A good friend of a good friend
knelt down at a grave,
and spent a few good hours there
for all that he had gave.
I heard about it all from her
but saw it crystal clear.
The memories that jangled,
silent visits filled with fear.
He'd gone and fought in Vietnam
and only mostly made it back.
The tormented parts that did get home
went bush and built a shack.
His refuge he called "No-Name",
and he lived there on his own.
And slowly found new ways to live
in a place he could call home.
He never really spoke of it
like so many of his kind.
The fruitless years trying to quit
endless tape loops in his mind.
The things he saw and had to do
or seemed so at the time.
A good friend helped him sort it through
with some reason and some rhyme.
He found some peace for many years
and his playing got quite good.
His greatest source of healing love
made from tight steel strings and wood.
Much finger pickin' medicine
as he sang out all his songs,
that tried to find some peace within
those rights and blackest wrongs.
He grew to love "No-Name" out there
at the end of no name track,
and made it known to plant him where
he'd be near to that old shack.
With ghosts of all his mates who died
both here and far away,
and sing to them with love and pride
those old songs he liked to play.
She stood back up from where he lay
no more dreams of death and violence.
Up no name track is where he'll stay,
cicadas singing in the silence.
Brett A. Jones, Nov 2020
