La Vent De La Mort

Tell me, son, where the death-wind blows.
Over the sea and the grave-green fields.
Tell me, son, why the death-wind blows.
In search of the living flesh that yields.

Over Persia,
Over Rome,
Over mighty Macedon;

Now, in Korea,
In Vietnam.
Soon, perhaps, in the Aryan seas.

The death-wind walks;
The death wind sighs;
The death-wind blows unceasingly.....

The sounds of steel braced on steel,
The sounds of will matching will,
The sounds that mingle into one,
And that, the death-wind wish to kill.

Yet, tell me son where now it blows.
Over the land and the stormy sea.
And tell me, son, why now it blows.
I fear, it blows for me.

Written the Spring of 1965 by James R. Hoye

The Young Sing Songs

The young sing songs of love and peace;
Wage bloody war with the police.

The elders cry the world's ways;
Dream ceaselessly of yesterdays;

The righteous, preaching love of man,
At night, wear robes of Klu Klux Klan.
			
The Learned call all others fools;
Hide safely locked within their schools.

Before them all, the world wastes 'way.
Children laugh.....content to play.

Written the Spring of 1976 by James R. Hoye

War Song From The Homefront

Wind through the swaying grasses,
Cold gray stone.
Where are the smiling lasses?
All gone home.

Sing out the lonely thrushes.
Roses color red.
Where are the lasses lovers?
Lain together dead. 

Written the Spring of 1968 by James R. Hoye

War Games

Rank on rank, the grey-green uniforms stand,
Stiff and straight, waiting for commands.
Rank on rank, from the sunrise, they march,
Their rhythmic footsteps fade into the dusk.

Docile with the might of readiness,
Facile in the following of commands,
They stand, crumple, falter,
Revealing the stained, the ragged, the torn;
Ones that will rise no more,
Lying instead.....dead and useless fragments,
Soon consigned to memory;
Burned in unmarked trashcans.

Survivors stand.....rank on rank,
Starched and staunch, waiting for commands;
Patiently waiting.....rank on rank,
To start their march into oblivion,

Seeking the warrior's promised land.....
Which, undoubtedly, they'll find.

Written the Fall of 1972 by James R. Hoye

Here's To The Losers

There is a hellish turmoil
That mankind calls the world.
No man who lives can quell it.
Perhaps, none ever shall.

Mankind is its substance.
Mankind spurs it on.
It seems the only answer
Lies in atomic dawn.

Even when that rises.
And rotting corpses lie
Across the raped and barren soil,
Beneath a sterile sky,

There, beneath the ashes,
Can you or I survive?
Can we build a better world?
Will we even try?

No one knows....too few care;
Who can count the cost
Of living in a hellish world,
When even that is lost. 

Written the Spring of 1970 by James R. Hoye

Song To A Battlefield Flower

Flower from the lowly earth,
Rising.

Dew on petals,
Blushing petals,
Smiling.

All the time
With loveliness
Beguiling.

While your roots.....
Your roots on nameless soldiers feed.

Spew forth your seed.

Written the Spring of 1971 by James R. Hoye