3 Poems by Cloy Richards USMC

Cloy's first tour was in 2003 during the initial invasion. He was redeployed in 2004 to Fallujha. Cloy suffers with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and as he writes in his poems, he has attempted suicide. None of this matters in his reassignment to the battlefield. Cloy is just another pair of "Boots on the Ground" at the disposal of the Bush Administration's failed Iraq policy. Cloy’s mother, Tina Richards, desperately stormed the halls of Congress. Cloy's poetry has been read by every Senator and has managed to touch a few hearts and change a few minds.

Three tours in hell is too much for anyone.

Without a troop withdrawal or a draft, our men and women will continue being re-deployed till there’s nothing left of the best and bravest Americans.

Please write, call, march, protest and do whatever you can until our troops come home. Contact your representatives at www.Congress.org. If you live in the 19th Congressional, know that your Rep. Todd Platts religiously puts his rubber stamp on Bush's "surge.

"Copy and Pass these poems on to those on your email lists.

They told us we were taking out advancing Iraqi forces,
but when we went to check out the bodies
they were nothing but women and children
desperately fleeing their homes because
they wanted to get out of the city
before we attacked in the morning.

Because my little brother, who is my job to protect,
decided to join the California National Guard
to get some money for college and
they promised he wouldn’t go to Iraq.
Instead three months after enlisting
he was sent to Iraq for one year.

Since he has been home for the last six months,
he refuses to talk to anyone, he lives by himself.
The only person he associates with is
the one other man out of his squad
of thirteen men, who made it home alive.

He called me a few weeks ago for the first time
and told me he’s having nightmares.
I asked what they were about and
he said they about picking up the pieces
of his fellow soldiers after a car bomb hit them.

Because every single one of the Marines I served with,
the really brave warriors, even when some friends and people
they looked up to got killed or lost and arm or leg,
they wouldn’t cry, they just kept fighting;

Every one of them I have spoken to since
we got home, have broken down crying in front of me.
Saying all they can do since they got back
is bounce from job to job, drink and drug,
and contemplate suicide to end the pain.

Because I’m tired of drinking, bouncing from job to job
and contemplating suicide to end the pain.

Because every time I see a young soldier,
I think of the thousands Bush has slaughtered.

SURVIVOR’S GUILT
(In Honor of My Friend Jeffrey,
who died at Camp Fallujah)

I stare at this paper and I don’t know what to say.
I don’t feel right saying“Happy Memorial Day.”
I don’t find anything happy in the price we pay.

We are both just pawns when this game of war is played.
My body came home but my spirit just stayed.

That hot Iraqi day that you were slayed.
Watching my back so I could sleep unafraid.
I heard the explosion from where I laid.
And instantly I watched all the skies go gray.
I watched my life just float away.
How could things go this way?

You were my brother-in-arms and you took my place.
But not the way that car bomb took your face,
and blew off your limbs.
When I think about it my head starts to spin.

I get nervous when I think of your family.
I want to tell them, I truly am sorry.

I’m sorry your son died protecting me.
This isn’t the way things were meant to be.
You see that day your son took my duty.
Your brother sacrificed his four hours of sleep,
so he could guard the gate for me.

I’m sorry your father took my place for me.
I’m sorry I can spend Memorial Day with my family.
Today should have been for you, not me. back to menu

I‘M JUST A VETERAN
What can I do,
I’m am just a veteran?
What can I say,
I’m not a real American.
Never worked a real job,
joined the Marines at age 17.
Never even paid taxes,
only made minimum wage, $1.66 an hour.
Had mortars blowing up in my face,
And a lifetime of guilt,
a lifetime time of rage,
To live the rest of my days.
I hope God forgives me for our ways.
I only live to serve,
To pay homage and stay true
to the Red, White, and Blue.
I’m not black, but I understand
The price that they paid.
Now I wasn’t given AIDS, raped or made a slave,
but I’ve been kicked to the curb,
Kicked in the ribs and spit in my face.
All from a common enemy,
What a disgrace.
How dare lady liberty crap on our grave.
I watch my best friends get blown to pieces,
Then watch the monkeys on Capital Hill
throw us around like feces.
God damn, please, I deserve more respect than that.
When it rains, I still feel shrapnel in my back.
I hear an explosion, and it takes me right back.
to March 2003.
Look at me! I am the poster boy
for insanity,
because I have killed
so many innocent Iraqis.
How would you feel?
Do you think you could deal,
With this pain in my life?
I doubt it, you might could try
but end up on the wrong end of the bottle,
and end up taking your life.
Then where would you be?
You’d be half way to killing yourself,
the same place as me. back to menu