So Near, So Far

 

By Arthur Davenport

 

Came rolling down the highway, with a goal jammed in my mind.

Looking for some old friends, and a chance to just unwind.

Down the road and over the valley, to the mountain far behind.

My life has played I’ve wandered there, through the misty shrouds of time.

 

The fields of corn and clover, harsh scream the old black crows.

I feel the land so green beneath me start to climb and rise away,

I got a feeling deep within me that I’m going home today.

Yea, I’m going home today.

 

And the house it still stands beautiful, not too fancy, not too plain.

I go inside, and ghosts surround me, it’s a funny sort of pain.

Coming back to a place that’s made me, I done a lot to make it too.

But now it belongs to all those people, so near, yet so far from you,

So near, yet so far from you.

 

And the ghosts fly all around me, leaving memories on my mind.

I let the spirits of the old days bring my soul with them through time.

And I see the sights of summer haven’t changed while I’m away.

But the people there, they’re all the same, and it’s only me that’s changed.

Yes, it’s only me that’s changed.

 

Coming back to a place that’s made me, I done a lot to make it too…

But now it belongs to all those people,

So near yet so far from you, so near yet so far from you,

So near yet so far from you, so near, so far, from you.

 

 

© 2002 Arthur Davenport, Good Read Music LLC, from the album

“Reality Bends” (www.arthurdavenport.com)

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks for the Support

 

By Roy Zimmerman

 

You've got that yellow ribbon stuck on your H2 -Thanks for the support.

Memorial Day weekend you threw a barbeque - Thanks for the support.

 

I can feel the love seven thousand miles away,

And I'm a patriot, as I was trying to say,

When you cut me short - Thanks for the support

 

I was gunning for Osama, and you sent me for Saddam - Thanks for the support.

Now I'm sitting down to dinner; it's another can of Spam - Thanks for the support.

 

You say: "Complete the mission", and I say: "Count on me!"

'Cause I don't even know what mission there might be

To abort - Thanks for the support.

 

You sent me here a third time, and my house was repossessed - Thanks for the support.

Now my wife is in a trailer, but she sent a Kevlar vest - Thanks for the support.

 

And I think of her only every time I bleed,

Someday we will meet again at Walter Reed;

The resort of last resort - Thanks for the support

 

And you hired those mercenaries who make eight times what I do - Thanks for that.

And you dropped in on Thanksgiving with a turkey and a camera crew - Thanks-giving.

 

Now you're giving guns to the ones who shot at me.

The tank is full, but the strategy might be

Down a quart - Thanks for the support

 

I appreciate the stopgap, and I appreciate the Surge - Thanks for the support.

Another twenty thousand voices to harmonize this dirge - Thanks for the support.

 

To the Democratic Congress who could have brought me home

must have come down with a new Gulf War Syndrome

Of some sort - Thanks for the support.

 

And if I die tomorrow, won't you ship me home at night - Thanks for the support.

And if I have a funeral, make sure it's outta sight - Thanks for the support.

 

In the final seconds you've got a plan to win;

Cut those taxes and let Jesus put one in

From half-court - Thanks for the support.

 

© 2008 Roy Zimmerman and Melanie Harby, from the album

“Thanks for the Support” (www.royzimmerman.com)

 

 

 

 

 

The Letters of Florence Hemphill

 

By Joe Crookston

 

I came back home to Wilson County

In the gold Kansas Plains

From the gutted hills of France

And the cold muddy rain

 

I still think about the sisters

Cigarettes and English tea

And the barbed wire and trenches

Things we never thought we'd see

 

And in the rumbling battle noise

We took care of the boys

So they wouldn't die alone

And we could send them back home

When the midnight whistle blew

I donned my boots and navy blue

But anyhow

That's all over now

 

Jimmy Clellan was a piper

They brought him in from No Man's Land

And I fed him the ripest berries

And I saved his one good hand

And that red-head with the photograph

As I wrapped up his eyes

If he got home to West Virginia

I knew he'd never see his bride

 

And in the rumbling battle noise

We took care of the boys

So they wouldn't die alone

And we could send them back home

When the midnight whistle blew

I donned my boots and navy blue

But anyhow

That's all over now

 

All the sleepless nights we spent

And all the letters came and went

And all the British girls and I

We lost some but we tried

 

We lay down in the bracken fern

To make it through we had to learn

About the broken and the torn

Mending lives and staying warm

 

Coming home to the prairie gold

With a story that I told

In the rumbling battle noise

We took care of the boys

 

I came back home to Wilson County

In the gold Kansas Plains

From the gutted hills of France

And the cold muddy rain

 

© 2016 Joe Crookston (www.joecrookston.com)

A 2016 collaboration between Joe Crookston and the National World War I Museum

in Kansas City, Missouri.

 

 

 

 

Was It You?

 

By Robert W. Service, recited by U. Utah Phillips

 

"Hullo, young Jones! with your tie so gay

And your pen behind your ear;

Will you mark my cheque in the usual way?

For I'm overdrawn, I fear."

Then you look at me in a manner bland,

As you turn your ledger's leaves,

And you hand it back with a soft white hand,

And the air of a man who grieves. . . .

 

"Was it you, young Jones, was it you I saw

(And I think I see you yet)

With a live bomb gripped in your grimy paw

And your face to the parapet?

With your lips asnarl and your eyes gone mad

With a fury that thrilled you through. . . .

Oh, I look at you now and I think, my lad,

Was it you, young Jones, was it you?

 

"Hullo, young Smith, with your well-fed look

And your coat of dapper fit,

Will you recommend me a decent book

With nothing of War in it?"

Then you smile as you polish a finger-nail,

And your eyes serenely roam,

And you suavely hand me a thrilling tale

By a man who stayed at home.

 

"Was it you, young Smith, was it you I saw

In the battle's storm and stench,

With a roar of rage and a wound red-raw

Leap into the reeking trench?

As you stood like a fiend on the firing-shelf

And you stabbed and hacked and slew. . . .

Oh, I look at you and I ask myself,

Was it you, young Smith, was it you?

 

"Hullo, old Brown, with your ruddy cheek

And your tummy's rounded swell,

Your garden's looking jolly chic

And your kiddies awf'ly well.

Then you beam at me in your cheery way

As you swing your water-can;

And you mop your brow and you blithely say:

`What about golf, old man?'

 

"Was it you, old Brown, was it you I saw

Like a bull-dog stick to your gun,

A cursing devil of fang and claw

When the rest were on the run?

Your eyes aflame with the battle-hate. . . .

As you sit in the family pew,

And I see you rising to pass the plate,

I ask: Old Brown, was it you?

 

"Was it me and you? Was it you and me?

(Is that grammar, or is it not?)

Who groveled in filth and misery,

Who gloried and groused and fought?

Which is the wrong and which is the right?

Which is the false and the true?

The man of peace or the man of fight?

Which is the ME and the YOU?"

 

From the album “I’ve Got to Know” (www.utahphillips.com)

 

 

 

 

Johnnie’s Coming Home

 

By George Mann

 

He went off to serve in Vietnam, so many years since he’s been gone

And I waited, I waited all of this time

I stayed at home, fought against that war

Once on the news I thought I saw him marching

Marching in the Anzac lines

 

And I cried, Johnnie’s coming home

 

Tossed into an American war, they drew marbles from a Tattersalls barrel

Then they went off to fight, and some went off to die

We tried hard just to save our sons, but for all of those boys it had just begun

And it lingered, and hung like dead fruit on the vine

 

Still I cried, Johnnie’s coming home

And I prayed, Johnnie’s coming home

 

Next I knew it was ’73, a letter came, said “Forget about me

I am not the man that you’d want me to be...”

For forty years I kept hoping we’d meet

I’d see so many ghosts shuffling down the street

I kept turning my head for a glimpse of that face so sweet

 

And I cried, Johnnie won’t you come home?

And I prayed, Johnnie won’t you come home?

 

And I know you still feel ashamed

But I know that you boys aren’t to blame

 

Just yesterday I was sweeping the floor, a soft knock came on my front door

An old man standing there as I opened it wide

Well he fell in my arms as the tears rolled down

And he held on so tight as he swung me around

And I said “Welcome home, won’t you please come inside?”

 

And I cried, “Johnnie you have come home

After all this time, Johnnie you have come home…”

 

 

 

© 2016 George Mann, from the album

“For the Road and the Sky” (www.georgemann.org)

 For John and Shelley, Thirroul, Australia (2/18/16)

 

 

 

 

 

He Called Me Dad

 

By David Rovics

 

I grew up in Lawrence, there by the water

In the shadow of a textile mill

Sometimes I feel just like that building

Empty but standing there still

I liked the President, I liked the union

I believed in the Rights of Man

So I signed up when it was time to fight Hitler

And they sent me off to Japan

 

I couldn't describe it, it was all just so bad

I kept my head down, tried to stay alive

I got shot in the leg, took me out of the action

So I was lucky enough to survive

I came home from the war, met a good woman named Maria

We had ourselves a son

When I first saw Jim's face, the first thing I thought

I hope he never has to carry a gun

 

It was a long time ago, another life that I had

A little boy who called me dad

 

I'd have terrible dreams of my time overseas

But otherwise life was alright

I had a job and a wife and a fine little lad

With eyes so cheery and bright

When his number came up I said let's move up north

To Halifax, what do you say?

But my Jim wouldn't have it, he said if I'm gonna be drafted

I don't want to run away

 

Chorus

 

After just a few months the letters stopped coming

And one morning a knock on the door

Two nervous young men handed me a flag

Said your son died in the war

He gave his life for his country was what the man said

He didn't believe it and neither did I

I closed the front door, dropped the flag on the floor

And I sat down in Jim's room and cried

 

Chorus

 

It was less than a year when my wife said to me

You look so much like our little Jim

She had to go, I don't blame her, you know

I also remind me of him

Now it's been forty years, I'd be a grandpa by now

But instead I just sit here alone

No one calls much these days, but anytime the phone rings

I think maybe the boy's coming back home

 

Chorus

 

© 2011 David Rovics, from the album

“Meanwhile in Afghanistan” (www.davidrovics.com)

 

 

 

 

 

Kigali

 

By Jon Brooks

(For Sen. Romeo Dallaire)

 

Grandpa was a Vandoo in ’25.

He left Groesbeek in ’45.

Grandma was a Dutch girl and a war bride.

And my dad, like his dad, came home quiet.

He loved us with few words.

To know him I had to become him.

I left Somalia for a new ‘Chapter Six.’

Was discharged in ’94 from Amahoro barracks

but I don’t know the way.

I don’t know the way

home from Kigali.

Does your heart know the way?

Does any heart know the way home from Kigali?’

Ecstasy and Zoloft helped turn

landmine rings back to cell phones

and Linda back home to her parents.

I tripped up the ’12 Steps’ to fall back down.

I joined a prayer group

though I know I cannot be found.

One night I asked Jesus if He knew the way.

I was drunk at last call but I swore I heard Him say:

‘I don’t know the way

I don’t know the way

home from Kigali.’

Does your heart know the way?

Does any heart know the way home from Kigali?’

In black light, in back rooms, down Ste. Catharine

into that soft abyss

under the weight of a naked stranger.

Between dances she lies back on me,

I smell her hair and her unknown skin

I brush dry lips along.

Then she smiles that sad smile

of all souls astray;

I want to ask her

but I know she’d say:

‘No, I don’t know the way

I don’t know the way

home from Kigali.’

Does your heart know the way?

Does any heart know the way home from Kigali?’

© 2007 Jon Brooks, from the album “Ours and the Shepherds” (www.jonbrooks.ca)

 

 

 

 

 

If Jimmy Didn’t Have to Go

 

By Charlie King

 

Got married in a hurry and we had us a son back in 1973

I was drafted at the end of the Vietnam War, though I never did go overseas

But I remember the look on the ones who came back

Their faces still haunt me so

And I made myself a promise I would do what it takes

So Jimmy didn’t have to go

 

Chorus:

If Jimmy didn’t have to go

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do

That boy means the world to me

He ought to mean the world to you

I don’t know why we throw lives away

And come home with nothing to show

I only know I would sell me soul

If Jimmy didn’t have to go

 

I went from the Army to the Army reserves

There’s nothing that moves I can’t fix

I didn’t think much about it just a weekend warrior

Then I turned 36

And they called me in and they shipped me out

I’m thinking now I could have said no

But I whispered to Cathy we would finish it early

So Jimmy didn’t have to go (Repeat Chorus)

 

They said it wouldn’t come to hand to hand

Though the border’s just a mile away

But the enemy surprised us from behind

Guess they were running back the other way

Guess they were looking for a place to hide

Guess they were looking a place they’d know

Wondering what they hell they were doing there

And why they ever had to go (Repeat Chorus)

 

I killed a soldier with a silent knife

I pulled him down on top of me

I looked into the eyes looking back into mine

He couldn’t have been 17

I held him as he died so quiet

I held him as he died so slow

I held him ‘til I knew that it wasn’t enough

That Jimmy didn’t have to go

 

They sent me up for court martial

‘Cause I wouldn’t do a thing I was told

Their lawyer said I was a coward

Mine said I was just too old

But it wasn’t the fear of the bombs above

Or the fear of the gas below

I’m afraid to meet the eyes of the Iraqi father

Whose Jimmy had to go.

 

If his Jimmy didn’t have to go

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do

That boy means the world to me now

He ought to mean the world to you

I don’t know why we throw lives away

And come home with nothing to show

I only know there’s a time to say no

And Jimmy didn’t have to go

 

 

© 1991 Charlie King, Pied Asp Music, BMI, from the album

“So Far, So Good” (www.charlieking.org)

 

 

 

 

One Piece At A Time

 

By Joe Jencks

 

 

Verse 1

Hoping for a new start

Trying to find my way

A little bit of rebellion mixed with

Adventure far away

A family tradition

To honor and to serve

The call of duty

Now I’m down to my last nerve

 

Chorus

Does anybody see me

Does anybody know what I’ve been through

Some folks gave their lives all at once

But I’ve given up my life

One piece at a time

 

Verse 2

I had a job, I did it well

Tried to trust the chain of command

What in the world was I thinking

Now I walk among the damned

Living on the edge of life and death

You know it takes it’s toll

The loss of innocence

No stability, no control

 

Chorus

Does anybody see me

Does anybody know what I’ve been through

Some folks gave their lives all at once

But I’ve given up my life

One piece at a time

 

Bridge

Well I second-guess my choices

I “woulda, coulda, shoulda” all the time

But on sleepless nights, that doesn’t help

To find a reason or a rhyme

 

Verse 3

Picking up the pieces

Honoring the dead

Not much here I understand

And there’s a war inside my head

But I am not expendable

I’m still living with the pain

Yes, there are ways that I survived

But I’m dying every day

 

Chorus

Does anybody see me

Does anybody know what I’ve been through

Some folks gave their lives all at once

But I’ve given up my life

One piece at a time

 

Verse 4

Believing that the future

Holds more power than the past

I reach with forgiveness

For a new life I hope will last

So put a candle in the window

Help me see I’m not alone

Though I have changed, I need to know

I’m finally welcome home

 

Chorus x 2

Does anybody see me

Does anybody know what I’ve been through

Step by step and day by day I find

I’m taking back my life

One piece at a time

 

 

© 2014, 2016 Joe Jencks – Turtle Bear Music, ASCAP, from the upcoming album

“Poets, Philosophers, Workers, & Wanderers” (www.joejencks.com)

Words written for and with the Spokane “Warrior’s Heart to Art” participants.

Music by Joe Jencks.

 

 

 

 

 

Where Have They All Gone?

 

By Greg Artzner and Terry Leonino

 

Where have they all gone?

The ones we sent across the sea

To do the bidding of powerful

To kill for you and me

 

Where are their lonely coffins draped with our country’s flag?

Where are the ones on stretchers and in black body bags?

 

Can we ever know

The price that they have paid

For someone else’s barter

Their loyalty betrayed

 

Where have they all gone?

The ones who lost a leg, a hand

Their young life forever altered

In a far-off, oil-rich land

 

And the ones forever haunted by the horrors they have seen

Is this the price of liberty, just what does freedom mean?

 

Can we ever know

The price that they have paid

For someone else’s barter

Their loyalty betrayed

 

Why does our lady liberty stand trembling in fear?

Deaf and blind and silent she won’t speak or see or hear

They hide from us the suffering, the agony, the pain

They hide from us the violence that they do in our name

 

Where have they all gone?

Dying soldiers by the score

And among the suffering innocent

Are many thousands more

 

The widow and the orphan

Will bear the lifelong toll

The bloody stain of corporate gain

Forever scars our soul

 

Can we ever know

The price that we have paid

For someone else’s barter

Our loyalty betrayed

Our loyalty betrayed

 

© 2016 Greg Artzner and Terry Leonino (www.magpiemusic.com)

 

 

 

 

 

Poor Richard’s Blues

 

By George Mann

 

One more drop of water, splashed upon my face

The days are getting shorter, but they accumulate

I guess it’s time, here today, that I plan my getaway

For I know I’m going home

 

One more drop of water, perhaps some saving grace

Skin’s too hard for needles, but my jaw’s set firm in place

I guess it’s time, here today, I have planned my getaway

And I know I’m going home

Shut it off, shut it down, too much ugliness around

I can handle this alone

 

They took away my life and now they’re coming for my soul

They never gave me any chance to choose

But I remember everything and I’m still in control

So I will call this warning “Poor Richard’s Blues…”

I’ll sing to you

Poor Richard’s Blues

 

Swooping down to save them, an angel from the sky

But they choked on the same dust I kicked up that filled my lungs and eyes

I was loyal, I was true, but they did what powers do

And they’d do the same to you again

They could lock me in a cage, take away my finest days

But they couldn’t beat me ‘til the end

 

One more drop of water, and soon I will be free

Free of all this poison and hatred that they put inside of me

Guess it’s time, here today, I have planned my getaway

And I know I’m going home

Shut it off, shut it down, I surrender to the ground

I have always gone down alone

I have always gone alone

 

 

© 2013 George Mann, from the album

“Portraits” (www.georgemann.org)

For C. Richard Bauer, Ithaca, NY (11/14/13)

 

 

 

 

 

Korea

 

A story by Utah Phillips

 

© 1996 words by Utah Phillips, music by Ani DiFranco, from the album

 “The Past Didn’t Go Anywhere” (www.righteousbabe.com)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let Them In

 

By John Gorka

 

 

Let them in, Peter

They are very tired

Give them couches where the angels sleep

And light those fires

Let them wake whole again

To brand new dawns

Fired by the sun not wartime's

bloody guns

May their peace be deep

Remember where the broken bodies lie

God knows how young they were

To have to die

God knows how young they were

To have to die

 

Give them things they like

Let them make some noise

Give roadhouse bands not golden harps

To these our boys

And let them love, Peter

For they've had no time

They should have trees and bird songs

And hills to climb

The taste of summer in a ripened pear

And girls sweet as meadow wind

With flowing hair

Tell them how they are missed

and say not to fear

It's gonna be alright

With us down here

 

Let them in, Peter

 

© 1997 John Gorka, from the album

“The Company You Keep” (www.johngorka.com)

Based on a poem by Elma Dean

 

 

www.untilyoucomehome.com

 

Email: untilyoucomehome@gmail.com