
I just knew too much

Does that make me crazy?
Does that make me crazy?
Does that make me crazy?
Possibly

And I hope that you are having the time of your life
But think twice, that’s my only advice

Come on now, who do you, who do you, who do you, who do you think you are,

Ha ha ha bless your soul
You really think you’re in control

Well, I think you’re crazy
I think you’re crazy
I think you’re crazy
Just like me

My heroes had the heart to lose their lives out on a limb
And all I remember is thinking, I wanna be like them
Ever since I was little, ever since I was little it looked like fun
And it’s no coincidence I’ve come
And I can die when I’m done

But Maybe I’m crazy
Maybe you’re crazy
Maybe we’re crazy
Probably

– – –

a personal note: I’ve hardly posted any of these diaries in the past several weeks. I’ll explain more about why in a while, when I figure that out for myself. In the meantime, this song has had a strong hold on me.

this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war

we have no sympathy for the devil

we acknowledge the power to act that is in us

cross-posted at MyLeftWing, BooMan Tribune, and my blog.

a personal note: I haven’t posted in two weeks. I’ll explain more in a later post.
Thanks, RubDMC

this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of violence

we have no sympathy for the devil

we acknowledge the power to act that is in us

cross-posted at MyLeftWing, BooMan Tribune, and my blog.

image and poem below the fold

Injured occupants are carried out of Norris Hall at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, Va., Monday, April 16, 2007. A gunman opened fire in a dorm and classroom on the campus, killing at least 30 people in the deadliest shooting rampage in U.S. history. The gunman is killed but it’s unclear if he was shot by police or took his own life.
(AP Photo/The Roanoke Times, Alan Kim)

Ghost Notes (an excerpt)
by Ralph Burns

for Danny Fletcher

         I.  Call and Response

3

It’s beauty people fear, bright
    rose riding on Aunt Billie’s forehead,
the way light makes green everything
    after her pickled okra, stubble
in the hands of day labor, callouses
    of a parade of things and
touching them without seeing
    or hearing without knowledge,
dumbstruck by a brooding need to define
    or look without a place
to grieve, beauty and not faith
    in truth in the light of justice —
just reach and nothing’s there
    but what’s there already.

– – –

April is National Poetry Month

– – –

FAIR USE NOTICE: This essay contains images and excerpts the use of which have not been pre-authorized. This material is made available for the purpose of analysis and critique, as well as to advance the understanding of political, media, and cultural issues.

The ‘fair use’ of such material is provided for under U.S. Copyright Law. In accordance with U.S. Code Title 17, Section 107, material in this essay (along with attributions to original sources) is viewable for educational and intellectual purposes. Anyone interested in using any copyrighted material from this essay for any reason that goes beyond ‘fair use’ must first obtain permission from the copyright owner.

this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war

we love and support our troops, just as we love and support the Iraqi people – without exception, or precondition, or judgment

we have no sympathy for the devil

we acknowledge the power to act that is in us

cross-posted at MyLeftWing, BooMan Tribune, and my blog.

image and poem below the fold

Girls look through a fence at a refugee camp in Mosul April 5, 2007. About 250 families moved from Tal Afar town to camps in Mosul since last weeks’ violence attacks.
REUTERS/Khaled al-Mousuly (IRAQ)

Tuesday
words/music by Kent Lambert (aka Roommate)

The war will start on Monday
we will go to work
we will read the headlines
we will go get coffee.

The war will start on Monday
we will talk to God
or maybe not
we will go get lunch.

Maybe we’ll eat pasta
maybe we’ll eat pork
maybe we’ll eat tofu
maybe we’ll eat crow
maybe we’ll eat crow.

The war will start on Monday
we will watch the clock
we’ll go to the protest
or maybe not
or maybe not.

The war will start on Monday
we will watch TV
we will change the channels
we will go to sleep
and in our dreams we’ll drop the bombs and stop the bleeding
in our dreams we’ll write the songs that start the healing
in our dreams we’ll find another way
and the war will end on Tuesday.

– – –

Roommate’s website
(including mp3 of the featured song)

– – –

April is National Poetry Month

– – –

FAIR USE NOTICE: This essay contains images and excerpts the use of which have not been pre-authorized. This material is made available for the purpose of analysis and critique, as well as to advance the understanding of political, media, and cultural issues.

The ‘fair use’ of such material is provided for under U.S. Copyright Law. In accordance with U.S. Code Title 17, Section 107, material in this essay (along with attributions to original sources) is viewable for educational and intellectual purposes. Anyone interested in using any copyrighted material from this essay for any reason that goes beyond ‘fair use’ must first obtain permission from the copyright owner.

this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war

we love and support our troops, just as we love and support the Iraqi people – without exception, or precondition, or judgment

we have no sympathy for the devil

we acknowledge the power to act that is in us

cross-posted at MyLeftWing, BooMan Tribune, and my blog.

image and poem below the fold

A boy cries in a newly opened orphanage in the Shiite enclave of Sadr City In Baghdad, Iraq, Monday, April 2, 2007. The orphanage houses 33 Iraqi children who lost their parents during the four year of conflict in Iraq.
(AP Photo/Hadi Mizban)

Fishing in Winter
by Ralph Burns

A man staring at a small lake sees
His father cast light line out over
The willows.  He’s forgotten his
Father has been dead for two years
And the lake is where a blue fog
Rolls, and the sky could be, if it
Were black or blue or white,
The backdrop of all attention.

He wades out to join the father,
Following where the good strikes
Seem to lead.  It’s cold.  The shape
Breath takes on a cold day is like
Anything else–a rise on a small lake,
The Oklahoma hills, blue scrub–
A shape already inside a shape,
Two songs, two breaths on the water.

– – –

April is National Poetry Month

– – –

FAIR USE NOTICE: This essay contains images and excerpts the use of which have not been pre-authorized. This material is made available for the purpose of analysis and critique, as well as to advance the understanding of political, media, and cultural issues.

The ‘fair use’ of such material is provided for under U.S. Copyright Law. In accordance with U.S. Code Title 17, Section 107, material in this essay (along with attributions to original sources) is viewable for educational and intellectual purposes. Anyone interested in using any copyrighted material from this essay for any reason that goes beyond ‘fair use’ must first obtain permission from the copyright owner.

this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war

we love and support our troops, just as we love and support the Iraqi people – without exception, or precondition, or judgment

we have no sympathy for the devil

we acknowledge the power to act that is in us

cross-posted at MyLeftWing, BooMan Tribune, and my blog.

image and poem below the fold

An Iraqi man is questioned by U.S. Army soldiers after they found an illegal ammunition magazine in his house in Baghdad April 4, 2007.
REUTERS/Bob Strong (IRAQ)

The Death Poem
by Jumah al-Dossari

Take my blood.
Take my death shroud and
The remnants of my body.
Take photographs of my corpse at the grave, lonely.
Send them to the world,
To the judges and
To the people of conscience,
Send them to the principled men and the fair-minded.
And let them bear the guilty burden, before the world,
Of this innocent soul.
Let them bear the burden, before their children and before history,
Of this wasted, sinless soul,
Of this soul which has suffered at the hands of the “protectors of peace.”

– – –

Thanks to Rippen Kitten for a diary at Daily Kos. about the poetry written by several prisoners being held without charge at Guantanamo.

– – –

April is National Poetry Month

– – –

FAIR USE NOTICE: This essay contains images and excerpts the use of which have not been pre-authorized. This material is made available for the purpose of analysis and critique, as well as to advance the understanding of political, media, and cultural issues.

The ‘fair use’ of such material is provided for under U.S. Copyright Law. In accordance with U.S. Code Title 17, Section 107, material in this essay (along with attributions to original sources) is viewable for educational and intellectual purposes. Anyone interested in using any copyrighted material from this essay for any reason that goes beyond ‘fair use’ must first obtain permission from the copyright owner.

this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war

we love and support our troops, just as we love and support the Iraqi people – without exception, or precondition, or judgment

we have no sympathy for the devil

we acknowledge the power to act that is in us

cross-posted at MyLeftWing, BooMan Tribune, and my blog.

image and poem below the fold

Allana Swiger, widow of Army Sgt. Jason Swiger, watches as the casket is loaded into a hearse following the funeral, Wednesday, April 4, 2007, in Portland, Maine. Swiger was killed by a suicide bomber March 25 in Baqubah, Iraq.
(AP Photo/Joel Page)

Mr. Lonely
words/music by Bobby Vinton and Gene Allan

Lonely, I’m Mr. Lonely
I have nobody for my own
I am so lonely, I’m Mr. Lonely
Wish I had someone to call on the phone

Now I’m a soldier, a lonely soldier
Away from home through no wish of my own
That’s why I’m lonely, I’m Mr. Lonely
I wish that I could go back home

Letters, never a letter
I get no letters in the mail
I’ve been forgotten, yes, forgotten
Oh how I wonder, how is it I failed

Now I’m a soldier, a lonely soldier
Away from home through no wish of my own
That’s why I’m lonely, I’m Mr. Lonely
I wish that I could go back home

– – –

April is National Poetry Month

– – –

FAIR USE NOTICE: This essay contains images and excerpts the use of which have not been pre-authorized. This material is made available for the purpose of analysis and critique, as well as to advance the understanding of political, media, and cultural issues.

The ‘fair use’ of such material is provided for under U.S. Copyright Law. In accordance with U.S. Code Title 17, Section 107, material in this essay (along with attributions to original sources) is viewable for educational and intellectual purposes. Anyone interested in using any copyrighted material from this essay for any reason that goes beyond ‘fair use’ must first obtain permission from the copyright owner.

this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war

we love and support our troops, just as we love and support the Iraqi people – without exception, or precondition, or judgment

we have no sympathy for the devil

we acknowledge the power to act that is in us

cross-posted at MyLeftWing, BooMan Tribune, and my blog.

image and poem below the fold

This videograb taken from footage obtained 2 April by the SITE Institute, a group monitoring radical Islamist websites, shows German hostage Hannelore Krause (R), 61, and her 20-year-old son Sinan, crying as she appeals to her country and Austria for help. Germany has condemned the video as their Iraqi kidnappers threatened to execute them unless Berlin withdraws its troops from Afghanistan.
(AFP/SITE Institute)

He Foretells His Passing
by F. D. Reeve

I can imagine, years from now, your coming back
to this high, old, white house. “Home” I shouldn’t say
because we can’t predict who’ll live here with a different
     name.
How tall the birches will be then. Will you look up
from the road past the ash for light in the study windows
upstairs and down? Go climb the black maple as first
in new sneakers you walked forty feet in air
and saw the life to come. Don’t forget the cats.

Because you grow away from a house, no matter how much you
     come back,
if the people you love are elsewhere, or if the reason is,
     say,
nostalgia, don’t worry about small changes or lost names.
Sit down for a minute under the tallest birch. Look up
at the clouds reflected in the red barn’s twisted window.
Lean on the wall. Hear our voices as at first
they shook the plaster, laughed, then burned in the dry air
like a wooden house. I imagine you won’t forget the cats.

– – –

April is National Poetry Month

– – –

FAIR USE NOTICE: This essay contains images and excerpts the use of which have not been pre-authorized. This material is made available for the purpose of analysis and critique, as well as to advance the understanding of political, media, and cultural issues.

The ‘fair use’ of such material is provided for under U.S. Copyright Law. In accordance with U.S. Code Title 17, Section 107, material in this essay (along with attributions to original sources) is viewable for educational and intellectual purposes. Anyone interested in using any copyrighted material from this essay for any reason that goes beyond ‘fair use’ must first obtain permission from the copyright owner.