Fighting In The Sands Of Iraq Poem by Philip Lore

Grimy hands hold my weapon tight,
The sun beats down upon my head,
I whisper a prayer, I'm ready to fight,
I want to rest instead.

My eyes are drooped,
My weapons like lead in my hand,
Burning sand under my feet,
...I could barely stand.

I struggle to blink away the sleep,
All I can see is a herd of sheep,
One boot forward, then the other,
We fight together, brother to brother.

Finally....it's time to sleep,
I dream about my wife,
Just to hear her sweet, sweet voice,
It cuts deep like a knife.

I wait on a long, hot line,
Ask her how she's doing,
She sobs, then whispers softly,
I'm okay....she sobs, I'm really doing fine.

Then a rocket breaks our calm,
With a tight smile drawn, the call is done,
I whisper, 'Babe, I gotta run'.
Running fast in the merciless sun.

After long hard hours pass,
I dropped down to my bed,
Exhausted, dirty, hot and dazed,
My growling stomach unfed.

Just a few hours later,
Another fight has begun,
Tie my boots, grab my gun,
Ready to fight in the morning sun.

Think of my wife, I try to put it aside,
I lay down, in the deep hot sand,
Lock and load, eyes are fixed,
Rifle in my hand.

No more quads,
No more Harley,
No more boat,
No more, 'How's it going Charlie? '
No more fun fly fishing,
No more walking holding hands
No more tender kissing.

Iraq has taken all it can,
So I 'm still fighting here,
Doing the best I can,
Fighting in this hostile land.