The Hands -- a powerful poem by Richard Brewer

The following is a brief commentary and a poem written by warrior-advocate and Marine, Rich Brewer, founder of One Warrior Won. 

I wrote this shortly after putting the cold steel of my weapon in my mouth, then realizing “My Hands” were not done yet.  By the grace of God my journey continues, and with BBOWW, we will march forward and make sure so many others never get to the point so many of us already have!! 

The Hands

The hands that were once used as a pacifier for a new born child.

The hands that were used to reach out to hold my mothers legs.

The hands that were held by my parents to ensure I stayed close by.

The hands that awkwardly wrote that first love note in third grade.

The hands that were used as a teenager to prove my self worth.

The hands that reached out and held my first girlfriend.

The hands that struggled to breakaway from ordinary and reached for extra-ordinary.

These were the hands that rose and swore to defend this nation from the enemy; foreign and domestic.

These were the hands that nervously grasped the stair rails of a bus bound for Parris Island in the middle of the night.

These were the hands that were held tight to the seams of my “trousers” while being screamed at standing on yellow footprints.

These were the hands that climbed obstacles they never thought possible, that learned to defend for the righteous.

These were the hands that first felt the cold comfortable steel of my newly issued M16A1 rifle.

These were the hands that spent weeks feeling, touching, learning every part of the very weapon that was to keep me and others alive.

These were hands that proudly had the Eagle, Globe and Anchor pressed into its palm transforming from a mere mortal to a Marine.

These were the hands that committed to God, Country, and Corps.

These were the hands that embraced the brotherhood that has been bonded by blood, sweat and tears.

These were the hands that grasped the seat of the swaying Chinook at it took evasive action while delivering us to the hostile shores.

These were the hands that held firm, aimed true and gently squeezed the trigger to silence a different set of hands that will forever remain unknown.

These were the hands that steadied scared people as they were gently pushed to waiting choppers to carry them from the surreal reality of war to safety.

These were the hands that held the head of youth, shattered by a snipers bullet, providing comfort awaiting the last breathe.

These were the hands that held my own head down in holes never deep enough as the rounds pounded way to close.

These were the hands that waved good-bye to thousands of Marines as they sailed away from the hostile shore.

These were the hands that grasped tightly to the fourteen Marines left behind to guard the bees’ nest that had been vigorously stirred.

These were the hands that clasped tightly every night in prayer to preserve my life until I woke, and again in the morning to pray to survive the day.

These were the hands that waved frantically to my office colleagues to take cover as I grabbed my weapon and ran towards the noise. 

These were the hands that reached for that sliding glass door that allowed me to step onto the exposed balcony.

These were the hands that attempted to hold steady the weapon I knew so well, only to have it blown from my hands by the force of the bomb.

These were the hands that flew through the air for untold feet only to crash against the collapsing wall.

These were the hands that were buried and felt my own body to see if it was in one piece.

These were the hands that scratched, clawed, and dug my way out from what I believed to be a premature coffin, only to hear and see the hell unfolding around me and wanting to crawl back into my hole.

These were the hands that would hold the soon to be lifeless bodies of two close buddies trying to make their last moments less lonely.

These were the hands that would dig, uncover and carry untold numbers from the burning and destroyed building.

These were the hands that again took hold of my precious weapon and stood guard against a secondary attack.

These were the hands that held my body off the ground as I fell to my knees, not knowing why until it was realized the blood covering me was my own.

These were the hands that shakily signed me out of a field hospital to return to the pile of flesh infested rumble.

These were the hands that stood guard over the ground that only mere moments ago stood the American Embassy for four sleepless days.

These were the hands that wiped away dust from my eyes and wished for the tears that never came to flow.

These are the hands that now try to hold a fragile life and family together.

These are the hands now that try to hold a beast within at bay.

These are the hands today that hold a wonderful wife.

These are the hands that two young children rush to for safety and love.

These are the hands that have tried to teach young minds the perils and purpose of war.

These are the hands that have provided protection to communities from those who wish them harm.

These are the hands that have shied from friendship for fear of being exposed.

These are the hands that are never idle in fear of some distant unseen enemy.

These are the hands that for years never reached out, stoically staying by my side.

These are the hands that wrapped themselves around a bottle, the only medicine able to take the unseen but always present pain away.

These are the hands that hide the scars that so many do not wish to see, yet so many of us bear.

These are the hands that have reached out after 25 years for help, and were slapped by those professing to be helpers.

These are the hands that had to enter battle all over again simply to be recognized as worthy of treatment and care.

These are the hands that have been clasped together in prayer for someone to understand.

These are the hands that have been clenched in anger over those who have never served making us prove we indeed did serve.

These are the hands that have flailed about speaking jargon others seem to think is a foreign language.

These are the hands that have spent countless hours typing rebuttals to the appeals of my appeals.

These are the hands that have fantasized about being around the neck of so many who say they are there to help, but never do.

These are the hands that have been thrown in the air, and wishing to wash themselves of the entire process.

These are the hands that have written farewell notes to loved ones; too tired to go on.

These are the hands that have tried to write, hoping to get someone to see what I feel.

These are the hands that have grasped the cold comfortable steel of an old trusted friend in hopes of ending the pain and suffering.

These are the hands that held a family vacation itinerary in one hand, and the end in the other.

These are the hands that God made and Parris Island perfected.

These are the hands that have saved so many, and protected so much.

These are the hands that have lost battles, but will eventually win the War.

These are the hands that remain clasped in prayer every night, praying that justice will prevail for me, and all who suffer from the beast within.

These hands paid a dear price for this country.  Now it is time for this country to pay a little back. 

All gave some; Some gave all. What has the country given to them?

THIS poem and an interview with Richard Brewer, and many others will soon be featured in a forthcoming book about warriors with wounds and PTSD. Be sure to check out Warrior SOS for updates. 

To read amazing interviews, including an interview from Richard Brewer, check out Warrior SOS, the book available on Amazon.com  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00D3WO7VK