Scars

Ah, how I remember. The haze hiding my feet.

How could I forget? Or was it snow,
The cold, gray November, As the slicing winds blow?
Passing Fall’s lament. I don’t remember the time –
The straggling, stubborn leaves, Half as well as my birth!
Holding on in desperate heaves. Yet this particular scar
The season that grows the mold – Has invaluable worth.
Of depression. The day I discovered brotherhood.
That time when to hold on
Means cling. With a twist of a knife,
Cling to your memories The idea was defined.
Of Summer. What’s mine is mine, and
Of Spring. What’s yours is mine –
Pray for the cycle, to cycle sooner. Unless it is you.
This was the season of my birth. You can have that,
The irony of Thanksgiving But only that,
Giving me my first scar. And I may still borrow that –
Sometimes.
I try to remember my birth The scar of Brotherhood.
As often as possible. The scar of childhood.
It is my most prized scar.
The scar upon which Ah, how I remember.
All other scars are. How could I forget?
It sets me apart The steely, hollow grinding
From all other scarred peoples. Of the gears.
The firing, the forging
Ah, how I remember. Of human engineers.
How could I forget? Oh, the discipline of the machine,
The searing heat; Fouling the mind once clean,

MILITARY REVIEW Poetry Reader 55

 The fruit of good and evil, How could I forget?
Bearing the seed of the obscene. C’est passion du Coeur.
The scar paid for, The innocent budding
In more ways than one – Of loving.
The scar of education. C’est Printempts de l’amour.
Anesthetized with little suspicion,
Incised by cruel intentions. The echoes of this scar are
Incisive and cause more scars.
All my instructors have one face, You never learn a lesson from
A black market surgeon True love’s scar.
With decorated bludgeon. Always ready for more.
At the end of the operation –
Young minds effaced. Ah, how I remember.
How could I forget?
As the architects design the scar, Its mooring taunt, fastened,
And surveyors plot the marks, Meant to last.
We pour the foundation, Its bearing true, perfect North,
And corrupt the next generation. Steadfast.

Ah, how I remember. The jagged scar of friendship.

How could I forget? Friends that jump ship;
Autumn’s changing palate; Loyalty that seems to slip.
The brilliance explodes. I am on my ump-teenth
The last gasp of life, Circle of friends. May this be the end.
In theatric throes. I cannot bear another jagged scar.
Impending Winter’s hate. The cosmetic cost
Of friendship lost.
So, the exquisite scars of religion,
As if God Himself were the artist. Ah, how I remember.
Every time I hear a sermon – How could I forget?
I brace with squinted eyes, All nature resounds with
And clinched fist. The sound of the song of
Family.
Some scars become
Inoculation…some. That cacophony of genes.
Some don’t understand The pain, the distortion,
Scars of church, cross, The zigzag seams.
Bible, lamp stand. The deepest, most dangerous by far
Are family scars.
These scars we bear with pride. However, we must remember our part,
A sign of fraternity? And the knife we wield,
I scar you and you me. And the scars we leave
When we gossip, chatter, chide. On crest and shield.
All the while it is not God, but
Us who make the cuts. Ah, how I remember.
How could I forget?
Ah, how I remember. Strewn across the forest floor,

56 Poetry Reader MILITARY REVIEW

 A mighty oak, no more Ah, how I remember.
Than a distant memory. How could I forget?
The branches that held the hammock, the The monotony of time –
swing, Fading, marching, waiting
The tree house, the laundry string, Illuminating, hiding, reconciling,
Stolen by time’s treachery. Wounding and healing.

Lamentable scars of death, The heaps and stacks of life’s scars.

Infected by things not present. No fresh flesh,
The words, the deeds, the thoughts, No frontier unviolated.
Hugs, kisses, letters never sent. The chaos, the mess.
The coldness of death robs our repent. No real recollection of
So, everyone experiences death. Where they originated.
Even those that retain their breath.
More people have died in my life, They are just scars.
Than I have buried. They are just there.
Maybe I should bury them There for all to see.
Just how they died, There for all to stare.
Inside.
They are who I am.
Ah, how I remember. They are not who I am not.
How could I forget? They are so attractive.
Like the petals of a rose. Masterpieces of blood clots.
So many, so perfect,
So beautifully as it grows. As I admire my scars,
The purpose it shows. I admire yours as well.
So are my self-inflicted scars. Your perseverance,
How many times have I cut? Your resilience.
Myself? I admire the story
What some call pruning, but Your scars tell.
My slicing, severing, searching is not
For something else to grow. Yes, these are our scars.
Sometimes it’s just practice, Yet, they are so much more!
Or uncaring.
Maybe boredom, waiting for the next show – —Sgt. Trent Schmidt
The tragic comedy of self-inflicted Logar Province, Afghanistan,
scarring. Combat Outpost Charkh, 173rd Airborne, 2011

MILITARY REVIEW Poetry Reader 57