Veteran's Day, Remembrance Day
Nov. 11th, 2008 11:01 amThe VA hospital system is a mess, totally unprepared to deal with the amount of head trauma coming back from over there, and negligent in other ways.
What can one do, besides gnash one's teeth about it? This is five years old, but a good bit of it is probably still useful
http://www.dailykos.net/archives/003464.html
You could donate here
http://www.nchv.org/
Or something nice to do for future veterans (ie current soldiers)
http://www.booksforsoldiers.com/
Anthem for Doomed Youth, by Wilfred Owen 1917
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
What can one do, besides gnash one's teeth about it? This is five years old, but a good bit of it is probably still useful
http://www.dailykos.net/archives/003464.html
You could donate here
http://www.nchv.org/
Or something nice to do for future veterans (ie current soldiers)
http://www.booksforsoldiers.com/
Anthem for Doomed Youth, by Wilfred Owen 1917
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.