Poetry from the Hill
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Following are selections of poetry by Fred Norman. Among many other wonderful attributes, Fred is a veteran, a member of Veterans for Peace, and the Poet Laureate of the Lafayette Hillside Memorial. We are grateful for his talents, dedication, and service. Fred has done the honor of not only crafting these passionate poems, but giving voice to them at many vigils since the founding of the hillside memorial. Poems are copyright of Fred Norman and are used with his permission and encouragement to work for peace.
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Poet Fred Norman. Photo by Ko Blix.
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The Hill
This Hill before which we now stand
glows day and night with quiet pride
and throbs with slowly pulsing sorrow.
Green trees frame a shining sheet of white
that in its purity shocks the viewer to reality.
Golden grass forms a bed on which to sleep,
never to awake, never to breathe again, never
to love again but forever to be loved, forever
to be held, to be caressed by those who keep
memories alive from dawn to darkest night,
implying what is wrong by testament to right.
Each day another soldier dies,
each day another soldier gone,
each day another soldier murdered
by those of us who sleep uncaring,
unwilling when awake to choose
between right and wrong, singing
hymns of prayer as empty song,
ignoring that which most we dread:
tomorrow is another soldier dead.
This Hill upon which crosses mark each memory,
this Hill which glows each day and night with pride,
this Hill which throbs with slowly pulsing sorrow
is meant to stop a war, is meant to say, “I’m sorry.”
Each day a loved one of a soldier cries
in lonely agony — day one a scream,
day two the tears that lead to emptiness,
day three dry-eyed outside, wet and cold
inside — a flood of memories and frozen
dreams — released, they make humanity
to think; thawed, they remake us humane:
they represent a country known for war,
they name another family maimed by war,
of the many thousands here, they are one,
one more father, mother, daughter, son.
This Hill is meant to stop a war --
This Hill is meant to say, “I’m sorry.”
- July 14, 2009
glows day and night with quiet pride
and throbs with slowly pulsing sorrow.
Green trees frame a shining sheet of white
that in its purity shocks the viewer to reality.
Golden grass forms a bed on which to sleep,
never to awake, never to breathe again, never
to love again but forever to be loved, forever
to be held, to be caressed by those who keep
memories alive from dawn to darkest night,
implying what is wrong by testament to right.
Each day another soldier dies,
each day another soldier gone,
each day another soldier murdered
by those of us who sleep uncaring,
unwilling when awake to choose
between right and wrong, singing
hymns of prayer as empty song,
ignoring that which most we dread:
tomorrow is another soldier dead.
This Hill upon which crosses mark each memory,
this Hill which glows each day and night with pride,
this Hill which throbs with slowly pulsing sorrow
is meant to stop a war, is meant to say, “I’m sorry.”
Each day a loved one of a soldier cries
in lonely agony — day one a scream,
day two the tears that lead to emptiness,
day three dry-eyed outside, wet and cold
inside — a flood of memories and frozen
dreams — released, they make humanity
to think; thawed, they remake us humane:
they represent a country known for war,
they name another family maimed by war,
of the many thousands here, they are one,
one more father, mother, daughter, son.
This Hill is meant to stop a war --
This Hill is meant to say, “I’m sorry.”
- July 14, 2009
We Are Family
WE ARE FAMILY!
I at the podium reading am family,
You on the flat listening are family,
They on the Hill watching are family.
We are sons and daughters,
Fathers and mothers,
Brothers and sisters.
And we must take care of one another.
There are 7,000 of us gathered here today,
Some to be memorialized, some to pray,
Some to question what went wrong along the way...
…What went wrong along the way?
Yes, by gathering we emphasize the negative,
Our tears of sadness activate the adjective,
The word dysfunctional leaps to clarify the noun,
For when we look up at the thousands on this Hill
We cannot say that this is normal – a hundred
Of us here, 7,000 of them there, a normal family?
Our family – A hundred of us living looking
Up at 7,000 dead, not only dead but murdered,
Our government's protestations barely murmured.
One family, they mumble, but I ask you this:
Is this how we treat our family?
Is “calamity” the only word to rhyme?
We know that families should grow with time,
And we know that cancer also grows with time,
And we pray supine that cancer is not us or mine.
And we pray supine that cancer is not in our family.
Yet we know it is, for we can see the Hill,
We can count the missing – each one watching
From the Hill is only one, alone – we can count
The family members who are absent, the nuclear four,
Four times 7,000, a family of 28,000, 21,000 missing,
21,000 who could defeat the cancer of these wars,
Who could bring to an end the growing of the dead,
End – by God – this madness that we dread,
End this cancer at 7,000 here, all 7,000 dear,
For we are family, we are sons and daughters,
Fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters,
And we must take care of one another.
- Dedicated to Jeff Heaton
Crosses of Lafayette, Memorial Day, 2013
So Beautiful
At 10 PM on a full-moon night
this hill of memories glows bright --
My God! It is so beautiful.
At 1 AM on this same-moon night
this hill of memories still glows bright --
My God! It is so beautiful.
At 3 AM the full moon sets,
begets reflections from more distant
living suns that shine, perhaps, on distant
life, reflecting into resurrecting eyes,
if eyes, indeed, at 3 AM are there to see --
if seen, My God! It is so beautiful.
And yet, among the glowing memories,
shadows lurk — stark, contrasting, dark.
Is each glow the headstone of a grave
and is its shadow that which I call beautiful?
Is each glow a grieving parent,
broken spouse,
a child now alone,
and are their shadows that which I call beautiful?
Proud to be American, proud to be Marine,
is that what I call beautiful?
My buddies gather here,
your buddies, too,
your fathers, sons, your brothers,
sisters, mothers, daughters,
all here, glowing in the moonlight --
Is that what is so beautiful?
No. Oh, no. It is the memories.
This is a hill of memories.
It is the memories that glow.
They speak.
I remember you, they say,
and you must remember us.
Think of us on the full-moon nights,
call out our names, connect them to our souls.
These — our memories and our souls --
These — these once were beautiful,
make them beautiful once again.
They glow on moonlit nights,
make them glow in rain,
make them glow in sunlight,
in the dark, in fog,
morning, noon, and night --
My God! They are so beautiful.
- March 4, 2009
this hill of memories glows bright --
My God! It is so beautiful.
At 1 AM on this same-moon night
this hill of memories still glows bright --
My God! It is so beautiful.
At 3 AM the full moon sets,
begets reflections from more distant
living suns that shine, perhaps, on distant
life, reflecting into resurrecting eyes,
if eyes, indeed, at 3 AM are there to see --
if seen, My God! It is so beautiful.
And yet, among the glowing memories,
shadows lurk — stark, contrasting, dark.
Is each glow the headstone of a grave
and is its shadow that which I call beautiful?
Is each glow a grieving parent,
broken spouse,
a child now alone,
and are their shadows that which I call beautiful?
Proud to be American, proud to be Marine,
is that what I call beautiful?
My buddies gather here,
your buddies, too,
your fathers, sons, your brothers,
sisters, mothers, daughters,
all here, glowing in the moonlight --
Is that what is so beautiful?
No. Oh, no. It is the memories.
This is a hill of memories.
It is the memories that glow.
They speak.
I remember you, they say,
and you must remember us.
Think of us on the full-moon nights,
call out our names, connect them to our souls.
These — our memories and our souls --
These — these once were beautiful,
make them beautiful once again.
They glow on moonlit nights,
make them glow in rain,
make them glow in sunlight,
in the dark, in fog,
morning, noon, and night --
My God! They are so beautiful.
- March 4, 2009
Responsibility
Each night I ask myself
what did I do today
to end the wars?
If I answer back with “Nothing”
then the dead that day are mine.
I beg of them forgiveness.
- March, 2011
