The Things I Carry
Treasures We Don't Own
When Titans Walked
Who Stands Alone
Burned in My Memory

POEMS (click to read)

A Soldier's Christmas

The Sands of Christmas

Reporting from the Front

Christmas Wish

A Day to Remember

The Name on the Wall

The Things I Carry

Treasures We Don't Own

When Titans Walked

Who Stands Alone

Burned in My Memory



by Michael Marks

The kitchen air was heavy with the smell of pumpkin pie,
and though my odds seemed poor at best I thought that I would try,
to steal a bite before the turkey from the oven came
and thought that I had pulled it off until she said my name.

"Just looking babe," I straightened up and struggled to begin,
betrayed at once by angel's eyes above a devil's grin.
"Oh really?" she so soft replied, a towel drawing quick,
that I could naught but dash before I felt its sudden flick.

So in defeat I ambled to the refuge of the den,
amid the jibes of relatives who knew where I had been,
and saw my son a-sprawl among the paper on the floor,
creating works of art to hang upon the freezer door.

I half expected pilgrims or an Indian with maize,
some symbol of the holiday beneath his fervent gaze;
instead I saw a pile of junk he'd penciled in with care--
if it had any meaning I was clearly unaware.

As though he sensed my question he looked up with shining smile,
and said "It's for Thanksgiving, I've been thinking for a while."
He pointed to the drawing now with very somber tone
"They're someone else's treasures that I'm thankful I don't own."

"I think you've got that backwards son," I said, my head inclined.
"A treasure is, well, special, like the best thing you could find."
The look that crossed his face came from his mother, not from me --
"I know that dad," he huffed, "here, take a look and you will see."

"I saw a wooden crutch like this last week on our TV;
some homeless kid in Baghdad lost a leg below the knee.
His single prize possession was that twisted wooden steed--
I've never kicked a landmine, so a crutch I just don't need."

"A chunk of rock like this is something else I wouldn't crave,
it's all those kids in Kurdi-something had to mark a grave
they dug by hand when both their folks got blown up by a bomb--
But every day when I come home, I know you're here with mom."

"I don't need body armor that our soldiers dearly prize,
and just as well," he whispered, "they don't make it in my size.
And we don't have to worry 'bout a roadside IED,
so I can ride my bike to school and not a big Humvee."

And on he went through every item drawn upon the page,
expressing thanks to live so far from combat's bitter rage;
And thankful too that not another day could he remember,
when fear came to America like it did that September.

"I figure that the things we treasure here," he seemed to muse
"are really cool because we have a lot from which to choose.
But folks who live where wars are fought, they don't have near as much,
So treasure there might be no more than just a wooden crutch."

I found the lesson simple and the reasoning profound;
when fight we must, to take the battle off to foreign ground
by those who stand in jeopardy to keep the wolves at bay,
and shield our homes and families from terror and dismay.

So now upon Thanksgiving's meal, we gather hand in hand,
and first among our blessings count the heroes of the land,
who guard us all and keep us safe at price of flesh and bone,
and give us chance to say our thanks for treasures we don't own.