War In The Desert Of Iraq Poem by Philip Lore

Its either hot, cold or damp,
Its always rough in a forward camp,
I look up at a starlit sky,
With rockets, not meteors, that pass my by.

I don't wear fancy shoes or store bought suits
Just my worn out combat boots
Weary eyes, and short cropped hair,
My Boonie Hat, blocks out the suns glare.

Daily patrols on a sandy trail,
Fighting and clearing, hoping for mail.
After a fight, some peace of mind,
Leave all the horrors of battle behind.
The fight was long, we try to smile,
We continue to move, mile to mile.

All I have is in my pack,
I strain my legs, I strain my back.
A fighting spirit, filled with pain,
We fight in the sun, We fight in the rain.

I miss the fields, the quiet, the hush,
To flush a pheasant, to feel the rush,
I suffer the noise, explosions insane,
Searching for IED's ahead in my lane.

A package from home...boy, its a treat,
Sunburned face, blistered feet.
Visions of war, every thought, every scene,
Preparing for battle, I hold back a scream.

I'll make it through, the days and the nights,
Dried out skin, mosquito bites,
To cast out a fly reel, in a stream flowing clear,
I'm still stuck in Iraq till the end of this year.